The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll pick you up at five,” Rolf said. “I have your address, but you better give me directions.”

  I was so flabbergasted that I got my lefts and rights mixed up, and had to go over the relatively simple route twice.

  “See you tomorrow. Wear something irresistible. If we never leave your house, just perfume will do.” Rolf rang off.

  I felt giddy. I was going to have an actual date. And with an eligible man. Not only eligible, but attractive. I could hardly believe it.

  “Now what?” Leo inquired, leaning against the door frame. “You look like you won the lottery.”

  I forced myself to appear normal. “Do you know Rolf Fisher from the AP?”

  Leo shook his head. “I only know dreary advertising types, like me.”

  I didn’t explain my reason for asking, and Leo didn’t probe. Vida returned a few minutes later, holding her head.

  “So sad,” she said, flopping into her chair. “So confusing. So few veterans left. At least, from World War Two. Do you realize there are only seven here in Alpine, and of those, only three of them make sense?”

  “What about the county commissioner troika?” Leo inquired. “They’re old enough to have served.”

  Vida waved a hand in dismissal. “Did they ever make sense? Besides, only Alfred Cobb was in the military—intelligence, of all things. I can’t believe we won with someone like him serving in such a capacity. It’s a good thing we had the Korean and Vietnam wars. Otherwise, I couldn’t write a readable feature for Armistice Day.”

  “That certainly justifies all those deaths in Korea and ’Nam,” Leo remarked. “And by the way, they’ve been calling it Veterans Day for the last forty, fifty years.”

  Vida glared at Leo. “You know what I mean. We need to honor our veterans, to let them tell us what war was really like. Then maybe we wouldn’t have countries at each other’s throats.”

  “ ‘What if they had a war and nobody came?’ ” Leo murmured, paraphrasing an old protest slogan.

  “Ernest enlisted in the navy when he was sixteen,” Vida declared. “He lied about his age. He was sent to the Pacific, but the war ended before he saw any real action. I’ve always blamed Mr. Truman for that, though I suppose that rogue of a Roosevelt would have done the same thing and dropped the horrid bomb.”

  Vida was a staunch Republican. Indeed, she would probably have made a wonderful Whig. She gave me her gimlet eye. “Why are you looking at me like that, Emma? You know my feelings about the Democrats.”

  “Hey—I’m an independent,” I replied. “It’s my duty as a publisher to be unbiased.” But of course, I wasn’t staring at Vida because of her politics. I was thinking of Ernest and Genevieve.

  I felt guilty. It was stupid of me, but I couldn’t make the feeling go away. I was still arguing with myself when I left work ten minutes early and walked down Front Street to the sheriff’s office.

  “It’s Friday,” I said upon entering Milo’s inner sanctum. “Let me treat you to a drink. Can you leave right now?”

  The sheriff was doing paperwork. “I could if I didn’t have to fill out all these damned forms. Right now I’d rather go out and bust somebody’s chops.”

  “How come?” I asked, perching on the desk’s one clear space.

  Milo shrugged. “It’s the homicide. I’m nowhere. And we’re not doing any better with the break-ins. We haven’t had one in days. Were the crooks out-of-towners who’ve moved on? Or did they get scared?”

  It wasn’t like the sheriff to volunteer his frustration. I suffered even more guilt. Especially after his next remark. “I need a woman.”

  “Oh, Milo!” I gave him a compassionate look. “You know that if . . . I mean, when you want or need . . . I don’t have any more balloons!”

  Milo made a face. “I’m not talking about sex, for God’s sake. I mean in the office. Toni can’t handle all this crap. Face it, she’s kind of slow. What I want is a female officer, someone who can deal with battered women, wives whose husbands are doing time, even hookers. But we don’t have the funds. It’s a damned shame.”

  “Oh.” I think I blushed. Rolf Fisher would have accused me of blushing, though I rarely did. “Sorry. I felt bad about the other night.”

  Milo shrugged. “Hey—it was a good laugh. That does me good, too. I’m not laughing much on the job these days. Maybe I’m getting stale.” He scooped up the paperwork and shoved the pile in a drawer. “Let’s hit the bars. I can do this over the weekend. Or Monday. It’s an official holiday, since Veterans Day falls on Sunday. Maybe the local perps will take it off, too.”

