by Mary Daheim
“Why?” I replied in an indifferent voice. “You haven’t had much input on Gen’s Alpine visit, Vida. I didn’t think you’d be that interested.”
Vida stamped her foot. “Nonsense! Of course I’m interested when someone gets poisoned in my hometown!”
She made it sound as if anyone having the temerity to die of unnatural causes in Alpine was a personal affront. I shrugged. “Now you know.”
Vida paced back and forth by her desk. She was wearing the sou’wester today and hadn’t yet taken it off. I kept expecting her to announce she’d found a full lobster pot off the coast of Maine.
I decided to confront her. “Well? Does that mean you’ll write Gen’s official obit when we get the information?”
Vida stopped pacing, standing splayfooted by the hat rack. The sou’wester’s brim had fallen over her eyes, and I could barely see them. “Well. I’ll have to think about that.”
“When you make up your mind, let me know,” I said, and started back into my cubbyhole but stopped just short of the doorway and turned to Scott, who was sampling the baked goods. “Maybe I should take over this story,” I told him.
He looked crestfallen. “I haven’t gotten a really juicy assignment in a long time,” Scott said quietly. “So far, this is just a dumb accident.”
I made a face. “I know. But it involves my brother and my parish. Nobody knows him—or Annie Jeanne, for that matter—as well as I do. I feel a family obligation.”
The gloom lifted from Scott’s handsome face. “That’s true.” He gave me a sheepish smile. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“I’ll check the sheriff’s log for you while I’m there,” I said. And then, because I hate being at odds with Vida, I asked her to step into my office.
“I forgot to mention this earlier, but Hank Sails died. I’m going to a memorial reception for him in Seattle tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. Do you want to come with me?”
Vida evinced surprise and then sadness. “Hank,” she murmured. “Such a fine, courageous man. Yes, I think I’d like to join you, though going to Seattle so soon after being in Tacoma is something of an ordeal.”
But, I thought, not one she couldn’t endure for the sake of sniffing some funereal atmosphere. To be fair, however, I was certain that Vida had genuinely liked and admired the longtime newspaperman. Most people in the profession did.
Fifteen minutes and one cinnamon twister later, I was walking through the rain to the sheriff’s office, a block away on Front Street. Like many people who were born and raised in Seattle, I didn’t own any bumbershoots, as my parents had called them. The rain in the city was seldom more than a drizzle, and the first stiff wind turned the umbrellas inside out. They were more trouble than they were worth. Despite the more severe weather in Alpine, I remained staunch—and often wet. No umbrella for Emma, but always a jacket with a hood.
“No,” Milo said as soon as I came through the front door.
“No?” I flipped back the hood and went up to the curving reception counter. “You mean you have nothing new for me?”
“Yes.”
Jack Mullins snickered and Toni Andreas smothered a giggle. Sucking up to the boss, I thought, at Emma’s expense. “No break-ins?”
“No.”
“No words of more than one syllable?”
Milo looked exasperated. “We’re stalled until Doc Dewey releases Annie Jeanne from the hospital and lets us talk to her. Meanwhile, we’ve got Buddy on our necks. Not to mention half your damned parish has been calling us all morning. They heard it on the radio.”
Milo made the last statement with a slight smirk. “Okay,” I said, giving in, “let me see the log. I’m filling in for Scott this morning.”
“What’s wrong with Scott?” Toni asked, her brown eyes wide with concern.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Forget it, Toni, he’s taken.”
She sighed. “I know. But still . . .” Her voice trailed off as she went back to making entries on the computer.
The log had only five entries: three speeders on Highway 2, none of them local; one DUI, a college student; and one shoplifting incident involving Myra Sundvold, our local kleptomaniac, whose husband, Dave, was a retired telephone company vice president and could afford to pay for the items his wife stole.
“Is Myra being charged?” I asked Milo, who was going over a schedule for target practice at the shooting range in Everett.
He shook his head but didn’t look up. “Nope. She never is, but we still have to log it if the merchant calls in a complaint. This time it was a bottle of suntan oil from Parker’s Pharmacy.”
“Are the Sundvolds going on a trip?” I inquired.
