The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes,” I put in. “I remember the design in Gen’s quilt. But I thought it was parts of a circle.”

  Vida added more sugar to her already sweetened tea. “I took my quilt to Nell Blatt’s to show it to her. It’s still in the car. I covered it in plastic, but I’d rather not bring it out again. The rain is coming down in buckets.”

  So it was, coursing like tiny creeks down the kitchen window. “So,” Vida continued, “I must admit, Nell is addled as an egg, but like so many older people, she remembers forty years ago much better than yesterday.”

  I had gotten up to pour more tea. “She married your brother Osbert, right?”

  Vida nodded. “Osbert and Ennis were several years older than I was. Mother wanted a girl so desperately—and finally, I came along.”

  I paused while Vida reflected on her birthright. “Nell mentioned that Mother didn’t bother to copyright her quilts,” she continued. “Apparently, that’s what serious quilt-makers do, particularly the ones who enter competitions or have exhibits. I gather it’s like writers or musicians or other creative persons. It’s a shame Mother didn’t bother to copyright hers, but the part she loved best was the sheer joy of making them. As Nell put it, no one could ever imagine any club member stealing another’s designs. It was unthinkable. Then she backed up my recollection that I’d given some of Mother’s sewing materials—cardboard templates included—to the club. Ethel Pike, who was the only serious quilter after Gen left, took them. But according to Nell, Ethel never stole any of Mother’s ideas. She simply used the materials and pieced them into her own quilts. Nell swore that Ethel had one quilt that was full of my old frocks from high school days.”

  Another pause. We seemed to be going down memory lane. Indeed, I could imagine Vida’s bittersweet reaction.

  The lights flickered, as they often do at the three-thousand-foot level. Neither of us made a comment. We were used to it; we were also used to having the lights on at midday in November.

  “That’s interesting history,” I remarked, “but it doesn’t throw much light on why Gen was poisoned.”

  Vida shook her head, making her fat gray curls bounce. “I still believe it was an accident. Annie Jeanne’s scatterbrained. You told me how excited she was at having her—ugh—friend to dinner. Can’t you see her sailing around the kitchen, doing heaven-knows-what while she cooked?”

  I admitted that was true. “But she surely couldn’t have mistaken diabetes pills for chocolate squares.”

  “Yes, she could.”

  It was useless to argue the point with Vida. She was convinced she was right, and in fact, I hoped she was. “Why,” I said, “would anyone break in to Ethel Pike’s house and destroy her materials, as well as your mother’s quilt? Ethel must have had those things for twenty-odd years.”

  “That is curious,” Vida responded. “What time of day was it?”

  “Nobody knows for sure. The Pikes had already left for the airport.”

  Vida made a face. “All these people flying here and there. Hawaii, Florida—what next, Albania? Why can’t they be satisfied to stay home in Alpine?” She set her mug down on the table and went over to the phone, which I’d left on the counter. “I’m calling the Eversons. And Maud Dodd, if I have to.”

  I was momentarily puzzled. Then I remembered that the Eversons and Maud were the Pikes’ neighbors. I sipped tea and listened to Vida talk on the phone.

  “Bebe? It’s Vida here. I have a question for you about that break-in at Ethel and Pike’s house. Are you sure you didn’t see or hear anything unusual?” Scowling, Vida paced the floor. “Yes, of course. I knew you’d gone into Monroe for the day and that Roy would be at the post office. Thank you so much. Bye-bye now.” She clicked off. “Idiot.”

  “Nothing?”

  Vida was already dialing Maud Dodd’s number. “Bebe wasn’t home all day, didn’t hear or see a thing after she returned around six. I swear she wouldn’t remember if she did. Early Alzheimer’s, that’s what— Maud? It’s Vida here. I have a . . .” She repeated the spiel she’d given to Bebe Everson. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it. Arthritis is so painful. . . . Yes, the damp this time of year. . . . Dr. Sung suggested what? . . . I’m certain he has all the latest treatments. . . . I know he isn’t Doc Dewey, but still . . .” Vida looked at me with an impatient expression. “Melons? Everyone needs fresh fruit, Maud. . . . Then have the courtesy clerks fill the bags more lightly.” She whipped off her glasses. I wondered how she could grind away at her eyes with one hand holding the phone. “But to get back to the break-in. It was at the Pikes’, remember?” Vida held her head with her free hand and paced faster. “I understand you don’t like going outside, but . . . You did? When was that?” She gave me a wave, apparently indicating that progress was finally being made. “You’re sure it was early in the afternoon? Around two? Yes, Marlow Whipp likes to keep to a schedule on his route.”

