The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  Vida had returned by the time I’d gone through the mail and caught up with phone calls. Leo and Carla were both out, and Ginny was pouting in the front office.

  “Two months in Topeka is too long,” Vida declared, slipping a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter. “If Grace Grundle wasn’t a twittering ninny before she went to visit her sister in Kansas, she certainly is now. All she could talk about was the state fair at Hutchinson. Huge dahlias. Enormous squash. The largest sunflower on record. The world’s biggest ball of twine. Aaaaargh!” Vida plunged her hands into the typewriter keys.

  “Any pictures?” I asked hopefully.

  Vida glared at me from under the brim of her blue derby. “Of what? Twine?”

  “Squash is nice. So are dahlias.” I tried to sound reasonable.

  Vida set her fists on her hips. “Grace takes Polaroids. They’re all dark and fuzzy. Just like her brain. No wonder she’s lost all her money! It’s a marvel she could find her house when she got back from Kansas. Grace probably thought she was in Oz.”

  Listening to Vida rail, I thought Oz sounded promising. “How’d she lose her money? You mean she spent it on the trip?”

  Vida was flipping through her notes. I was surprised that she had taken any. Usually she trusted to her faultless memory. Noting my gaze, Vida felt compelled to explain: “The grandnephews and great-nieces and whatever other gaggle of Grundles or whoever they are. Grace spewed them out like peach pits. I couldn’t keep up.”

  I nodded in sympathy. “So she’s broke?” That didn’t seem likely. Grace Grundle was a retired schoolteacher with a less-than-flamboyant lifestyle. She had been widowed long before I came to Alpine, and there were no children. As I recalled, this was the first trip Grace had taken in years.

  “She’s not broke, as you put it,” Vida replied, typing away. “But after she got home last week, she went to cash in a CD she thought had come due, and they couldn’t find it. I suspect it was never there in the first place. Grace has always been a bit vague.”

  Before leaving Vida to her travel story, I filled her in on Milo’s report from the M.E. Vida wasn’t impressed. “He has nothing to go on,” she remarked, then reached for her Seattle directory. “I should know Bobby Lambrecht’s number, but I don’t.” Vida flipped through the yellow pages, then picked up the phone. After a brief exchange, she put the receiver down with a clunk. “Rats! He’s in an all-day meeting. Tomorrow he’ll be off for Armistice Day.”

  I concealed a smile at Vida’s somewhat arcane reference to the holiday. “Are you calling Bob about Dan Ruggiero?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I don’t suppose I should bother Bobby at home. It can wait. I suppose.” But the glint in Vida’s eyes indicated that she wanted some answers, and she wanted them now. She returned, however, to Grace Grundle’s adventures in Topeka and the Kansas State Fair.

  Because this was publication day, I had the luxury of researching next week’s editorial. Various possibilities presented themselves, including the sheriff’s need for funding. But I chose to congratulate the chamber of commerce on refraining from putting up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving, and to urge them to do the same next year and forever after. While on the subject of the chamber, I gave them a nudge regarding Ginny’s proposal for the Summer Solstice Festival. Several other logging communities in the Pacific Northwest were inaugurating civic celebrations aimed at boosting tourism and giving the local economies a shot in the arm. Alpine should be among them, I pointed out.

  It was midafternoon when I finished my draft. When I wrote an editorial so far in advance, there was always the chance that a more pressing matter might come along before deadline. The chamber piece wasn’t time-sensitive: I could use it at a later date.

  But the part about new ideas caused me to remember the two Californians who had been guests of the ski lodge. I put in a call to Henry Bardeen, the manager. He was gone for the afternoon, according to his daughter, Heather. Her father would return my call in the morning.

  “When was the last time you had dinner in Everett?” It was Vida, standing in the doorway of my office.

  I didn’t recall. “Why do you ask?”

  “We-ll …” Vida was trying to look ingenuous. She never manages it. “If we eat in Everett, we could pay a call on Howard Lindahl and his family. It would be awfully good-hearted of us, don’t you think?”

  I was aghast. “Vida, do you know Howard Lindahl? I sure don’t.”

