The Alpine Yeoman

by Mary Daheim

  I suspected it meant that whoever was advising Marv felt May’s inclusion was necessary to convince a prospective bank president that Alpine was living in the twenty-first century.

  “Okay,” I said. “The only name I can come up with is from the first set of serious problems at the Bank of Alpine ten years ago. Your old friend Faith Lambrecht had a son who was a higher-up at the Bank of Washington. He came to town when there was talk of a buyout, but nothing happened. In fact, I recall that he went fishing with Milo.”

  Vida beamed at me as if I’d been able to tell her the earth was round. “Indeed. Bobby Lambrecht longs for his roots.”

  The prodigal son, I thought. Vida would embrace Bob Lambrecht as if he were her very own. But I had to admit that his acceptance of the job would be a real boon for Skykomish County. I did wonder how Bob liked being called “Bobby.” Vida had always called Tom “Tommy,” and it made me cringe, but it didn’t seem to bother my former lover.

  “City life in Seattle has grown so tiresome,” Vida was saying, though I think I missed the first part of the family saga. “The four Lambrecht children are off on their own, so it’s time for a change. In fact, only the daughter is still in the Seattle area. So wise of Bobby and Miriam to come back to Alpine.” She suddenly smiled in her most toothsome fashion. “Here’s Mandy with our orders.”

  Fulfilling her aunt’s many special requests had forced Mandy into carrying a tray. She wobbled a bit trying to balance everything and looked relieved to start unloading Vida’s meal. “I had to use plates instead of the usual basket for the fish and the chips,” she explained. “I’ll get your tea. I didn’t have room for the pot or the cream.”

  Vida was looking into the sugar container that was already at our table. “Oh, dear! So much of what’s in there is that non-sugar sweetener. It has such an unpleasant taste. Would you mind bringing more of the real sugar, Mandy dear?”

  “Yes,” Mandy replied. “I mean, no, I don’t mind,” she amended, putting my basket in front of me. “Be right back.”

  I returned to our previous topic of conversation. “Did you hear about Bob from his mother, your old chum Faith?”

  Dousing salt and pepper on her potato salad, Vida nodded. “I’m urging her to move back here from Spokane. The weather there is so much more extreme. I have a feeling she’s never felt at home there since her husband died. She’d be so much better off in Alpine.”

  I figured Vida would say the same about Queen Elizabeth having to make do at Windsor Castle. So old, so drafty, so hard to keep up. “How soon will this news become official?” I inquired, always feeling the need to remind Vida that I was the Advocate’s editor and publisher. It was a common enough mistake for many of our readers.

  Vida waited to answer until after eating a bite of fish—and a bite of chips. “Maybe at the end of the month. I’m not sure when Bobby is handing in his resignation. Perhaps,” she went on with a sly glance, “Milo already knows.”

  “If so, he hasn’t mentioned it.”

  Vida didn’t comment. When she spoke again, it was a change of subject. “I’ll be leaving a bit early today. The family dinner, you see.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “You’ll have everything in by then?”

  “Of course. I finished the last letter for my advice column just before lunch.” Vida made a disapproving face. “These silly women who want to apologize for breaking off with an impossible man get my goat. What are they thinking of? He won’t change.”

  “Do you know who this one is?” I asked, given that most of the time Vida could identify the anonymous advice seeker.

  “I must confess I don’t. The letter was mailed from Everett. It’s quite possible that the writer sent it from there to befuddle me.” She pressed her index finger to her cheek. “Now, who do I know who has gone to Everett in the past few days?”

  I decided to let the subject drop. It was a wonder Vida didn’t keep a log of every SkyCo resident’s departure, destination, and return. In fact, she probably did—in her head. My House & Home editor never took notes. If I could see inside her brain, my own head might explode at the sheer volume of data stored there.

  We passed the rest of our meal discussing what she thought of Fuzzy Baugh’s plan to reorganize the county’s government structure. Despite her conviction that it had probably been the mayor’s wife, Irene, who had come up with the idea, she grudgingly endorsed it.