Milo shook his head again before setting the schedule aside. “Not that I know of. Myra usually steals stuff she can’t use, like paste-on tattoos and contraceptives and dog food.”
“I take it they don’t own a dog?”
“They don’t.” Milo looked bemused, then leaned one hand on the counter. “There was another complaint we didn’t bother to put in the log. Will Pace from the Alpine Falls Motel called to say that the guy who didn’t check out on time did steal something—a local phone book. That didn’t seem worth our time.”
Stealing an Alpine directory struck me as odd. “Where was the guy from?”
“California,” Milo answered, as if that explained everything.
But his answer struck me as even more odd. “So this Californian comes to Alpine, stays one night, and steals a phone book? Isn’t that a little weird?”
“I told you,” Milo said doggedly, “he’s from California, and those people can be really weird.”
I pointed to the log. “Weirder than Myra Sundvold?”
The sheriff held up his hands to forestall an argument. “Okay, okay. So we have some oddballs here, too. I suppose the guy wanted to call somebody before he left town. Will charges three bucks for every call from the motel.”
At that price, I didn’t blame the guy for ripping off one of Will’s phone books. “What was his name?”
“The guy?” Milo was looking annoyed again. “I don’t know.” He turned to Jack, who was pouring himself a mug of coffee. If that stuff hadn’t poisoned anybody, I suspected that the sheriff’s staff could withstand even an overdose of insulin. “Did Will give you the name of the motel guy?” Milo asked his deputy.
“Yeah,” Jack replied, “I’ve got it somewhere. Hang on.” He rummaged around on the top of his desk. “Here. It’s Anthony Knuler of Sacramento, California.”
I thought for a moment. “I don’t know anybody by that name around here. I guess he wasn’t visiting his relatives.”
Milo shrugged. “Whatever.”
I took the not-so-subtle hint and left. The rain had almost stopped. The gray clouds were lifting, swirling like phantoms across the base of the mountains. I could see Baldy, almost to the five-thousand-foot level. There was no new snow at that elevation yet, but the past few autumns had stayed warmer. Too warm, as far as the hydroelectric companies and the ski industry were concerned.
It was only a steep block up Third from the sheriff’s headquarters to the hospital. I decided to see how Annie Jeanne was doing. The old bank clock on the sidewalk down the street informed me it was just after nine. Annie Jeanne should have had her breakfast and be preparing to go home by eleven, the usual time for hospital releases.
Olga Bergstrom was on duty again, and so was Dwight Gould. Judging from the way they were glowering at each other, it looked as if they weren’t getting along. As I approached the nurses’ station, I noticed that Olga had her hands pressed over a copper-colored candy box.
“It doesn’t matter to me if you’re a law enforcement officer. You are not entitled to sample the staff’s belongings,” she declared with a harsh look for Dwight. “This was a Halloween present from Dr. Sung. And nobody sticks a thumb into the chocolates to see what flavor they are. That’s absolutely taboo.”
Dwight, who had put on weight in the past
few years, glared right back, but noticed me and kept his mouth shut.
“How’s Annie Jeanne?” I asked, directing my question to Nurse Bergstrom.
“Mopish,” Olga replied. “I told you, one of those people who are all over the chart when it comes to moods. Really, I don’t see why it’s so difficult to maintain a happy medium.”
Nurse Bergstrom might be medium, but she didn’t seem very happy. “Is Annie Jeanne being released this morning?”
“Yes. Dr. Dewey has made rounds already,” Olga replied, keeping her eye on Dwight, lest he attempt to vault the counter and snatch away the candy box. “I understand your brother is picking her up around eleven.”
“May I see her for a moment?” I inquired in my most humble manner.
Peering at me as if I had HOSPITAL TERRORIST stamped on my forehead, Olga frowned. “To what purpose?”
“I’m a friend,” I said, not quite so humble. “We belong to the same church, remember?”
Olga relented. “Very well.” She shot a glance at Dwight, perhaps to make sure he’d watch my every move through the ICU window.
“Hell of a mess,” Dwight muttered as I went past him. “You sure your brother’s feeling okay?”
“As far as I know,” I responded, none too amiably.
