by Mary Daheim
Vida scowled at me. “I told you—the Wailers.” She made a pointed gesture of directing her attention toward the sanctuary where Pastor Nielsen was about to offer the closing prayer.
At last, the casket was wheeled back down the aisle. There were some genuine tears mingled with the back-row wailing. Throwing discretion to the wind, I stood on tiptoes. By craning my neck, I identified two of the three woeful women as Gerta Runkel and Nell Blatt, Vida’s sisters-in-law. The third could have been one of the Carlsons, a member of the family that owned Blue Sky Dairy. I decided not to mention the Wailers again to Vida. As Linda’s casket rolled out of the church, the trio let out one last ghastly burst, then went dumb. Despite a convulsive giggle from Christie Johnston, I pretended as if I’d been hearing the Wailers weep through funerals all my life. Just like Vida. Perhaps the most amazing thing about the distraction was that after four years, I was still experiencing new small-town eccentricities.
The cemetery is only a block away from the church, but ironically the main entrance is on Highway 187. We processed in a long line of cars, vans, and trucks through the rain to the grave site, which was in the Petersen family plot. I saw Frank and Irmgaard’s headstone, with an open Bible engraved in the weathered granite. Like the rest of the town, the cemetery is built on a steep hillside, which made footing treacherous. We stood at angles, like mountain goats, many clustered under umbrellas, some holding their programs from the service over their heads, and others, like me, braving it out bareheaded because we’re used to the rain. The black clouds seemed appropriate for Linda’s burial. Sunshine would have evoked her bright blonde head and happier days. If she’d had any. I didn’t know Linda Lindahl well enough to be sure.
The Lutheran ladies put on an excellent spread in the capacious church hall. There were finger sandwiches and vegetable plates and cookies and coffee and tea and nonalcoholic punch. Early on, I got separated from Vida, and found myself face-to-face with Denise Petersen. I resisted the urge to start the conversation by asking, “So how about those Wailers?”
“Funerals are so sad,” Denise declared, nibbling on a smoked salmon sandwich. Figuring that the statement was about as profound as Denise could get, I merely nodded. But she had more to say, so I listened politely. “Aunt Linda would have hated it. She never went to church. She said God was an idea.”
“Really.” I smiled, still being polite. “You must have been close to Linda. To discuss religion and such,” I added, noting the blank response on Denise’s pretty, vapid face.
Denise considered. “We were eating egg rolls. You know, at the mall. She said Buddha was fully illuminated. I said so was my new TV. So what? Then we talked about God and religion and stuff. That’s about the only time we really discussed anything serious. I ran into her at Barton’s Bootery. They were having a sale. I think it was last month.”
It had been in mid-September. I remembered the half-page ad. Trying to put aside thoughts of how anyone as dopey as Denise could handle a teller’s job, I kept on smiling. “You worked together, though. You must have had lots of opportunities to talk to your aunt.”
The suggestion seemed to puzzle Denise. “Not really. I only started at the bank this fall. And she was always at her desk, doing … whatever she did.”
“She did it well, I imagine.” I spoke lightly, not expecting a serious response.
“I guess. Grandpa told me once—he was sort of mad at me because I’d screwed up somebody’s deposit and put it in the wrong account—that even though Aunt Linda was family, she wouldn’t keep her job unless she paid attention to what she was doing. Grandpa told me I’d better do the same. I’m trying, but there’s so much to remember.” Denise sighed, a painful sound, as if she’d been asked to sacrifice herself to ravenous wolves. “It isn’t just waiting on customers, which is totally awful, but balancing out at the end of the day and keeping track of all those different accounts and signing off on Rick and Christie’s stuff and making sure to know the interest rates for …” She stopped, looking stumped. “It was a lot easier waiting tables at the Icicle Creek Tavern. You don’t get tips at the bank.”
My head was beginning to spin. The Lutheran church hall is large and well ventilated, but the noise level had risen and I seemed to be hemmed in on every side. Mercifully, Rick Erlandson had edged his way toward Denise. After we exchanged greetings, I made excuses for securing some smoked salmon sandwiches of my own.