  Vida looked at me and put her hand over the receiver. “Marlow is a very erratic postal carrier,” she whispered before speaking back into the phone. “Could you tell where the smoke was coming from . . . ? Drifting, you say. But from which direction . . . ? Like a fog. I see. . . . Yes, thank you, Maud, that’s very helpful.”

  Vida rang off, replaced her glasses, and uttered a deep groan. “Maud’s in a fog! But if she can be believed, she went out to the mailbox around two and smelled smoke. She figured someone was burning leaves, which makes sense this time of year. But she couldn’t pinpoint where the smoke was coming from. Still, it’s a peculiar time to have a break-in.”

  “It doesn’t follow the pattern of the other break-ins,” I noted. “They were all at night.”

  Vida remained silent for a few moments. At last she sat back down at the table. “I must admit, I’m more interested in finding out who burned Ethel’s templates along with my mother’s quilt than learning who poisoned Gen Bayard.”

  “Maybe,” I said quietly, “the culprit is one and the same.”

  SEVENTEEN

  By five o’clock, I was a nervous wreck. I’d waited all afternoon for the phone to ring. And I wouldn’t have blamed Rolf Fisher if he’d canceled. It was almost pitch-black outside and the rain continued to pour down. Highway 2 could be tricky, with its narrow lanes and sudden curves.

  But after I returned from picking up my altered slacks, I’d checked for messages. There were none. Apparently, Rolf wasn’t intimidated by bad weather. I began to prepare myself for the evening.

  First off, I lost control of my eyeliner and made a diagonal streak across my eyelid. Remove, retrace, react with annoyance. Then I spilled my liquid foundation all over the bathroom sink counter. Last but not least, my grasp on the lipstick went awry, leaving me with what looked like a two-inch gash on my right cheek. I scrubbed it off and started over, careful not to mar my eye makeup. It took me fifteen minutes instead of the usual five.

  The phone did ring just as I was stepping into my new slacks.

  It was Rolf.

  “You chickened out,” I declared, feeling my spirits sink.

  “I did not,” he replied, taking umbrage. “I’m at something called Cal’s Texaco. I drove the last two miles with a flat tire. Nothing can puncture our romance. Fortunately, Cal stays open until six.”

  “Did you damage your rims?” I asked as relief swept over me. Rolf was actually in Alpine, less than five minutes away. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Don’t get personal,” he responded, but quickly went on. “No, but it’s going to take him a while to find another tire. He’s busy with customers gassing up for the weekend. Haven’t you people ever heard of ‘Open All Hours’?”

  “We haven’t, as a matter of fact,” I admitted. “Alpine is not a hotbed of ambition.”

  “A pity,” Rolf said. “Would you mind picking me up? Cal—a most accommodating man—says that since I have an extra key, I can collect the car after . . . whatever we end up doing.”

  I told Rolf I’d be there in ten minutes. I actually made it in eight, si
nce all I had to do was put on my two sweaters and throw a raincoat over my ensemble. The coat spoiled the effect, but it was better than ruining the outfit.

  I spotted my date standing inside the service station. In his beige raincoat and black hat, he looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a movie role as foreign correspondent. I should have laughed with derision. Instead, I smiled with pleasure.

  “Sorry,” I said after I’d honked and he came out to the car. “I forgot to tell you what I was driving.”

  “I know a chariot when I see one,” Rolf said, settling into the passenger seat. “I heard you drove a Lexus.”

  I turned back onto Alpine Way. “I did,” I said tersely. “I sold it.”

  “Ah.”

  I glanced at Rolf. He looked satisfied with my answer. Maybe the newspaper grapevine was as efficient as Alpine’s.

