The Alpine Quilt

by Mary Daheim

  That wasn’t the only thing my straying eyes noticed. Something was sticking out from the pages of Annie Jeanne’s prayer book. At first glance, I thought it was a holy card. But it was too big. On closer inspection, it looked like a sheet of stationery, folded in half.

  I’d cautioned Ben about not touching anything, but I had to see if that piece of paper was a suicide note. Very carefully, I leaned across Annie Jeanne’s body. I didn’t want to move the prayer book, so it took some time to extract the stationery by its corners.

  As I’d suspected, it was Annie Jeanne’s farewell. Ben came in just as I began to read the dead woman’s small, precise script.

  “Dodge is on his way. So are a couple of volunteer ambulance drivers,” my brother said. “No sirens. No need.”

  “Listen to this,” I said, then frowned. “I can’t read this aloud. Not in this room with Annie Jeanne lying there.”

  We went into the parlor. “She dated it today, at four forty-seven.” I shook my head. “That was just over an hour ago.”

  Ben sat next to me on the sofa. “You mean she was alive when we were trying to get into the room?”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s why we heard the noises.”

  “Damn.” Ben crossed himself.

  There was no salutation.

  “My best friend was Genevieve Ferrer Bayard. She was like a sister to me. We told each other all of our secrets. I knew she would never repeat what I told her, and she knew the same thing about me. We had complete trust in each other. When her second husband died two years ago, I felt so sorry for her because she’d been so in love with him. But I became very upset when she told me she hadn’t been going to church. Ernie wasn’t a Catholic, and he had refused to be married by a priest. He’d made a terrible fuss when Gen insisted that their son be baptized and take his First Communion.”

  I had to stop. As concisely as possible, I told Ben what I’d learned from Tony Knuler at the funeral parlor. My brother looked dumbfounded, but withheld comment.

  “Maybe,” I theorized, “that explains why Gen used the Runkel name—to get even with Ernest for being a bigot.” I looked at Ben. “Dare I go on?”

  “You damned well better,” he said grimly.

  “I didn’t know what to do, except pray for her. But that didn’t seem to help. God works in mysterious ways, they tell me, but I made so many novenas and offered up so many rosaries and Masses and Holy Communions—and yet Gen still didn’t go to church. She even laughed about it at the Betsy party. That made me so miserable. I knew that Gen was going to hell. I couldn’t bear the thought, so I decided it was up to me to help her seek God’s forgiveness.”

  Ben was holding his head.

  “Gen didn’t realize that she’d dropped her medicine bottle at the Betsy party. I’d picked it up and meant to give it to her then and there, but in all the excitement, I forgot. In fact, I didn’t remember until I found it in my purse when I went to the store the next day to buy vanilla for our yummy cheesecake.

  “Gen called right after I got back from the store. She wanted to know if I had any idea of where she’d lost her medicine. The kind of diabetes she had wasn’t as bad as Ernie’s, but she still needed to take her tablets. I told her it was safe and sound on the kitchen counter. She said she’d taken the last of the previous prescription that morning, so she was glad that I’d found it. And then she said something that made me feel sick to my stomach—she told me, ‘Now, Annie Jeanne, don’t you go trying to save me. I’m done with religion and all that claptrap. If Jesus Christ showed up on my doorstep, I might go out with Him but I wouldn’t believe a word He said.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. I knew then I had to act.”

  The word had was underlined three times.

  “Father Fitz—rest his soul—had gotten diabetes of old age not long before he retired. One day when I was practicing the organ, he told me about it and showed me his tablets. Father joked, ‘Now don’t ever touch these, because they’re dangerous. I don’t want you poisoning me because I can’t sing very well.’

  “So I took half of the pills out of Gen’s bottle and crushed them into the cheesecake topping. I’d give Gen one last chance to repent, which I did just as we finished our main meal. But she laughed at me, and told me I had crazy religious notions and I’d spent too long being pure. I hadn’t had any fun out of life, she said. I knew what she meant—I hadn’t had sex. That was so important to her, even at our age.”