  “I met him a few times,” she replied vaguely. “I attended his wedding to Linda. He came here with her upon occasion. Once. I think.” Vida’s gaze no longer met mine.

  “Then it’d be presumptuous of us to visit. We don’t even have the excuse of researching a story.”

  “Yes, we do.” Vida had regained her aplomb. “‘Victim’s Survivors Cope with Violent Death.’ Well? We ran the homicide story, we ran the obit, we ran a sidebar on Linda’s life and times. Now we go for the human interest. We’ll do all the Petersens, too, and Andy and Christie and Rick.”

  “That’s pushing it.”

  “We’ve already talked to Thelma and Elmer. Not that you can talk to Elmer, but he’s there. In his way.”

  I was weakening. “It’s an hour’s drive to Everett. The weather forecast is calling for snow again.”

  “It won’t snow in Everett.” Vida glanced at her watch. “It’s ten after three. It’s Wednesday, you can leave early. Four, shall we say?”

  “I should change,” I protested. My old gray slacks and baggy green sweater were adequate for work, but not for dinner.

  “Four-fifteen then,” said Vida. “My car or yours?”

  We decided on Vida’s Buick. In case of snow, it was the heavier vehicle. As I headed back into my office, I noticed that Vida was much more relaxed. She had settled on a course of action. Vida couldn’t stand sitting idly by. Some might call it meddling; I wouldn’t have dared. There were few who would, to Vida’s face.

  The Dithers sisters were pitching a fit. Judy and Connie Dithers sometimes played bridge with my group when they weren’t home watching TV with their horses. At the moment, they were doing neither, nor were they speaking in the fragmented fashion they often adopt for social occasions. Larry Petersen was on the end of their ire, and both women were up in arms.

  “You ought to be reported to … somebody,” Connie was screeching at Larry. “This is dishonest! What’s going on?”

  Larry was looking both embarrassed and flabbergasted. “Judy … Connie … It’s just a simple mistake. The computer, probably. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll figure it out.”

  Just after the paper was delivered around three, I’d gone into the Bank of Alpine to get some cash for dinner in Everett. Because of the Veterans Day break coming up, the bank was busier than usual. I was at the end of a seven-person line, and thus almost backed up to the mahogany rail that separated Larry from the inner lobby. It was impossible not to hear the Dithers sisters, especially Connie, who couldn’t bid one club without screaming.

  “Then do it,” Connie demanded with a swish of her graying brown ponytail. “We’ve got four grand tied up in that CD. Winter’s coming. We need feed for the horses.”

  Mercifully, I moved up two places in the teller line. Christie, Rick, and Denise appeared to be working as fast as they could. A couple of minutes later, I was number three. Judy Dithers had abandoned her sister to wander around the lobby. She saw me standing in line and clutched at my arm.

  “They’ve lost one of our money-market accounts. Can you imagine?” Judy whispered, flipping her own chestnut ponytail off her pudgy shoulder. “What’s going on around here? Linda Lindahl is murdered. Now the bank is in a mess. Why don’t they hire a new bookkeeper?”

  “I heard they were getting somebody from the CPA’s office,” I said, which was a bald-faced lie. It seemed logical, since I’d never figured out how the local accountant could afford to keep two people besides himself on staff.

  “We’ve always banked here,” Judy said, h
er wide, freckled face looking worried. “There’s never been a problem. I told Connie we shouldn’t have waited so long to order feed. She never listens to me.”

  Connie was the elder of the sisters by a year and a half. There had been a brother, according to Vida, who was born a cripple. His wheelchair had gone out of control one fine summer morning twenty years ago and a logging truck had mowed him down. Connie and Judy had inherited the horse farm, a considerable amount of life insurance, and the settlement from their brother’s wrongful-death suit. If local lore could be believed, the Dithers sisters hadn’t left Alpine since they were teenagers.

  “Computers get blamed for a lot of things,” I said, trying to remain neutral. “It’s probably a numerical mistake. You know, the wrong account number.”

  “It’s Linda,” Judy said in her flat voice. “She was a wonderful bookkeeper. Connie got everything out of balance last year. We asked Linda for help. In two days, she had it all straightened out. It was worth every penny we paid her.”

