The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  Buddy frowned at his wife. “Don’t harp on that. Let’s forget all the negative stuff. Ma’s gone, it’s over.”

  But it wasn’t over. There was a killer in Alpine, and it wouldn’t be over until he or she was found. What really bothered me was that Buddy and Roseanna didn’t seem to care.

  I wondered why.

  TEN

  Bayard’s Picture Perfect Photography Studio was located next to the state liquor store. I decided to replenish my bourbon and Canadian whiskey supply, which had been depleted by the arrival of Ben. I was also low on Scotch, the sheriff’s drink of choice. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw Darlene Adcock, Harvey’s wife, mulling over wine selections.

  “For company,” she said after we’d exchanged greetings. I assumed she felt an explanation was needed lest I think that Darlene and Harvey spent their evenings getting blotto and rolling around on their Turkish carpet. “The Campbells are coming.”

  I tried not to smile, since the phrase reminded me of an old Scottish song. “That’s nice,” I remarked. “I suppose you and Jean will speculate on what happened to Gen.”

  Darlene, who is petite and very slender, grimaced. “There’s a rumor going around town that she was poisoned on purpose by Annie Jeanne. Is that possible?”

  “No,” I asserted. “Do you honestly think Annie Jeanne is capable of such a thing, especially since Gen was a dear friend?”

  Darlene wore a bewildered expression. “I can’t imagine. . . . Certainly Annie Jeanne was thrilled to get together with Gen. You’re right. It’s impossible. But you know how people talk.”

  I did indeed. “I suppose Annie Jeanne’s considered something of a character with Alpiners who don’t belong to St. Mildred’s.” And with some who did, I thought unhappily. “She’s been a pillar of the parish for years.”

  “Well . . . yes, I’m sure she is,” Darlene agreed. “We’re Methodists, so we don’t hear much about what goes on at St. Mildred’s. Your Debra Barton’s the quiet type. Edith, of course, keeps us up-to-date on the Episcopalians.”

  I’d almost forgotten about Edith. Edith Bartleby was the wife of Trinity Episcopal’s pastor. Her refinement was such that I couldn’t possibly imagine Edith being involved in anything as sordid as murder.

  “I assume Edith doesn’t carry gossip in her sewing bag?”

  “Oh, heavens no!” Darlene giggled. “Edith is the soul of discretion. Of course, she didn’t know Genevieve. The Bartlebys have only been here sixteen years.”

  Relative newcomers, I thought. “But the rest of the club did?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Darlene was mulling again. “I’ve having a lamb roast. What do you think? A rosé?”

  “Try a pinot gris,” I advised, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was, but the name sounded good.

  “Oh.” Darlene appeared to be checking prices. “Here’s a pretty label. It’s on special. I’ll get two. Not that Jean and Lloyd are big drinkers, but Harvey and I hate to look cheap.”

  “Had Jean been close to Gen in years past?” I inquired.

  Darlene put the bottles into her cart. “Not particularly. Gen’s best friend in the group was Annie Jeanne, of course. She also was friendly with Nell Blatt and Grace Grundle and Ethel Pike. Although . . .” Her voice trailed off as we pushed our carts out of the wine section.

  “Although what?” I asked, steering in the direction of whiskeys.

  “Well . . . I seem to recall a spat—nothing serious—years ago between Ethel and Gen. But they must have made up. Gen brought a double batch of cookies for Ethel so she and Pike could eat them on the plane and have some left over for the grandchildren in Orlando. Of course, nobody had the heart to tell Gen that Ethel had developed diabetes in the past few years, but the gesture shows that they must have made up any differences.”

  Or not, I thought.

  Eleanor Blatt—or Nell as she was more familiarly known—was now on my list of contacts. So was Grace Grundle, though I dreaded paying her a call. Grace had such a large feline menagerie that she could give my neighbor Edith Holmgren a run for the crown as Cat Queen of Alpine.

  First, I had to check back at the office. As I walked in the front door, Ginny handed me a half-dozen messages and, with an apologetic look, told me that Ed Bronsky was waiting in my cubbyhole.

  Not, pray God, with his manuscript, I thought as I trudged through the empty newsroom.

