by Mary Daheim
“I think I’ll go,” I said. Vida, who wouldn’t miss a grief-related occasion for the world, had known Hank and would want to come along—if she was back Thursday.
But of course she’d be in Alpine by then. I couldn’t imagine her missing what would amount to an entire workweek.
Vida seemed to be on everybody’s mind. I guess she always is. Charlene Vickers came by around eleven with the write-up of the party for Genevieve Bayard. I left my cubbyhole to greet her.
“Where’s Vida?” Charlene asked.
I was getting tired of the question, but I answered patiently. One of the many groups Charlene belongs to is my bridge club. She’s a nice woman, a little older than I am, and somewhat reserved. Being the wife of a service station owner is not easy in Alpine. Every time the price of gas goes up, the Vickers name is maligned by half of Skykomish County.
“How was the party last night?” I inquired, leaning my backside against Vida’s desk.
“Lovely,” Charlene replied. “Everyone was so glad to see Genevieve. Of course, some of us were quite young when she moved away after her ex-husband died. She’s aged very well.” Charlene grimaced, perhaps because since I’d known her, her hair had gone gray and her figure had expanded by several inches. “Anyway, Annie Jeanne was absolutely thrilled. She and Gen were very close friends since childhood. I’ve got pictures.” She gestured at the envelope that she’d put on Vida’s desk. “There’s one of them hugging that’s priceless. I hope Vida can use it.”
“Yes.” I picked up the envelope and removed its contents. The story was two-and-a-half neatly typed pages, double-spaced. The photographs were all in color.
“Buddy stopped by to take some pictures,” Charlene explained, “but I took these. I hope they’re all right.”
They looked usable, unlike in the past when everybody in town submitted badly posed Polaroids that not only didn’t reproduce well, but couldn’t be run in color because we didn’t have the equipment.
I pointed to a group photo where a woman I didn’t recognize sat in the middle. “That’s Gen?”
Charlene nodded. “She’s still a pretty woman, isn’t she?”
The shape of her face and the fair hair—which I assumed was dyed—vaguely resembled Buddy. Charlene was right. Genevieve Bayard was attractive and didn’t look more than late fifties.
“How old is she?” I inquired. “She hardly seems old enough to be Buddy’s mother.”
“I know.” Charlene uttered a small laugh. “It’s hard to believe that Gen and Annie Jeanne are the same age, but they’re both in their mid-sixties. Gen married very young. I suppose it’s not a surprise that it didn’t last. Andre drank, I’ve heard.”
“Andre,” I repeated. I knew that was Buddy’s real first name, but I hadn’t known he’d been named for his father. “Andre died young?”
Charlene shook her head. “Not really young. Forties, I think. He may have died from drink—or a drunk-driving accident. I don’t remember. They were divorced several years earlier but kept trying to reconcile. I suppose he promised to change but didn’t. So sad. Gen never remarried because she’s Catholic.”
“She could have remarried as a widow,” I pointed out to Charlene, who isn’t Catholic but Methodist.
“I don’t know,” Charlene said. “Maybe Gen really loved him and never found anyone else.”
“That happens,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I could never imagine marrying anyone but Tom.
“Here’s a picture of Ethel with her prizewinning quilt,” Charlene said, perhaps sensing what I was thinking and tactful enough to change the subject.
A grim-faced Ethel Pike was standing up, holding a large quilt in some kind of star pattern. The quilt was a lot better looking than Ethel.
“Oh!” Charlene exclaimed. “I forgot to add one thing. Gen brought homemade cookies for everyone. She baked them after she got to Alpine Sunday afternoon. She made a double batch for Ethel so she and Pike could eat them on the plane to Orlando. Nobody had the heart to tell Gen that Ethel has developed diabetes in the last few years.”
“Gen sounds like a good person,” I remarked. “I’d like to meet her. I’m sure Vida will want to interview her for a feature article.”
Charlene hoped so, too. We parted with assurances of seeing each other at the next bridge club get-together.