  I paused to catch my breath. Ben was sitting back on the sofa, arms folded across his chest, still looking grim.

  “So we ate the cheesecake. I thought that we’d both die, and that maybe my sacrifice would atone for her sins and we’d both go to heaven. And sure enough, just before Gen collapsed, she whispered, ‘Jesus Christ!’ I knew then that I’d done the right thing and that Gen was accepting her Savior. Father Ben said so.”

  I stared at my brother. “You did?”

  Ben waved his arms. “I don’t know what I said. I don’t remember if Annie Jeanne told me about Gen’s last words. If she did, for all I know, Gen was swearing. Annie Jeanne was throwing up and passing out and I was trying to cope. Maybe she asked if I thought Gen was going to heaven. I probably said yes. It was one big stinking turmoil.” He calmed down and regarded me with anticipation. “Is that it?”

  “Just about.” I started reading again.

  “Now I must join my dearest friend, and enter the imperishable glory of heaven just as she did, by taking her medicine. I will first say a perfect Act of Contrition. God rest our souls and all the souls of the faithful departed.”

  It was signed, “Annie Jeanne Dupré, virgin and martyr.”

  Vehicles were arriving at the rectory. Ben stood up. “I blame myself,” he murmured.

  “Why? Do you blame Dennis Kelly, too? You’ve only been here a month.”

  We went out into the hall. “I suppose I do. Maybe I even blame Father Fitzgerald. Why couldn’t any of us see how misguided Annie Jeanne was? Her faith was buried under a pile of bad theology.”

  Milo and the ambulance drivers had arrived at the same time. I let Ben take over while I paced the parlor. The trouble was, we were all to blame. Annie Jeanne Dupré had been a one-dimensional figure. She was the inept organist who meant well. But none of us knew what she meant; we only knew how badly she played.

  Ironically, only Genevieve Bayard had befriended Annie Jeanne. I couldn’t help but think of Ernest. He, too, had been a cipher in my mind. But Gen had fallen in love with him and apparently had made him happy. She had practiced, not preached, her humanity.

  That was more than the rest of us had done.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I tried to talk Ben into seeing Vida, but he refused. “She’s your buddy,” he declared. “What’s more, she’s a Presbyterian who doesn’t think much of the Catholic church.”

  I argued that Vida liked Ben, priest or not. I wasted my breath. My brother remained unconvinced.

  By the time Doc Dewey showed up, I was exhausted. I’d made coffee for the newcomers and fixed scrambled eggs for Ben and Milo, neither of whom had eaten since lunch. I still had no appetite. It was going on eight o’clock before they all left, taking Annie Jeanne’s body with them.

  “You’ll be going to Vida’s,” Ben said. It was more of a command than a remark.

  “I feel as if this day has lasted forty-eight hours,” I replied, trying to avoid the issue.

  “Then you’d better go before you pass out,” Ben said.

  He was being Ben the Priest, not Ben the Brother. Or maybe he was both. But he was right. I drove to Vida’s house.

  The first thing that I noticed was that the drapes were closed. Vida liked to keep them open until bedtime so that she wouldn’t miss any neighborhood activity.

  She didn’t respond to the chime immediately. Having suffered through Annie Jeanne’s refusal to open the door for Ben, I grew anxious. But after about a minute, Vida stood before me. She looked disheveled and exhausted.

  “I k
now everything,” she said, ushering me into the living room. “Al Driggers called around five. Then my nephew Billy phoned me after he got back in town.”

  I stopped in midstep. A large suitcase sat in the middle of the room alongside a carton that was half-full of clothes.

  “What’s going on?” I asked in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

  “I’m leaving town,” she said. “What else can I do?”

  “You can’t,” I declared, my voice stronger.

  “I must.” She turned her back on me, facing the fireplace mantel. I realized that all the family photos had been removed, including Roger’s baby pictures. “I simply can’t endure the humiliation when word gets out about what’s happened.”

  “Maybe it won’t get out,” I said.

  “Nonsense. By tomorrow morning, everyone will know.”

  I tried a different argument. “If you leave, you’ll only cause gossip and speculation. Even if the truth is never revealed, everyone in town will suspect you of something terrible.”

