The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  “You’ve always got a few who hang back, especially those fast-food restaurants,” Leo explained. “The video arcade, too. But we’ll offer a co-op deal they can’t refuse.”

  I was impressed. Leo was limping out just as his predecessor bustled in. Ed Bronsky greeted Leo with a hearty slap on the back. He shook my hand so hard that I thought he’d dislocate my shoulder.

  “Just the folks I want to see,” Ed exclaimed. “Here, sit down, Leo, old buddy. I’ve got something really great for you and Emma.”

  I cringed. Leo looked wary, but resumed his seat. Ed wedged himself into the other visitor’s chair. His right pinky sported a gold ring with a flashing ruby. The next thing I knew, Ed would be wearing spats.

  “It’s like this,” Ed said, planting his pudgy fists on the edge of my desk. “We need to zap up the economy, right? At this week’s chamber of commerce meeting I’m going to propose that the stores start decorating a week before Thanksgiving. Let’s get this Christmas thing rolling. The longer the haul, the more we haul in. Get it?”

  Leo and I exchanged dazed glances. “Uh …” I began, “the local merchants have a long-standing agreement not to decorate until after Thanksgiving. I think we should honor that. Many Seattle stores do.”

  Ed’s laugh was derisive. “Seattle! What do they know? We don’t have anything in common. Alpine’s got big economic problems. You know it, I know it. Now we’re going to act. Extended credit, that’s the ticket. I intend to propose that any item costing over a hundred dollars requires only ten percent down and ninety days to pay without interest. How do you like them apples?” Sitting back in his chair, Ed folded his hands over his paunch and looked well pleased with himself.

  Leo reached for a cigarette and came up empty. “I think it stinks,” he replied, though his tone was affable. “The local merchants need cash flow. How do they ensure collecting? It sounds like Deadbeat City to me.”

  Ed wagged a finger at Leo. “Aha! That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Southern California. People in Alpine can be trusted. We’re not like L.A. or even Seattle. A man’s handshake is still good enough for us.”

  It was too soon in the day, too early in the week, for me to get a headache. But I felt one coming on. I saw Leo’s skepticism, written as large on his face as his desire for a cigarette.

  “Ed,” I sighed, rubbing at my temples, “if you can talk the merchants into advertising for Christmas early, that’s fine. But I honestly don’t think they should start decorating until after Thanksgiving. It’s just not right.”

  Ed shook his head in a manner that suggested I was a willful, stupid child. “That’s sentiment talking, Emma. You’re harking back to when you were a kid and those fancy-pants department stores in Seattle didn’t unveil their Christmas stuff until Thanksgiving night. I know, I’ve heard you talk about stuffing yourself with turkey and then driving downtown to see the windows at the Bon Marché or Frederick & Nelson or one of those other ritzy places.”

  Ed was right. Alas, the once-fabled Frederick & Nelson was gone, but the Bon still held off until Thanksgiving to light its big star, and Nordstrom also waited to sparkle with Yuletide delights. But Ed was also wrong. Part of the merchandising mystique lay in anticipation. I stated my case for Ed.

  “You’re still talking Seattle,” Ed responded, heaving himself out of the chair. “God only knows what they did in Portland while you lived there. But wait and see—the chamber will have a group pants-wetting by the time I’m through with them tomorrow.”

  With that sally, Ed departed.

  Leo was looking bemused. “Was he always such a dumb fuck?”

  “No. Yes.” I couldn’t explain Ed to Leo. I couldn’t explain Ed to myself.

  Apparently Vida had forgiven me. Upon her return, she insisted that we eat lunch at the Burger Barn. She also insisted that we go early, at eleven-thirty. I acquiesced, and at precisely eleven thirty-one, we were seated in the booth nearest the door.

  “What’s up?” I asked, noting that Vida had sat on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the entrance.

  “Linda’s funeral is Thursday, if the body has been released by Snohomish County by then,” Vida replied, her eyes fixed on the door. “I called Al Driggers at the funeral home. The services will be held at the Lutheran church. The bank will be closed anyway on Thursday because of Veterans Day.”

  “And?” I knew Vida had much more to tell me. Usually she didn’t need prodding.

