The Alpine Christmas (31 page)

Vida insisted that we stop at the sheriff’s office. Milo was still out, looking for Evan Singer. Bill Blatt was manning the front desk. His aunt had orders for him.

“Billy, I want you out there combing this town for any sign of Bridget Nyquist.
Any
sign. Do you understand me?”

Bill’s freckled face grew distressed. “But Aunt Vida, I can’t leave until Sam Heppner comes back from highway patrol!”

“Radio Sam and get him over here right now. Hurry, Billy, this is a matter of life and death. Start with Travis Nyquist’s house.”

Torn between his appointed duty and his aunt, Bill Blatt naturally gave in to Vida. After a few more instructions, Vida led me back outside. “That’s all we can do for Bridget. Let’s hope I’m wrong.”

We left my car in front of the sheriff’s office and walked to
The Advocate
. It was snowing harder, and the air felt raw. “Do you really think Travis killed those girls? And set fire to Evan Singer’s cabin and Standish Crocker’s house?”

Vida was trudging along in her flat-footed manner. “Heaven help me, I don’t know. But the killer is somebody
close to Bridget. I’d stake my soul on that. Who could it be but Travis? Oscar, Arnie and Louise wouldn’t want it known that their daughter-in-law is a former prostitute and their son is a crook, but none of them strikes me as a killer. As for Evan Singer …”

Across the street, Evan Singer was coming out of the Marmot. He wasn’t alone. Oscar Nyquist was at his side, an arm draped around the younger man’s shoulders. My first reaction was that Evan was being forcibly ejected. Again. But as Vida and I plunged across Front Street, we saw that the pair was engaged in deep, intimate conversation.

Most people wouldn’t have dreamed of intruding on Oscar and Evan in what was clearly a private moment. Vida, however, was not most people. She was Vida, and she marched straight up to confront the two men.

“Oscar,” she nodded her cloche, then jabbed a finger at Evan. “Milo Dodge is scouring the town for you, young man. You stole something besides a Santa suit.”

Evan, looking bewildered and very young, started to answer, but Oscar broke in: “He didn’t steal anything. He borrowed it. Come here.” Oscar led us back into the empty Marmot, which would be showing
Fantasia
that evening. I glanced at the lobby’s sidewalls, divided by art-deco columns, and featuring individual murals of forest creatures in sylvan settings. We climbed the half-dozen stairs to the upper foyer where the auditorium was dark behind the parted velvet curtains. “In there,” said Oscar, his voice unusually hushed, and his eyes never leaving the blank screen, “we watched greatness. Greta Garbo in her first important moving picture. It runs three hours. My father, Lars Nyquist, ran it every year on his birthday. He was Garbo’s biggest fan. I haven’t seen it since he died.”

The words were spoken simply, and I felt slightly embarrassed. Oscar Nyquist was not given to emotional outbursts, except anger. Yet he could not have made more of an impression had he wept and wrung his hands.

Some of the steam had escaped from Vida. “Well, now.” She turned to Evan Singer. “You returned the reels to Oscar?”

Evan took his time replying, and when he did, his voice was very thin: “I wanted to see it. This is the only full-length copy of
Gösta Berling
. The director, Maurice Stiller, died in 1928, and his assistant cut the movie by half. A few years ago, the Swedish Film Institute tried to restore it, but some of the footage was lost. Only the Marmot has the complete motion picture.”

“It must be worth a fortune,” I remarked, noting Vida’s frown. “How did you know it was here, Evan?”

“My grandmother told me.” He darted a look at Oscar Nyquist. “May I, sir? What difference does it make? It all happened almost seventy years ago. Your father and Mr. Lowenstein are both dead.”

Oscar’s barrel chest lurched as he emitted a big sigh. “My sister talks too much. I always said so.”

Evan’s usual gawky animation began to return, but he seemed oddly in control of himself. “Isaac Lowenstein came to Alpine to design a new movie theatre. He was brilliant, but like a lot of creative people, he short-circuited now and then.” Evan gave us a self-deprecating smile. It was obvious that he considered himself both brilliant—and short-circuited. “Lowenstein had a passion for beauty. He also had a yen for little girls. My grandmother was eight years old, golden-haired and pretty.” He looked at Oscar for confirmation; the older man gave a single nod, his eyes half-shut. Evan continued in quiet lucid tones: “Lars Nyquist, my great-grandfather, caught him in time. He told him to leave Alpine and never come back. But Lars had already paid a portion of the money for Lowenstein’s work. He’d bragged to everyone that Alpine would have a theatre designed by the great Isaac Lowenstein. So he ended up paying Lowenstein off to
not
design the Marmot. Lars Nyquist did it himself, creating one
of the first art-deco movie palaces in the world. He was very talented, don’t you think?”

