by Mary Daheim
“Right,” the sheriff replied. “We got home Sunday night. We had one of those two-night off-season deals at the Westin.”
“And?” I coaxed.
“Jeez . . . It’s been thirty years, Emma,” Milo said. “I didn’t know about Ernest until I got back. I didn’t go to the funeral. I had to work, and anyway, I didn’t know Vida and her husband all that well in those days. I mean, I knew them—who didn’t?—but they weren’t friends of ours. Remember, I was still in my twenties at the time.”
“There had to be a buzz, especially in the sheriff’s office,” I said. If Milo and I had been face-to-face, I would have shaken him.
Milo made an impatient noise. “Hell, I don’t remember gossip and crap like that. It’s women’s work. Ernest tried to pull off a lame-assed stunt. He wanted to try getting into the barrel once before they hauled it upcreek above the falls. It was cold as a well digger’s ass, and he hadn’t tried to get inside with his all-weather gear. The barrel was right in back of the truck, and the brakes slipped. He got run over and croaked. Sad, but true.”
“Who was with him?”
“Huh?”
“You said ‘they.’ Somebody had to put the barrel into the creek after he got in it.”
“Oh. Right.” He paused, perhaps thinking through the situation in his usual methodical manner. “I’m trying to remember who Runkel’s friends were, especially if one owned a pickup truck.”
“It was a pickup?”
“A red Chevy,” Milo said. “I remember seeing it in the impound area out back behind the office.”
The impound section of the SkyCo sheriff’s department was two parking spaces next to the building. “Who owned it?”
“Good God Almighty,” Milo said in a low, startled voice.
“God owned it?”
“No,” Milo replied, still sounding shaken. “How the hell could I have forgotten? It was Andy Bayard.”
It took me a few seconds to absorb this startling revelation. “Were Andy and Ernest friends?” I asked in a voice filled with dismay. They seemed like an unlikely duo.
“Not really,” Milo replied, sounding more like himself. “But Andy worked—when he worked—hauling stuff. I suppose Ernest paid him for the trip to the falls.”
“What did Andy have to say about the accident?”
Milo didn’t answer for so long that I thought he’d dropped the phone. “He didn’t,” the sheriff finally said after searching his memory. “That was when he took off. Don’t ask how; I suppose he hitchhiked. Eeeny tried to track him down, but the next thing we knew he’d gotten killed in a car wreck somewhere south of Seattle. Auburn, I think.”
The Runkel-Bayard connection didn’t end with rumors about a romance between Ernest and Genevieve. Had Andy been so jealous of Ernest that he’d killed him? It was a horrendous thought.
“Whoa!” I blurted. “Are you saying that Eeeny didn’t bother to go after Andy under such suspicious circumstances?”
Milo didn’t answer right away, and when he spoke, his voice was pained. “Back then we didn’t know how crooked Eeeny was. At least I didn’t. Maybe Zeke did. I always wondered, but by the time I figured it out, Zeke was dead. For all I know, Andy paid Eeeny off. Looking back, there were a lot of cases that might have had different outcomes if our previous sheriff hadn’t been a corrupt SOB.”
Milo was undoubtedly right. He’d been young, inexperienced, maybe naive. Eeeny Moroni had been in office for years, using charm and a gift of gab to win votes in the days when the sheriff was elected.
“Incredible,” I murmured. “Didn’t it occur to you that Ernest might have been murdered?”
“No,” Milo replied. “Everybody—including Vida—said it was an accident. I didn’t work the case, remember? Hey, for all I know, Eeeny may have tried to find Andy but came up empty. It happens.”
“Who told you Andy had died?”
“Oh . . . Jesus, Emma, I can hardly recall much about it. Vida, maybe. She probably got it over the wire service.”
That made sense. But Vida had never hinted that foul play had been involved in Ernest’s death. Nor had any such suggestion appeared in the newspaper. Quickly, I flipped through the next six issues. Nothing. Maybe I was crazy.
Or maybe not. There was definitely something crazy—besides Ernest’s stupid stunt—about Milo’s account of the accident.