Directly above the buffet table was a well-known picture of Jesus, knocking at a door. As a child, I wondered why. It always struck me that He looked like a Fuller Brush salesman making a late-night call. Having skipped lunch, I grabbed three finger sandwiches and was chewing lustily when Milo Dodge approached, looking uncomfortable in his brown sport coat and not-quite-matching slacks. The orange-and-yellow-striped tie didn’t help.
“Well?” Milo’s expression was sardonic. “Are you picking out a killer?”
“That’s your job,” I responded, trying to sound flippant but feeling something heavy in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the salmon sandwiches. Milo was right: Linda’s murderer might be among us, mourning along with the other four hundred people who had gathered to commemorate her life. And death.
“I’ve heard how I should be making an arrest from about a hundred people already today,” Milo grumbled. “Marv Petersen is getting pretty damned impatient. Now that the funeral is over, I’m going to feel some real heat. All three county commissioners are his cronies. The next thing I know, they’ll want to impeach me.”
“Don’t be silly, Milo. You’re doing the best you can. The murder happened less than a week ago.” I hoped my attitude would bolster the sheriff’s self-confidence.
Milo’s grumpy expression didn’t change a jot. “Six days is a long time in a homicide investigation. If we had a prosecutor in this county who wasn’t senile, he’d be on my butt, too.” The sheriff’s reference to Emmett Swecker was apt; Emmett was well into his eighties and had held the job since the Eisenhower era. He’d had his successes in the recent past, but only because Milo had presented him with airtight cases. Emmett’s last solo attempt to get a conviction had involved a tourist who had been arrested for playing a trombone in the nude at Old Mill Park. For some reason, Emmett had tried the case on the grounds that the town’s antinoise ordinance had been violated. In covering the story, I’d been forced to ask Emmett why he hadn’t resorted to the indecent-exposure law. Emmett, who claimed to have seen the trombonist, insisted the man wasn’t naked. His eyes were as defective as his mind. The case was dismissed, but somewhere along the line, Deputy Jack Mullins had managed to lose the trombone. A lawsuit was said to be pending.
“Your staff isn’t very well represented,” Milo observed, his melancholy hazel eyes fixed on Vida, who, as usual, was the center of attention in front of a portrait of Martin Luther.
I acknowledged that Carla and Ginny were holding down the fort at the office. I didn’t mention Leo’s roses. The thought of his bouquet made me realize that I hadn’t spotted him among the mourners. Maybe he’d decided that a floral bouquet was sufficient. I couldn’t help but wonder why he’d bothered to make any sign of recognition. He couldn’t have known Linda that well. Perhaps he’d seen the occasion as a public-relations gesture. Or so I hoped.
Milo must have noted the confusion on my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You look sort of strange.”
I decided not to mention Leo’s roses. “This whole thing is strange,” I said. “I don’t see Mike Brockelman.”
Milo raised his sandy eyebrows. “I wouldn’t expect to. Married lover attends girlfriend’s funeral? I don’t think the state would approve the time off. Besides, the highway crew has a deadline. I’m betting on snow over the weekend.”
It was a safe bet. After the first of November, it always is in Alpine. The murderer, however, had miscalculated. I mentioned the fact to Milo.
He agreed. “It makes you think the murder was premeditated. So does the part about Linda�
�s car. Somebody set her up, including the supposed meeting with Larry at Aunt Thelma and Uncle Elmer’s.”
Across the room, I could see Larry and JoAnne Petersen accepting condolences from a group that included Harvey and Darlene Adcock. Marv Petersen was there, too. The short, stout woman at his side was no doubt his wife, Cathleen. She looked vaguely familiar from various sightings at the Grocery Basket, Safeway, and Parker’s Pharmacy.
“I wonder how Linda was contacted,” I said, seeing Howard Lindahl approaching out of the corner of my eye. “A phone call? A note?”
Milo shrugged, then made an attempt to loosen his tie. “It could have been in person. Somebody came by the bank. Anybody. Who doesn’t go into the Bank of Alpine?”
I was about to mention the complaints of various customers concerning discrepancies in their accounts when Howard Lindahl cleared his throat in a deferential manner.
“How’s that story coming?” he inquired after a brief greeting. “I’m still not happy about it.”
