The Alpine Christmas (26 page)

Neither did I. “We’re not a tabloid, Mr. Francich. We probably won’t use most of what you’re telling me. Does it help to talk?”

He sounded bleak. “I’ve tossed this around a hundred times with the rest of the family. What good can it do now?”

Of course he was right. I shifted to different ground. “Was Kathy a good student?”

“Oh, yes.” His voice brightened a bit. “At least until her junior year. That’s when she changed. But she did graduate.”

Ginny Burmeister appeared with a bundle of
Advocate
s, fresh off the press. I signaled my thanks, then glanced at the grim headlines:

As always, bad news looks even worse in bold, black type.

“What happened when Kathy was a junior?” I asked as Ginny discreetly made her exit.

Murray Francich sighed. “That’s it—we never knew. At first, my mother thought she had a boyfriend, some creep who wouldn’t make muster with my folks. Kathy started wearing a lot of makeup, flashier clothes, keeping odd hours. My folks confronted her, but she wouldn’t tell them anything. There were some godawful fights. I was still living at home, and it got pretty ugly. Kathy moved out for a while—with a friend, I guess—but my mother was so frantic that she begged Kathy to come home. Then Kathy bought a car, with her own money, and more clothes, and she was gone every
weekend. It was hell, I can tell you. I got an apartment that winter, and as soon as Kathy graduated, she was gone. The next day, in fact. She came home once, to pick up some tapes she forgot. My folks were heartbroken.”

My own heart went out to Mr. and Mrs. Francich. How do children go wrong? Where do parents fail? Who’s to blame? I may not be my brother’s keeper, but I am my child’s custodian. Still, I don’t like pointing the finger at parents who haven’t been as lucky as I have.

“What about drugs?” I knew I was pushing my luck with Murray Francich. He’d been far more loquacious than I’d expected. Maybe he’d underestimated talking through his sister’s troubled life.

“It’s possible. I wondered at the time. I know there was alcohol.” Murray was beginning to sound weary. It was going on four o’clock, and he’d had a terrible day. The trip to Spokane still lay ahead.

“One last question.” My tone had turned ingratiating. “Did you know Carol Neal?”

“No. She’d been Kathy’s roommate for quite a while, but I never met her. I don’t know how they teamed up. A mutual friend, maybe.” He gave a sudden, harsh laugh. “They weren’t good for each other, I guess.”

They certainly weren’t. And someone had been very bad for them both.

Milo’s generic hot toddy turned into his standard Scotch. I, however, kept to the season and drank what the Venison Inn called a Yule-a-Kahlua. It tasted better than it sounded.

“Who gets these girls together?” Milo mused after he’d scanned the front page of
The Advocate
that I’d brought along for him. “How many were there? So far, we’ve culled four out of that address book, which, by the way, must have been Carol’s. There were no Franciches, but there’s a Burt Neal in Grants Pass, Oregon. Her dad, it seems, but there’s no answer.”

Burt Neal didn’t interest me as much as the four culls. “What do you mean? Who are they?”

“Rachel Rosen. Bridget Dunne, now Nyquist. Tiffany Matthews. And April Johnson. Tiffany went to Bush, April to Seattle Lutheran.” Milo was reading from his notebook. “Tiffany overdosed two years ago on Christmas Eve. April married a soldier and is living at Fort Hood, in Texas.”

Bush was an exclusive private school near Lake Washington. I didn’t know much about the Lutheran setup, except that it was over in West Seattle. “Has anyone contacted April?” I inquired.

“King County did, this afternoon. She hung up on them. They also tried to reach Rachel at the UDUB but they’ve gone on Christmas break. There was no answer at her home number.” Milo regarded his Scotch as if he expected it to elude him, too.

I was silent for a bit. The sound system played “The Little Drummer Boy.” Pah-pah-pah-pum … Pah-pah-pah-pum. “How about Tiffany’s family?”

“Kid gloves,” Milo replied, again on friendly terms with his Scotch. He signaled for the waitress to bring another round. “The Matthewses are very rich, very influential. Old money, big house on Lake Washington Boulevard. To complicate matters, they’re in Europe.”

“Swell.” I gazed around the room, with its red and green streamers, big paper bells, and real stockings affixed to the fireplace’s temporary cardboard brick mantel. Half the tables were occupied, and a handful of customers sat on stools, joshing with each other and with Oren Rhodes, the full-time owner and part-time bartender. It was too early for any of the clientele to be drunk or unruly. Serious daytime drinking in Alpine was reserved for private homes and the Elks Club.