  “Unfortunately,” she said, devouring the last of her potato salad, “the trio of county commissioners grew so old and inept that we’ve been stalled for the last decade—or two. Granted, Alfred Cobb passed away in December, but George Engebretsen and Leonard Hollenberg have barely been conscious, let alone attentive, for far too long. I would’ve been pleased about Jack Blackwell’s appointment to fill Alf’s vacancy, being as he’s a younger man with solid business experience running his mill. However, his personal life is deplorable. Talk about silly women! Patti Marsh has taken him back after his latest short-lived affair with Tiffany Rafferty. No doubt Jack is already beating up on Patti again.” Vida shook her head. The duck seemed to nod.

  Mandy stopped off with our separate bills. “No dessert, Aunt Vida?” she asked.

  “Heavens no!” Vida cried. “I really am watching my weight. Easter, I fear, always means too many sweets.”

  Mandy’s blue eyes twinkled. “From the colonel?”

  “Why, yes,” Vida said coyly at the mention of Buck Bardeen, her longtime companion. “He’s a very considerate gentleman.”

  I didn’t know if the emphasis on the word was for Mandy, lest she get some erotic notions about her aunt, or for me, alluding to Milo’s less refined take on life and the English language.

  The rest of the day passed in the usual flurry of getting the paper ready for publication. By the time I’d finished with Kip in the back shop, it was after five. Everyone else had left when I returned to my office to collect my jacket and handbag. I had two Cornish game hens in the freezer at home and didn’t need any other items at the grocery store. But after Milo’s complaint about strawberries being a poor substitute for dessert and the possibility that he had never eaten lunch, I stopped off on Front Street at the Upper Crust Bakery to get a pie.

  One of Vida’s sisters-in-law, Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt, was coming out just as I was going in. “Well!” she exclaimed, looking disgruntled. “Are you picking up something for the birthday party, too?”

  “What birthday party?” I asked, backpedaling to the sidewalk.

  “For the child of that nincompoop Roger. Today’s his second birthday.” She stared down at me with probing brown eyes. Not only was she close to Vida in size, but she was just as opinionated and outspoken. Thus, the sisters-in-law had never gotten along. “I happened to arrive at the bakery as she was collecting the poor little nipper’s cake. Thirty dollars! Can you imagine? If he’s as ill-behaved as Roger was, he’ll smear it all over himself and the walls. And don’t think I didn’t tell that to my self-righteous kinswoman!”

  I’ve never exactly warmed to Mary Lou, having spent very little time in her company. But despite my loyalty to Vida, I couldn’t play the hypocrite. “I’m afraid Vida has a problem seeing Roger in anything but a good light. It’s her blind spot. Are you going to the party?”

  “Ha! I wasn’t asked, and I wouldn’t go if she had invited me,” Mary Lou asserted. “Vida’s daughter Amy is a spineless creature, and her husband, Ted, is a mere cipher. Count yourself lucky that you weren’t included in the Hibbert family celebration. It’s the little boy I feel sorry for. He’s an innocent child being raised by a passel of fools. All I can say is I hope he doesn’t turn out like Roger. I volunteer at RestHaven and observed that lazy obnoxious lout lolling around instead of pitching in like the rest of us do. Outside smoking half the time and inside tagging along after that Sigurdson girl. Mark my words, her parents will quash that romance before it’s too late. Good night, Emma.” Mary Lou started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh! I haven’t offered congr
atulations on your marriage. I’m relieved that you and the sheriff made yourselves legal. You’re both old enough to know better than to set a poor example for young people. Have a pleasant evening.” She swerved on her own pair of chunky heels and clomped off down the street.

  At least Mary Lou was one step ahead of Vida with good wishes. I would, of course, have preferred it to be the other way around.

  After buying a blackberry pie and a half dozen French rolls, I headed home. Driving my Honda into the carport, I could see a pile of logs out in the backyard. I grimaced, wondering if my cozy little cabin would feel chilly. The fitful April showers had ceased, though clouds still hung low over the mountains, drifting slowly to the west.

  I’d been inside just long enough to turn on the oven and put the game hens in the microwave to defrost when the phone rang. Dashing out into the living room, I snatched up the phone from the end table.