  “But I won’t be here to listen to it,” Vida said in a wan voice.

  I went to her and put a hand on her arm. “Listen to me, Vida. What would this town be like without you? What would the Advocate be without you? What about Roger and Amy and Ted? And,” I went on, pressing her arm, “what would I do without you? You are Alpine. If you left, we might as well change its name back to the original Nippon.”

  “Oh, come now . . .” Vida began to weep.

  “You know it’s true.” I steered her toward the armchair next to the hearth. “You’re the glue that holds this town together. You know everybody, you know everything that’s going on, you pull all the pieces together.” Like a quilt, I thought, but didn’t say so out loud.

  Vida took a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I don’t know. . . . It’s so terribly upsetting.”

  I sat down on Vida’s sofa. “Alpine is your world. Are you going to let Ernest and Gen ruin your life a second time around?”

  Vida sniffed and scowled, but didn’t respond.

  I leaned forward on the sofa. “What if the truth about the past was never revealed?”

  “How could that be?” Vida demanded. “You know how people talk.”

  “The body in the cemetery will never be exhumed,” I asserted. “Al may have threatened to do that, but why would he want to expose his father’s breach of ethics? Tony Knuler doesn’t care who’s buried there, and Buddy didn’t give a fig about his father when he was alive. Why would he want to know now?”

  “That’s true,” Vida allowed.

  “I’m sure Buddy is concerned only with his inheritance from his mother,” I pointed out. “The pity is, he won’t get nearly as much as Tony Knuler will. I have a feeling that Gen put aside most of her quilt earnings for Tony. Buddy is successful. Tony strikes me as a wastrel.”

  “Perhaps.” Vida sighed and wiped her eyes again. “Al’s releasing the body to Anthony Knuler. He’ll accompany his mother’s remains to Spokane tomorrow morning.”

  I noticed that Vida referred to Tony only in the most formal way. Maybe it was her attempt at putting distance between herself and the child that Ernest had had with Gen.

  I gave an indifferent nod. “Vida,” I said, “there’s something I must ask you. Why did you fib about when you got home last Monday?”

  “Oh.” She looked contrite. “That was very silly of me, wasn’t it? I didn’t get home early. But Buck felt so badly about not remembering to take care of Cupcake that I pretended I’d gotten home to put him—Cupcake, not Buck—to bed at his usual time. And of course Cupcake was perfectly all right, though he did give me the evil eye when I covered him for the night.”

  The explanation was delivered in a voice that was more normal. It gave me hope.

  But it was dashed when Vida continued. “I think I’ll offer to rent the house to Buck. Furnished, of course.”

  I was silent for a few moments. “What about your daughters?”

  Vida peered at me through her orange-framed glasses. “What about them?”

  “Aren’t you going to tell them that their father wasn’t killed at Deception Falls?”

  “No. What would be the point? It would do more harm than good. Nor do they need to know about a so-called half brother.” Vida’s words were bitter. Speaking them seemed to cost her dearly. “That’s why I’m not going to stay with any of them until I’ve given myself some distance.”

  Sadness was weighing me down. I was so tired—and discouraged. I felt numb. My own world would seem so empty without Vida. But I didn’t know what else to say. It was time to take my leave. But I had no intention of saying good-bye.

  On the doorstep, Vida stopped me before I could leave the porch. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “About what? Replacing you?”

  “About the story.”

  I hesitated. This was the biggest story of the year, the decade, maybe in Alpine’s history. Could I call myself a journalist and keep it under wraps?

  I looked Vida right in the eye. “I’m not going to do anything.”

  The gray eyes I was staring at again filled with tears.

  Driving home, I couldn’t help but wonder if Vida was crazy. Or at least unbalanced. But by the time I’d undressed and flopped onto the sofa, I realized I was wrong. Vida had kept sane—not to mention sensible, which she would consider just as important—by believing a lie. I suppose we all do, in matters great and small.

  Vida didn’t show up for work the next morning. When I came through the front door, Ginny informed me that Vida wasn’t feeling well.

