The Alpine Fury (19 page)

Slumping in the chair, I dropped the phone directory. “This is for a
paper!”
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious.

“Right, Anthro 101. You know, it’s really grim how the Europeans screwed up the native cultures. I’m thinking maybe I should be a social worker, and help them regain their self-esteem.”

“T-Y-P-H-O-I-D.” I paused. “D-O-P-E. That spells Adam. Don’t you ever scare me like that again. I thought you were dying.”

“I am,” Adam replied. “If I don’t hand this paper in
tomorrow, I’ll lose a whole grade point. How do you spell typhoid? I didn’t hear you.”

The rest of the conversation ran its customary gamut, with me giving Adam advice on how to complete his assignment, and Adam giving me a want list that should be overnighted the following day.

“You’re going to be home for Thanksgiving, right? You can wait. Christmas is coming, too. I’m not sending you another thing.” I meant it: The time had come for Adam to distinguish wants from needs.

“Okay, that’s cool.” Adam now sounded more distant than plaintive. “It gets cold here at night, even in Arizona. Let everybody stare and point at Emma Lord’s son shivering next to a cactus. I like having my teeth chatter because I’m down to one tattered jacket. My shoes are pretty pitiful, too. I was thinking of cutting out pieces of cardboard and lacing them up with string for the Roman look. It’s no problem as long as I don’t step on an iguana.”

I wasn’t sure if I preferred Adam’s more mature sarcasm to his youthful cajolery. “You can buy shoes when you come home,” I said. “As I recall, you headed for Tempe with six pair.”

“That was three months ago. They all wore out while I was walking up and down the street with my sign that read ‘Will Screw for Food.’”

“Adam!” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Ultimately we agreed that the purchase of one pullover sweater and one pair of shoes at Thanksgiving would suffice until Christmas. We were about to sign off when I thought to ask a question:

“Say, did you dial my number and hang up for some reason? Or have you tried to reach me in the last couple of days?”

Adam hadn’t. He’d meant to, over the weekend, but
he’d been studying for a history test. Or so he claimed. I explained about the hang-ups.

“Wrong numbers,” Adam said in consolation. “It’s all these old people. You’d be amazed how many of them live here in Arizona. The average age must be about a hundred. They can’t use a push-button phone.”

I accepted Adam’s explanation. It was rational, it was easy to understand, it was undoubtedly right.

I would learn later that it was none of the above.

The snow of the previous night hadn’t amounted to much. It had turned to rain by morning, though the steady downpour felt close to freezing. Newspapers, even weeklies, can’t afford the luxury of taking every holiday that comes along. Thus,
The Advocate
, along with several other Alpine businesses, remained open on Veterans Day. I compensated my staff for the inconvenience by paying them time and a half.

As expected, the coverage of Linda’s murder elicited a great hue and cry from readers. The news itself was old, but seeing it in print roused our subscribers to respond. Some wanted more coverage; others wanted less. There were those who were certain a serial killer was on the loose, and one insisted it must have been suicide. After fielding phone calls for most of the morning, I started for the sheriff’s office. I was crossing Third Street when I felt the heel on my left boot come off. Silently I cursed Adam and his six pairs of shoes. I’d bought only one in the past year. I could really use a new pair of boots. Alpine’s weather is very hard on footgear.

The cobbler shop is tucked in between the Upper Crust Bakery and Alpine Ski. Amer and DeeDee Wasco have worked—and lived—in tandem for almost fifty years. Amer’s father wasn’t a Wasco, but bore an unpronounceable
Finnish surname that he had legally changed upon becoming a United States citizen. About that same time, his son was born, and the newly created Mr. Wasco had named him Amer, in honor of America.

Amer speaks in monosyllables, probably because DeeDee never stops talking. Luckily, he was behind the counter when I hobbled into the shop.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “You’ll wait?”

I had the flats I wore around the office in my capacious handbag. I told Amer I’d run an errand, but it wouldn’t take long. He nodded, and I left.

Milo’s office is just across the street from the Clemans Building, which houses not only the cobbler shop, the bakery, the ski store, and various offices, but also Sky Travel. My eye was caught by a colorful display of the Southwest. Adam had attended college in three different states. The only one I’d visited so far was the University of Hawaii. When he was an eighteen-year-old freshman, I was sure that he couldn’t possibly find the campus without my help. I was right, of course. He would have had trouble finding Honolulu, since he thought it was located on the island of Hawaii.

Janet Driggers is married to Al, the local funeral director. Janet’s exuberant and somewhat ribald personality isn’t suited to the pale, hushed interiors of the family business. She sometimes works behind the scenes, but her husband has convinced her that greeting mourners is not her forte. Thus, Janet spends a few hours a week helping out at Sky Travel, where high spirits are considered an asset.

“Emma!” Janet all but sprang out of her chair as I came through the door. “Hey, didn’t you about fall on your ass the other night when Edna Mae Dalrymple bid
game in diamonds and only had four of them to the ten? I practically wet my pants!”

Fortunately, I had been Edna Mae’s adversary at our October bridge-club meeting. It had been an ugly moment, particularly for her partner, Mary Lou Blatt, who also happens to be Vida’s sister-in-law.

We discussed the card party for several minutes. I began to realize that I was stalling for time. Never held hostage to tact, Janet finally asked if I’d come in to talk about a trip.