With a guilty glance at Milo, I shifted from one foot to the other. “Well … it’s what we call an in-depth piece. It’ll take some time. We’re thinking about interviewing other survivors. You know, from logging accidents, car crashes, that sort of thing. We don’t want to be … superficial.”
A wave of relief swept over Howard’s face. “Then it won’t be in the next edition?”
I shook my head emphatically. “Definitely not. Grief is timeless. We might even wait until after the first of the year. So many people get killed on the road during the holidays.” Inwardly I winced. Superficial had become my middle name. I felt as shallow as Denise Petersen.
In an uncharacteristic show of affection or something that might have been taken for it, Milo draped an arm around my shoulders. “So you’re doing an article on Howard here? Interesting. I didn’t know you knew the Lindahls.”
I felt like stepping on Milo’s foot. “Journalists get around,” I mumbled. “It’s part of the job.”
Howard’s expression was very serious. “Ms. Lord and Ms. Runkel convinced us they’re doing a public service. Frankly, I was against it. But Susan believes in reaching out.” Even as he spoke, Susan Lindahl was at an exit, waving to her husband. She had a very miserable Alison in tow. “Excuse me, I think my wife wants to leave. This has been really hard on my daughter. Maybe we shouldn’t have brought her along.” With a morose air, Howard Lindahl made his way through the chattering mourners.
Milo dropped his arm. “So you and Vida hightailed it over to Everett. Why didn’t you say so?”
“What should I say?” I tried to act both indignant and innocent. I still had the hand-drawn map in my purse. There were too many people around to overhear me mention Christie Johnston’s proposed trip to Michigan. The customer complaints about the bank could wait. “You’d already talked to Howard. Vida and I were looking for a story angle.”
“Right.” Milo’s skepticism blazed as brightly as his orange-and-yellow tie. “Look, Emma, I sure as hell could use some extra hands. But I want them working for the county, not The Advocate. Back off. One of these days you and Vida are going to get yourselves into real trouble.”
Gobbling up my last finger sandwich, I scoffed at the sheriff’s warning. His long mouth was set in a grim line. It didn’t scare me.
But it should have.
Leo Walsh was in a good mood. When I returned from the funeral shortly after four, he all but danced into my office.
“You seem to have recovered from your spill,” I noted.
“Hell, it was only a sprain. That was ten days ago.” He dropped onto one of my spare chairs. “Say, I thought this was payday. Not that I have to worry, what with the proxy banking deal.”
I explained to Leo that when the fifteenth of the month fell on a Sunday, we moved payday to Monday. “If the fifteenth’s a Saturday, then the checks are delivered on Friday. It all works out in the end.” My smile was benign.
“It makes sense.” Leo extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray I’d resurrected just for him from a cupboard shelf. “They finally got the payment at the Toyota place, by the way. I guess it takes a while to set these things in motion.”
“Good.” I tried to keep my smile in place. “That was a beautiful arrangement you sent for Linda.” Feigning interest in my accumulated phone messages, I watched Leo from under my lashes.
His color deepened and he shifted nervously in the chair. “Yeah … right … well, I feel like I should try to fit into this place. If I’m going to stick around. It doesn’t hurt to show I’m part of the community. I mean, Alpine isn’t freaking L.A.”
“No, it’s not.” My eyes had traveled to the cigarette butt in the ashtray. To my horror, I found it enticing. My smile evaporated. “You’re right, Leo. It’s good of you to participate. But you can’t put out for every funeral, wedding, and anniversary in town. You’ll go broke.”
“I’ve been broke before.” Leo had regained his aplomb. “Hey, babe, you look great in that black dress. But you’re a little washed-out. Too much time with those Lutherans. How about a drink after work? It’s almost quitting time.”
It occurred to me that Leo had already had a drink. Or two or three, before quitting time. Maybe he’d been in a bar instead of at the funeral.
“Sorry,” I said, hoping to sound sincere. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
Leo stared, then broke into a grin. “No kidding? Who’s the lucky stiff?”