  I took Tonga Road to the ski lodge. “Have you ever been to Alpine?” I asked.

  “Never,” Rolf replied. “In my skiing days, before I tore up a knee, I skied at the summit, but we always went past the town. You must like it here.”

  I shrugged. “I’m trapped. Having bought the paper, I don’t have much choice, at least until I retire—if I retire. After the first few years, I guess I’ve found a certain comfort level in Alpine.”

  Rolf was gazing at my new togs, displayed by the open raincoat. “Something tells me you’re a city girl at heart. You don’t dress like Smalltown USA.”

  “I do, though. Usually.” I winced. Damn. I was admitting that I’d gone upscale for Rolf’s benefit.

  Again, he made no comment. I’d reached the narrow winding road that led to the ski lodge. I had to focus on my driving, so I couldn’t look at Rolf. Was he laughing at me for being a silly nincompoop? Was he feeling smug? Was he lurking like a lion whose prey was in sight?

  “Tell me about the timber history,” he said. “I’m doing some research on alternatives to clear-cutting.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know,” I replied. “Are you planning a series of articles?”

  “No. A book.”

  “A book?” We’d arrived in the parking area. I darted a glance at my companion. He looked serious.

  “I’ve already published one book,” he said wryly. “I guess you haven’t read it. That was four years ago. I wrote about the history of the timber giants. It was fair, factual, and judicious. Or so one critic called it. I didn’t get rich, but libraries and business schools bought enough copies to send it into a second printing.”

  “The local library should have it,” I said, pulling into the valet parking lane. I wasn’t going to further expose my new clothes to the rain. Besides, there was no charge, though a tip was expected.

  “Don’t knock yourself out,” Rolf remarked as he got out of the Honda. “You might find the writing tedious.”

  I accepted a receipt from the young valet, who might have been a college student. “I’d expect a livelier style from you,” I said as we entered the ski lodge. “You have a way with words,” I added in an ironic tone.

  “You’ll have to see for yourself,” Rolf said as I led the way into the Nordic-themed dining room.

  Heather Bardeen Bavich couldn’t quite hide her surprise at seeing me with a strange man. But she made no comment as she led us to the quiet corner table I’d reserved on Friday. The restaurant was beginning to fill. I watched as Rolf cast appreciative eyes on the waterfall by the bar, the etched glass with its depiction of Nordic myths, and the woodcarvings of various Norse gods and goddesses.

  “I’d expected something more rustic,” he confessed. “Hewn timbers. Crossed axes. Paul Bunyan.”

  “The ski lodge is a monument to survival,” I explained. “Back in the late twenties, Carl Clemans, who founded the town, had finished logging off Tonga Ridge and Mount Baldy. There was no reason for Alpine to go on. There wasn’t even a road into the town from Highway 2. The plan was to move everyone out and burn the buildings so they wouldn’t attract hoboes who came through on the train. But Rufus Runkel and a guy called Olaf the Obese decided to borrow some money and build a ski lodge. That’s when the road and the bridge were put in.”

  “Hmm.” Rolf smiled at me. “Maybe my next book should be about the smaller mills and logging businesses.”

  “Maybe. There’s considerable human interest in those stories.”

  Heather returned to take our drink orders. I inquired how married life was treating her. Before she could answer, I noticed she was pregnant. The long black jacket she was wearing had hidden her condition. Indeed, I suddenly recalled that Vida had told me that Heather and Trevor Bavich were expecting in February. The item had also appeared in Vida’s “Scene Around Town” column. Heather was the daughter of Henry, the ski lodge manager, and the niece of Buck Bardeen. My brain seemed muddled, either by Rolf Fisher or my extravagant expenditure.

  “I’m taking maternity leave right after New Year’s,” Heather confided. “The commute from Monroe is just too hard in the winter.”

  “So,” Rolf remarked after Heather had departed, “this is where Alpine’s elite meet.”

  “Not entirely,” I replied. “You passed a very fine French restaurant just before turning off the highway.”

  “I didn’t notice. I must have been too busy driving on a flat tire.” He gave me an insinuating look. “We’ll go French next time.”