Five minutes later, Milo Dodge loped into my office and put a big foot on the seat of one of my visitor’s chairs. “Scott’s still bugging me,” he said in an irked tone. “Damn it, Emma, I get tired of you acting like I haven’t told your reporter everything he needs to know. Or else you’re asking about stuff that you think should be made public. As far as these break-ins go, I’m not holding back. If they keep up, I’m going to have to double the patrol cars in the evenings.”
I couldn’t resist. “And have two of them?”
Milo turned his head away from me. “Sheesh. You know our budget. What do you want, have me call in the frigging FBI?”
“A quote would work,” I noted. “I need a minimum of two inches of copy. How about, ‘Sheriff Dodge says he doesn’t believe the break-ins are the work of a professional ring of thieves,’ adding that if the burglaries continue, it will be easier to establish an MO and eventually capture the perps?”
Milo looked at me again, his hazel eyes serious. “That’s not bad. Leave out eventually. It makes me sound slow.”
No kidding, I thought. Plodding had been the word that came to my mind, though to be fair, it should have been thorough.
“Okay,” I said, quickly writing down the quote I’d given him. “You’re sure?”
“Sure of what?”
“That you want to say this in print.”
He shrugged. “It can’t do any harm, I suppose.” Removing his foot from the chair, he stood up to his full height. With his Smokey Bear hat, Milo was close to six-nine. The top of the hat barely cleared my office’s low ceiling. “Want to grab some lunch at the Venison Inn?” he asked.
It was only a little after eleven-thirty. “Now?” I said.
“Well . . .” Milo lifted his hat and scratched above his left ear. “Half an hour okay? That’ll give me time to check on the weirdo at the Alpine Falls Motel.”
I stared at Milo. “What weirdo?” I tried not to sound annoyed. Milo—along with most of Alpine—didn’t recognize a potential news story unless it had HEADLINE stamped all over it.
“It’s no big deal,” Milo assured me. “Some guy checked in last night and won’t come out of his room so it can be cleaned. He only paid for one night, and checkout was at eleven. We just heard about it. For all I know, he’s gone by now.”
I waved Milo off, thinking that maybe he was right. The guy was probably trying to sleep off a hard night at Mugs Ahoy. The motel had opened last May just off Highway 2 near the steel bridge over the Skykomish River. The two-story building looked like a cracker box, with cheap rates to compete with the two existing motels and the ski lodge. Scott had written a story in which he’d interviewed the manager who was running the place for a national chain of budget-rate hostelries. Leo couldn’t stand the manager, whose name I didn’t recall, and had had to practically hold the guy’s head under water to get him to take out an ad for the grand opening. The motel hadn’t advertised in the paper since.
Milo was waiting for me when I arrived at the Venison Inn a couple of minutes after noon. He already had his coffee, and was smoking a cigarette despite the ban on tobacco in the restaurant section.
“False alarm,” he said. “The guy was gone. He took off about ten minutes before I got there.”
“Did he leave any souvenirs?” I inquired, not needing to look at the menu.
Milo shook his head. “Not if you mean drugs, booze, or condoms. I guess he just likes to sleep late. It’s not the souvenirs guests leave that bother Will Pace. He’s the manager, and kind of a jackass. If anybody acts the least bit unusual, he’s sure they’re stealing the TV, the towels, and everything
including the bathroom sink. That’s why we get called in. Will’s not exactly what I’d call a gracious host.”
“Will Pace.” I repeated the name. “I should try to remember that, even if Leo is trying to forget.”
“How come?” the sheriff asked as Mandy, one of the inn’s usual blond waitresses, brought Milo’s standard order of a cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad.
I put in my own request before explaining to the sheriff about the motel manager’s reluctance to advertise in the paper. We moved on to other topics, including my excitement over Adam’s Christmas visit.
Milo was happy for me. “By the way,” he said, “I’m going to be a granddad. Or so Mulehide informs me.”
Mulehide was Tricia, Milo’s ex-wife, who had remarried and lived in Bellevue, east of Seattle. “Which kid is having the kid?” I asked.
“Tanya,” Milo answered, looking bemused. “She and that sculptor she’s been living with. Chipper, I call him. They figured if they had a baby, they might think about getting married. Jeez, what’s with this younger generation?”
