The Alpine Christmas (15 page)

I decided against asking him to paint my house. Photographs would be cheaper. And safer.

*  *  *

Milo Dodge was coming out of his office when I pulled up in front of the bakery in the block between
The Advocate
and the county sheriff’s headquarters. My usual parking spot had been usurped, presumably by one of the holiday shoppers taking advantage of the lull in the weather. I paused to gaze at the display of Christmas confectionery, which, appropriately for Alpine, leaned toward Scandinavian delicacies: Berlinerkransar, fattigmand, sandbakkelse, spritskransar, yulekake, rosettes. The breads and cookies looked wonderful, but as an old family friend from Bergen, Norway, had once told my mother, “The bakery is well and good, but never like homemade.” She might have been right, but The Upper Crust’s offerings looked pretty tempting to me.

“Emma!” Milo called from the opposite curb. “Got a minute?”

I was debating between stuffing myself on Scandinavian goodies or going to the Burger Barn for something a shade more wholesome. It was well after one o’clock, and I was famished. Fleetingly, I wondered what Evan Singer cooked for himself. Bat wings and puppy dog tails came to mind.

“I need some grease,” I said, gesturing across the street. The Burger Barn’s roof exhibited a fake red brick chimney with a jolly Santa waving with the hand that didn’t carry a packful of toys. “Have you eaten?”

Milo met me in the middle of the block, both of us jaywalking. A couple of cars, a flatbed truck, and a Jeep slowed to avoid running us down.

“Yeah, I had lunch with Sam and Jack,” Milo replied, “but I wouldn’t mind another cup of real coffee. Jack waters it down at work.”

Milo also had pie—apple, with a wedge of cheddar cheese on the side. I dug into a burger, fries, and a small salad. Ben was coming to dinner again, but probably wouldn’t make it until after seven. I didn’t worry about spoiling my appetite.

“We got some background on Carol,” Milo said after we’d been served and I’d finally wound down in my recital of the interview with Evan Singer. “Parents are divorced, mother remarried and living in the L. A. area, father somewhere in central Oregon, which is where he came from. Probably a rural type who never adjusted to the urban jungle, but I’m guessing. There was a brother, but he died when he was about ten, some kind of accident on a bicycle.”

I looked up from my hamburger. “Where did you get all this? Did somebody clone Vida for the SPD?”

“Actually, it’s out of the King County sheriff’s office, but my contact got hold of a neighbor who still lives next door to the Neals’ old house in Greenwood. That’s close to Blanchet, right?”

“Sort of.” Blanchet is just a few blocks from Green Lake. The neighborhood that bears its name borders on the Greenwood area in the north end of Seattle.

“Anyway,” Milo went on between bites of cheese and pie, “the house was a rental. The Neals didn’t have much money, but somehow they managed to send Carol to private school. By the time she was a junior, she had a nice car, expensive clothes, a fancy CD player that had a bass loud enough to cause earthquakes. Or so said the neighbor.” Milo raised an eyebrow. “Interesting, huh?”

“Very. Did she have a job?”

“She did, at least for a while. In a place like this.” He waved a big hand, taking in the Burger Barn with its rustic decor and paper cutout Christmas decorations.

“Hmmmm.” I was gazing at a cardboard angel with blonde dreadlocks. “Minimum wage, probably. Not enough to buy nice cars and clothes and CD players.”

“Not enough to
pay
for them,” Milo noted. “Carol left home right after graduation. I gather that Dad left before that. Mom headed south a few months later.”

“And?” I looked up expectantly.

“And nothing.” But Milo was looking smug. “Except
this.” He reached inside his heavy jacket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to me.

I studied the words carefully. It was a faxed copy of a complaint, filed the previous day by Stefan Horthy, owner/manager of the Villa Apartments. The complaint stated that Carol Neal and Kathleen Francich had defaulted on their rental agreement and vacated Unit #116 without giving proper notice. Horthy wished to confiscate their belongings, which had been left behind, to cover the outstanding monthly rent payment of $1,025. The damage deposit would not be refunded.

I looked at the address, which was on Capitol Hill, south of the University District and east of downtown Seattle. “When was the rent due, I wonder?”

Milo shrugged. “The first, I suppose. Why?”

“Because most apartment houses in Seattle—and Portland—ask for first and last months’ rent, in addition to a damage deposit. It’s only December twelfth. This Horthy is covered for the last month. His tenants must have owed for November, too.” I pushed the complaint back at Milo. “More to the point, they left all their belongings. Doesn’t that suggest they intended to come back?”

