The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  “Genevieve Bayard just died. She collapsed at the dinner table.” His voice was hushed, though it grew in strength as he spoke. “I anointed her, but she was already dead. Doc Dewey is on his way, as are the usual medical personnel. I’ve also called the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” I was stunned. “Why?”

  Ben’s voice dropped even lower. “I want to cover all the bases. A sudden death at the rectory could cause scandal. Got to run. Annie Jeanne is in a state of collapse.”

  For once, I hadn’t changed clothes when I arrived home. Making sure that the stove was turned off, I grabbed my purse and my winter jacket before heading out to the carport. This was news, but that wasn’t my first concern. This was Ben calling, and he needed me. I drove to St. Mildred’s so fast that I forgot to turn on the windshield wipers. Fortunately, the rain wasn’t heavy and traffic was light.

  Approaching the church, I saw the flashing red lights of the emergency vehicles—one fire truck, one aid car. Pulling into the parking lot, I recognized Doc Dewey’s black Volvo. I guessed that while Genevieve Bayard was beyond help, Annie Jeanne Dupré wasn’t. Fortunately, the hospital was catty-corner from the church. There was no sign of Milo Dodge’s Grand Cherokee.

  The rectory door was wide open. So was the door to the parlor. I could hear moans and groans, apparently coming from Annie Jeanne. Ben, Doc Dewey, Del Amundson, and two firefighters blocked my view.

  Not wanting to interfere, I kept my distance. The kitchen and the small dining room were down the hall, past Ben’s study. I stepped back a few paces. Vic Thorstensen, another medic, was coming toward me from the rear of the rectory.

  “You don’t intend to take pictures, do you?” he asked without preamble.

  “No,” I replied, having forgotten—as usual—to bring a camera. “Why?”

  Vic gestured over his shoulder toward the dining room. “It’s kind of messy in there.”

  I assumed he meant that Gen had thrown up—or worse—before she died. “What was it?” I asked. “A heart attack?”

  Vic shrugged. “That’s what it looks like. Del and I tried to revive her, but she was too far gone. I’m wondering if we could’ve saved her if Annie Jeanne had called for help right away.”

  I was taken aback. “She didn’t?”

  Vic shook his head. “I get the impression she went to pieces and was running around like a chicken with her head cut off. Your brother didn’t know anything had happened until he came out of his quarters to go someplace. Annie Jeanne was huddled in a corner, shaking and blubbering like a baby. Doc’s sending her to the hospital. Frankly, I always thought she was kind of daffy.”

  I felt I should defend Annie Jeanne, even if it meant stretching the truth. “She’s not daffy. She’s merely excitable. It’s because of her musical talent; it’s artistic temperament.” Vic was a Lutheran who wouldn’t know the difference, probably never having had to endure Annie Jeanne’s boxing-glove punishment of the organ. “Besides,” I added, “her oldest and dearest friend died right before her eyes. That must have been horrible.” I suppressed a shudder; I ought to know.

  “Yeah,” Vic responded, “I guess I should cut her some slack. Where are those two nuns?”

  Sister Mary Joan and Sister Clare shared a small condo across the street. The convent had burned down years ago, and was never rebuilt because of the scarcity of vocations. “For all I know, they’re at the movies,” I said after filling him in on their place of residence.

  Vic cocked an eyebrow. “The Whistling Marmot’s showing Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

  “So?”

  “I didn’t know nuns went to movies, let alone ones with violence and raw—” He stopped and looked beyond me. “Ah. Here comes the long arm of the law.”

  I turned to see Milo loping through the open door. He nodded abruptly at Vic and me before going into the parlor. My curiosity got the better of me, but first I dialed Scott’s number. He’d recently moved in permanently with his fiancée, Tamara Rostova, who taught at the community college. Scott answered on the third ring. I asked him to grab his camera and come to St. Mildred’s.

  When I started to move into the parlor, I was forced to backtrack. Vic, Del, and Doc Dewey were putting a subdued Annie Jeanne on a gurney. After they tucked her in, Doc gave me one of his kindly smiles. Like his father before him, he was of the old school. He even made house calls. I gave them plenty of room as the medics wheeled Annie Jeanne away. Doc was right at her side, holding an IV bag aloft. The firefighters also trooped toward the exit.

