The Alpine Christmas (18 page)

It was snowing fitfully as far as Sultan, but the trees along the highway were bare and the ground was visible. I was in a green world again, with the temperature climbing into the forties. I actually rolled the window down an inch or two. The rain pattered steadily on the windshield, but I didn’t mind. As a native Seattleite, I was used to it. The snow was another matter. When I was growing up, there were winters when we never saw a snowflake or even a hard frost. The same was true in Portland. Yet after almost three years in Alpine, I thought I was growing accustomed to a seemingly endless world of white. Twenty miles down Stevens Pass told me otherwise. I definitely preferred rain to snow.

I arrived at the appointed spot almost ten minutes early. The wind was coming off Lake Washington, and its sharp damp chill cut to the bone. I didn’t mind too much. Unlike a lot of people who can’t wait to spend part of winter on a sun-soaked beach, I prefer clouds to sun. Gray days invigorate my mental processes; heat smothers them. I sat on a
bench, admiring the modernistic cluster of bells in the carillon and the whitecaps on the lake. A few hardy souls hovered about, sipping lattes and nibbling on muffins. As the bells chimed one o’clock, Adam crossed the square, a pair of skis slung over one shoulder and his hands clutching three large vinyl bags.

We hugged—briefly, since Adam is still young enough to be put off by excessive displays of affection. Indeed, our latest parting had been of a remarkably short duration. Adam had been home for Thanksgiving, just two weeks earlier. Tom’s generosity had guaranteed the airfare for frequent trips between Fairbanks and Alpine.

After the requisite questions about Erin, her family, and the Sunday ski trip to Crystal Mountain, I informed my son that we were heading into Seattle. I half-expected him to be excited at the prospect of detecting, but he was surprisingly indifferent.

“As long as we’re going up to Capitol Hill, could we stop at REI? I need to get some new ski bindings.”

“You could do that in Alpine,” I replied as we headed for the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge across Lake Washington.

But Adam shook his head. He was a confirmed believer in REI, the sporting goods co-op that serves not only as a provisioner of outdoor gear but as a fashion guru. Seattleites are known not for their tailored three-piece suits, but for plaid flannel shirts, all-weather pants, and Gore-Tex jackets. In fact, most big city inhabitants would, in terms of apparel, fit nicely into Alpine’s woodsy milieu. And that goes for men
and
women. REI may be the mecca of unisex clothing. Seattleites wouldn’t have it any other way.

I, however, am an anomaly. I prefer fitting rooms with classic covers of
Vogue
and sales clerks who tell monstrous lies to bolster the customer’s ego and pad their commissions. In Alpine, Francine Wells suits me fine. And in Seattle, I still lament the demise of Frederick & Nelson, one of the
world’s great department stores until greed and mismanagement got the better of it.

Consequently, I dropped my son off to wander in the wilds of REI while I drove north on Broadway to the Villa Apartments. Located above downtown Seattle, Capitol Hill is only eighty miles from Alpine, but demographically it’s a world away. The land that climbs above the city center reaches to the ship canal on the north and the fringes of the International District to the south. The neighborhood is made up of large, stately homes and bunker-like condos, legendary watering holes and trendy boutiques, old money and new drugs, college students, artists, panhandlers, lawyers, punk rockers, homosexuals, chiropractors, philanthropists, and every hue of the ethnic rainbow. It’s the big city in a nutshell—crazy, colorful, vibrant, and depressing. I love it and yet fear it. But after almost three years in Alpine, my first spotting of a transvestite startled me as much as the sight of a black man and a white woman pushing a baby stroller made me smile.

The Villa Apartments, a block off Broadway, wore a tawdry air. The four-story brick facade had none of the charm of its English Tudor neighbors, and the once-sweeping view of Elliott Bay and the Olympic Mountains had been obliterated by a block of new town houses.

I pressed the buzzer for number 116, next to a strip of paper that read
K
.
FRANCICH/C. NEAL
. A
S
I expected, there was no response. I tried R. Littleriver in 115, then D. Calhoun in 119, and finally, V. Fields/T. Booth in 117. Nothing. I got back in the Jag and drove over to the Riviera Apartments, two blocks away. The building was about the same vintage as the Villa, but larger and better maintained. I found
S. HORTHY—MGR
. at 101 and buzzed some more. To my relief, a woman answered, her voice heavily accented.

