The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  “Hold it.” Milo was obviously trying to follow the cookie trail. “So the Crowes made the cookies?”

  I nodded. “I doubt that they put insulin in them, however.” I winced. That seemed to bring us back to Annie Jeanne. You can’t make a crust without breaking the cookies.

  The same thought struck Milo. “So Annie Jeanne was the only one who could have put the insulin in the crust,” he mused.

  “Well—no. Annie Jeanne left the rectory for what she called just a few minutes to go to the store. Knowing Annie Jeanne,” I continued, “she may have been gone for an hour. She tends to dither.”

  “The rectory wasn’t locked?”

  “No.” I hesitated. “Ben was there.”

  To my relief, Milo laughed. “I don’t consider your brother a suspect.”

  “I’m so relieved,” I said, only half joking. “Say, do you remember if Father Fitz had diabetes?”

  Milo frowned. “How would I know? I was never a member of his flock.”

  “You’d remember if the EMTs had ever been called to the rectory because he’d gone into a diabetic coma,” I said.

  “Well . . . I might at that,” Milo admitted. “But his tour of duty at St. Mildred’s goes back to before I was on the force. Hell, when did he come here? It must have been back in the fifties, when I was still a kid.”

  “That sounds about right,” I agreed.

  We were both silent for a few minutes, sipping and smoking. It was moments like these when I could almost imagine myself saying, “What time are the kids coming home tonight?”

  But there were no kids; nobody was coming home. I offered Milo a refill. He accepted. I went into the kitchen, put his steak on to cook, and returned with a full glass for him and a few more sprinkles of bourbon for me.

  As I handed him his drink, he stared up at me. “You look different. Putting on some weight?”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, hastening to sit down on the sofa. “I stay around a hundred and twenty, a hundred and twenty-five. Frankly, I hardly ever weigh myself.”

  “Hunh.” Milo was looking puzzled. “It must have been the way you were standing. I’m used to looking down at you.”

  I’d draped my arms across my chest. “I suppose.”

  “Hunh,” Milo repeated.

  During dinner, we spoke of topics unrelated to poisoning or my shape. The main subject was the string of break-ins. It was Wednesday; there had been no further reports since the Pikes’ burglary Monday. Milo, however, wasn’t sanguine about the thief—or thieves—giving up the crime spree.

  “Too many houses in this town that can’t be easily seen, what with all the trees and bushes,” he said, making good headway on his dinner. “Not enough streetlights, either.”

  The sheriff was right. Despite numerous editorials on my part, Alpine had adequate lighting only in the commercial district. As for sidewalks—for which I’d also beaten the Advocate’s drums—they didn’t exist south of Tyee Street or north of the river. My own front lawn dwindled into a strip of gravel between my property and the pavement. According to Vida, my street hadn’t been paved until the mid-eighties.

  “You must have some suspects,” I pointed out. “There’s always a few bad boys with nothing better to do than break into houses. Not to mention the druggies who are trying to support their habit.”

  “It used to be easy,” Milo said with a sigh. “We knew who all the bad kids were—they’d usually grown up in Alpine. But now, with the college, we’ve got ten times as many outsiders. Plus, they come and go.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was ten to seven, almost time for Vida’s Cupboard.

  I started clearing away the dirty plates and putting them in the dishwasher. Milo had wandered out into the living room, where he turned the radio on. Spencer Fleetwood didn’t usually work the weeknight shifts, leaving the DJ responsibilities to Tim Rafferty or some of the college students with an interest in broadcasting. But he was deferential to Vida, and always gave her a live introduction. The hour turn had just concluded as I joined the sheriff, who was now sitting on the sofa. Milo’s version of foreplay, I thought, flopping down next to him. He threw a long arm around my shoulders. I moved a couple of inches closer.

  “We’re back with you on KSKY-AM, the voice of Skykomish County,” Spence announced in his best radio voice. “This is Wednesday, a special night for our listeners. Without further ado, let me introduce the voice of the people, Vida Runkel, as she opens Vida’s Cupboard.”