“If Andy Bayard took off right after the debacle, who was the witness to the accident?”
“There wasn’t one,” Milo replied, “except for him. Eeeny and Zeke must have reconstructed what happened.”
That was possible. “Okay,” I said, and sighed. “I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Forget I brought it up.”
“Easy to do,” Milo grumbled, “since I don’t remember much about it except that it was a damned fool stunt for Ernest to attempt.”
I couldn’t argue with that. But after we hung up, I sat staring at the article about Ernest Runkel’s death.
It still didn’t sound right.
If, I thought, I could only discuss the matter with Vida. But I didn’t want to upset her or make her angry. Instead, I made a list of people who’d still remember the incident, particularly those insightful types who might have felt the coverage was odd at the time.
It was a short list, but Buddy and Roseanna Bayard were at the top. They usually stayed for coffee and doughnuts after Mass, but should be home by now since it was just after noon. I didn’t like drop-in callers or being counted among them. But I was a journalist and often had to set manners aside. I hoisted the Advocate volume I’d been perusing, locked up the office, and headed for the Bayards’ home.
The temperature had dropped in the last hour, though the sun directly overhead peeked around the high clouds. Sure enough, both Bayard vehicles were parked out front. They had a garage, but Buddy had remodeled it for storing his photos.
Roseanna didn’t look happy to see me. “What now?” she asked in a weary voice.
“Some questions,” I said, following her into the living room, where Buddy was watching a Seattle Seahawks game.
He moved just enough to catch me out of the corner of his eye. “Hi, Emma,” he said before turning back to the TV where a field goal attempt was under way.
I knew better than to interrupt. But the Baltimore Ravens’ try was good and Buddy shut off the sound in disgust. “No defense,” he grumbled. “What’s up, Emma?”
First, I showed Buddy and Roseanna the newspaper article about Ernest Runkel’s death. Then, as tactfully and succinctly as I could, I related my reaction to the paucity of information.
“I also flipped through the issues for the next few months,” I added. “There was no mention of your father’s death. That’s odd because Marius Vandeventer always published former residents’ death notices. We still do. Can you explain any of this?”
Buddy shrugged. “Ma told me when Pa died. I suppose she got word of it from Vida. I don’t think Ma gave a damn whether it was put in the paper or not, since he was drunk at the time. She’d written Pa off years ago.”
That made a certain kind of sense. Perhaps Vida—or Marius—had accommodated Gen’s wishes. I wouldn’t have been so generous.
“To get back to Ernest’s disaster,” I said, turning to the front page of the second January edition, “did the story bother you in any way?”
“You bet,” Buddy retorted. “I wondered how a guy like Runkel could have been such a damned idiot.”
“You mean it was totally out of character?” I asked.
“Yes,” Roseanna replied as she reread the lead story before looking up. “He’d talked about doing it, but everybody thought it was a joke. You know, to get a rise out of Vida.”
Again, that part made sense. Maybe, in retaliation, Vida had begun to goad him, forcing his hand. People did act out of character now and then. If nothing else, I was beginning to get a clearer picture of the Runkel marriage.
“Honestly,” Roseanna said with a wary expression, “I d
on’t see anything peculiar. Granted, there aren’t any details, but Ernest couldn’t tell them, and if Andy really was there—though it doesn’t mention his name—you say he ran off.”
“But that’s my point,” I asserted. “It’s what the article doesn’t tell the reader that makes the difference.”
Buddy was scratching his beard and scowling. “Thirty years ago, Marius didn’t print all the news. He was . . . discreet. He didn’t want to cause trouble or offend readers if he could help it. You’re the one who brought a different style to the paper, Emma. You even print the names of people who get picked up for drunk driving.”
“That’s a matter of public record and as such, it’s news,” I stated. Buddy was right: Marius had definitely treated his fellow Alpiners with kid gloves. And I had been heavily criticized for what I considered my integrity as a journalist. “Okay,” I said, and sighed. “Maybe it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended.’ Did you know your dad was involved in Ernest’s death?”