“Sure.” Milo gave me a wry smile. “If you want to stretch it, you might say it suggests they were murdered. First Kathleen, then Carol.” His expression turned bleak.

“Damn all,” I breathed, though I’d already had a whiff of this particular fear. “Any chance to find out about Kathleen Francich?”

Milo shook his head. “No. I’m wondering if we should get Horthy up here to ID our victim.”

It was better than my brief brainstorm to ask Bridget. I didn’t know Stefan Horthy; I wouldn’t feel any responsibility for him if he turned blue and passed out. “Did you learn where Carol worked?”

Again, Milo hadn’t had the opportunity to make further inquiries. “Horthy should know. I’m afraid he’s our pigeon.
We can’t force him to come up to Alpine, but it would be in his best interests.”

I agreed. Milo’s revelations had driven Evan Singer into the shadows. As we paid our respective bills, I realized that I still had to write a feature article about the strange young man with his baggy sweater and Rolex watch. I hadn’t the vaguest idea how to approach the story.

Indeed, I was still mulling over a lead when Ben called. To my mild dismay, he informed me that on an impulsive Christian whim, he had invited Teresa McHale to join us.

“What?” I yipped into the phone. “Shall I ask Milo? Is this a double date?”

“Listen, Sluggly,” my brother admonished me, “you’re the one who was thinking about having her over for Christmas dinner. This will let you off the hook. And me. Father Fitz either fasted a lot or didn’t have a big appetite. Teresa’s been cooking up a storm since I got here. She won’t let me near the stove or the fridge or anything resembling a frying pan. You give Teresa a meal and finish up Advent with an extra star in your crown.”

“Bull,” I replied. But Ben was right: including Teresa was an act of charity. And possibly of endurance. I told him I’d pick up a small salmon at the Grocery Basket. “They’ve got some silvers in this week. Naturally, Ed Bronsky wanted to keep it a secret.”

Vida was amused by my brother’s invitation. She was also vaguely alarmed. “If I were you,” she cautioned, “I’d drive over to the church and pick them up, then take them home. I don’t trust that woman an inch.”

“You don’t know her.” It was true: Teresa had kept herself to herself, as they say, at least as far as non-Catholics were concerned. For once, I had the upper hand with Vida.

“I’ve seen her around,” Vida muttered, giving me her gimlet eye.

“So? She and Ben are all alone at the rectory. What’s such a big deal about them driving back and forth to my house?”

Vida’s eyes narrowed behind her big glasses. “Cars. They’re always dangerous when it comes to sex. Cars liberated Americans, giving them an opportunity to become promiscuous. I’ll bet you’ve never seen a rumble seat.”

“Of course I have!” I countered. “Don’t you remember the Classic Car Rally last June?”

Vida ignored the remark. She was pounding on her typewriter when my phone rang. It was Milo.

“Durwood’s been found!” he announced, evincing more animation than was customary.

“Huh?” I’d forgotten that Durwood was lost. “Where was he?”

“He took Crazy Eights Neffel for a snowmobile ride up Mount Baldy. Crazy Eights hopped off halfway to the top and Durwood had to go looking for him. He found the old nut making snow angels and talking to a goat.”

“Swell.” I put the phone down. Durwood and the town loony weren’t a news item. In Alpine, they were merely a way of life. As my father used to say, you can get used to anything, including hanging. After three years, I was obviously getting used to small-town ways.

Teresa McHale wore a gold charmeuse blouse with a black and gold wrap skirt and matching shawl. Her dyed red hair was carefully coiffed in a side part that curled just under her ears, her makeup was flawless, and at the door, she exchanged her sensible boots for a pair of sling platform pumps. She did indeed look as if she were on a date.

By contrast, Ben wore an Arizona State University sweatshirt over blue jeans and kept his boots on. I was determined to watch Teresa like a hawk. At the first coquettish glance, I fully intended to smack Teresa in the kisser with the silver salmon.

But as we chatted amiably through cocktails, Teresa McHale’s demeanor was irreproachable. The hard edges I had observed earlier were now softened. Maybe it was the
vodka. Or the sociability. Perhaps Teresa really did lead a lonely, isolated life as the parish housekeeper.

Still, there was a girlishness about her that struck a discordant note. Her ensemble was smart, perhaps expensive. It might have flattered a woman who was ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter. As it was, the shimmering gold and black made Teresa McHale look like a large Christmas bauble.

