The Alpine Christmas (16 page)

“The Renaissance man has come to Alpine.”

It was the worst kind of overstatement, but I couldn’t think of any other way to write the story about Evan Singer. I spent Saturday morning working at home on my word processor, trying to fill a two-column by six-inch space about the bizarre young man with the erratic emotions and multifaceted personality. It was easy to make him sound interesting; it was damned hard to make him sound sane.

And I’d forgotten to take my camera. Ordinarily, I could send Carla to cover for me. When she remembered to use film and take off the lens cap, she was a better photographer than I was. But Carla wasn’t keen on Evan Singer, so I decided to bring the camera to dinner at King Olav’s. I could get a picture of Evan driving the sleigh up to the ski lodge.

The afternoon was devoted to cleaning house for Adam’s arrival Monday. Not that my son would notice if I had a Dumpster parked in the living room, but it made me feel like a proper mother. I even ventured into my son’s room, something I usually did only under duress or when certain odors threatened to drive me out of the house. He had left his belongings in no worse condition than I’d feared, which meant I could probably apply for Federal funds under the National Disaster Act.

At five o’clock, I emerged, feeling virtuous and weary. But the prospect of a good dinner and relaxed companionship buoyed me.

My companion, however, looked as if he’d been beset by Vandals and Huns. Or spent a week in Adam’s room, pre-cleaning. Milo Dodge was far from his laconic self when he arrived on my front porch. His long face was far longer than usual, his sandy hair was disheveled under his ski hat, and his long mouth was set in a thin, angry line.

“I’m going to kill him,” he announced, stalking into my living room.

I had been prepared to twirl about to show off my new green $250 dress. “Who?” I demanded, planting my feet firmly on the floor.

“Arnie Nyquist, that son of a bitch.” Milo started for the Scotch, thought better of it, and turned around to jab a finger in my face. “Arnie’s going around town saying you told old Oscar you were going to investigate me! What the hell is going on, Emma?”

I was abashed. “I told … Oh!” Enlightenment dawned. “Hold it, Milo. I told Oscar no such thing. Sit down, relax, take a break.” I all but shoved Milo onto the sofa. Giving him a moment to collect himself, I lighted a pair of big red spiral candles on the mantel, turned on the CD player, and let Bing Crosby dream of a white Christmas.

“You may have one short Scotch,” I announced, heading for the liquor cabinet that was actually part of a big bookcase. “You are a law enforcement official, though off-duty. I hate it when you have to arrest yourself.”

Milo was now pouting. “I wasn’t drunk the other night. Neither was Ben. We were just … upset.”

Milo and Ben may not have been drunk, but they hadn’t been exactly sober, either. I refused to argue the fine point. “Here,” I said, shoving a Scotch and soda at Milo. “Oscar is muddled. I stalled him with a promise of an in-depth study of the sheriff’s department. You know what that means—nothing. Then I placated him further by letting Vida do a story on the Whistling Marmot—and the Nyquists. If that
doesn’t make Oscar forget, then you’ll have to pour him full of these.” I hoisted my glass of bourbon and water.

“The Nyquists don’t forget
anything
,” Milo lamented, but he suddenly looked a bit less miserable. “Emma, do you realize how long memories are in this town?”

“Not as well as you do,” I admitted. “Take it easy. You got re-elected by an overwhelming majority last month. And I’ll bet the Nyquists all voted for you.”

Milo looked askance. “I’ve got a murder investigation that’s going nowhere. I don’t need distractions like the Nyquists.”

I had sat down in an armchair opposite Milo. I’d given up expecting him to notice my new dress. Or how nice the house looked, with all the Christmas decorations. Only the tree was missing. Briefly, I visualized it standing in the corner between the bookcase and the window next to the carport.

“Speaking of Nyquists,” I said, hoping to steer him a bit off course, “I’m puzzled about their peeker. Oscar and Louise gave two different descriptions. Bridget is vague.”

“Bridget is brainless. Travis didn’t marry her for her mind.” Milo tugged at his polka-dot tie. He hated getting dressed up. His concession to King Olav’s dress code was a herringbone sport coat, flannel slacks, a pale blue dress shirt—and a tie. “You ought to know that eyewitnesses never see the same event.”

“This is different,” I persisted. “Louise said the guy was medium height, stocky, in workman’s clothes. Oscar described him as tall and skinny, wearing jeans. They were both relaying what Bridget said, and when Vida and I asked her, she insisted she only saw an outline. What’s the official rundown on this bird?”