“I heard some rumors that he’d been there,” Buddy replied, beginning to sound defensive. He’d turned all the way around in his recliner, and Roseanna sat down on the footstool next to him. “To be brutally honest, I didn’t pay much attention to what people said about my father. We were . . . I guess you’d call it ‘estranged.’ ”
The bitterness in Buddy’s voice made me feel sorry for him. His childhood must have been miserable, with a drunken father and an unloving mother. No wonder he was irascible at times. The family he’d built with Roseanna was a marvel I hadn’t considered until now. Maybe as a lonely child, he’d determined that his life would be different, that unhappiness wasn’t genetic. Maybe it was his faith, or Roseanna herself who had shown him how to love. Perhaps he’d had so much unrequited love stored inside that it had burst like a dam when he started his family.
Roseanna had moved closer to her husband. “Why are you spending a Sunday looking up all this stuff? Isn’t it up to Milo?” she inquired, breaking the awkward silence.
“Of course,” I replied. “But this is what’s called investigative reporting. I’m not bound by such strict rules and regulations like Milo is. I also tend to look beyond mere facts.”
Buddy took Roseanna’s hand. “It seems to me you’re looking damned hard at us.”
I shook my head. “That’s only because it was your mother who was poisoned.”
Roseanna gave me a challenging look. “But now you’ve got Buddy’s dad involved in Ernest Runkel’s nutty accident. Is all this going into the paper?”
“Of course not,” I shot back. “The only way I’d print any of this is if it had a direct bearing on who killed Genevieve.”
“Rot.” Roseanna swung her head around to look up at Buddy. “I’m beginning to feel persecuted.”
Buddy didn’t say anything, but the beleaguered expression he wore spoke volumes.
I stood up. “I should be heading home. I went straight to the office from church.”
Buddy pointed to the bound volume that now lay on the floor. “To look up that old crap?”
I was the one who now felt defensive. “Aren’t you interested in who killed your mother? Don’t you want to know if you have a half brother?” I pointed my toe at the old newspapers. “I look for answers everywhere. You’d be surprised how many of them come from the past, especially in a small town where things don’t change very swiftly.”
“I still say Ma’s death was a fluke,” Buddy declared, rising from the recliner but keeping Roseanna’s hand in his. “Come on, Emma. Why do people kill other people? For gain or for love, right?”
“True, but—”
Buddy interrupted me. “According to the lawyer, Mr. Vaughn, Ma’s estate is worth—we guessed—more than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s mainly for the condo, which was paid off a few years back. She had about four thousand dollars in savings, plus a fifty-grand IRA. It’s enough to put the kids through college.”
I didn’t respond. Collecting the newspaper volume, I started for the door.
“I don’t intend to share,” Buddy huffed as both he and Roseanna followed me. “If this character who claims he’s Ma’s son ever shows up again, he’ll have to prove it. Frankly, I think he’s a crook. As the sole heir, I don’t have to pay inheritance tax, because the estate’s less than seven hundred thousand. That’s the law.”
Even as I turned the doorknob, Buddy continued his diatribe. “So if people don’t kill for money, it’s for love. I don’t think Ma had a guy hanging around for the last five years. Good God, she was close to seventy. And who in Alpine would consider her a rival? Mary Lou Blatt? Darlene Adcock? Annie Jeanne? Come on, Emma, you’re just looking for headlines.”
On that contentious note, I headed for my car.
But I still felt sorry for Buddy.
Instead of going home, I went back to St. Mildred’s. Ben was on the playfield, teaching some of the parochial school students how to make free throws. Judging from the sweat that trickled down his reddened face, this was not a day of rest for my brother.
“Want to play?” he called to me.
“No, thanks,” I shouted. “Can you still dunk like you did at Blanchet High?”
“Sure, if I have a ladder,” Ben replied, tossing the ball to a redheaded boy of twelve. “Are you in need of spiritual guidance?”
“Some kind of guidance,” I admitted. “Can I pull you from the game?”
Ben waved at the half-dozen kids who were passing the ball around the top of the key. “Later, fellas,” he called. “Keep practicing. Focus, relax at the line.”