Leo’s choice of words was unfortunate. My plan was to visit the murder site off Highway 187. Maybe Vida would go with me. There was no man involved, of course. I hadn’t had a real date since I moved to Alpine. The tryst with Tom Cavanaugh had been a matter of circumstances, and evenings with Milo Dodge didn’t count.
“I didn’t say it was romantic,” I hedged, caressing a phone message from Averill Fairbanks as if it were a request to meet Mel Gibson at the ski lodge instead of the usual sighting of aliens crash-landing at the fish hatchery. To soothe Leo’s feelings, I came up with a brainstorm: “Why don’t you come to my house for Thanksgiving? My son will be there, and I’m asking Carla and her roommate, Marilynn Lewis, too.” Vida was going to her daughter’s in Bellingham, and Ginny would be with her own family. Marilynn, who was a nurse at the Alpine Medical Clinic, had moved in with Carla the previous June.
Somewhat to my surprise, Leo hesitated. “Well—we’ll see. Can I let you know next week?”
“Sure.” It crossed my mind that Leo might intend to fly to L.A. over the long weekend. Considering that he seemed estranged from his entire family, it was a long shot. I kept my mouth shut.
Leo wandered out of the office, and five minutes later, Vida stomped in. Her velvet cloche was drooping sadly, a victim of the rain. “There’s definitely something fishy going on at the bank,” she declared. “I talked to several people at the funeral reception who have had problems, particularly cashing in CDs. They’re not all as addled as Grace Grundle.”
If Vida was right, The Advocate had a responsibility to get the story. “Do you think that’s why the Bank of Washington bowed out?”
Having finally conceded that the Petersens could be sufficiently traitorous to sell their establishment to a big-city blockbuster, Vida was ready to consider other possibilities. “It could be so. Let’s say that Bobby Lambrecht came to Alpine to talk business with Marv Petersen. Marv agreed to a buyout, or a merger. Then Bobby went back to Seattle where he sent Dan Ruggiero up here to check the books. But things didn’t look right. So this Ruggiero fellow goes back to Seattle and alerts Bobby. The proposal is scrapped. That’s what the woman in their PR department told you, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “If it was still pending, but unofficial, she could have said, ‘No comment,’ or some such ambiguous statement.”
Vida was also nodding, but slowly, ponderously. “I know so little about financial institutions. I’ve banked here all my life. I was eleven years old when I had my first account. Savings-bond stamps, twenty-five cents apiece, ev
ery week, through the school. We had what they called Bank Day, and everybody brought at least one quarter. When we filled up the little books, we had eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents—enough to buy a twenty-five-dollar war bond. By the time the Allies defeated the Germans and the Japanese, I had five bonds. I didn’t cash them until I was twenty-six.” Vida grimaced. “My, but life is full of ironies. I suppose we should consider it a blessing that a bank from Japan isn’t trying to buy us out. Yet.”
It didn’t matter to me whether the potential buyer was from Tacoma or Tokyo. The point was that there was no buyer. What we needed to find out was the reason.
“I’m going to call Milo,” I said, punching in the sheriff’s number. “He ought to know what happens when one financial institution discovers that there’s a serious problem with another financial institution.”
“Bank examiners,” Vida murmured. “I’m sure they call them in. But who are they?” Her face was an uncustomary mask of puzzlement.
Jack Mullins answered the phone. Sheriff Dodge was out. Assuming that Milo might have taken the rest of the day off after attending the funeral, I asked if he’d be back before five.
“Oh, sure, he’ll be here,” Jack replied in his dry, droll manner. “Our favorite law enforcement officer wants to keep a high profile with the electorate while this Lindahl thing is still perking.”
“What’d he do, go home to burn his ugly tie?” I asked.
Jack chuckled. “I missed that. He’d taken it off when he came back here. No, he’s actually working. He went up to Linda’s condo to have a look-see for himself. I guess he doesn’t trust Sam and me to do the job.”
As it turned out, I didn’t make contact with Milo that afternoon. There were too many phone messages that had accumulated in my absence, and the AP wire had provided us with yet another in-depth overview of the timber controversy. I would let Carla do the usual checking for local comments, but the issue was becoming so complicated that I needed to understand the latest developments in order to provide direction for my scatterbrained reporter.