Annie Jeanne was still in bed, the single sheet rumpled and only half-covering her. She didn’t look to see who had come through the door.
“Annie Jeanne,” I said softly, “it’s me, Emma.”
“Oh.” Her voice sounded faint, but she turned her head slightly.
“Are you feeling better?” I asked, standing close to the bed. There was no visitor’s chair in the ICU. Even though Annie Jeanne had passed the crisis stage, Doc Dewey apparently had felt she’d be better off staying put. Or maybe that had been Milo’s “procedural” decision.
“Oh, Emma!” Her voice was still weak, but it was charged with emotion. “How could I?”
I took her thin hand. Her color was still very bad, and she looked as if she’d lost ten pounds. The graying black hair was splayed all over the pillow, like small, dead twigs.
“Listen, Annie Jeanne, it wasn’t your fault. How could it be? You’d never harm anyone. Please don’t beat yourself up. Milo will get to the bottom of this, and Ben and I will help him.”
“That’s so sweet,” Annie Jeanne said listlessly. “But it won’t change things. I still killed my oldest friend.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I asserted, stroking the back of her hand. “What could you possibly have in the rectory kitchen that might be dangerous?”
The question only made Annie Jeanne look more dispirited. “Deputy Gould says just about anything can kill someone if they take enough of it.”
“But do you have insulin anywhere in the rectory?”
“Isn’t that what they make bombs from?” Annie Jeanne seemed bewildered. “No, of course not. I don’t even keep rat poison on hand. Or traps, for that matter. I haven’t seen a rat at St. Mildred’s in years, and if I find a mouse, I use the broom to shoo it outdoors.”
Her skin was so dry. Annie Jeanne obviously was dehydrated. I offered her a drink from the plastic tumbler next to the bed. While she took a couple of sips, I posed another query.
“What did you and Gen have for dinner?”
Annie Jeanne flinched and set the tumbler down. “I can’t bear to remember it.”
“But you have to,” I said gently. “I’m sure it was all very wholesome.” Except for the poison, I thought to myself.
“Well . . .” Annie Jeanne’s face displayed a lightning-quick series of emotions—regret, sorrow, anxiety, fear, and concentration. I imagined that her illness had been traumatic, causing her brain as well as her memory to go off track. “You must realize,” she began slowly, “that Genevieve was always very weight conscious. She used to tease me when we were young about how I could stay so thin, while just looking at a candy bar made her gain half a pound.” The faintest of smiles touched Annie Jeanne’s mouth. “She always had a sweet tooth, you see. But she was very disciplined. That’s how she kept her figure.” Gazing down at her lean frame, Annie Jeanne sighed. “I never actually had one.”
“The majority of women in this country would envy you for being so slim,” I put in. “More than half of them are overweight these days.”
“Oh?” Annie Jeanne didn’t seem interested in fat females. “Anyway, Gen told me at the BCTC party not to make a heavy dinner. And not to go to a lot of trouble, either. She was so thoughtful that way.” Another slight smile. “So I kept it simple—roasted Cornish game hens with white and wild rice stuffing, fresh green beans, and—this is where I just had to splurge—chocolate cheesecake for dessert. I told Gen she was on vacation and should piggy up—as we used to call it when we were young—because nothing else in the meal was that rich. She couldn’t resist. Gen had three slices to my one. I intended to send the rest home with—” Annie Jeanne stopped and began to cry.
I patted her arm and said soothing words. No wonder Annie Jeanne was dehydrated: Besides having her stomach emptied, she’d shed a couple of gallons of tears in the past twenty-four hours. I couldn’t blame her; I tried to imagine how I’d feel if I’d accidentally poisoned Vida. Even when I was annoyed with her, the thought was unbearable.
By the time Annie Jeanne got herself under control, Ben was tapping on the glass. I motioned for him to come in. Apparently he’d passed muster with Nurse Olga.
“Hey, ladies,” Ben said in his crackling voice, “it’s checkout time. Let’s blow this joint.”
“Oh, Father Ben!” Annie Jeanne looked as if she was going to cry again.
“Hold it,” Ben said with a smile. “We need to say our prayers. Come on, Emma, get down on your knees, you sinner you.”
