The Alpine Christmas (27 page)

I gazed fondly at Adam, who was finishing his ice cream. Over the years, he had seen Ben an average of once, maybe twice a year. They rarely wrote and never talked on the phone. Yet there was a closeness between them, born of a solitary man’s need to love and a child’s instinctive response. Adam had only recently met his own father. They had started to forge a bond, and I was glad. Typically, my son hadn’t regaled me with details, but his attitude toward Tom seemed friendly. And now, he was seeing Ben, not just from a nephew’s point of view, but man-to-man. I was pleased by that, too.

“You ought to go down there,” I agreed. “Maybe you could get a summer job.”

Adam nodded, a bit aosently. “That would be so cool—archaeology, I mean. Or is it the other one—anthropology? I wonder how long it takes to get a degree?”

I said I didn’t know. I refrained from adding that it probably wouldn’t take as long as it had for Adam to declare a major. At twenty-one, it seemed that it was time for him to decide what he wanted to be when he grew up. Or, having grown up already, he might consider his future in terms of … a job. I would say this later. Maybe it would be better coming from Ben. Or even Tom.

I caught myself up. For over twenty years, I’d never delegated an ounce of my parental responsibility. I wasn’t about to start now. I rose from the table and went to call Vida.

She wasn’t home. I’d forgotten that she was going to her daughter Amy’s house for dinner. The question about
Karen
could wait. So could relaying Milo’s various pieces of information. I settled down to watch a video that Adam had picked up earlier in the day. It was the remake of
Cape Fear
, and it scared me witless. How could anyone be as evil as the Robert De Niro character?

“Hey, Mom, it’s only a movie,” Adam said, laughing at my dismay while he rewound the tape. “Lighten up.”

Adam was right. It was only a movie.

But out there in the drifting snow, among the festive lights, with the sweet strains of carols in the air, evil, real and terrifying, was on the loose.
Who was the killer?

The only thing I knew for sure was that it wasn’t Robert De Niro.

I would do Elvis. And the Wise Men. Ben had to attend the St. Mildred’s Christmas Pageant, so I decided to join him on Thursday night and cover the event. Adam was noncommittal. He had met Evan Singer’s replacement at Video-to-Go, and her name was Toni Andreas. I vaguely recognized her from church. She looked as if the wattage in her light bulb was pretty dim.

The day had dawned crisp and clear, with the wind blowing the snow clouds out over Puget Sound. Alpine sparkled in the early morning sun, and I could have used my sunglasses. Native Puget Sounders are like moles—for nine months of the year, they see the sun so seldom that their eyes can’t take the glare.

The first thing I noticed downtown was the Marmot’s marquee. It was the last day for
It’s A Wonderful Life
, which was just as well, since the letters had now been rearranged to read
A Wide Full Fir Stone
. The Nyquist staring up at the scrambled title wasn’t Oscar, but Louise.

“Now why do people do things like that?” she asked in exasperation after hurrying over to meet me at the corner. “Popsy will be wild.”

“Where is Popsy?” I asked, as Louise fell into step beside me.

“He slept in,” she replied, her brown boots mincing through the rock salt. “He needed his rest after last night.” Her profile was uncustomarily grim. When I made no comment, she turned to give me a sidelong look. “You haven’t
heard? It’s that same demented young man, Evan Singer. Two nights in a row he’s caused problems for Popsy! Really, something’s got to be done about him!”

“What now?” I asked. Trucks from UPS, Federal Express, and the U.S. Postal Service were already out and about, making early deliveries of Christmas presents and mail order gifts. Something about the vehicles rattled my brain, then melted away. Maybe I’d forgotten to mail a parcel. Or a greeting card. It’d come to me, hopefully before Christmas.

“It’s crazy, just crazy,” Louise was saying. “He came to see the movie—again—but this time, he was dressed as Santa Clause, complete with a pack over his shoulder. That was strange enough, but then he got into an argument with somebody because he insisted on sitting in their seat. The usher came, then Popsy, and finally the other person moved, just so they could start the movie. It’s not as if there was a full house—the picture’s been showing for over a week—but Evan Singer wouldn’t back down. Popsy should have thrown him out, but he didn’t want to upset the other customers.”