After identifying myself, I launched into fiction, stating that I was a friend of Carol Neal, over at the Villa Apartments. I had lent Carol some photographs of my family reunion. They were the only copies I had and they meant much
to me. My tone hinted that though I knew Carol, I realized she was irresponsible. I, however, was an honest, if sentimental, fool. “I understand Mr. Horthy plans to confiscate Carol’s belongings. Could I please get my pictures back?”

There was no immediate reply. I wondered if the woman had understood what I was saying. A scratchy sound emanated from the small wire speaker; then I heard muffled voices in the background. They weren’t speaking in English. Hungarian, maybe, judging from the manager’s name.

The woman spoke again into the intercom: “Wait,” she commanded, and the speaker shut off.

A moment later, the front door with its wrought-iron grille swung open. A gaunt man of middle age and medium height eyed me warily. He introduced himself as Stefan Horthy but didn’t offer his hand. He, too, had an accent, but not as pronounced.

“You know where are these pictures?”

“No.” I had trouble meeting his stern gaze. I was a lousy liar. “But they shouldn’t be hard to find. They were in a big manila envelope.”

Stefan Horthy shifted from one foot to the other, scowling into the rain. Traffic moved cautiously up and down the hill. A trio of black teenagers in Starter jackets walked by, drinking pop out of big plastic cups and eating onion rings from a small cardboard container. Across the street, an elderly woman hunched under a drab wool coat pushed an empty grocery cart into an alley. Nervously, I waited for Stefan Horthy’s response.

“Come on.” Horthy stalked off in the direction of the other apartment building. I wondered if he would mention being contacted by the sheriff’s office.

Stefan Horthy, in fact, didn’t mention anything. I hurried to catch up, deciding not to mention my car. He unlocked the Villa’s front door, led me up a short flight of stairs past an ungainly Douglas fir that was adorned with bubble lights,
and down a stale-smelling hallway. Horthy opened number 116, and stepped aside.

Whoever and whatever Kathleen Francich and Carol Neal were, they would not have qualified as conscientious housekeepers. My initial reaction was that the place had been ransacked. But I’d had some experience covering crime scenes for
The Oregonian
and I could recognize the aftermath of an intruder. There is a certain method to such madness. Unit 116 was merely a slovenly dump.

Even if I’d really been looking for something specific, such as the nonexistent family reunion pictures, I wouldn’t have known where to start. Dirty clothes, fast food cartons, wine bottles, magazines, pop cans, grocery sacks, and even a rotting jack-o’-lantern were strewn about the room. My eyes fastened on a bunch of unopened mail lying helter-skelter on the shabby carpet. It all seemed to be addressed to Kathleen Francich.

Stefan Horthy was watching me like a hawk. Casually, I picked up one of the empty grocery bags. “Do you mind if I take this mail? I understand they didn’t leave a forwarding address. Is there any more downstairs?”

“Maybe.” His ambivalent answer could have referred to either my request or my question. Horthy scowled at the litter of brochures, bills, and mail order catalogues. He might have been considering the legal implications, but I suspected he was calculating monetary value. “Go, take that much. But all else is mine.”

I gave him a flinty smile. “Except my photos. Let me check the bedrooms.” I was already heading for the hallway, staving off Horthy’s anticipated protests. He said nothing, however, but followed me as far as the first bedroom door.

I tried to overlook the chaos, zeroing in on the dressing table with a framed picture that was almost obscured by cologne bottles, cosmetic jars, and underwear. A young, pretty face gazed out at me from under dirty glass. Curly dark brown hair, brown eyes, a disarmingly self-conscious smile. The
subject was posed in a high-backed rattan chair. A typical Blanchet High School senior photo. Was it Carol? I didn’t know what the victim looked like. I grabbed the picture and put it in the grocery bag.

“Hey!” Stefan Horthy growled. “You’re not taking that!”

I gave him a steely look. “Yes, I am. I’m sure you know something terrible may have happened to Carol. I’d like a memento.”

Horthy made a face, but didn’t argue. I opened drawers, perused the closet, even looked under the bed. I didn’t know what I expected to find, but if Milo Dodge could ID our victim from the photo, he could get a search warrant for the apartment. I brushed past Horthy and went into the other bedroom. It was only slightly less of a shambles. There was no graduation picture, but a dozen snapshots had been tucked around the mirror on the dresser. They featured a fair-haired young woman with dancing eyes and a dimpled smile. I selected three of the pictures and put them in the grocery sack, too.