  “We’ll be back in ten minutes,” Del called over his shoulder to Ben, who had joined me in the hallway.

  “No rush,” Milo said from the parlor doorway. He was dressed in his civvies—blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. “Okay,” he said, after the others had left, “Gen Bayard’s in the dining room?”

  Ben nodded. “They’d just finished eating. Or at least that’s what I got out of Annie Jeanne. She was pretty damned incoherent.”

  I lagged a bit behind my brother and the sheriff. I’d seen too many dead people in my time, but I hadn’t yet grown the callous shell that protected other journalists.

  A third firefighter was standing by, but he excused himself when he saw the sheriff. Milo bent down by the body, which was lying next to an overturned chair. I couldn’t see Gen’s face, only the tinted blond hair. She lay in an awkward position, as if she had died in agony. There was nothing gruesome about the sight, but the smell made me feel slightly nauseous—a combination of roasted meat, something very sweet, and sickness. Moving closer to Ben, I swallowed hard.

  Milo stood up. “Her color’s really bad. Doc thinks it was a heart attack?”

  “That’s his offhand guess,” Ben replied. “He wants a good look before he signs off on the death certificate.”

  The sheriff got down on his knees, taking a close look at Gen’s face. “Doc’s cautious,” Milo said slowly, “so he’ll check with Buddy to see if his mother had a history of heart trouble.”

  Ben slapped at his forehead. “I haven’t called them yet. I’ll do that now.” He left the dining room.

  I wandered into the kitchen. Milo followed me.

  “What’re you looking for?” he asked, hands jammed into his pockets.

  I hadn’t realized I was looking for anything. “Who knows? I’m a professional snoop, remember?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe I just want to see if Annie Jeanne has been keeping my brother well nourished.”

  “He looks fine,” Milo remarked. “It’s good to see him. He’s a solid guy for a priest.”

  I shot Milo a dirty look. “He’d be a solid guy if he were a sheriff. We come from solid stock.” I waved a hand at the dirty pots and pans in the sink and on the counters. Bowls and measuring cups and spoons and spatulas littered the counters. Two soiled dinner plates were perched precariously on a butcher block in the middle of the room. “Annie Jeanne makes quite a mess when she cooks. I assume she keeps the rest of the place clean.”

  “Father Den never complained, did he?” Milo looked thoughtful. “Den’s a good guy, too. I guess Alpine got lucky when it comes to priests.”

  I assumed the sheriff alluded to the sexual scandals that had been wracking the church. “Most priests are decent, holy men. How many nonpriests have you arrested over the years for misconduct?”

  Milo chuckled. “At least four Boy Scout leaders, three camp counselors, and a couple of teachers. Not to mention the assorted nonprofessionals, who probably number a few dozen.” He paused, gazing at a half-eaten cheesecake on the counter. “Mmm. Chocolate cheesecake. That’s a great favorite of mine. It looks homemade.”

  “It is,” I said dryly. “That’s why it’s still in the pan.”

  “Funny Emma.” Milo, of course, wasn’t laughing. “Roast chicken,” he went on, pointing to a couple of small carcasses in the garbage can. “Kind of little, aren’t they?”

  “They’re Cornish game hens,” I said. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”


  The hazel eyes threw me a sharp look. “Yeah, in fact, you have. But it wasn’t anything about chickens.”

  I ignored the remark. “What are we waiting for?”

  Milo looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. “Just in case, Dwight’s coming by to take some pictures.”

  “So’s Scott,” I replied, “but I’m not sure what of. I’m trying to think what we could run in the paper that wouldn’t look morbid.” I glanced toward the dining room. “Maybe after they remove Gen’s body, Scott can shoot the dining room table. Gen’s Last Supper. Or is that too ghoulish?”

  “Not for me,” Milo said, “but I’m not your average sensitive reader.”

  Looking grim and still holding his cell phone, Ben entered the kitchen. “I got hold of Buddy,” he said. “He’s pretty shaken up. I told him it’d be better if he and Roseanna waited until Gen was taken to Driggers Funeral Home.”