Oren himself brought our drinks, ribbing Milo about having his hands full. His attitude toward our recent tragedies was detached. Like all good bartenders, he took death, divorce, and other debacles in professional stride.

“Why single out these girls?” I asked after Oren had retreated to his post behind the bar. “That address book had a lot of names.”

Milo nodded. “They’ll all be checked out. But a red flag went up at King County on anybody with a private school background. It may mean nothing, but it’s the only link we’ve got between Carol, Kathleen, and Bridget. And Bridget is the only Alpine link to Carol and Kathleen.”

“Bridget’s scared,” I admitted. “Or pretending to be. But she denies seeing Carol and Kathleen recently. I have a hunch she’s lying. I don’t suppose you want to tell me who was doing the surveillance at the young Nyquists’?”

Milo grimaced. “I don’t know why, but I could say who. It’d be off the record, though.”

I hate off-the-record information. If I know something, I feel that the public ought to know it, too. But I can keep a confidence when necessary. “Who, then?”

“State police,” said Milo Dodge. “They went home yesterday.”

“Having been successful?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Halfway into his second Scotch, Milo had visibly relaxed, although he still looked tired. “Evan Singer went to Lakeside.”

I wasn’t surprised. “Rich, huh? Lakeside costs a bundle. Where does the money come from?”

Milo again consulted his notes. “Father is Norman Singer, a prominent plastic surgeon. Mother, Thea, is a rabid patron of the arts. Grandfather was an architect. One sister, dabbling in the New York theatre scene. Varied academic career, no degree. Arrested twice, once for disturbing the peace, the second time for disorderly conduct. Plea bargains, fines, but no jail time.” Milo closed the notebook.

“Spoiled rich kid,” I murmured. Evan’s claim to have lived all over the world was probably pure hokum, invented to add exotic zest to his suburban upbringing. “Has he ever invested with Bartlett & Crocker?”

“His money’s tied up in trusts. Dr. Dad apparently realized Evan wasn’t stable.” Milo was grinning at me. “Well? Have you and Vida solved the case yet?”

I sniffed at Milo. “All this stuff is interesting, but not very helpful. Evan’s too old to have known any of these girls in high school. We need some serious leads.”

“We need another drink.” Milo waved his empty glass at Oren Rhodes. I, however, demurred, and urged him to do the same.

“You’re still beat, Milo. Go home, eat something, watch TV until you fall asleep.” I stood up, ready to head back to the office to see if the place had gone to hell in a handcart during my absence.

Milo was gazing up at me with an off-center grin. “Emma, are you mothering me? Haven’t you got enough men in your life at the moment?”

With Adam and Ben around, I certainly should. But without Tom, all the men in the world weren’t enough. The ridiculous thought crossed my mind in a haze of rum and Kahlua. “I’m a jackass,” I announced in my best imitation of Vida. “Go home, Milo.”

He was still grinning as Oren appeared with another Scotch. But before Milo could take a sip, Bill Blatt hurried into the bar. I stepped aside as the young deputy nodded at me in greeting and addressed his boss.

“We found the clothes, Sheriff. They’re girl’s stuff. Jeans, sweater, jacket, and … ah, bra and panties.” Bill blushed, though not as deeply as he had when Carla had kissed him.

“Damn!” Milo drained his glass and got up. “Back to work. We need the lab to check the stuff out, match it with the victim, see if …”

Milo and Bill had outdistanced me. I shrugged and wandered out through the restaurant. Oscar Nyquist was sitting alone at a corner table. A napkin was tucked under his chin, and he was engrossed in the
Advocate
story about the Marmot.
I hesitated, then saw the waitress approach with his order. Oscar put the paper aside and began to eat.

“How’s the story?” I asked, resting a hand on the vacant chair across from Oscar.

He looked up from his meatloaf, his blue eyes wary, his bald head shining pink under a grouping of red Christmas lights. “Okay, so far. That Vida writes like she talks. A lot of words, blah, blah, blah. It sounds like that architect fella built the Marmot instead of my father.”

“Lowenstein? Vida wanted to make sure he got credit because the theatre is such a structural gem. Apparently he was well known for his work all over the West Coast.”

Oscar speared a chunk of over-browned potato. “Yeah, sure, he was clever. That’s how he got rich. My father paid him a bundle.” His wide face turned sullen, making him look like a big wrinkled baby due for a crying spell. “Better to have run him out of town.”