  “Gosh,” she said, “when was the last time Vida got sick? I don’t ever remember her missing a day because she didn’t feel well.”

  “It’s flu season,” I said, and without looking at Ginny, I exited the reception area.

  The newsroom was empty. I felt empty. Scott was making the morning bakery run, and Leo was at a Rotary Club breakfast.

  I went into my cubbyhole and stared at the phone. Should I call Vida? But I couldn’t bear to do it. I was afraid she wouldn’t answer—or that if she did, she’d tell me what I didn’t want to hear.

  The phone rang while I was still staring at it. Fearing that it might be Vida, I answered in a tentative voice.

  “Have you had breakfast?” Milo asked.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “I was so tired that I slept until after seven-thirty. I’m not sure I can wait for the bakery run. I haven’t really eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

  “Meet you at the Venison Inn,” the sheriff said, and hung up before I could object.

  Bakery bag in hand, Scott came in as I went out. Sweet rolls wouldn’t do it for me this morning. I felt hollow, literally and figuratively. I knew I needed sustenance. Pancakes. Eggs. Ham. Juice. And lots of hot coffee.

  I’d made up my mind that I wouldn’t tell Milo about Vida’s possible defection unless he asked a specific question. He caught up with me at the restaurant door. “Let’s eat in the bar,” he said.

  I eyed him with curiosity. “You want to get hammered?”

  “Hardly. It’s more private this time of day. Only the serious drinkers are knocking ’em back this early, and their brains atrophied a long time ago.”

  So we seated ourselves, and true to Milo’s prediction only a handful of morning boozers were at the bar, bending Oren Rhodes’s ear and feeling sorry for themselves. They were mostly ex-loggers, driven out of work by timber troubles. One was missing a leg; another had only a thumb on the hand that didn’t hold his glass. I reminded myself that they weren’t merely drunks. They were like military veterans. They’d waged a war against the forest and had been maimed in their efforts. They were people, not ciphers.

  “So,” Milo said after Oren had taken our orders and brought coffee, “are you going public on this one?”

  It was an unusual question from the sheriff. A light was beginning to dawn. He hadn’t asked me to breakfast just for t
he pleasure of my company. “Are you?”

  Milo grunted. “Do you want me to get run out of town?”

  “But you have to rule on the homicide,” I pointed out. “You’ve got a signed confession.”

  “I do?”

  I stared at Milo. “The letter Annie Jeanne left.”

  “What letter?”

  “The—” I stopped as Oren brought us each a glass of juice.

  “Have you seen the letter?” I asked as soon as Oren had gone back to the bar.

  Milo was gazing off in the direction of the Bud Light sign above the bar. “I don’t know anything about a letter.” He took a sip of juice. “Your brother said Annie Jeanne made a ‘good confession,’ whatever that means to you guys. Isn’t that stuff sacred or something?”

  “You’re referring to the seal of the confessional,” I said. “Yes, it’s privileged in law, even more than doctor-patient or lawyer-client confidentiality.”

  Milo shrugged. “Then I guess I have to rule Gen Bayard’s death an accidental homicide.”

  I peered at Milo, who was now lighting a cigarette. He seemed unconcerned. Too unconcerned. My suspicions were confirmed. “I think you and Ben have formed a conspiracy.”

  Milo shrugged. “The case is closed. I’m cooking that steelhead for him tonight. You watched any of the Seahawk games yet?”

  “No. I like college football better than the pros, and the Seahawks aren’t going anywhere. As usual.”

  “How about the Sonics?”

  I refused to surrender completely. “Are you going to nail Tony Knuler for breaking in to the Pike house?”

  “We don’t have any evidence. He says that medal thing isn’t his.”

  “He’s lying. He broke in there to destroy Ethel’s original quilt patterns. And maybe some of the other members’, too. I understand all the quilting materials were kept at the Pikes’.”

  “Are we back to those damned quilts again?” Milo asked with a sigh.

  “Tony may not have known that his mother was already dead,” I said. “Or if he did, he was protecting her reputation as well as his own nest egg that Gen had put aside for him.”