I had to laugh. “Don’t ask me. I have a son and I’ve never been married.”
Milo turned sheepish. “I didn’t mean . . . That was different. Anyway, you were going to marry Tom. It just took you thirty years to get around to it.”
Six months ago, I might have felt like bursting into tears. In fact, six months ago, Milo would never have said such a thing. On this rainy afternoon in November, I merely nodded. “When’s the baby due?”
“In the spring,” Milo replied after swallowing a big bite of cheeseburger. “Late May. How’s Ben? I’d like to get together with him sometime. Does he still fish?”
“He used to,” I said, recalling a long-ago outing with Milo that ended abruptly in a grisly discovery. “Ask him. He, too, can be cold, wet, and miserable while not catching any steelhead. Ben will consider it as penance.”
“I’ll give him a call,” Milo responded.
I smiled. Milo and Ben had hit it off when they first met many years earlier. They’d be good for each other. They were both lonely men.
Shortly after I returned to the office, I received a call from Ethel Pike. “I wanted you to know that me and Pike are leaving this afternoon instead of Tuesday morning. We don’t want to have to fight all that traffic and worry about getting to the plane on time, so we’re going to stay at a motel by the airport. Just tell Vida to put that in her story. I wouldn’t want her to make a mistake and say we left on Tuesday when we didn’t. I remember the time she printed my rhubarb pie recipe and left out the salt for the crust. And didn’t I hear about that! Everybody in town thought I’d made the mistake when it was Vida.”
Apparently, that was before my time. Vida had worked for Marius Vandeventer almost twenty years before he sold the paper to me. Seeing my other line light up, I wished Ethel and her husband bon voyage.
The new call was from Ben. “Hey,” he said, “I think I’ll ask Adam to give the Christmas homily. He can soak the C&Eers for the home missions with a second collection. They’ll all feel guilty anyway, so they might want to bribe their way to heaven.”
C&Eers were Catholics who came to Mass only for Christmas and Easter, the two biggest feast days on the church calendar. “Good thinking,” I replied. “How’s everything at the rectory?”
“A-twitter,” Ben said. “Annie Jeanne is scurrying around like a mouse in a cheese shop. She’s invited Genevieve Bayard for dinner tonight so they can have a long one-on-one visit.”
“That sounds sweet,” I remarked. “Does that mean you won’t get dinner?”
“I’m being treated this evening by Bernie and Patsy Shaw,” Ben said. “They’re taking me to the ski lodge. Bernie’s probably going to try to sell me insurance.”
“Do you have any?”
“No. Why should I?” Ben chuckled. “I’d end up leaving it to you or Adam, and neither of you needs it.”
“Gee, thanks,” I retorted. “Have you forgotten that if it weren’t for Don, my former fiancé, and his Boeing insurance policy, I wouldn’t have been able to buy the Advocate?”
“That was a fluke,” Ben scoffed. “The poor guy forgot to change the beneficiary when you dumped him.”
“So? I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”
“I thought you didn’t always like being here. In a small town, I mean.”
I paused. “Well . . .” I paused again. “I definitely miss the city.”
“Who doesn’t?” Ben responded. “I haven’t lived in a city for almost thirty years.”
“I know.” I looked up to see Leo standing in the doorway with an ad mock-up in his hand. “I have to get back to work, Big Bro. Say hi to the Shaws. And tell Annie Jeanne to enjoy her little dinner party with Gen.”
“Oh, she will,” Ben assured me.
Ben was wrong. His crystal ball was already clouded by a deadly shadow from the past.
FOUR
When I got home that evening, Vida had left a message on my answering machine. “I’m staying with Beth another day. She isn’t able to drive, so I have to pick up the children from school. I do hate to miss deadline tomorrow, but I’m afraid I must ask you—or Scott—to write up whatever has to go into this week’s paper. Now if you’ll look on my desk, you’ll see that I’ve already done . . .”
It was a long message, instructing me about the holdover features, the recipe file, the gardening tips, the helpful hints, and all the other fillers that Vida used for her section. “As for ‘Scene,’ ” she concluded, “I must apologize for not having any items myself. I’m sure that you and the rest of the staff can come up with enough to fill the column.”