  Moving up another notch, I gazed at Judy Dithers with interest. “You liked Linda?”

  Judy arched her scraggly eyebrows. “Liked? That’s not the point. She was competent. Connie had to admit it. Hiring Linda was my idea.”

  At that point, Connie stormed across the lobby. She grabbed her sister by the arm. “Larry can’t find the mistake. I had to tell him to take the money out of our regular savings account. Maybe we ought to move everything to SeaFirst in Sultan.” She paused, apparently noting my presence for the first time. “Hello, Emma. Are you having any problems?”

  Before I could answer, Judy broke in: “Most people can manage their money, Connie dear. They aren’t financially challenged. Like us.” Judy gave Connie a scathing look.

  “Oh, so it’s my fault you can’t balance a checkbook! You never entered the amounts you spent! Judy, you have no money sense! I admit, I was never good at math. That’s why we have a proxy account, you dummy!”

  Ponytails a-flying and still wrangling, the Dithers sisters joined the queue behind me. I was now next in line. My brain was doing calisthenics. Like Leo, the Dithers sisters let the bank handle their financial affairs. Maybe Grace Grundle was in the same boat. If so, it appeared that the bank’s customers were sinking fast. I was so caught up in my theorizing that Rick Erlandson had to call to me twice before I snapped to and approached his teller’s cage.

  “What’s going on around here, Rick?” I asked in what I hoped was a pleasant voice. “Are you folks having some problems?”

  The color seemed to drain from Rick’s earnest face. “I don’t know, Ms. Lord. The last few days have been just … weird. Everything was fine until … well, Linda got killed, to really ruin everything. I’m thinking about quitting.” He keyed in my transfer of funds and ran an agitated hand through his short, natural brown hair. “Do you know of any job openings around town?”

  I didn’t. “Have you thought about Monroe? Or Everett?”

  Rick handed me my receipt and gloomily shook his head. “I don’t want to move. I’ve got … obligations.” He glanced guiltily at Denise Petersen, who was counting out cash for Dixie Ridley, wife of the high school football coach. Rick’s voice suddenly cracked as he posed a reluctant question: “Is Ginny really mad?”

  “Oh, dear.” I didn’t like getting caught up in my employees’ personal lives. “Well—she’s upset. It appears that you’re … involved with … someone else.” The Someone Else was now waiting on the Dithers sisters. “You’ve got to decide, Rick. Is it Ginny—or Denise?”

  Rick seemed miserable. “I really like Ginny. She’s so … nice. But sometimes a guy likes … to play the field.” He gave me a helpless look.

  In translation, that meant that Denise was putting out and Ginny wasn’t. Rick was human. He was a young, virile male who needed a warm, willing body in the sack. I gave Rick a feeble smile.

  “Why don’t you ask Ginny out and see what happens? Take her someplace nice, maybe out of town.” Inspiration struck, in the form of restaurant menus, flashing before my eyes like a gourmet fan. “Try Café de Flore down the highway. It’s French, very romantic. Ginny will love it.”

  Ginny might hate it, but it was the best I could do with six people waiting in line behind me. I gave Rick another smile and hurried out of the bank. There was an air of frenzy about the place that had nothing to do with the bustle of customers. Worse, I sensed the pall caused by Linda’s death. The marble pillars no longer seemed so sturdy, nor did the polished mahogany exude prosperity. The lobby seemed tarnished. So did the Petersens and the rest of the bank’s employees. Driving up the hill under the darkening skies, I felt bleak.

  Which, I reminded myself, was fitting. Linda’s funeral would be held in less than twenty-four hours. I was in the proper mood for it. As I turned in to my driveway, I chastised myself: My spirits might be low, but I was still alive. Linda Lindahl wasn’t as lucky.

  As if luck had anything to do with it.

  By five-thirty, Vida and I were at Confetti’s in Everett, overlooking the marina. It was still raining, but the change of scenery perked me up. So did the Rob Roy I ordered on a whim.

  Vida was checking Howard Lindahl’s address in the Everett directory. I was halfway through my drink before she reached the table.

  “Did you call him?” I inquired, wondering what had taken her so long.