  But there was no sign of a book-in-the-making. Ed turned in my visitor’s chair, making the wood creak and groan. “Hey, hey, hey,” he greeted me, “I was about to give up. Long publisher’s lunch, huh?”

  I shook my head as I squeezed past Ed to get behind my desk. “I had some stops along the way. What can I do for you, Ed?”

  He wagged a finger at me. “Ask not what you can do for Ed, but what Ed can do for Alpine.”

  My face froze in what I hoped was a pleasant expression. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “First off,” Ed began, suddenly very earnest, “I’m putting the sequel on hold for a while. It’s not writer’s block, but yesterday I was working on chapter twenty-six and I had a brainstorm. What does this town really need?”

  Not a brainstorm from Ed. “What?”

  He leaned back in the chair, which made more agonized noises. “A museum!”

  “We have one,” I pointed out. “The logging museum at Old Mill Park.”

  Ed waved a pudgy hand in dismissal. “That thing’s about the size of our living room and not half as interesting. Old donkey engines, saws, miniature trucks, a bunch of photos—I’m talking state-of-the-art, animation, interactive—the whole bit.”

  My expression grew curious. “My goodness—what will it feature?”

  Ed cocked his head to one side and looked exceedingly pleased with himself. “Me. What else?”

  On purpose, I knocked a pen off my desk. I had to duck my head to keep Ed from seeing the dismay on my face. When I regained control, I bobbed up again and, for a change, decided to show enthusiasm. It might be fun to egg Ed on. It certainly wasn’t fun just to listen to him being a blowhard.

  “What will be in the museum?” I finally managed to ask.

  Ed waved his hands in the air. “That’s the beauty of it. All of a sudden, these ideas flew out of my head. It’ll be family oriented, because that’s what Mr. Ed Gets Wed is all about. Oh, sure, there’ll be the usual memorabilia. Childhood stuff, like my teething ring, my favorite blankie, my booties. Then we’ll move up to grade school and high school and the year I spent at Everett JC. That’ll all be in side rooms. The centerpiece will be a replica of our dining room at Casa de Bronska. We’ll have wax dummies to represent Shirley and me and the kids.”

  Why not use the real dummies? I thought.

  “You’ve been to Disneyland, right?” he inquired.

  “What?” My head was spinning with ideas of my own. “Oh, yes, years ago with Adam.”

  “You know how they have that animated life-size replica of Abraham Lincoln that recites the Gettysburg Address? Well, we’ll have one of me, greeting visitors and reciting some of my favorite sayings.”

  Like pass the pork chops?

  “Then we’ll have some tab blows,” Ed continued. “I haven’t—”

  “Some what?” I interrupted.

  “Tab blows,” Ed repeated, emphasizing the space between the two words. “Like the dining room scene, only taking up less space.”

  “Oh.” There was no point in correcting Ed. After he called a tableau a tab blow, I was waiting for him to refer to a diorama as an Armani Aroma. “This all sounds very intriguing,” I lied. “Are you asking me to put it in the paper?”

  “Not yet, not yet,” Ed responded quickly. “This is background. What I’m thinking about now is going to the county commissioners or the mayor and suggesting a bond issue to raise funds. It’s just too darned bad I didn’t come up with this sooner; it could’ve been on the ballot for the September off-year election. Now we’ll have to wait for March or even the primary ne
xt September.”

  Whew.

  Ed, at his most earnest, leaned forward. The chair made more ominous noises. “The thing is,” he said, lowering his voice, “I want this to be a community project. Oh, I could put up some of the money, of course. But the Mr. Pig Museum will bring in big tourist bucks and help the economy. Everyone will benefit.”

  Especially Mr. Pig. “You’re going to call it after the animated Japanese cartoon based on your book?”

  Ed looked surprised. “Of course.” He frowned. “You think I should call it after the book, Mr. Ed?”