Milo sipped his drink and shrugged. “As I said, people aren’t good at giving descriptions. It can make us law enforcement types crazy, especially when they testify in court. Or at a lineup. Now there’s the worst possible scenario. About four years ago last summer, Darla Puckett filed a complaint
about some guy who’d broken into her house and stolen some money and a watch and a berry pie. Shaggy hair, a beard, big son of a gun. We actually threw together a lineup and …”

I have never considered Milo Dodge loquacious, not even after a shot of Scotch. He’s a good conversationalist—direct, candid, humorous. But he never runs on. I half-listened to his elaborate account, which I’d heard a long time ago from Vida. I knew the punch line, which was that Darla Puckett had fingered a visiting state law enforcement official from Olympia, she’d given the money to the milkman, the watch had fallen into the garbage, and the berry pie had been eaten by a bear. It was amusing, it was cogent, it was very Alpine. But it wasn’t like Milo to talk my ear off. I suspected him of fobbing me off.

“… And the bear had left the empty pie plate out by the woodshed!” Milo chuckled richly.

“And you’re dodging me, Dodge.” I stood up, glancing at my watch. “We’ve got a seven-thirty reservation. Let’s go. You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

Milo was still protesting his innocence when we got to the turnout for the ski lodge. The Overholt family owned the property bordering the county road that took off from Front Street at the edge of town. The big old rambling farm house was ablaze with Christmas lights, and a Star of Bethlehem glowed on the barn roof. The Overholts were close to ninety, but their son-in-law, Ellsworth Griswold, still actively farmed the land and kept a few cows. The family had leased the big rolling front yard to Henry Bardeen to allow diners to park their cars before getting into the sleigh.

Milo and I weren’t the only customers waiting for Evan Singer. Neither of us recognized the other two couples. From their excited talk about the snow and treacherous driving conditions, we guessed they were Seattleites. Milo regarded the quartet with bemusement. He clearly considered them effete.

The sound of sleigh bells jingled on the cold night air, signaling Evan’s approach. Sure enough, the sleigh pulled off the Burl Creek Road, with Evan at the helm and two giggling young women passengers. They looked vaguely familiar, and Milo nodded to them both after they allowed Evan to assist them in alighting from the horse-drawn conveyance. Evan was dressed in a Regency coachman’s costume, complete with a tall black felt hat. He looked quite imposing, especially when he flicked his long whip.

The two other couples got in first, then Milo and I squeezed in. There were lap robes to ward off the chill and a tub of popcorn to alleviate hunger pangs. Evan had greeted me politely, if indifferently, as if he’d forgotten I’d spent part of yesterday in his rude cabin. Maybe he had. It wasn’t easy to figure out how Evan Singer’s mind worked.

Discreetly, I clicked off a few frames of 35mm black and white film. Evan must have been used to having his picture taken. He paid no attention to the camera.

Our companions were exclaiming about the quaintness of the sleigh, the endurance of the horses, the beauty of the snow-covered wonderland. Indeed, for a man whose imagination usually seemed to be set at simmer rather than boil, Henry Bardeen had come up with an enchanting idea: the small bridge that crossed Burl Creek halfway up the hill to the ski lodge was decorated with tiny white lights and big green wreaths. Lamp posts, also of the Regency period, stood at each end. As our route wound through the trees, more fairy lights twinkled among the branches. The effect was magical, a charming mesh of Old World beauty and contemporary commercialism.

The sleigh glided ahead; our fellow passengers chattered on. Evan cracked the whip, but spared the horses. Milo and I remained silent. This was hardly the place to discuss a brutal homicide.

Evan Singer stopped for the arterial at Tonga Road, which was well traveled, since it hooked into Alpine Way over by
The Pines. A single car went by, perhaps heading for Arnie Nyquists’s Ptarmigan Tract west of town. The horses plodded on across the road, their big hoofs making comfortable clip-clop noises that seemed to provide a bass note for the jingling bells.

Through the trees, we could hear the rushing sound of Burl Creek as it tumbled down the mountainside. There were more fairy lights, and somewhere a discreet speaker serenaded us with a choir singing “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear.” I couldn’t resist grinning at Milo.

“This is the best thing to hit Alpine since Vida,” I said in a low voice.