  The phone rang in Ben’s hand. Milo and I kept quiet while Ben responded. “Yes. . . . You’re certain of that. . . . It’s up to you, of course. . . . No, they’re not back yet. . . . Fine, I’ll tell them.” Ben clicked off. “That was Buddy. He doesn’t want his mother sent directly to the mortuary. He says Gen has never had any heart problems and just had a complete physical a month ago over in Spokane. Buddy wants a full autopsy.”

  Milo was angry. “Goddamn it, why does Buddy want to make trouble? He knows we have to ship his old lady to Everett. Doc doesn’t have the time or the equipment for a full autopsy.”

  Ben offered Milo a sympathetic look. “But you have to comply, don’t you?”

  “Hell, yes.” Milo’s voice was still raised along with his temper. “It’s up to the immediate family,” he continued, lowering the volume a bit. “That’s the problem. At least twice a year a survivor wants an autopsy even if the deceased has a chronic history of high blood pressure, heart trouble, or has drunk enough booze to boil six livers. It costs the county money, and it’s a pain in the ass. We’re always at the bottom of the list when we have to ask Snohomish County for help.”

  “Gen wasn’t that old,” I pointed out. “I realize that you can get a clean bill of health one day and be dead the next, but I can’t blame Buddy for wanting to know what happened.”

  Milo glared at me, and I think he said “candy ass” under his breath. Judging from my brother’s slight smirk, I knew it was something derogatory.

  Scott, Del, and Vic all arrived at the same time. For starters, I told my reporter-photographer to take a couple of outside shots first. It was dark, it was raining, but if he used color, the darkened church and the amber lights in the rectory might create a little visual drama.

  I stood on the rectory steps while Scott worked, peering out from under the hood of his black peacoat. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t turn around when a beat-up SUV pulled into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle as belonging to Dwight Gould. An ardent hunter and fisherman, the longtime deputy had a reputation for driving on any kind of surface short of straight up.

  “Why me?” he called as he stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Why do I have to leave my easy chair and a good Monday night football game to take a picture? You already got a photographer here.”

  “Ask Dodge,” I called back. Dwight also had a reputation for griping.

  Scott finished his exterior work. “Is this a story or just an obit?” he asked as we went inside.

  “It’s a front-page story,” I replied. “ ‘Native Alpiner Comes Home to Die’—or something like that.”

  “Poor Buddy,” Scott murmured as I beckoned him into the empty parlor. “This has been a bad week for him.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “Now I feel guilty about taking our business away from him.”

  “You had to,” Scott reasoned.

  He looked around the room. Ben had added a couple of Hopi kachina dolls and a framed Navajo petroglyph from one of the canyons near Tuba City. Coupled with Dennis Kelly’s Swahili masks and headdresses, the parlor was a far cry from Father Fitz’s romanticized paintings of the Madonna and the saints. After seven years, Father Den had left his mark on Alpine in more ways than one. As the first African-American clergyman in town, he’d been every bit as much of a pioneer as the early miners, loggers, and railway workers. Over the next few months, I hoped Ben would put his own stamp on Alpine.

  “Is this room worth shooting?” Scott asked.

  “No,” I replied, studying the petroglyph, which depicted two figures playing long, slim horns. “I just want us to keep out of the way until they remove Gen’s body.”

  Ben poked his head into the parlor. “Where’d you go, Sluggly? Oh, hi, Scott.” My brother grinned at the younger man. “I thought Emma was raiding the poor box.”

  Scott, who had met Ben only once before, didn’t seem to know what to make of a priest who wasn’t in a movie or on a TV show.

  “Hi . . . Father,” Scott said in a deferential tone. “I’m sorry for what happened here. It must be awful for you.”

  Ben shrugged. “It’s life. Death, that is. I’m more concerned about Annie Jeanne Dupré. She was a real wreck when they hauled her out of here. I’m going to the hospital later to see her.”

  Rolling the gurney that carried Gen’s covered body, Del and Vic went past the parlor door. I made the sign of the cross and said a short, silent prayer.

  “See ya,” Del called.

  His jaunty farewell unsettled me. It seemed I ran into Del Amundson only at disaster scenes. He was a remarkably cheerful man, somehow wearing death and suffering as comfortably as his EMT uniform.