  “It was just a passing idea,” I said, assuming a thoughtful expression. “What about rides? One of those things with little cars that sail around? You could call it When Pigs Fly. A merry-go-round with pigs instead of horses. Cutouts of pigs that visitors can put their heads through and have their picture taken with the Bronsky family. A tunnel of love—call it Pig of My Heart—with cars that look like small pigsties. A chorus line of dancing pigs. Name the restaurant the Trough. Feature little pig sausages, pigs in a blanket, pork sandwiches, pork chops, pork roast, pork rinds, bacon burgers, ham on rye; the possibilities are endless. Let kids root through mud for prizes—”

  “Wow.” Ed looked awestruck. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you, Emma?”

  I nodded vigorously “You bet. Pig races. Piggyback races. Hog-calling contests. Stuffed pig toys. Piggy banks. The Oink Meter.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, like those things where you hit a bell—only this one oinks, and see who can make the loudest squeal.” I was beginning to run out of steam.

  “I should be taking notes,” Ed declared. “Could you write all this down and e-mail it to me?”

  “Sure.” I started to regret my feigned enthusiasm. “It might take me a day or two. That is, I may get some more ideas.”

  To my relief, Ed was unwedging himself from the chair. “It’s all worth considering. I’m sure glad to have you on my side.”

  Side of pork, side of bacon, side of . . . I had to stop.

  Sifting through the phone calls I’d received, I began returning them in order of priority: Rita Patricelli at the Chamber of Commerce; Shawna Beresford-Hall, the new dean of students at the college; Bunky Smythe, forest ranger; and three complaining readers who thought I was an idiot. I was dealing with the last crank when Ginny came into my office.

  I finished with the crank and gazed at Ginny. “What’s up?”

  Ginny was looking even more serious than usual. “Some man has called you twice—once while you were out and again while you were on the phone. He wouldn’t leave his name or a number, but he said he’d try you at home. I didn’t recognize his voice, although he sounded fairly young, like maybe twenties or early thirties.”

  I shrugged. “It may have something to do with the memorial for Hank Sails tomorrow night. You know—we should all come up with our favorite memory or something like that. By the way, Vida and I will be leaving early, probably around four.”

  “Oh.” Ginny brightened a bit. “Okay, you could be right. He sounded anxious to talk to you, so maybe he had a deadline of his own.”

  I dithered briefly over whether I should pay a call on Nell Blatt or Grace Grundle. I couldn’t face Grace and those cats, so around three-thirty, I phoned Nell and asked if I could stop by.

  “Sorry,” she replied in her brisk voice. “I’m washing the living room and the dining room. The holidays are just around the corner, you know. What about the day after tomorrow?”

  “Well . . .” I hesitated. The longer the wait, the shorter her memory. “Could I ask you a couple of questions now?”

  “Make them short,” Nell retorted.

  I could see why Vida and Nell didn’t get along. The sisters-in-law were both imperious, and no doubt had always rubbed each other the wrong way.

  “I’ll try,” I promised, and decided to be blunt. “Who do you know who’d want to poison Gen?”

  The question didn’t seem to faze Nell. “Nobody, offhand. Except Vida, of course.”

  I was shocked. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course. The two of them were archenemies after . . . Well, let’s say for a couple of years before Gen left town.”

  “What was the problem?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You don’t know, do you?” Nell finally said.

  “No,” I admitted. “Although I’m aware that Vida didn’t like Gen.”

  “If you don’t know—if Vida’s never told you—then I certainly won’t. We may not be real close, but we are kin,” Nell declared. “We keep ourselves to ourselves. If you want to know, ask Vida. I’ve got walls to wash.” Nell hung up.

  Asking Vida wouldn’t do me any good. If she hadn’t told me by now, she wouldn’t. My only hope was to spike her drink at Hank Sails’s memorial and make her spill the beans.

  What bothered me most was that in a town the size of Alpine tales of a feud between Vida and Gen would be fodder for gossip. Yet no one—except Nell and Vida herself—had suggested a problem between the two women. Such quarrels have long lives in Alpine. Was it possible that whatever had happened was really a family secret? Would any of Vida’s daughters know? And if so, would they betray a confidence? The answer was a resounding No. I didn’t think a call to Amy or Beth or Meg would do any good unless I could figure a way to wheedle the story out of them.

  So I turned my thoughts to next Wednesday’s editorial. Ben compared my weekly task to his weekly sermons: mull, discard, mull, revise, mull some more, and finally write the damned thing. He had the Sunday readings to rely on; I had the town. We were both expected to be fresh and inspiring.