“No luck,” I called to Horthy, who was standing in the hallway, hands jammed into his pants pockets. He turned away just as I tripped over a tennis shoe. On impulse, I snatched it up, then followed Stefan Horthy back into the living room. Next to the battered, tattered sofa was a small table where the telephone stood. The table had a little drawer. I opened it and sucked in my breath. A square, blue spiral address book was too much to resist. My back was turned to Horthy.

“Here are the pictures,” I said in triumph, allowing him to hear but not see the address book join my little collection. Inspired, I picked up the phone, grateful to get a dial tone. I’d half-expected it to be disconnected.

“Hey—what you doing now?” Stefan Horthy leaped across the room, no mean feat, considering the obstacle course he had to overcome.

Waving Horthy off, I hit the redial button. A female voice
answered on the second ring. “History Department. This is Rachel Rosen. How may I help you?”

“Oh!” I made flabbergasted noises. “What number is this?”

Rachel told me. I recognized the prefix as belonging to the University of Washington campus. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I misdialed.”

Stefan Horthy’s patience, which I judged to be chronically on the thin side, finally snapped. “Hey, you—get out of here now. You got your pictures. You waste my day.”

I smiled, this time more amiably. “You’re right. I just wish I knew what happened to Carol.”

Stefan Horthy obviously didn’t share my concern. With another scowl, he closed and locked the apartment door. When we reached the foyer, he indicated a row of brass mailboxes. “Letters may be inside or in that pile by the stairs. People are careless pigs.” He selected another key from his big silver ring and unlocked the slot for 116 with a show of grudging condescension. “Let yourself out,” he said abruptly, and then banged the door as he made his exit.

Five minutes later, I put my stash in the Jag and headed back to collect Adam. He was standing in line to pay for his purchases at the cashier’s counter.

“Nick o’ time,” he said with that engaging grin so like his father’s. “I can pay cash for the bindings, but I need some of your plastic to cover the gloves and the boots and the ski wax.”

“Adam …” The motherly lecture died aborning. With his six-two stature and his once-boyish features sharpening into Tom’s chiseled profile, I knew I was sunk. Nor was it just the resemblance that turned me to jelly. This was my baby, my son, the only man who had been a real part of my life for the past twenty-one years. I produced the plastic; Adam offered a pat on my head. It was, I suppose, a fair exchange.

*  *  *

I hadn’t planned on serving dinner for five, but that was the way it worked out. Adam and I had stopped for a late lunch at the venerable Deluxe Tavern on Broadway, so it was going on six o’clock by the time we reached Alpine. We swung by the newspaper office, where I discovered that Vida was still working. I invited her to join us for dinner, at which point she informed me that Ben had called and said he’d be able to come, too. My brother was anxious to see his nephew.

I was anxious to show Milo the photos I’d filched from the Villa Apartments. I took a chance that he was also still on the job and asked him to eat with us. No arm-twisting was required. Adam and I rushed off to the Grocery Basket, where I tossed chicken breasts, French bread, cauliflower, two bottles of Chardonnay, and a frozen lemon meringue pie into my basket. Dinner would be late, but, along with the rice I already had at home, it would be ample.

Milo and Ben studied the framed photograph with somber expressions. At last Milo looked up, his hazel eyes showing pain. “It’s her. She looks different here, but I’d swear to it in court.”

Milo didn’t need to explain that his memory was based on Carol Neal being at least four years older and maybe three days dead. Ben concurred with Milo’s opinion.

For the first time, my son evinced interest in the case. “She was a mega-babe,” he murmured, looking over Ben’s shoulder. “What a waste! Who’d do something like that?”

I eyed Adam carefully. He’d turned pale, and it occurred to me that in Carol Neal, he had come face-to-face with his own mortality. Twenty-two-year-old women shouldn’t die. Neither should twenty-two-year-old men.

“The worst of it,” put in Vida between mouthfuls of trout pâté and crackers, “is that there are two of them. Let’s see that tennis shoe again, Emma.”

I handed it to Vida. It was an Adidas, but, like the Reebok Milo had found, it was a size seven and a half. Vida looked
up at Milo, who was now on his feet by the fireplace, fiddling with a candle in the shape of a choirboy. “Inconclusive?”