  A creaking sound that symbolized the cupboard’s opening was followed by Vida’s unmistakable slightly nasal tones. “Good evening, dear listeners. This has been such a busy week for me, and not entirely pleasant.” Pause. Was she going to mention Gen’s demise? “I was forced to leave town for a few days to help take care of my daughter Beth, who had foot surgery. I left early Friday morning, and was—thankfully—back in Alpine late Monday night. I’m not only delighted to be home, but also happy to tell you that Beth is recovering nicely. While I was staying with her in Tacoma, I had the opportunity to spend time with my grandchildren, which is always such a joy. . . .”

  Vida continued for at least three minutes discussing the charms and talents of Beth’s offspring. Milo and I exchanged puzzled looks just before his hand began exploring my balloons. His expression became downright mystified.

  “You haven’t . . . gotten one of those boob jobs, have you?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” I replied, sounding indignant.

  “You feel . . . different.”

  “Not to overlook my grandson right here in Alpine,” Vida went on. “Roger Hibbert is attending Skykomish Community College and hopes to become an actor. He’s taking English 101, drama, and music in his first quarter on campus.”

  “He also took remedial math in summer school,” I said to Milo out of the corner of my mouth.

  He put his hand under the sweatshirt. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “What the hell?”

  The left balloon popped. We both jumped.

  “My God!” Milo cried, and tugged at the sweatshirt.

  “Roger,” Vida said in a proud voice, “is writing a paper for his English class. The students were asked to research an important historical figure. Roger chose Billy the Kid, which I think is very original of him.”

  Milo saw the other balloon. “Emma!” He poked it, and it, too, blew up. The sheriff started to laugh.

  “Speaking of studies and books, in this coming edition of the Advocate,” Vida resumed, giving the paper its usual plug, “I’ll be telling you about Edna Mae Dalrymple’s adventures at the library conference in Yakima. The article will focus on the conference itself, but I won’t have room to include Edna Mae’s adventure at a service station in Yakima. She stopped on her way into town to fill up the tank and was amazed when . . .”

  Milo and I were both laughing so hard we barely heard Vida. The gist of the anecdote was that Edna Mae had encountered one of the many Hispanics in Yakima and couldn’t understand a word he said. She thought he asked her if the car took soup or realtor, and if she needed hair or fodder. Vida continued in this vein until the commercial break for the Grocery Basket.

  “This doesn’t sound at all like her usual show,” I said, controlling my mirth. “Vida hasn’t announced a guest, though I thought she told me she’d invited Doc Dewey to urge people to get flu shots.”

  “Maybe Doc had an emergency,” Milo suggested, now caressing my real breast and pulling me closer. The pig went off.

  Milo pulled away. “Is that your stomach growling?”

  I was laughing so hard I couldn’t answer. The sheriff yanked my sweatshirt up to my armpits. “It’s a pig!” he cried, and gave me a swat on the bottom.

  The cat meowed.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Milo groaned, falling back on the sofa. “You’re really booby-trapped!” He started to guffaw again, holding his sides.

  I’d never seen him laugh so hard, which practically sent me into hysterics. I was afraid I’d wet my pant
s, though that wouldn’t be a bad encore, all things considered. Instead, I rolled off the sofa onto the floor.

  Vida was on the air again. “I’ve been talking to some of our friends and neighbors about their Thanksgiving plans. Clancy and Debra Barton have already ordered a twenty-two-pound free-range turkey from Jake and Betsy O’Toole’s Grocery Basket. Dot and Durwood Parker plan to have three kinds of stuffing—traditional, mushroom with oysters, and fresh fruit. Molly and Karl Freeman are traveling to a turkey farm near Centralia to pick out their bird. The Freemans have gotten their turkey from the same farm for the past three years. They tell me it’s actually a very difficult task. Some of the turkeys look grumpy, which they think indicates that the meat won’t be tender. Then there are the ones who look friendly and have such a cheerful gobble-gobble-gobble. You can imagine how Molly and Karl want them spared. Last year they chose what they considered the perfect bird: It looked bored, and the Freemans decided it didn’t have much to live for anyway.”