We’d reached
The Advocate
. I invited Louise to come in, but she said she was going to the bakery. “We’re having Travis and Bridget to dinner. Travis is so fond of the Upper Crust’s sourdough rolls. Maybe I’ll get a dessert, too.” She gave me a faintly wistful smile. “I
could
make one. But the last few days have been so upsetting. Arnie thinks Evan Singer stole that Santa suit from the mayor. If he did that, then I think he was the one who robbed our house and van. But Arnie doesn’t agree with me, he says just the suit. I think.” Louise looked confused over her own words, and I could hardly blame her. Confusion seemed to have the upper hand in Alpine these days.

I said as much, and Louise heartily agreed. Certainly anything was possible with Evan Singer. I had to talk to Ben, to ask if Evan had showed up at the rectory. But it was eight o’clock, and my brother would be saying the morning mass.

Louise scurried off to the bakery. Inside the office, I found
Ginny and Carla, both still wearing their coats and fiddling with the thermostat.

“No heat,” Ginny announced, pulling off her white earmuffs. “It’s freezing in here. The pipes are okay, though.”

“I can’t type with my mittens on,” Carla complained. “I’ll make a lot of mistakes.”

I suppressed the obvious rejoinder. But she and Ginny were right about the heat. The electrical unit wouldn’t turn on. Otherwise, we had power.

“Call Ross Blatt over at Alpine Service and Repair,” I told Ginny. Ross was, of course, a nephew of Vida’s, and thus Bill Blatt’s first cousin.

“How old is Ross?” asked Carla, loading her camera. “Is he married?”

“Yes,” I replied. “He’s got a couple of kids. He must be ten, fifteen years older than Bill. Why? Are you giving up on the local lawman?”

Carla shrugged, heading for the door. “Maybe. You did.” She left.

“I never …” But there was no one to hear me. Ginny had gone into the front office to call Alpine Service and Repair. It was useless anyway to point out that Milo Dodge and I had never been a romantic item. Everyone assumed that because we were peers, single, and enjoyed each other’s company, we ought to fall in love. Everyone, that is, except Vida, who knew better, and who was crossing the threshold carrying a Santa Claus suit.

“I found this in my front yard,” she announced. “I’ll bet it belongs to that old fool, Fuzzy Baugh. Why is Carla taking a picture of the Marmot’s marquee? Haven’t we given the Nyquists enough coverage?”

I thought so, too, but apparently Carla couldn’t resist capturing for posterity one of the scrambled movie titles. It was the kind of photo we could use as a novelty: “Alpine Outtakes,” or some such filler feature for a slow news week.

“Vida, what do you know about somebody connected to the Nyquists named Karen?”

Vida was taking off her coat. She cocked an eye at me from under the brim of her red veiled fedora. “Karen? She’s Oscar’s sister. Why?”

I told Vida about the anonymous phone call. Vida put her coat back on. “Oooooh! It’s like ice in here! What happened?”

My explanation was brief. Vida gave a curt nod. “Ross knows his craft. It’s too bad he’s such a noodle otherwise. Now what’s this about Karen Nyquist and asking Oscar? What’s to ask? She moved away from Alpine when she got married back in 1938.”

I sat down on Ed’s desk. He’d be in late, this being the morning of the Chamber of Commerce’s Christmas breakfast. “You mean she never came back?”

“Of course she came back.” Vida yanked the cover off her typewriter. “She and her first husband, Trygve Hansen, and Oscar and Astrid were all close to Lars and Inga. Then the war came, and Trygve got a patriotic urge to serve. Maybe it was because Norway was occupied or some such silliness. He and Karen had no children yet, so the army took him just like that.” She snapped her gloved fingers. “He was killed in North Africa. Karen went to work for Boeing, where she met her second husband, a scientist. He was a Jew. I told you that already.” Vida fixed me with a reproachful look.

“I forgot.” Vida was right. She’d mentioned that someone in the Nyquist family had married a Jewish man. But their genealogy, like that of so many Alpiners, was too complicated for a poor city girl to follow. “What happened then?”

“Nothing.” Vida sorted through a stack of news releases, discarding most of them in the wastebasket. “Old Lars disowned Karen, more or less. He never mentioned Karen’s new husband by name. Oscar went along with it like the lump of a lamb he is. Arnie was still a boy. Goodness, I
was in high school at the time.” She rolled her eyes at the marvel of her youth.

“So you don’t know what became of Karen Nyquist Hansen after that?” I saw a note on Ed’s desk from Francine Wells; she was having a pre-Christmas clearance, with twenty-five to fifty percent off on all designer dresses. I winced inwardly, trying to calculate what I would have saved if I’d waited to buy my green wool crepe. It had certainly been wasted on Milo.