The call had come through at three-oh-nine. Vida had purposely phoned me at home when she knew I wouldn’t be there. I considered calling her back, but since she had hung up on me during our last conversation, it appeared that she didn’t want to talk to me. I grew more curious than ever.
Thus, I didn’t dial Beth’s number in Tacoma. Instead, I poured myself a bourbon and water, got out my laptop, and went to work. I could write Ethel Pike’s story from memory, though I’d have to fill in her children’s and grandchildren’s names later. Vida could handle the follow-up article when the Pikes returned next week. On a big-city daily, only celebrities were given such coverage; in a small town, Ethel and Bickford Pike’s itinerary made headlines.
I was also able to type up most of the article about Genevieve Bayard’s welcome-home party. I should, however, set up an appointment with her for an interview sometime tomorrow.
Maybe she hadn’t yet left for her dinner at the rectory. I dialed the Bayards’ home number, and hoped I wouldn’t get Buddy. I didn’t want him hanging up on me again, either.
Luckily, Roseanna answered. She sounded pleasant enough, albeit a bit harried. Her mother-in-law was still there, changing her clothes for the dinner with Annie Jeanne Dupré. Roseanna summoned Gen to the phone, explaining first who I was and what I wanted.
“I’m flattered,” Genevieve Bayard replied in a silky, if wary, voice. “After all, I’ve been away from Alpine for many years. Who cares about an old battle-axe like me?”
“I do,” I replied. “I’ve heard you’re not old, and no one has suggested you’re a battle-axe. Returning Alpiners always make news, even if it’s only for a visit. When can we get together tomorrow? Tuesday is our deadline for the Wednesday edition.”
Gen hesitated. In the background, I heard Roseanna call to her. “Midafternoon would be best,” Gen said into my ear. “My daughter-in-law just reminded me that we’re going to visit some old friends in Index for lunch. The Briers, John and Jessica. Do you know them?”
The name rang a faint bell. Vida could tell me. If she was around. “I associate the name with logging,” I said.
“Yes, John was in the logging business for many years, as were his father and grandfather before him. But nowadays . . .” Gen’s voice drifted away. There was no need to explain. The timber industry was in declin
e, and had been for an entire generation. Work in the woods was hard to find: The vocation was no longer handed down from generation to generation.
“Two o’clock would be fine,” I put in. “Would you like to stop by the office?”
“Well—if you don’t mind, could you come to Buddy and Roseanna’s house?” Gen asked. “Actually, two-thirty would be better. We wouldn’t want to rush our visit with John and Jessica. I’m sure you understand.”
I did. The interview shouldn’t take long, nor would it require more than fifteen minutes to write the story. I’d send Scott, who could also take a photo. But I didn’t dare say so to Gen, lest Buddy get wind of it and pitch another five-star fit.
“Two-thirty is fine,” I said. I didn’t add that I wouldn’t be there. My excuse would be the looming deadline, which wasn’t a lie.
“I really must dash,” Gen said. “Annie Jeanne’s expecting me at six. She’s always been so prompt. I’m sure dinner will be on the table the minute I arrive.”
I wished Gen bon appétit, and rang off. Finishing my drink and a rough draft of the BCTC story shortly before six-thirty, I studied the contents of the fridge. Nothing inspired me. I took a can of oyster stew, a can of sliced peaches, and some soda crackers out of the cupboard. No frills for Emma. No ski lodge, no Annie Jeanne, certainly no Le Gourmand.
On the other hand, I love oysters in any form. I managed to slurp down my supper in less than ten minutes. I was closing the dishwasher a few minutes after seven when the phone rang. Vida? Not likely. Milo? Doubtful. Adam? Possibly. I picked up the receiver from the kitchen counter and said hello.
It was Ben. My immediate reaction was to wonder why he wasn’t at the ski lodge with the Shaws. But it took only the tone of his voice to tell me that something was amiss.
“Emma?” he said, sounding shaken. “A terrible thing has happened.”
I panicked. To Ben? To Adam? I thought I could hear a sharp wailing noise in the background. “What?” I asked, breathless.