  Our drinks arrived, courtesy of the latest blond waitress, Becky Erdahl. I’d ordered my usual bourbon and water; Rolf had requested a vodka martini. He ate the olive first.

  I asked him if he’d been born in Seattle. He had, although he’d moved several times in his job with AP. “Six years ago,” he said in a subdued voice, “when my wife got cancer, I asked for a transfer back to Seattle. She was from there, too, and wanted to be with her family. We were in St. Louis at the time.”

  “Children?” I asked.

  “A son, Melchior.”

  I know I looked as if I thought he was kidding.

  “No, really. We named him Melchior after Miriam’s grandfather. We call him Mel, of course.”

  “It’s unusual. If you’d had two more, I’d have figured you’d call them Caspar and Balthazar.”

  “Not suitable for Jewish boys,” Rolf said.

  He’s Jewish. Not an insurmountable problem. Obviously, I was getting ahead of myself. “Where is Mel?”

  “At Stanford,” Rolf replied. “He’s going to be a doctor. He was always leaning that way, but when Miriam got sick . . .” Rolf raised both hands. “That made up his mind. Mel wants to become involved in cancer research.”

  “That’s a wonderful ambition,” I said. “But it must cost the world to send him to Stanford.”

  “It does. That’s why you’re paying for dinner.”

  This time, I thought he was serious. But he laughed and held up a hand. “No, Emma, this is my treat. How’s your son? The last I heard, he was freezing his digits off in Alaska.”

  “How did you know that?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I work for AP, remember? Word gets through, even from remote outposts, like Alpine and Alaska.”

  I supposed that it did. I—or Scott—talked to other people at the Associated Press upon occasion.

  “I also heard you made a pilgrimage to Rome,” Rolf said. “How was that?”

  “It was lovely,” I said. “I went with my brother, Ben.”

  “The priest?”

  “I only have one sibling. In fact, he’s here right now, filling in for our pastor who’s on sabbatical.”

  “So Rome was lovely.” His tone was wry.

  I tried not to grimace. Rolf seemed to have a knack for reading my mind. “Yes—but at first it was . . . hard.”

  “Because of Tom Cavanaugh?”

  Damn, the man seemed to know all about me. I should be flattered. I was. “Yes.” I looked him straight in the eye.

  “I knew Tom,” Rolf said quietly. “I worked with him at the Seattle Times for about a year before I joined AP. He was a great
guy.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I was when he was killed,” Rolf went on in that same quiet voice. “I was sorry for you, too. I understand you two were getting married. How are you doing?”

  “I’m recovering,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  Rolf signaled for another round. “Then we’ll order, if you like.”

  We didn’t speak for a few moments. It was an awkward silence, at least for me. I was feeling foolish, even shallow. I’d blown thirteen hundred dollars on new clothes to impress a man I scarcely knew. I hadn’t expected the conversation to touch on Tom. Somehow, it took the sheen off my ensemble and the glow from my vision. I couldn’t help making comparisons.

  “I was with my wife when she died,” Rolf said, breaking the silence. “I wonder what’s worse—watching someone you love go through so much suffering in a futile attempt to stay alive, or dying swiftly and unexpectedly. Personally, I’d much prefer the latter.”

  I’d grown tense. “Do we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes.” His dark eyes held mine in an unblinking gaze. “We have to because if I intend to keep driving eighty-five miles to Alpine in rotten weather, I want to make sure there’s a reason for it. I don’t want our ghosts kept in the closet.”

  I lowered my eyes. Our drinks arrived, giving me time to think. Would Tom have been this forthright? No. I had to be honest. In the early stages of our illicit romance, Tom equivocated. He’d leave Sandra and marry me. He couldn’t leave Sandra, because she needed his emotional support. After I got pregnant, he promised he’d get a divorce or an annulment. A week later, he learned that Sandra was pregnant, too. He couldn’t possibly leave her. And on and on, for thirty years. Comparisons weren’t all in Tom’s favor.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I finally said. “I’ve only talked about Tom’s death with my brother and my son.” For once, Vida had respected my privacy. She’d still been a comfort because she, too, had been fond of “Tommy.” I avoided the subject with Milo, who had an irrational sense of failure for not being able to protect a private citizen on a public street.