Milo grinned back. To my astonishment, he took my hand under the lap robe. “You’re a Christmas nut, Ms. Lord. Whatever happened to your hard-bitten newspaper cynicism?”

I was about to reply that I put such negative emotions on hold every December, but the sleigh was suddenly zipping along at a surprisingly rapid speed. We were almost to the ski lodge; perhaps the horses sensed it and picked up the pace. They weren’t exactly galloping, but my guess was that they were executing either a canter or a very fast trot. The two other couples had finally shut up. I tightened my grip on Milo’s hand and gave him an inquiring look.

Before Milo could say anything, a car came down the road from the opposite direction. It moved slowly, since the access was narrow and had been cleared of snow to allow passage of only one vehicle at a time. I noticed the familiar Mercedes symbol first, then recognized the occupants: Bridget Nyquist was driving; Travis was at her side.

Evan Singer let out a howl, and the horses both reared up, pawing the freezing air. The Mercedes rolled past us. Instead of getting his steeds under control, Evan turned around and stared at the car. With a shudder, the sleigh sprang forward, then sideways. The horses were making for the trees. We hit
the piled-up snow along the roadside with a jolt. The sleigh tipped over, and we all fell out. The horses kept going.

I was still clinging to Milo’s hand when I tumbled into the snowbank. One of the other women was screaming, while her male companion cursed a blue streak. Now hatless, Evan Singer sat wide-eyed, virtually dumbstruck. The horses had stopped a few feet away, balked by the deep snow and the heavy underbrush beneath its surface.

Milo sat up, pulling me with him. “You okay?”

I wasn’t sure. I felt stunned, battered, and bruised. Otherwise, I decided I’d live. My main concern was that I hadn’t ripped my new dress. “Yeah, except that black and blue aren’t my favorite Christmas colors. How about you?”

Milo was shaken, but also unharmed. The couple that hadn’t been screaming and swearing had descended upon Evan Singer, berating him and threatening lawsuits. The other two were also on their feet, still making nasty noises. Milo hesitated, then finally let go of me and approached the city folks.

“Excuse me, I’m the sheriff. If you have a complaint, file it with my office,” he told the quartet of strangers. “However, I’ll testify that there was no negligence involved. It was an accident. If you’re going to go for a sleigh ride in the mountains this time of year, you’d better be prepared for just about anything.”

Our fellow passengers didn’t exactly look mollified, but at least they stopped yapping at Evan Singer. He had retrieved his hat and appeared indignant. He didn’t bother to thank Milo for intervening, but made straight for the horses.

“You’d better walk the rest of the way,” he called without turning around. “Enjoy your dinner.”

The parking area for the ski lodge was just around the bend in the road. Of course Milo and I knew that, but the others didn’t. They were still bitching when we turned the corner and saw the lodge in all its yuletide glory.

The slanting roof with its dormer windows was decked out
with yet more fairy lights. Garlands of evergreens hung from the eaves, tied with huge red bows. Off to one side at the parking lot entrance was a miniature Dickens village, complete with rosy-cheeked carolers, a gaunt lamplighter, frolicking children, and a terrier wearing a green scarf. The photo that Carla had taken didn’t do the decor justice. I found myself smiling again. Indeed, even the out-of-town foursome was beginning to pipe down and cheer up.

Inside the lobby, a huge spruce soared up into the high beamed ceiling. There were smaller trees placed in various spots, all touched with fake snow and trimmed with blue and white ornaments. The restaurant continued the color theme, but highlighted Scandinavian traditions: St. Lucy with her crown of candles; a sheaf of grain tied with a blue and silver ribbon; Jul Tomten, the tiny old Swedish Santa, with his hunk of bread and bowl of milk; a Danish horn of burnished brass; the Norse god, Baldur, holding a sprig of mistletoe; a small evergreen hovering over silver straw to commemorate the manger. Henry Bardeen—or his decorators—had done their homework, casting a Christmas spell from out of Europe’s northern reaches.

Milo and I were shown to a table near the massive stone fireplace. The restaurant itself might be brand-new, but the design had taken up where the original lodge left off. More high ceilings with great beams, natural pine, and a Swedish floor gave the room a spacious, open look. The Indian motif which was featured in the other public rooms had been discarded in favor of a Viking theme. The longboats, horned helmets, furs, and spears now took a backseat to the holiday decorations. However, I imagined that once Christmas was over, the old Norse decor would fit the dining room just fine.