  Her gaze didn’t waver. Two furtive teenagers who were undoubtedly skipping school entered the restaurant. “Milo went over to Everett this morning to talk to Howard Lindahl. He’s not back yet.” Vida barely blinked as Tara Wesley, co-owner of Parker’s Pharmacy, and Nancy Dewey, Doc Dewey’s wife, made their way to a booth at the other side of the small dining room. “Sam Heppner is at the Lumberjack Motel, checking out their guest list for last week. Jack Mullins is interrogating the other bank employees. The non-Petersens, that is. Dwight Gould has today off, though I can’t think why, since there’s a homicide investigation under way. Billy is holding down the fort.”

  Having accounted for all of Milo’s deputies, Vida was ready to order. Our pudgy, middle-aged waitress, Jessie Lott, was as harried and efficient as ever. She trudged off to the kitchen while Vida announced that she was temporarily giving up her diet.

  “So difficult, all these carbohydrates and proteins and grams of fat and such. You have to be a mathematician to keep track. What harm can an occasional fishwich do?”

  Vida’s diets never last long, though there are days when she sticks to her regimen of hot water, carrot and celery sticks, cottage cheese, and sometimes a hard-boiled egg. She never seems to lose weight, nor does she gain. Having ordered a french dip, I had no right to comment.

  Vida had started telling me how she had nursed Roger back to a semblance of health when she suddenly interrupted herself. Springing halfway to her feet, she waved and called out to someone I couldn’t see without turning to stare.

  “Christie! Yoo-hoo!” Christie Johnston hesitated before approaching our booth. Vida was all smiles. “Do join us and I’ll finish telling you how to protect your shrubs during cold weather.”

  Like most people, Christie couldn’t refuse an invitation from Vida. As the bank teller sat down next to me, I realized why Vida had insisted on posting us by the door. Christie had been set up. No doubt Vida had learned earlier in the day when and where our new arrival was going to lunch.

  “Isn’t this cozy?” Vida was still beaming even as her brown fedora slipped to the rim of her glasses. While Christie mulled the menu, Vida recited a litany of floral precautions. I suspected that Christie wasn’t paying close attention. I also figured that Vida had more than plantings on her mind.

  And so she did. “What will you do?” Vida asked, from out of nowhere. She rarely worries about tactful transitions. Noting Christie’s puzzled expression, Vida tipped the fedora back on her gray curls and inclined her head in a sympathetic manner. “Without Linda, I mean. You have no bookkeeper. How will the bank manage until Marv can find someone else?”

  Christie looked relieved. Perhaps she was expecting a gardening quiz from Vida. “Andy Cederberg can handle the books for the time being. I could, as far as that goes. I’ve got quite a bit of experience working for banks.”

  Vida gave a quick nod. “Good, good. But you’ll have to find somebody soon. The bank’s busiest time of year is right around the corner.”

  “That’s true.” Christie had resumed studying the menu. She didn’t seem particularly concerned about her employer’s personnel problems. When Jessie Lott arrived with our orders, Christie put in hers, which was complicated by various substitutions and requests for “on the side.” Jessie kept her patience, barely.

  Vida nibbled her fishwich. “So sad,” she remarked with a deep sigh. “Linda, I mean. You must be terribly upset.”

  Christie, who had been rearranging her thick brown curls with her fingers, gave a little start. “Upset? Oh, of cou
rse! It’s terrible!” Her sharp features assumed a sorrowful air.

  “You weren’t close.” It wasn’t a question from Vida, but a statement of fact.

  “Not really.” Christie seemed to be eyeing my french dip with longing. “Troy and I had her over for a barbecue last summer. She never asked us back. I think Linda was antisocial.”

  “Did she bring a beau?” Vida was so matter-of-fact that I wondered if Christie realized she was being pumped.

  Christie shook her head, but waited to speak until Jessie Lott had delivered the baconburger basket with its extensive variations. “Linda was going with some guy from Sultan, I think. The only reason I know about him is that one day she had to leave early because his car broke down this side of Index and she had to go rescue him.”

  Having played Vida’s stooge since Christie sat down, I felt it was time to speak up: “Do you know who he was?”

  Christie didn’t. “I don’t think she’d been seeing him for quite a while now. Linda didn’t bring anybody to the Petersens’ Labor Day picnic.”