  Vida was admiring the multicolored streamers that hung from the ceiling. “Lovely,” she murmured. “Are you having a cocktail?”

  I tapped my glass. “So it appears. How about you?”

  Vida hemmed and hawed, looked around to see if she recognized anyone from her church, and summoned our server. “A Tom Collins is practically nothing in terms of liquor,” she said blithely. “Do you realize that many people live on their boats here in the marina?”

  Judging from the number of lights and the activity along the docks, I could believe it. “The marina’s really big,” I noted. “Did you call Howard?”

  “The second largest on the West Coast, behind Long Beach, California. Or is it San Diego?” Vida appeared mystified.

  I wasn’t giving up. “Did you call Howard?” I repeated.

  Vida was studying the menu. Her eyes grew enormous. “Oh, look! We got here in time for the Early Bird Special! How nice! We’ll save several dollars.”

  “Vida …”

  “No.” Vida was very prim. “I’ll call after we eat. I have the home and the business addresses. The Lindahls live off Grand Avenue. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I’m familiar with the neighborhood. The cabinet shop is by the railroad tracks, above the Snohomish River.”

  Vida’s cocktail appeared. I allowed her to savor it before I pressed her again. “What took you so long at the pay phone?”

  She sipped, then sighed. “If you must know, I called Bobby Lambrecht. It’s after five, the rates are down, and I thought this would be a good time to reach him, just before dinner.”

  I tried not to smile. “And?”

  Vida gnawed on her lower lip. “Daniel M. Ruggiero is the Bank of Washington’s chief auditor. Bobby couldn’t—wouldn’t—say why he had come to Alpine.” Vida’s expression was rueful.

  The only reason I could think of for a bank’s chief auditor to show up in town was to check the books of another financial institution. Since we had but one, Dan Ruggiero must have been sent to look into the Bank of Alpine. My initial guess about a buyout had to be on target. But if I could believe the PR woman in Seattle, somewhere along the line, the Bank of Washington had chickened out. I verbalized my thoughts to Vida.

  She grimaced. “Yes, yes, it would appear that the Petersens were willing to permit a takeover or a merger or whatever. I was wrong about a possible sale. I hate to admit it, but there it is. Now the question becomes, why did BOW back away?”

  I gave a faint shake of my head. “Actually, there are two questions. Yours—and mine, which is, what does a potential buyout have to do with Linda’s murder?”

  Vida frowned.
“Maybe nothing.”

  “Maybe.” But I didn’t really believe it. Nor, I sensed, did Vida. Even in a small town, there are some circumstances in which coincidence is not credible.

  After we finished our entrées of spit-roasted chicken, Vida used the pay phone in the lobby to call Howard Lindahl. She laid on her sympathy with a trowel, then grew even more solemn about our professional obligations and the public’s need to know. If Howard Lindahl swallowed all of this, he was too dumb to have killed his ex-wife.

  Indeed, I could tell from Vida’s pursed lips that he was trying to rebuff our visit. That was when she asked to talk to Susan Lindahl.

  The second wife couldn’t resist Vida’s wheedling. Five minutes later, we were in the Buick, headed for Grand Avenue.

  The neighborhood was old, and in the process of being gentrified. The Lindahl home, which overlooked Puget Sound, had obviously undergone considerable renovation. I suspected that Howard’s craftsmanship had allowed him to do most of the work himself.

  Susan Lindahl welcomed us in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. I was surprised. Her surrender to Vida had suggested a cream puff. But Susan had her own agenda:

  “We could use some fresh faces around this house,” she declared, leading us into the living room, which was filled with almost-antiques as well as a few new pieces that had probably been built by Howard. “It’s been gloom and doom around here for the last week. First, the break-in, then Linda gets killed, and last night, Alison’s kangaroo gerbil died. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “How nice,” Vida said, taking her place on a depression-era davenport that had been re-covered in bright red poppies and green leaves. “Your home is charming. Wherever did you get the old Victrola?”

  Before Susan could answer, Howard entered the living room. His round face was sulky, but he shook our hands. “We don’t read the tabloids here,” Howard announced. “Just because my ex-wife went out and got herself killed, that doesn’t mean we want our names smeared all over the place.”