  My mind was a blank.

  All I could think of was Ed’s proposed museum. Images of pigs—standing pigs, sitting pigs, talking pigs, singing pigs—clumped across my mind’s eye. I gave up, and concentrated on possible feature stories instead.

  As soon as I got home, I removed the rib eye steaks from the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave. Then I checked my messages. There was only one, and it had come in just five minutes before I got home. But when I keyed in the actual call, it was a hang-up. I looked at my caller ID: it read PAY PHONE and registered the number, which was local. Could it be the man who had tried to reach me at the office? If so, he’d probably call again.

  I went into the bedroom to change clothes. No seductive costume was necessary, so I put on a pair of jeans and a UW sweatshirt. Milo and I were way past the Language of Love. Indeed, I wasn’t sure we’d ever learned it. Looking at myself in the bedroom mirror, I wondered if that hadn’t always been a big part of the problem between us. It wasn’t just that our backgrounds were different or that we didn’t share many interests. We’d reached a stage in our relationship that was one step above using our bodies as convenience stores. Sometimes I felt like a charity, providing comfort for lonely sheriffs.

  The mirror showed me smiling ironically. Maybe I should do something different. Not exotic, not erotic—but funny. The puckish mood that had beset me during Ed’s visit hadn’t yet evaporated.

  I had some balloons in my kitchen junk drawer. They were left over from a baby and his mother who’d temporarily lived with me several years ago. I also had a couple of squeaky toys that had belonged to the little tot. One was—appropriately enough—a pink pig. The other was a mangy-looking orange cat.

  Fortunately, the sweatshirt was baggy, a necessity in Alpine winters when I put a sweater under it in order to keep warm. I blew up the balloons and laid them over my bra. I looked a little weird, but not outrageous. Using a strip of Velcro, I attached the squeaky pig to my waist and the cat to my backside. I thought it was a funny idea; Milo might not agree. I’d have to wait and see.

  The sheriff arrived five minutes early. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before heading into the kitchen. Apparently, he didn’t notice my expanded bust.

  “Don’t ask me anything until I get a drink,” he said, taking an almost
-empty bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard. “You got any more of this stuff?”

  “It’s right next to that bottle,” I said, amazed anew at men’s inability to see what’s practically bumping their eyeballs.

  “Oh. Good.” He took down the new bottle. “You got yours yet?”

  I pointed to a full glass on the counter about two inches from where he was standing. “I just made it. Are you going to get a glass or just drink it straight out of the jug?”

  The sheriff looked as if he was considering the idea, but finally got a glass, added ice, a stiff shot of Scotch, and a dash of water. “I’m having a job crisis,” he announced.

  I stared at Milo to make sure he was serious. Judging from his doleful expression, he was. “Why?”

  “Over this poisoning deal,” he replied, leaning against the fridge. “I’ll have to question Annie Jeanne tomorrow. I know damned well she’ll deny anything to do with the insulin in the cheesecake, but she’s the only person who’s a real suspect.”

  Cocktail glass in hand, I looked Milo straight in the eye. “Not so.”

  Milo stared back, but at my face, not my bosom. “How do you mean?”

  “Let’s sit down,” I said. “I don’t need to put the steaks on yet.”

  “I like mine pretty well done,” the sheriff reminded me as we went into the living room.

  “I know, I know, bootlike.”

  “Your steaks look like you could put a tourniquet on them and they’d go out to pasture,” he said as we assumed our accustomed places—he in the easy chair, me on the sofa. He still didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about my person. “What do you know that I don’t?” he asked, taking a pack of Marlboro Lights out of his pocket. “About the poison, I mean.”

  I got out the ashtray and handed it to Milo, who promptly lit up, but not before offering me a cigarette, too. With a show of reluctance, I accepted. Why not? I was in for an evening of semidebauchery, even if smoking was a much graver social sin these days than sex outside of wedlock. “The cookies that made up the crust weren’t homemade. Gen bought them at the bakery and gave them to Ethel Pike, who couldn’t eat them because of her diabetes and handed them over to Annie Jeanne.”