Ben wasn’t one for long or even formal prayers. He kept it short, asking God to watch over Annie Jeanne, to give her courage, hope, peace of mind, and “. . . to keep her eye on the prize, which isn’t of this world. Amen.”
My brother and I both stood up. I noticed that neither of us did it as easily as when we were kids crawling around our backyard, trying to catch grasshoppers. But at least he hadn’t kicked me in the rear end before I could get to my feet. Maybe we were growing up as well as growing old.
“We’ll get out of here so the nurse can get you dressed,” Ben said to Annie Jeanne. “I’ll take the newspaper ghoul with me.”
A second nurse had appeared on the scene, Constance Peterson, an LPN. Apparently she’d been summoned to guard the chocolates. After Ben and I came out of the ICU, Olga went in and immediately closed the shades.
I greeted Constance before I spoke to Dwight. “Are you coming along to stand guard at the rectory?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “Annie Jeanne hasn’t been charged with anything. We’re too short of manpower to put somebody at the rectory. It’s up to you now,” he added with a nod at Ben. “In fact, I might as well go. See you.” With one last, longing glance at the copper-colored candy box, the deputy headed for the elevators.
I moved down the hall a few yards, hopefully out of Constance’s hearing range. Ben followed me.
“How are you going to handle this?” I asked.
“I’m organized,” Ben replied. “Betsy O’Toole is taking the eleven-to-four shift, then Mary Jane Bourgette’s coming until nine. They both said they’d stay with Annie Jeanne through tomorrow at least.”
“They’re good people,” I noted. “Hopefully, you won’t have to bother them for too long.”
“That’s not my main worry,” Ben said with a scowl. “That is, Annie Jeanne tops the list, of course, but I had a problem at Mass this morning.”
I was taken aback. “What?”
“As you know,” Ben explained, “we only get about twenty people—mostly old folks—at daily Mass. Today four of them refused to take communion from the cup. They were afraid of being poisoned.”
“Oh, good lord!” I cried, loud enough that Constance Peterson loo
ked up from the charts she was reading. “What are you going to do about that?” I asked, lowering my voice.
Ben’s expression was wry. “They were all elderly ladies. It seems they thought the communion wafers were safe. Now I’ve got to convince them that the wine’s just as untainted. I thought you might ask Vida to mention it on her radio show tonight. Everybody in town—especially the elderly—listens to Vida’s Cupboard. She’s not too Presbyterian to do us a favor, is she?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Besides, it’ll give her a chance to mention Gen’s demise. Let’s hope she does it without gloating.”
Ben nodded once. “Has she ever told you why she’s so pissed off at Gen?”
“No, and I won’t pry. You know how closemouthed Vida can be when it comes to personal matters.” A sudden thought popped into my mind. “The wine—it reminds me that I didn’t find out from Annie Jeanne what she and Gen drank Monday night. They must have had some kind of beverage, even if it was only tea or coffee.”
“The leftover food, most of the kitchen stores, and all the medicines were taken to a lab for testing yesterday,” Ben said. “Did Milo tell you?”
“No.” I grimaced at Ben. “And neither did you.”
“Sorry.” He had the grace to look shamefaced. “I guess I had too many other things on my mind.”
I sighed and patted his shoulder. “I shouldn’t snap at you. But I’d like to kick Milo’s butt halfway to Gold Bar.”
“He may want to keep the tests under wraps for legal reasons,” Ben said as Olga emerged from the ICU.
“Maybe,” I allowed, but I was still mad at the sheriff. “I’m going to yank Milo’s chain. Unless,” I added, “you want me to go to the rectory with you and Annie Jeanne.”
“You’re a working girl,” Ben said. “Besides, Betsy O’Toole is waiting for us.”
I practically ran down the hill to Front Street and the sheriff’s office. My mind was a muddle: I should have known that the sheriff would have the dinner remnants tested; but it hadn’t occurred to me that he’d make a clean sweep of the rectory. The idea terrified me. What if Ben—not Genevieve or Annie Jeanne—had been the intended victim? Priests, like judges and lawyers and doctors, were often a target, even if their only offense was being an authority figure.