  By this time, Milo had laughed so hard that he’d rolled off the sofa, too, but his lanky frame knocked over the coffee table, and the ashtray fell on my head. Milo took one look at me and laughed some more as I picked dead butts out of my hair and brushed off ashes.

  But Vida wasn’t done. “I’ll be running some of Alpiners’ treasured family recipes—and some new ones, too—in upcoming issues of the Advocate. I already have six cranberry ideas, including a . . .”

  The Thanksgiving theme lasted until the end of the show. Milo and I finally regained our control and sat on the floor staring at each other.

  “What’s going on?” I said, finally getting up and turning off the radio just as Vida’s cupboard creaked shut. “That wasn’t anything like her usual program. She always manages to elaborate on the big news stories around town. But she never so much as alluded to Gen’s death, the break-ins or mentioned that St. Mildred’s parishioners shouldn’t be afraid of drinking communion wine.”

  “Say,” Milo said in a wondering voice, “now that I think about it, how come Vida hasn’t been badgering Bill Blatt about Gen’s poisoning?”

  “Good question.” I turned to face Milo, who was now standing up. “She claims she’s not interested. Apparently, she and Gen had a big falling-out years ago. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Nope. I sort of remember when Gen moved away, but that’s it.”

  I took some deep breaths. I was weak from laughing. To my surprise, Milo wasn’t making any moves.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Well . . .” He put a hand to his back. “I think I pulled something when I fell off the couch.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry. Does it feel serious?”

  The sheriff shrugged as he looked at me with a wry expression. “No,” he replied as the phone rang.

  I waved at the receiver on the end table. “They’ll call back,” I said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.” The wry expression remained. “But somehow I don’t think I’m in a bedroom kind of mood anymore. I should probably head home and go over my tackle box. I may go steelheading Saturday.”

  Fishing. Sometimes better than sex. I understood.

  Awkwardly, Milo patted my shoulder. “Great dinner. Thanks.”

  He put on his jacket, kissed the top of my head, and opened the door. I went out on the porch to see him off.

  “Hey,” I called when he was halfway to his car, “was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. “Yeah, I think it was. But can you make balloon animals?”

  An hour later, I remembered the unanswered phone call. Suddenly I was anxious to check the message. It could have been Adam or Ben. It might even have been Vida.

  The caller was none of the above. It was another hang-up. The caller ID informed me that the number had been dialed from a pay phone.

  It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, over two hours away from my bedtime. I phoned Ben to see how he and Annie Jeanne were doing.

  Fine, he said. Doc Dewey had provided Annie Jeanne with some sleeping pills. “She went to her room about twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t heard a peep out of her. I imagine she’ll sleep like a rock. This has been pretty exhausting as well as traumatic for her.”

  “It hasn’t been easy on you, either,” I said.

  “Hell, this is nothing,” he replied. “Except for all the damned phone calls, including the cranks.”

  “The usual anti-Catholic witchcraft and idolatry stuff?”

  “That, and a couple of cradle Catholics who left the church and wanted to tell me how justified they feel about it,” Ben said dryly. “I tell them that’s fine, they’ll be back for their funerals.”

  I smiled into the receiver. “I like your style, Stench. By the way, I had Milo over to dinner.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be coming to confession Saturday?”

  “As a matter of fact, no,” I said. “I’m going now. Good night.”

  The phone rang as soon as I put the receiver down on the end table. Thinking it was Ben delivering another smart crack, I answered with a breezy “Yeah?”

  It wasn’t Ben.

  “Is this Emma Lord?” the hushed male voice inquired.

  “Yes, it is,” I said, regaining formality. “Who is this?”

  “My name’s Tony Knuler. I have to meet with you right away. It’s urgent. How do I get to your house?”