I shifted in place, wishing Oscar would ask me to sit down. “Why is that?” I asked.

Oscar waved his fork. “Never mind. What’s done is done. I’m too old for grudges. You eaten?” He pointed the fork at the spare chair.

I rested one knee on the seat cover. “No, I still have some work to do. I’ll eat later at home.”

Oscar nodded. “I always eat early, except on Sundays. For forty-eight years, my wife had supper on the table every night at five. Then I’d go to the Marmot to open the doors at six-fifteen. Astrid’s gone, but I still eat at five. And I still go to the Marmot at six-fifteen.” He spoke with pride.

“Let me know what you think of the rest of the story,” I told Oscar with a smile. I almost wished I could join him. How many nights did he eat alone? I was feeling sorry for him as I walked up the street with my head down to ward off the wind and snow. The Burlington-Northern whistled as it started its climb to the summit. There was more traffic than usual on Front Street, caused by Alpine’s usual exodus from
work and the Christmas shoppers returning home. The amber headlights glowed in the scattered snowflakes. I glanced up, seeing the town perched on the mountainside, windows shining, trees lighted, decorations ablaze. The sight cheered me. Oscar Nyquist not only had family, he was probably the object of many Alpine widows. He was also the type who enjoyed his solitude. I realized that he hadn’t exactly jumped for joy when I showed up at his table.

Everyone was gone at the office except Ginny, who was finishing the weekly mailing to out-of-town subscribers.

“I’ll just make it to the post office by five-thirty,” she said, dumping the last bundle of papers into a mailbag. “We had more calls than usual after
The Advocate
came out. They were mostly people upset about the murders, but some of them phoned to say they liked your owl editorial. Then there were some who didn’t.”

I laughed. “I expected that. If it weren’t the Christmas season, I might get bomb threats.”

Ginny, always serious, gazed at me from under her fringe of auburn hair. “You think people really behave better this time of year?”

“No. They’re just too busy to make mischief.” I glanced at the old clock above Ginny’s desk, with its Roman numerals and elaborate metal hands. It was 5:24. “You’d better hurry, Ginny. But be careful.”

She was putting on her blue anorak. “I’ll get there. I made one trip already. I couldn’t find our mailbag. This is a new one I got from the post office this afternoon.” She hoisted it over her shoulder, looking from the rear like a small Father Christmas. “See you tomorrow.”

“Right. Good night.” I went into my office, swiftly sorting through the phone messages. Nothing urgent, nothing startling. Ginny had made notes on some: “Green River killer loose again?” “Saw stranger Monday night in Mugs Ahoy. Saw man from Mars there last week.” “Owls have big hooters.” “Bride wore teal going-away suit, not
veal
.” “Buckers
got robbed on charging foul in last twenty seconds against Sultan.” “You’re an idiot.”

It was the usual assortment, many anonymous. The only one that held my attention read, “Ask Oscar Nyquist about Karen.” The space for the caller’s name was blank. I wondered if Ginny had recognized the voice. She often did.

Karen
, I thought, as I started my uphill climb for home. Who was Karen? The name rang a bell, but I couldn’t place it. Vida might know. I’d call her after Adam and I had dinner. Ben was dining with Jake and Betsy O’Toole. The zealous Teresa McHale couldn’t coax him out of eating with the owners of the Grocery Basket.

My son, however, had spent the afternoon with my brother. To my amazement, Adam had helped Ben with some fix-up chores around the church. They’d repaired pews, shored up the confessional, replaced light bulbs, and gone through the decorations which would be put up on Christmas Eve Day.

“Tomorrow we’re going to do some stuff at the rectory,” Adam declared matter-of-factly as we dined on pasta, prawns, and cauliflower.

I couldn’t help but stare. Here, in the home I’d created for the two of us, rafters could fall down, sinks could overflow, walls could collapse, and Adam would wander through the rubble, looking for the TV remote control. “Gosh, Adam, what happened? Did your heretical Uncle Ben introduce you to the Protestant—gasp!—work ethic?”

Adam didn’t get the joke—or didn’t want to. I dished up tin-roof-sundae ice cream for him and listened to his account of Ben’s Tuba City chronicles.

“They’ve got all these great Indian ruins around there, way back to the Anasazis. There’s Betatakin, with dwellings just like big apartment buildings carved into the cliffs from over eight hundred years ago. It’s real green at the bottom of the canyon, not like the desert up above. Uncle Ben says
there’s aspen, elder, oak, and even Douglas fir. I want to go there next summer.”