  “Scratch Tanya for dinner,” Milo said. “She’s going out to eat with an old pal, Deanna … I forget her married name. She’ll be back around seven, seven-thirty. I’m in touch with the Yakima County sheriff’s office, so I might not get home until six or so.”

  “Okay,” I said—and realized that the sheriff had already disconnected. Maybe he thought he was talking to my voice mail.

  I wondered if I should hold off cooking one of the game hens, but given Milo’s prodigious appetite, I put both in the oven. If there was anything left over, I could take it to work for lunch. By the time I’d prepared a mixture of white, wild, and brown rice out of a box and readied the asparagus for steaming, I considered making a drink but decided to wait for Milo. I sat down on the sofa, opened my laptop, and started an email to Adam. He’d returned to St. Mary’s Igloo Sunday night after attending a conference in Fairbanks. I’d received a brief message from him saying he’d arrived safely—details to follow. I hadn’t heard anything further, so I assumed he was busy with his villagers. As ever, I wished he’d be assigned somewhere that wasn’t so isolated and remote. Like Ben, he had to go where he was sent.

  I told him how the remodel was progressing and that I’d decided to keep my old double bed in the expanded spare room. “I’ve moved all of your stored belongings to the so-called den, between the living room and your old room. As you may recall, that area was so small that there wasn’t enough space for a kid’s school desk. Scott Melville suggested we also rip out that wall to double the bedroom’s size.”

  I paused. For all I knew, the church and rectory where Adam lived wasn’t as big as my little log cabin was now. I wondered if he thought his mother was bragging. Or cajoling. Or …

  I gave a start when I heard the kitchen door open and bang shut. “Milo?” I called, closing the laptop and hurrying into the kitchen.

  “It’s not Mother Nature,” my husband growled, taking off his hat and tossing it on top of the dishwasher. “All I can get out of Yakima is the drought that’s predicted over there. The fruit crop’s heading for disaster and the governor is already worried about forest fires. Worst water shortage in the state’s history.”

  “We’ve had some rain here,” I said in an unnaturally meek voice.

  Milo shrugged out of his regulation jacket. “Not enough. Besides, we’re on the so-called wet side of the Cascades, in case you forgot.” He grabbed his hat and stalked out of the kitchen.

  “Hey,” I yipped, chasing after him as he hung up his hat and jacket on a peg by the front door. “How many times do I have to remind you I’m your damned wife?”

  “Oh … hell.” Milo’s broad shoulders sagged before he took me in his arms and kissed me. “Damnit, Emma,” he said, resting his chin on top of my head, “I don’t deserve you. I told you that before we got engaged.”

  I rested my cheek against his chest. “Hey, big guy, I knew what I was getting into. You deserve something better than a bitchy homecoming.” I managed to pull away to look up at him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wait until we sit.” He glanced over at the end table. “You don’t have a drink?”

  “No. Now that we’re married, I don’t like drinking alone.”

  He leaned down to kiss my nose. “I’ll make the drinks. I can change later. How soon is dinner?”

  I followed him out to the kitchen to check the game hens. “You’re a little earlier than I thought you’d be, so at least twenty minutes.” More like half an hour, I thought, but maybe Milo wouldn’t check his watch. The game hens were only now starting to brown.

  He didn’t speak while he fixed my Canadian and his Scotch. I turned the heat on low under the rice. He handed me my glass, his hazel eyes troubled. I touched his cheek before leading the way back to the living room.

  Milo sighed in relief as he sat down in the easy chair before taking out his cigarettes. “You want one?”

  “You know I’ve been trying to quit. Again,” I said, but decided maybe I should go ahead and smoke anyway. “What the hell.” I got up and let him light a cigarette for me.

  “Something’s not right,” he stated after I’d sat back down on the sofa and he’d taken a sip of Scotch. “I had to listen to all the dire predictions about drought and the eastern half of the state burning up this summer.” He paused to take a drag of his cigarette and another sip of Scotch. “Hell, I’m not unsympathetic. I worked with the Yakima crew back in December. They’re good people. My counterpart wasn’t in, so I talked to a senior deputy. He didn’t exactly stonewall me, but he was evasive. In fact, he sounded downright uncomfortable.”