  “We’re doing our homage to the vets a bit late this year,” I said as Milo took his regulation jacket off of a peg by the door. “Too many holidays all bunched together. We decided our advertisers needed a break after Columbus Day and Halloween. The problem is, Thanksgiving comes early . . .”

  Milo put a big hand on my shoulder. “Hey—how come you’re so wound up?”

  I sighed before turning to look him in the eye. “I’ve got a date.”

  “Good for you.” If Milo was wounded, it didn’t show. “Who’s the guy?”

  “Rolf Fisher, from the AP in Seattle.” As we progressed through the outer office, I reminded Milo how Rolf had helped us with background information in a homicide case the previous winter.

  “I thought you told me he was a creep,” Milo said as we walked against the wind toward the Venison Inn.

  “He may be,” I responded, “but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least he’s not as hideous as I thought he’d be.” That was an understatement, but the sheriff didn’t need to know.

  “Hell, Emma, you don’t have to apologize for going out with some guy,” Milo assured me. “I’ve seen other women over the years.”

  Entering the restaurant, I gazed up at him. “How about now?”

  Milo shook his head after removing his Smokey Bear regulation hat. “Maybe it’s like you. I’d have to leave town to find somebody.”

  “It’s a small pond,” I commented, leading the way into the bar.

  “And chances of getting skunked are pretty damned good,” Milo said, commandeering a table away from most of the other after-work drinkers.

  The sheriff ought to know. He’d picked some real local lemons. “Maybe we’re getting too old to fish for love,” I noted as Milo signaled to the bartender, Oren Rhodes, to bring our usual cocktails.

  “Maybe,” Milo agreed.

  I scowled at him. “No, we’re not. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t feel old. I don’t feel much different than I did thirty years ago.”

  “I do,” Milo asserted. “I’m not as quick. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be, and my joints feel stiff sometimes. Not good for a lawman. In a face-off, I’d get gunned down in the middle of Front Street before I could get my weapon out of the holster.”

  “You still look fine,” I declared. “Solid, strong.” Those guilt pangs still nagged at me, but the words were true. The sheriff had put on some weight over the years, there was gray in his sandy hair, and the lines in his long face were deeper. Indeed, he was aging slowly and aging well. If I kept telling myself these things, I’d end up canceling on Rolf Fisher and never budge from Alpine again.

  Oren brought my bourbon and Milo’s Scotch-rocks. “Doubles,” the bartender said. “House special to honor veterans. You were in ’Nam, right, Sheriff?”

  “So I was,” Milo replied, cradling the glass. “Wish I’d had more of this stuff there.”

  Oren nodded at me. “You’re a veteran of the newspaper wars. Don’t let the bastards get you down, Emma.” He flipped the bar towel that had been slung over his shoulder and trudged back to his post.

  “I suppose you’ve been sleuthing,” Milo said after taking a deep drink and lighting a cigarette. “Any luck?”

  It wasn’t like him to ask me about an ongoing investigation. Either he believed I might have some insights because the death had occ
urred under my brother’s nose, or the sheriff was more frustrated than I thought.

  “Not much,” I answered slowly, still not wanting to bother Milo with the lost Miraculous Medal. “Mostly talking to people who knew Gen, especially the women at the party. She seemed well liked. Except by Vida.”

  Milo gave a brief nod. “They had some kind of falling-out years ago. I heard about it later. I was either in college or ’Nam at the time.”

  I assumed an innocent expression. “Do you know what the row was about?”

  Milo frowned and puffed out his cheeks. At least a minute passed before he responded. “It had something to do with Ernest. I think Vida thought Gen was making a play for him. Probably a lot of bullshit, but you know Vida. Once she gets something in that head of hers, it doesn’t come out.”

  “You never thought it was true?”

  Milo started to answer, but apparently changed his mind. “Well . . . no. I was young, mid-twenties or so, and Ernest seemed like an old man to me. I suppose he wasn’t more than late forties, younger than I am now. As for Gen, she was good-looking, but everybody knew she had an eye for the men. Ernest wouldn’t have been the first guy she’d come on to.”