Up until we served dinner, Ben had dominated the conversation, not out of a desire to seek the limelight, but at Teresa’s urging. He recalled his years on the Delta. His new life on the reservation. The three trips to Rome in two decades. The life and times of a priest in the home missions. Teresa never ran out of questions. I had to assume that she and Ben didn’t talk much at the rectory.

“Father Fitz must know these people inside and out,” Ben remarked after giving the blessing. “How long has he been at St. Mildred’s?”

Teresa looked at me. I looked blank. “Years,” I finally said. “Fifteen? Twenty?”

Teresa lifted one shawl-clad shoulder. “I guess so. Someone said there was no regular priest in Alpine before he came.”

“Probably not,” Ben said. “It would have been a mission church, served out of Monroe or even Everett.”

“And will be again, I’m afraid.” Teresa sighed over a forkful of salmon. “I doubt that he’ll be back. At least as pastor. He can’t possibly resume his duties.”

Ben was slapping butter on his baked potato. “You may be right. Dr. Flake isn’t too optimistic about the prognosis.”

I hadn’t thought beyond Ben’s stay at St. Mildred’s. It was so wonderful having him here in Alpine, with Adam due to join us shortly. I didn’t want to look beyond the holidays to the New Year when I’d have to wave goodbye to both my brother and my son. Regrettably, Father Fitz hadn’t been
preying on my mind. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might have seen the last of our pastor.

“He
is
up there,” I commented, “and has certainly served the Church well. What will you do if he doesn’t come back, Teresa?”

The housekeeper’s green eyes avoided my gaze. “Oh—I don’t know. I take one day at a time.”

Ben had added sour cream, chives, and onion bits to the butter. His potato looked like Mount Baldy. “Have you considered going into pastoral administration?” he asked. “With the shortage of priests, parishes need more lay people to staff the rectory.”

Teresa gave a sharp shake of her head, the red locks flipping this way and that. “No, that’s not for me. Too much politics. It’s hard enough being a housekeeper.”

“There aren’t a lot of jobs in Alpine just now,” I rioted. “The economy is bad everywhere, but especially in a logging town like this one.”

Teresa’s green eyes now met mine head-on. “As I said, I’m not going to worry about it. Something will come along.” She gave Ben a smile that was more coy than coquettish. “We have to trust in the Lord, don’t we, Father?”

Ben smiled back, albeit crookedly. “It makes more sense to trust in the Help Wanted columns.”

I passed Teresa the bowl of buttered baby carrots. “I take it you want to stay in Alpine?”

Again, she avoided my eyes. “I like it here. It’s a beautiful town.” Then, as if she suddenly remembered railing against the rural life earlier, she continued on a more breathless note: “That is, the scenery is beautiful, even if there isn’t much to do. But location can make up for a lot, isn’t that so?”

Ben agreed, though he immediately launched into what evils could lurk behind the scenery in, say, Tuba City, Arizona. I’d already heard Ben talk about snakes and scorpions and small dinosaurs or whatever else crawled and slithered in the desert. My mind drifted, engaging itself in debate over
whether or not to ask Teresa why she’d moved to Alpine in the first place. But I’d tried that once already that day, with Evan Singer, and received a wildly enigmatic answer. I decided to refrain from putting the same query to Teresa McHale.

My guests departed shortly after ten. It had been a pleasant enough evening, with the conversation turning again to Ben’s adventures. Teresa had led him down the garden path with more questions, reserving a few for me regarding my newspaper background. But a full work day, dinner preparations, and playing hostess had drained me. I was not in top form as a
raconteuse
. It was only after Ben and Teresa had driven off in Father Fitz’s Volvo that I stopped marveling over Teresa’s interest in others and wondered if the truth was that she didn’t want to talk about herself. Did Teresa have a dark secret in her past? It’s amazing how many people do. Or
think
they do.

I was affixing an angel to the roof of my Nativity stable when I noticed that one of the shepherds was smoking a cigarette. Ben had rolled up a small piece of paper and taped it to the figure’s mouth. Funny Ben. Naturally, I laughed. Not for the first time, I thought how essential a sense of humor was to Christian faith. Or to just plain getting through the days that spin out over a lifetime. While I giggled at my brother’s puckish stunt, there were people suffering and dying out there in the winter landscape. There was nothing funny about that. But if I couldn’t laugh, I couldn’t live. It was that simple. I turned out the lights and went to bed.