My eyes scanned the graceful columns, the elegant arches, the charming frescoes. Lars Nyquist was indeed a talented man; he might have been a genius. I was flabbergasted. But Evan’s story explained a great deal, at least about the Nyquist family’s inherent good taste. It was in their blood. Arnie, perhaps Travis, and now Evan had all come by their artistic talents naturally.

Vida wedged herself between Oscar and Evan. “Honestly, Oscar, after all these years you’re going to acknowledge Karen’s family as Nyquists? What’s come over you?”

In the lobby’s soft blue lights, Oscar’s face flushed. One bearlike hand gestured at the classic flocked wreaths that adorned the walls. “It’s Christmas,” he muttered, then added under his breath, “it’s about time.”

Vida spent the rest of the day fuming over Oscar’s change of heart. “Why wait so long?” she’d say at intervals. “Karen is an invalid, Norman and Thea have never known the rest of the Nyquists. What a waste!” Or, “Stubborn Norwegian. Oscar wouldn’t have caved in now if Evan hadn’t played on his sympathy by showing an interest in that old movie. But Lars was such a sap about Greta Garbo—and Oscar fell for the soft soap.”

In between grousing about Oscar, Vida fussed over Bridget. By late afternoon, Milo and Bill hadn’t turned up any trace of her. They had finally obtained a search warrant and showed up on Travis’s doorstep. Travis told them that Bridget had left Alpine. He also told them to go to hell, but Milo wasn’t listening. He and Bill went through the house, finding nothing. Some of her matched luggage was missing, as was a chunk of her wardrobe. The lawmen began to wonder if Travis wasn’t telling the truth.

“I hope Bridget is far from here,” Vida said as we prepared to close up for the weekend. “I don’t like it, though.
It’s easy to ditch some clothes and a couple of suitcases. Of course it’s not so easy to ditch an entire person.”

I shared Vida’s concern, but I had no idea what to do about it. Finding Bridget was up to Milo. Perhaps a check of the airlines, trains, and buses would turn up a lead.

“With both cars in the garage, how did she get out of Alpine?” I mused, looking up and heading into the heavy snow.

Vida’s car was parked in front of
The Advocate
; mine was still down the street, in front of the sheriff’s office. Vida gazed into the flying flakes, chewing on her lower lip. “I called Louise Nyquist. She said Bridget went to Seattle with Travis yesterday. She never came back.”

I considered stopping in to see Milo before I got in the Jag, but Peyton Flake was coming out of the sheriff’s office, carrying a sleek medical bag.

“Why don’t they deputize me and get it over with?” he grumbled. “Dodge and Blatt are out, Heppner’s off-duty, Gould’s on the desk, and Mullins is trying to break up a fight at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Your editorial pissed off some people.” Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, Flake’s eyes were gleeful.

“My editorials are often controversial,” I sighed, then pointed at his case. “As you off to patch up the losers?”

Flake shook his head, the ponytail swinging under an Aztec print wool cap that matched his fleece pullover. “I’m rescuing Durwood Parker. He took that freaking snowmobile up to the ranger station and ran over himself. Let’s hope I can find the old fart in this weather. If not, I can cut some firewood.” He pounded on the rear door of his Toyota van. I could see a gun rack, an axe, a maul, and a brown paper bag that may or may not have contained a fifth of Wild Turkey.

I wished Dr. Flake well, musing on how different he was from his predecessor, the late Cecil Dewey. Or from Gerald Dewey, who was almost as tradition-bound as his father. Maybe Peyton Flake’s brand of medicine would eventually catch on in Alpine. Certainly he seemed to have the skill and the dedication. I watched the rust-colored four-wheel drive
pull into Front Street and wondered why the forest rangers hadn’t brought Durwood back to town. Probably, it dawned on me, because Peyton Flake relished taking off into swirling, hip-deep snow with his medical case and a mission. He might not seem suited to Alpine, but Alpine was certainly suited to him.

At home, I discovered that Adam was going night-skiing with Carla and Ginny. I shuddered at the lack of visibility, but he laughed at my fears. Then I shuddered at the thought of my son in Carla’s clutches. But this was a buddy event. They were a threesome. Surely Adam would be safe. Carla was two years older. Nineteen months, actually. Put like that, I shuddered some more.