  “Are you saying Gen was promiscuous?”

  “No.” Milo gazed at me as if I could have qualified for the Salem witch hunt. “She was just lonely. Her husband—what was his name?”

  “Andy. Andre.”

  “Right. He was a drunk, and probably abused Gen. People didn’t talk about battering those days like they do now. I remember seeing Gen once on a dark winter day wearing sunglasses. I was still a naive teenager, and all I thought was that she looked like a movie star. In reality, she’d probably gotten a shiner from Andy.”

  “Has Buddy ever talked to you about his dad?” I asked before giving in to my weakness and slipping one of Milo’s cigarettes out of the pack he’d put on the table.

  “Not really.” The sheriff offered me a light. “In fact, Buddy hardly ever mentions him. He didn’t talk much about his mother, either. I’m guessing Buddy wasn’t raised in a happy family.”

  “And Dad left when Buddy was still young,” I murmured. “Do you remember Andy Bayard at all?”

  “Oh, sure, I’d see him around town. He was kind of a snappy dresser, at least for a town like—” The sheriff’s cell phone went off. “Damn. I’d better take that,” he said, reaching into his jacket, which was resting on the back of his chair.

  I watched and listened. Milo’s face registered surprise, then puzzlement. “Have you talked to Buddy?” he asked into the phone. “Sorry,” the sheriff said after a pause, “I can’t do much about it. It sounds like a couple of lawyers are going to make a few bucks off of this one.” Another pause. “Keep me posted. Talk to you later.”

  “Well?” I said as Milo put the cell back in his jacket. “What’s up?”

  Milo gestured at Oren to bring us another round. “That was Al Driggers. You knew he’s got Gen’s body at the mortuary. Well, some dude who claims he’s Gen’s other son phoned Al and asked to claim the remains and have Gen buried in Citrus Heights, California. Al was suspicious and Buddy went ballistic. He insists he was his mother’s only child.”

  “Is the alleged offspring also named Bayard?”

  Milo shook his head. “No. He gave his name as Anthony Knuler.”

  FIFTEEN

  I choked on my drink. “Are y-y-you k-k-kidding?” I sputtered.

  Of course Milo wasn’t. “Have you heard of this Knuler guy? The name sounds kind of familiar.”

  I wiped my mouth with a cocktail napkin and then began to explain Anthony Knuler’s role as the Mystery Man.

  “So this guy from the motel may still be in Alpine,” Milo remarked after I’d finished telling him everything I knew. “You say Terri Bourgette saw somebody who might have been Knuler at the diner yesterday morning?”

  “He must have given Al a phone number,” I said. “Will should have an address in California.”

  “Al told me it was a don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you situation. He wondered if this Knuler was using a pay phone. There was a lot of noise in the background, like cars and trucks going by.”

  “A rest stop, maybe,” I pondered aloud. “Tony Knuler may be heading south. But if so, why didn’t he request Gen’s body while he was in town?”

  Oren whisked away Milo’s empty glass and delivered the second round. Since the drinks were doubles, I was taking my time.

  “How old did Terri say this guy was?” Milo asked.

  “Thirties,” I replied. “Younger than Buddy by at least ten years.”

  Milo lit another cigarette. “Bastard? Adopted? A husband Gen never told Buddy and Roseanna about? A divorce not long after the marriage but a baby as a souvenir?”

  “Roseanna did mention that she thought her mother-in-law had a live-in boyfriend for a while,” I recalled. “But she and Buddy never saw him, and Gen never spoke of him. Then, a few years ago—if I’m remembering this right—it looked as if the guy had moved out.”

  “Or died,” Milo noted. “I’ll have to talk to the Bayards about this deal.” Milo sighed as he checked his watch. “It’s not quite five-thirty. Maybe I can catch them at the studio. Damn. I thought I was done for the day.”

  I finished my first drink. “May I tag along?”

  Milo frowned at me. “The visit’s official, not social.”

  “You’re right.”

  The sheriff was suspicious of my docile manner. “You’ll show up anyway.”

  “Finish your drink,” I said. “I’m paying for it, remember?”