“I know she and her second husband had a family. Karen hoped that the children would soften up old Lars, but of course he wouldn’t give in. Finally, she stopped trying. I hate to admit it, but I lost track of her.” Vida looked uncommonly rueful. “I suppose everybody else here did, too. Including the Nyquists.”

I was lost in thought. Vida had begun hammering on her typewriter, having better luck with her gloves on than Carla would with her mittens. Or without. “I wonder who called,” I finally said aloud. “And why.”

Vida looked up but didn’t stop typing. “Some busybody the Marmot story set off. You know how that goes. Shouldn’t we call Milo about that Santa suit?”

Since I was still wearing my car coat and it wasn’t any colder outside than in, I carted the suit down the street to the sheriff’s office. Ross Blatt honked as he passed in his repair truck, presumably headed for
The Advocate
.

Milo shook his head as I handed him the suit. “Let’s see if it’s got a Fantasy Unlimited label. Irene Baugh remembered that much, even if Fuzzy wasn’t sure which parts were red and which were white.”

The suit indeed bore the proper label. Milo had heard about Evan Singer’s latest escapade at the Marmot, courtesy of Sam Heppner, who had been in the audience. Deputy Sam had not wanted to interfere, since he was off-duty as well as loaded down with popcorn, soda pop, red licorice, and Milk Duds.

“The question is, did Evan Singer swipe the suit,” said Milo, offering me some of his dismal coffee. “If so, why?” He bit into a glazed doughnut, which I presumed was breakfast.

“Because he’s nuts?”

Milo wasn’t amused. “First the Nyquists on my case, now the mayor. Who’s next? The KKK and the ACLU?”

I got serious, too. “Do you think Bridget Nyquist needs protection?”

“She hasn’t asked for it.” Milo poured himself another mug of coffee. I realized he was using
our
mug. Maybe this wasn’t the time to request its return. “Let’s face it, Emma, we’ve got zip. Oh, those were Carol’s clothes, hair and fibers match, right size, all that. But so what? The killer dumped the stuff at the construction site, and any traces have been covered by snow.” He paused, rummaging through the file folders on his desk. “Here—how’s your stomach? I got some details from the M.E. in Everett. Are you up to it?”

I blanched, then lied. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Milo perused the typewritten form. “First victim, presumably Kathleen Francich, was dismembered with an axe. Do you want to know how?”

I told the truth. “No. I mean, I can guess. Do I need to know?”

Milo shook his head and finished his doughnut. The man had nerves of steel and a stomach to match. I had to give him that. “But consider what a mess it would make. Where does the killer do it? Outside, where the snow will eventually cover the blood? Off on some logging road? A hiking trail? How do you transport the remains to the river without staining your car or truck or whatever? In a sack? Maybe. Still, I think you’re taking a big chance. There are too many people out roaming the woods, especially in early October.”

“Stop saying
you
. I feel as if I’m about to be arrested.”

Milo gave me a thin smile. “Okay. But what do
you
think?”

I preferred not to think about it at all, but just to sit in Milo’s crowded office, feeling the warmth of his space heater and drinking his dreadful coffee. However, I was a journalist with an obligation. “If it was an inside job—literally—where? A private house? If you could be assured of privacy and then clean up like mad, maybe so. But that’s risky, too.”

An enigmatic expression crossed Milo’s long face. “What if your place was secluded and you burned it to the ground?”

Milo’s theory had some merit. It also had some flaws. “Why wait two months? Kathleen Francich was killed in October. And, if the same person killed Carol Neal, why not dispose of her in the same way?”

“No time. There was a rush on with Carol. If we knew why …” He let the thought float away.

“Motive,” I said, looking into my coffee mug as if I were reading tea leaves. Maybe it
was
tea, not coffee. That would explain why I could see the bottom of the mug with an inch of liquid left. “If Carol and Kathleen were hookers, was Bridget, too? What about the others? It sounds as if you’re envisioning a ring of private school prostitutes.”

“I am.” Milo didn’t look as if the idea agreed with him. “Carol, Kathleen—and Bridget—all suddenly had money to burn in their junior year. Drugs or prostitution? Both, maybe, but I lean toward the sex angle. If we can nail Rachel or April, we may find out.”

“Tiffany was rich already,” I pointed out. “Why would she get involved? Drugs?”