We went into the rectory, which felt uncommonly warm. “Is this the tropics?” I asked.
“Damn,” Ben breathed. “Annie Jeanne’s turned the heat up again. She’s always cold. No body fat. Let me adjust the thermostat.”
I followed him down the hall where the control panel was located just outside the pastor’s study.
“Eighty-eight?” I said, leaning over his shoulder to look at the current setting. “I may pass out.”
Ben led the way into the study. “I’m already hot as a fresh tamale. You want something to drink?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Beer,” he said, turning to a small refrigerator in back of his desk. “Dennis Kelly kept chocolate in there. He swears it tastes better cold. I’ve got beer and bottled water and some diet pop. What’ll you have?”
I grimaced. “I don’t drink diet, I prefer water out of Burl Creek, and you know I’m no beer lover. But I’ll drink one anyway. I feel as if I’ve put in a long day already.”
“Who hasn’t?” Ben retorted, taking two cans of Bud Light out of the little fridge. “I’ve got two Eucharist ministers down with flu, so I had to bring Holy Communion to the nursing home after Mass. Tonight I’m going to Monroe to say the five o’clock at St. Mary of the Valley. Their regular priest is out of town.”
I was only beginning to realize the responsibilities that Ben had taken on in Alpine. Sunday was not a day of rest, nor were the other days of the week. I hated to burden him with my problems, but if he was a priest forever in the order of Melchizedek, he was also forever my brother.
So I unloaded. Ben listened patiently, sipping beer and occasionally frowning. Unlike Milo and the Bayards, he took me seriously.
“I’m not sure if I’ve got all this straight,” Ben said when I’d finished. “You’re trying to tie in a thirty-year-old accident with Genevieve’s poisoning. It’s a stretch. But life’s a tapestry, with threads appearing and reappearing over the years.”
“In this case,” I put in, “it’s more like a quilt. A crazy quilt.”
“Exactly.” He frowned again. “So what did Gen do with all the money she made off those quilts?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” I responded, shifting in my chair as the afternoon sun came through the window. “Even if she could make two or three a year, she should have had more than four grand in her savings account. Buddy and Roseanna neve
r mentioned her being a lavish spender. Furthermore, she bought a relatively inexpensive condo back when prices were really low in Spokane.”
“The other son,” Ben said.
I stared at him. “You mean she supported him?”
My brother shrugged. “Why—if he is her son—does he keep such a low profile? That suggests something shady. Maybe Gen spent money on lawyers and bail bondsmen.”
“That’s possible,” I allowed. “I hope Milo gets some information back from Sacramento tomorrow.”
“Are you thinking this Knuler character may have offed his mother for money?” Ben asked.
“Considering the modest size of her estate and the fact he’d only get half of it,” I replied, “I’d think she’d be worth more to him alive than dead. She might have been his cash cow with those quilts of hers. Besides, it appears he didn’t arrive in Alpine until after Gen died. I don’t see how he could have done it—unless he got here Monday and spent the night in his car. It seems unlikely that he was the one who sneaked into the rectory kitchen and doctored the cheesecake.”
“Somebody did,” Ben pointed out. “What if Gen had decided to cut him off? There’s a motive.”
I sighed. “A motive,” I repeated. “Any motive I can think of is weak. Buddy and Roseanna could have killed Gen for the same reason. None of it makes sense. If only I could speak freely to Vida . . .”
Ben leaned back in his chair. “There’s the rub.” He spoke softly and looked at me with steady brown eyes.
I shifted my gaze to a fat robin on the windowsill. “I know,” I murmured. “Am I steering clear of the obvious?”
“Maybe,” Ben allowed. “It’s unthinkable, of course. It’s also unavoidable.”
Sadly, I nodded. “Vida hated Gen. She suspected Ernest of being unfaithful with the woman. She may even have blamed Gen in some weird way for the accident. Gen’s ex-husband egging Ernest on, perhaps even causing the disaster—or intentionally making it happen. But,” I continued, raising my voice a bit, “even if Vida has the best motive, she wouldn’t have done such a thing. Besides, she didn’t get back to Alpine until after Gen died.”