  Milo sipped in silence. I guessed that he was mulling over this latest, surprising development. Halfway through his second Scotch, he reached again for his cell phone.

  “Dwight? Hey, do me a favor. Look up Anthony Knuler in the database. I’m guessing at the spelling. Check with Will Pace at the Alpine Falls Motel. The guy stayed there the other night.”

  “Has Knuler become Suspect Number One?” I asked after Milo clicked off. “Or merely a Person of Interest?”

  “What do you think?” Milo’s flowing bowl wasn’t giving him much cheer. “He’s either a swindler or the X factor.”

  “Or a killer,” I put in.

  Milo said nothing.

  We parted company at a quarter to six. Milo, presumably, was still going to see if the Bayards were at the studio. I decided to wait until they went home. After two doubles, I didn’t want to drive in what was turning into a wind and rain storm.

  The office was empty, locked up for the weekend. I wasn’t inclined to give my employees three-day weekends. Instead, I paid them double for working holidays. We needed both Monday and Tuesday to make our deadline.

  I considered phoning the Bayards before Milo could reach them, but he was probably already there, having walked the three blocks from the Venison Inn to the studio. Besides, it would be impolitic to usurp the sheriff’s official duties.

  I’d never heard of Citrus Heights, California. Turning on my computer, I entered the town’s name. Sure enough, it came up, appearing on the site map as being very close to Sacramento, which was what Tony Knuler had listed as his hometown at the motel.

  Next, I dialed the number of the Alpine Falls Motel. A harried-sounding Will Pace answered on the fourth ring.

  “A quick question,” I said.

  “It better be,” Will snapped. “I’m busy. A bunch of people are checking in because they don’t want to go over the pass in this crappy weather.”

  “How many nights did Tony Knuler stay at your motel?”

  “Hell! Why do you care?”

  I didn’t respond. I wasn’t the one pressed for time.

  “Just one,” Will said after my silence. “Tuesday, the sixth.” He hung up.

  Gen had been poisoned on Monday, the fifth. Had Tony Knuler arrived in Alpine before the murder? If so, where had he been? And who on earth was he?

  At precisely six o’clock, I punched in the Bayards’ business number. Ros
eanna answered, sounding only slightly less harassed than Will Pace. I asked her if the sheriff was there.

  “How did you know?” she demanded, lowering her voice. “And how the hell did you get involved with this Knuler creep?”

  “I didn’t,” I replied. “If Milo hasn’t explained that part, I will when I see you. Should I wait until you get home?”

  “Not tonight,” Roseanna retorted. “This is going to take some sorting out. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She, too, hung up on me.

  I considered driving to the studio while the sheriff and the Bayards were still there. But I’d already offended Buddy and Roseanna by pulling our darkroom work. Maybe I should do as she wished.

  It wasn’t easy. I fidgeted at my desk for a few minutes before calling Dwight Gould. Hopefully, Milo’s deputy wouldn’t provide me with a hat-trick hang-up.

  “We didn’t find Knuler in the database,” Dwight said in answer to my question. “Fact is, we didn’t find him or any other Knulers anywhere. Maybe we’re not spelling it right.”

  “Maybe Will Pace didn’t spell it right,” I suggested.

  “No, he gave it to us right,” Dwight said in his cheerless manner. “I was the one who stopped by the motel after Will made the complaint. I saw the registration that Knuler had filled out. Guests have to print their names and write their signatures.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” I agreed. “Have you got a Sacramento address for Knuler?”

  “Sort of. It was hard to read.” He paused, perhaps looking up the address. “It was something like 1112 H Street, or maybe A Street. Or the ones could’ve been sevens. It was really hard to tell. Dodge won’t be happy about that.”

  I wasn’t, either. Tony Knuler either had poor penmanship or was deliberately trying to obscure his place of residence.

  At loose ends, I called Ben. Betsy O’Toole answered.

  “Your brother just left for an ecumenical dinner with Regis Bartleby,” Betsy said. “Is there a message?”

  “No, not really. I forgot he was dining with the vicar this weekend.” The truth was, Edith Bartleby hadn’t mentioned which night the two pastors were getting together. “How’s Annie Jeanne?”