  Nor did Christie know where Linda had gone after work on Friday. In fact, Linda had still been at the bank when Christie left at six-twenty. “She and Andy Cederberg were usually the last to leave,” Christie added. “Linda closed the books for the day, and Andy locked up.”

  I saw the glint in Vida’s eyes and knew what she was thinking. Linda and Andy as a couple didn’t seem likely, but anything was possible. Vida did not, however, press the point with Christie.

  “You must be tired of so many questions,” Vida said, polishing off her coleslaw. “I understand Jack Mullins interrogated everyone at the bank this morning.”

  Christie seemed to have lost interest in Linda’s murder. Her gaze was wandering about the dining room, apparently taking in the cutouts of turkeys, Pilgrims, Indians, cornucopias, and The Mayflower that were suspended from the ceiling.

  “Oh—yes, he talked to Andy and Rick and me. There wasn’t much we could tell him. You don’t want to guess.” Christie’s brown eyes finally came back to our level.

  Vida pounced. “Guess? At what?” She tried to hide her eagerness by casually tipping her hat back on her head.

  Christie shrugged. “The obvious. Linda picked up some guy in a bar and he killed her. What else could have happened?”

  Since Vida had now managed to knock her hat onto the floor, I intervened. “Was that a habit with Linda?”

  Christie looked troubled by the question. “I don’t know if you’d call it a habit, but Troy and I saw her one night last spring at Mugs Ahoy. She came in alone and left with some guy from the bowling alley. It looked to us like she came on to him. But maybe we were wrong,” she added hastily.

  Jessie Lott had presented all three of us with separate checks. Christie, who had eaten very fast, announced that she had to run. She could only take half an hour for lunch because Denise Petersen was home with her grieving family. Vida and I lingered over my coffee and her tea.

  “Christie didn’t like Linda much,” Vida remarked. “Nobody did, it seems. How sad.”

  It was very sad. Now I, too, stared up at the cheerful Thanksgiving cutouts. It was the bright-eyed turkey that caught my eye. Plump and unsuspecting, the big bird reminded me of Linda Lindahl. Neither knew what fate held in store for them.

  I must have had a wry expression on my face, for Vida asked what I was thinking.

  “About neck-wringing,” I said. “Gruesome, huh?”

  Vida glanced at the turkey as she got out of the booth. “But apt. Let’s go see the Petersens.”

  “We can’t,” I protested. “They’re mourning. Milo said Marv and Cathleen were a mess, and Larry and JoAnne are in shock.”

  Vida made exact change at the register. “I don’t mean those Petersens,” she said as we left the Burger Barn. “I’m talking about Elmer and Thelma. Thelma and I went through school together. I’d feel terrible if I didn’t call on her. You might as well come along.”

  I had qualms. I’d never met the Elmer Petersens. My desk was piled with work for the Wednesday edition. But, like Christie Johnson, I couldn’t turn down Vida’s offer. In less than ten minutes, we had pulled onto the dirt road that led off Highway 187 to the Petersen farm.

  The house was shielded from the road by two huge holly bushes that must have been planted when the foundation was laid forty years ago. Unlike the well-maintained homes in town that belonged to the Marvin and the Larry Petersens, Elmer and Thelma lived in genteel squalor. The house was large, and its white paint had faded to gray. The roof was tin, as are many in Alpine, to better ward off the winter snows. The ramshackle barn looked as if a strong wind might topple it, and the chicken coop definitely listed to starboard. Two scruffy Morgan horses grazed behind barbed wire. Except for some withered cornstalks, the vegetable garden was plowed under. And everywhere there were stumps, remnants of trees that had been cut not to create a view, but for firewood.

  “Thelma’s no housekeeper,” Vida murmured as we waded through mud to the wide verandah. “Be careful where you sit.”

  Thelma Petersen embraced Vida with a reserved show of affection. Tall and gaunt, she bore a familial resemblance to her nephew, Milo Dodge. Elmer greeted us in what sounded like a series of grunts. He was a heavier, older version of his brother, Marv, and his face was weathered and weary.

  We were led into what Thelma quaintly called the parlor. Vida’s advice was well taken. On the first try, I almost sat on a chicken.