The lamb steaks went back in the fridge. I wasn’t in the mood to cook for myself. Maybe Ben wasn’t as busy as Teresa McHale had let on. I dialed the rectory; there was no answer.

Adam came into the living room, carrying his skis. He saw my worried look. “I forgot to tell you,” he said, running a finger up and down one of the skis to test the surface, “the phone’s out. Or some of them are. I got disconnected from Carla, and when I called back, it rang and rang, but she didn’t answer.”

I sighed. First the electricity, now the phones. It was annoying, but it wasn’t unusual, given Alpine’s hard winters with so much snow, ice, and wind. I decided to walk down to the rectory after Adam left.

I felt restless. Anxious, too. Vida’s concern for Bridget Nyquist was contagious. I wondered if Milo had made any progress. Maybe Vida was right—Bridget had never returned to Alpine. She was in Seattle, staying with friends.

But Bridget had no friends, except for the girls who had formed the ring of hookers. Three were dead, one was in Texas, and the other’s whereabouts were as big a question mark as Bridget’s. My anxiety mounted. Irrationally, I started to worry about Ben.

But at the rectory, all was well. Ben was in the study, poring over Father Fitz’s files. He wasn’t aware that the phone was out; he was merely thankful that no one had called to distract him from his duties. Teresa McHale was in her room, watching television.

“This isn’t your responsibility,” I told Ben as I sat down in the room’s only other chair, a straight-backed oak number that probably had been part of a dining room set sixty years ago.

“I know, but somebody’s got to do it. Peyton Flake told me today that Father Fitz isn’t rallying. He may have to go to a nursing home.”

I sighed. “I’ll miss him. We all will. He’s a good man.” I gazed around the small study with its open bookcases, filing cabinets, and more religious artwork. Our Lady of Mount Carmel, holding Baby Jesus, stood on a slim wooden pedestal.
The Agony in the Garden
was painted in murky colors above the desk. “Can I help?” I asked.

Ben shook his head. “I’m not balancing the books or anything like that. The parish council can do it. Mainly, I want to make sure all the masses have been said by people requesting them, that any queries from potential converts or fallen-away Catholics have been answered, that I’m covered on weddings and baptisms—you know, all the usual parish stuff. Bridget Nyquist, by the way, put her father’s name in for All Souls’ Day masses. She was generous—fifty bucks.”

“I’m surprised,” I admitted. “Given what she’s been through and her marriage in the Lutheran church, she might have given up on Catholic trappings.”

“Old ideas die hard,” Ben muttered, checking names off a list. “Bridget’s been a Catholic for a lot longer than she’s been a Lutheran. Or was a whore.”

“Right.” I sat back, watching Ben go through file folders.

“Gripes,” he said, putting one aside. “Kudos,” he said, setting down another. “Crackpots,” he said, fielding a third.

Ben kept at it. I felt useless. After ten minutes, I saw a
well-worn book of devotions on top of the nearest filing cabinet. I got up and flipped through the pages. It was very old, with fragile paper and heavy ink. Red rubrics and line engravings decorated the beginning of each section. Prayer cards, mostly for deceased priests, marked favorite passages.

“Father Fitz’s?” I asked when Ben reached a lull.

He smiled and then, surprisingly, turned quite serious. “I was looking at that this morning after Evan Singer vacated Father Fitz’s room. You know, I shouldn’t be surprised when I discover that every priest has suffered some pretty severe temptations. Nobody knows it better than I do. But with an old guy like Father Fitz, it still brings me up short.”

I gave my brother a curious look. “Temptation? Like what? Wild women?”

“Worse. Determined women. Or just one.” Ben opened the middle desk drawer. He took out a single sheet of pale blue stationery. “This was stuck to the back of the prayer book. Look at the date. Father Fitz must have been in his late fifties. I guess that’s not too old for midlife crisis, especially for us socially retarded priests.”

I took the flimsy paper from Ben and began reading the close-knit handwriting. It wasn’t easy to decipher.

May 23, 1960

My darling:

I can’t believe you don’t [won’t?] love me. I saw it in your eyes. I felt it in your arms. No matter what else you are, you’re still a man! Act like one and defy old laws [?]. Why should you care about generations of cold-blooded robots who blindly obeyed instead of following their hearts? Why does religion have to put up barriers [farriers? fanciers? financiers?] between people? Isn’t love [?] everything? Please! I’ll wait forever, if I have to!