  I didn’t know anyone named Tony Knuler, and I certainly wasn’t letting a stranger come to my house at ten o’clock at night. On the other hand, it wasn’t the first time that a stranger had contacted me with a news tip.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s late. Why do you need to see me so soon?”

  There was a long pause. “You own the newspaper, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I really need to talk to you now.”

  “Then talk.”

  The next pause was so lengthy that I wondered if he’d hung up. While I waited impatiently, I turned his name over in my brain. Tony Knuler. I’d heard it somewhere, and recently, too. But I couldn’t place it. I hear so many names every day. Most of them are familiar, but some are not. They’re contacts with state and government agencies, college students, tourists, out-of-town journalists checking background.

  “How early can I meet you tomorrow?” the mystery man finally asked, his voice still hushed.

  “I’m usually in the office around eight,” I replied.

  “I don’t want to come to the office.”

  I was getting exasperated. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “No, not over the phone.” Tony Knuler was beginning to sound panicky. “Can I come to your house before you go to work? Say, around seven?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  Another long, long pause. “What about breakfast at a restaurant?” he finally asked.

  Now it was my turn to hesitate. “Okay,” I said. “The Venison Inn, seven-thirty.” I wasn’t going to get up early to meet this bozo. At least I wouldn’t have to make breakfast at home.

  “That’s right near the newspaper office, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, just a block away.”

  “What about that diner near the bridge into town?”

  The Bourgette boys’ fifties-style diner just off Alpine Way served breakfast. “Fine,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll bring a copy of the Advocate,” Tony Knuler said.

  “So will I,” I responded, “so that you know me.”

  “Don’t bother,” he replied. “I already know you.”

  He hung up.

  ELEVEN

  Sleep eluded me that night. Trying to remember where I’d heard Tony Knuler’s name was driving me nuts. By midnight, I turned on the bedside lamp, picked up a book on the Plantagenets, and attempted to read myself to sleep.

  It wasn’t working. The Plantagenets, especially Henry II and his consort, Eleanor of Acquitaine, were fasc
inating. I thought about the movie The Lion in Winter, with Peter O’Toole and Katharine Hepburn as the royal couple. In a very small role, Anthony Hopkins had played the king’s quavering son and heir.

  Anthony Hopkins. Anthony Knuler. Tony Knuler. He was the guy who’d stolen the phone book from the Alpine Falls Motel. What the heck did he want with me?

  I was too tired to figure it out. At last, I went to sleep, and dreamed not of strangers, but of Vida, wearing a cloche hat pulled down over her eyes and receding into a misty November morning.

  There was fog when I woke up at seven. Dawn had barely broken with a murky gray light in the east. The dampness seeped through the evergreens in my backyard and settled just above the ground. I plugged in the coffeemaker, got dressed, and put on my makeup. Staring into space until I got my first jolt of caffeine, I sat down at the kitchen table and drank my coffee. Five minutes later, I was backing out of the driveway, with headlights on. The short trip to the diner took longer than usual, due to slow-moving traffic on fogbound Alpine Way.

  The diner was busy. Many of the customers were workmen, though few these days were loggers. Blue jeans and plaid flannel were the costume du jour, accessorized with heavy shoes and tool belts. Terri Bourgette, one of Mary Jane and Dick’s daughters, greeted me at the front desk.

  “I’m meeting someone I don’t know,” I told her. “Has a man carrying a copy of the Advocate come in?”

  “Not yet,” Terri replied, flashing me her big, friendly smile. “Do you want to wait here or be seated?”

  “I need coffee,” I said. “I’ll sit. Send him my way when he gets here.”

  Terri led me to a booth that was festooned with stills from I Love Lucy TV shows and glossy photos of Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh. At home, I skimp on breakfast, usually having toast and coffee with maybe a rasher of bacon or a scrambled egg. But the odors coming from the kitchen—as well as the stack of pancakes being served to an elderly couple across the aisle—accelerated my appetite. As soon as the waitress had finished, I waved at her. Suddenly, I was starving.