  After a couple of puffs on the cigarette, I felt a bit lightheaded. “Uh … about tracking down a guy with a common Hispanic name?”

  Milo leaned forward to peer at me. “You sure you didn’t start drinking before I got home? You look kind of goofy.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t think I’ve smoked in almost a month. I feel woozy.”

  “Oh. I’ve cut down, too, at least around Tanya.” He sat back in the chair. “The deputy’s first reaction was that there had to be a ton of Fernandezes in the county. Then I prodded him a bit, asking if they had any missing persons reports. They did, but no one by that name. That answer came too fast. It’s a relatively big and fairly mobile population. I figured he was putting me off. But why? It makes me think they know damned well who the stiff is.”

  I gave Milo a curious look. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be telling me this, Sheriff? Do I need to remind you I’m the press?”

  Milo waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette. “I’d tell Vida if she were here. Of course, she isn’t speaking to me. But this is one of those quirky things that you women are good at. Besides, by the time I finished the Yakima call, Jack Mullins was the only one left in the office. You know what kind of smart-ass remark he’d make. Not helpful.” Milo took another sip of his drink. “You can’t use this in the paper anyway.”

  I agreed. “Unless, of course, it escalates.”

  “It better not. I’ll raise hell if it does.”

  “Do you think the dead man might be one of their own?”

  “It crossed my mind,” Milo replied slowly, “but there was nothing on the guy to indicate he was with the sheriff’s department.” He paused, stroking his long chin. “It could go one of two ways, though. Either he is some kind of law enforcement type—or he’s on the wrong side of the law and they want to do some checking before they say anything.”

  The phone on the end table next to me rang. Kip was on the line. “Hey,” he said, “do we have anything new on the guy who got thrown from the sports car? Mitch didn’t update me before he left.”

  “Let me ask the sheriff.” I put my hand over the receiver. “Sports car guy—dead or alive?”

  Milo shrugged. “Don’t ask me. They took him to Valley General hospital, in Monroe.”

  I spoke again into the phone, relaying what Milo had told me. “Mitch may have forgotten. Brenda was ailing this morning, so he was probably preoccupied. Have him call Monroe. Doobles, or whatever his name is, isn’t local,
but we should at least find out if he’s dead.”

  “Will do. Otherwise, we’re good to go.” Kip paused. “I take it you don’t have ID on the corpse in the river?”

  “No. It’s aggravating, but there’s nothing we can do about that.”

  “Isn’t that sort of weird?” Kip asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I think I get it. The sheriff’s not talking.”

  “Right. If that happens, I’ll let you know.” I rang off.

  Milo was grinning. “You talking in code?”

  I got off the sofa. “My staff—and Spence—have a problem figuring out why you don’t unload about your job when you come home.”

  “I just did.”

  “But it’s not news. Venting doesn’t count.” I went into the kitchen to peek at the chickens. They still weren’t quite done. “Five minutes,” I called to Milo as I turned on the asparagus.

  “Good. I missed lunch.”

  As the days ahead would prove, there was a lot more missing in Alpine than the sheriff’s lunch.

  SIX

  MILO ATE AN ENTIRE GAME HEN BY HIMSELF. THAT WAS no surprise. Despite his expressed displeasure over being forced to eat rice instead of potatoes, he was placated by the blackberry pie. Or almost.

  “No ice cream?” he asked, looking disappointed.

  “If you want ice cream, why don’t you tag along with Bill Blatt when Vida treats her nephew so she can inveigle information about your latest investigation?”

  “And have her not speak to me? That’d be a relief, I suppose. I’m surprised she doesn’t make Bill sit in a booster seat.”

  “Maybe that’s because he’s almost six feet tall.”

  “Five-ten,” Milo said, loading his fork with pie. “That’s what it says in his personnel file.”

  I glanced at my watch. “It’s going on eight. Kip hasn’t called with any more problems, so the paper must be almost set to print.”

  “I don’t know why,” Milo said after eating another mouthful of pie, “if you print the paper tonight, you can’t get it on the street in the morning instead of the afternoon.”