  After the introductions and condolences, Thelma offered coffee. Vida declined, and gave me her gimlet eye. Judging from the amount of feathers, animal hair, and just plain dust, I surmised that sanitation might be a problem.

  “Damnedbastardsoutthere.” Elmer was muttering into his bib overalls. He was almost impossible to understand.

  Thelma gave her husband a flinty look. “Time will tell,” she said cryptically.

  Vida was perched stiffly on the edge of a rail-back chair with a worn leather seat. “What will it tell, Thelma?”

  Our hostess gave her husband a scornful look. “Elmer is convinced that Linda was killed by the Republicans. He blames everything on the Republicans. Elmer’s still mad at Herbert Hoover.” Thelma discussed her husband as if he weren’t in the same room.

  Vida sniffed. “Elmer had better get over it. Besides, there’s a Democrat in the White House now. Don’t blame me—I didn’t vote for him. Arkansas! Imagine!” Vida all but spat on the floor, which probably wouldn’t have mattered, given the accumulation of dirt and other filth.

  “DamnedfoolGOP. MoviestarsandCIAspooks.” Elmer muttered away on the tattered mohair sofa. Next to me, the chicken flapped its wings and took off for the kitchen.

  Vida seemed equally capable of ignoring Elmer. “I take it you must have a different theory of what happened to poor Linda.” Her comment was directed at Thelma Petersen.

  Thelma, however, shook her head with its topknot of silver hair. “As I told Milo, she never showed up.”

  Vida gave a slight start and I swiveled in the faded faux velvet armchair. “Never showed up where?” Vida inquired.

  Thelma looked as if Vida ought to know. But of course everyone in Alpine assumed that Vida always knew everything. Usually she did. “Here,” Thelma replied. “Linda called around seven to say she was coming by. She never showed up.” For a fleeting moment, Thelma’s long chin quivered.

  “FederalReserveBoard. CIA. Country’srunbybothof’em. Bankexaminers—huntedLindadown.” The chicken had returned, and was now squatting on Elmer’s lap.

  “Why,” Vida asked, her forehead furrowed, “was Linda calling on you?”

  Thelma’s steel spine was back in place. “She didn’t tell me. She said Larry was coming, too. But when they hadn’t showed up after over an hour, I called Larry and he didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Were you worried?” I felt duty-bound to ask questions of my own.

  “Not really.” Thelma’s face showed regret, however. “It wasn’t the firs
t time that Linda had promised to visit and then backed out at the last minute. She never spent much time with us. Or with her own parents, for that matter. Linda was what you’d call a loner.”

  Vida nodded sagely. “She and Larry never got along when they were children. Typical sibling rivalry.”

  Thelma shot Elmer another contemptuous look. “Typical Petersens. Cat and dog, black and white. No sense of family ties between brothers and sisters. Elmer and Marv have always wrangled. They couldn’t agree that the sun will come up tomorrow.”

  “Itwon’t,” Elmer retorted. “Toodamnedcloudy. MarvvotedforIke. Nixontoo.”

  Vida could hardly keep from sneering at Elmer’s political views. But her question was for Thelma. “Did Linda and Larry often come together to visit?”

  “Never,” Thelma replied. “I wondered if there was some family ruckus. A row with their father, maybe. But after … afterwards, I asked Larry, and he said no. He couldn’t imagine what Linda was talking about or why she thought he was coming here with her. Larry and JoAnne were having a card party that night.”

  Vida was looking thoughtful, until a goat wandered into the parlor. I tensed, and clutched my handbag. Thelma paid no more attention to the animal than she did to her husband.

  “Ornerycuss,” Elmer remarked, giving the goat a dirty look. “Larrylethimlooselastweek. Name’sGoldwater.”

  “A handsome beast,” Vida said, standing up and sidestepping Goldwater. “Intelligent eyes, too.” She patted Thelma’s bony shoulder, but ignored Elmer as we began our progress to the door. When Vida’s back was turned, I smiled at our host, who was petting the chicken.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  Elmer’s small blue eyes regarded me with suspicion. “ClareBoothLuce,” he replied. “She’sagoodlay … er.” Elmer winked. I could have sworn that the chicken did, too.

  Chapter Seven