  Milo and Dwight came along a few seconds later. The sheriff was still exasperated. “We’re going to have to treat the dining room and kitchen like a crime scene until we get the autopsy report. That could take a couple of days.” He grimaced at Ben. “Sorry. Maybe you can move in with Emma. Gotta run. I’ve got freaking paperwork to do tonight.”

  Ben rubbed at his forehead. “Damn.”

  “Hey, Stench,” I said, calling Ben by my girlhood nickname for him, “it’s no problem if you bunk with me. I’ve already started cleaning out Adam’s room.”

  Scott looked aghast. “Stench?” he said under his breath.

  I didn’t enlighten my reporter. Maybe he’d think it was some kind of Catholic term, like eminence.

  Ben grinned at me. “I’m not going to start a rumor that I’m sleeping with my sister. That’s about all the church needs right now, a good case of incest. I’ll eat with you, but dinner only. I’ll go out for brunch. You know I always have a late breakfast after morning Mass.”

  “Deal,” I said, grabbing Ben’s hand.

  Scott and I went out to the dining room so he could take some photos of the death site. “We’ll do the kitchen next. We should hurry before Dwight comes back with the crime scene tape.”

  Scott eyed me with curiosity. “This really isn’t a crime scene, is it?”

  “It is until Milo says it isn’t,” I replied with a sigh. “You’re right, though—the sheriff doesn’t think Gen was murdered. This is all a formality to satisfy Buddy.”

  Scott looked relieved. “Got it.” He started clicking off photos.

  “Besides,” I added, “if there was even the hint of foul play, Spencer Fleetwood would already have showed up with a remote setup so he could put the news on KSKY.”

  “Right.” Scott kept moving, taking shots from every angle, including the overturned chair and the remnants of the meal. “Fleetwood never misses a beat.”

  “Don’t use that word,” I said drolly. “It equates with scoop.”

  Scott laughed. “It does, doesn’t it?” He moved on to the kitchen.

  I didn’t want to follow him. The kitchen smelled bad. I went back down the hall to find Ben.

  Dwight was coming into the rectory with his roll of black and yellow tape.

  Spencer Fleetwood was right behind him.

  FIVE

  “Emma,” Spence said in his most unctuous voice.
“I see you’re already on the scene. The brother connection, right?”

  I merely looked at him.

  “So is this murder or what?” Spence asked, setting his equipment case down in the hallway.

  “It’s ‘or what,’ ” I said. “Buddy Bayard’s got his bloomers in a bunch because he thinks his mother was immortal. Milo’s ticked off. The autopsy’s an exercise in futility.”

  Spence raised one eyebrow. “There will be an autopsy?” He’d opened the case and taken out a tape recorder. “May I quote you?”

  “You may not. Quote Milo. Or grab Dwight when he comes out.”

  “Okay,” Spence said, dropping his radio personality facade. “What really happened?”

  I shrugged. “Gen Bayard came to dine with her old buddy Annie Jeanne Dupré. Gen keeled over right after dinner. Ben made emergency calls. Buddy overreacted. End of story as far I’m concerned.”

  Spence gazed down the hall with those keen brown eyes and the hawklike nose that always made him look like a bird of prey. “I’ve seen Annie Jeanne around town. She doesn’t look much like Lucrezia Borgia to me.”

  “Exactly.”

  Spence and I both stepped aside for a grumpy-looking Dwight. “Just when I was planning to go home and catch the rest of the football game . . .” he muttered as he passed us.

  “Now what?” I said aloud.

  Spence chuckled. “Probably the break-in at the Shaws. I picked it up on the scanner. That’s why I was late getting here.”

  I stared at Spence. “Another break-in? Weren’t the Shaws at home?”

  “A couple of alert joggers chased the burglar away.” Spence regarded me with a patronizing expression. “The Shaws were supposed to be dining at the ski lodge with your brother. Apparently, he forgot to call the restaurant and tell them he couldn’t make it. They got notified about the robbery attempt and came straight home.”

  One of Ben’s faults is that he’s sometimes absentminded, though I’ve never believed his tale that he once forgot his vestments and celebrated Mass in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. In this instance, however, he could be excused.