“You could use one, honey. You hardly ever leave this dump.” Her pert face studied me closely. “You need a change. You’re looking all dragged out. What’s wrong? Empty-sack syndrome?”

Even after four years, Janet’s bold tongue can still jar me. I gave her a pallid smile. “I’m used to that. I don’t mind the weather, either. I’m a native Pacific North-westerner. But I wouldn’t balk at some new scenery. January, maybe. Arizona.”

Janet shook her head. “They’re all too old, especially in January. That’s snowbird season. If you want action, try Vail. You don’t have to ski. Just get Francine Wells to fix you up in some sexy snow togs and lie around the lodge with a powerful drink in your hand. Go for a young one. How long has it been since you’ve had sex with a teenager?”

I tried not to look appalled. Janet was serious. Not for the first time did I wonder about her conjugal relations with Al Driggers, through whose veins embalming fluid seemed to run.

“Look, Janet,” I said, hoping to sound confidential, “the reason I was thinking about Arizona is because my son is going to school at Tempe this year and—”

“Aha!” Janet’s sea-green eyes widened. “College
studs! Great! When and how long? The trip,” she added with a mischievous grin. “Not … you know what.”

Mercifully, the phone rang. I had already recovered from my sudden urge to visit Arizona. Making hand motions, I tried to signal to Janet that I had to run. But she had turned away and was punching the keys of her computer.

“You can pick them up tomorrow morning. No, it’s the same price. Because of the funeral. We’re all heart here at Sky Travel. Sure, that’s great. See you.” Janet hung up and regarded me with a knowing smile. “Impulse travelers. They want a cut rate when they’re lucky just to get booked. Thanksgiving is coming. We’re into peak travel time. Is Christie Johnston nuts?”

I stared at Janet. “Christie? Where’s she going?” Vaguely I recalled seeing Christie Johnston heading in the direction of Sky Travel the previous week.

Janet glanced at her screen. “Michigan. Final destination, Grandville.
Bor-
ing. But I guess she’s got relatives there.”

“A Thanksgiving visit?” I was slowly backpedaling toward the door.

“I guess.” Janet suddenly shook her head. “No, maybe not. She and Troy were originally scheduled to fly out of Sea-Tac last night. This morning, actually. Then Linda got killed and Christie asked to change the date to next Sunday. No problem, since there was a death involved. She got the same fare via Northwest into Grand Rapids, with a change in Minneapolis. Of course, she missed out on a really good deal because she waited too long. Then she starts asking about one-way fares, and figures it’s cheaper to do it that way.” Janet ran a hand through her frizzled auburn hair. “Bullshit, it actually costs less to get a round-trip than it does
a one-way. What’s wrong with people, Emma? You ever tried a three-way?”

“What?” I sounded shaken.

Janet waved a hand. “You know—you, your guy, and—”

“I’ve got to run,” I squeaked, all but falling through the travel agency door. The rain pelted my head as I hurried back to the cobbler shop. Five minutes later I was in Milo’s office, feeling safe but unnerved. I resisted the impulse to ask the sheriff if he’d ever arrested Janet Driggers for lewd behavior.

“You caught me just in time,” Milo said, tossing a form he’d just completed into his out-basket. “The funeral is at one, and I’ve got to go home and change into a serious suit.”

“You don’t own a suit,” I remarked, suddenly feeling panicky. “Oh my God, Milo, I forgot to order flowers! I must run over to Delphine’s shop before it’s too late!”

Milo glanced at the big clock with the Roman numerals that hung askew on the opposite wall. It was almost eleven-thirty and the funeral was scheduled for one
P.M.
“Send a memorial somewhere. You can do that anytime. That’s what I’m going to do. The Lutheran Scholarship Fund for the Lutefisk-Impaired or whatever the hell they call it.”

I shook my head. “I send memorials to Ben. But I don’t think the Petersens, being so staunchly Lutheran, would approve. Ergo, it’s flowers. See you.”

“Whoa!” Milo was on his feet, astonishing me as he always does when he moves swiftly. He grabbed my wrist and gave me a goofy grin. “What’s with you today? You never come to see me unless you want something. What does your brother do with the money? Buy booze?”

“Of course not!” I was huffy. “He uses it for the mission. Ben can buy his own booze.”

Milo chuckled. “I don’t understand Catholic priests. They drink, they smoke, they do everything but screw, and from what I read, they do that, too, on the sly. What’s the point?”

“Skip it, Milo. You’re a Protestant.” Trying to teach the sheriff about Catholicism was probably right up there with getting him interested in Wagner’s
Ring
cycle. “Let go; I’ve got to hurry over to Posies Unlimited and then go home to change. This holiday threw me off. I keep thinking the funeral’s tomorrow!”

Obediently Milo released my wrist. Four minutes later I’d galloped through the rain to Delphine Corson’s flower shop. Fortunately, she hadn’t closed for the holiday. Delphine welcomed me with a broad smile and a lot of cleavage. That was her style. She was also an excellent florist.

“You’re up against it,” she said, her manicured hand sweeping over at least three dozen arrangements clustered next to the front door. “I got behind with orders because I’ve been sick as a dog. Don’t catch this lousy bug, Emma, unless you want to lose weight. Which I do, but you don’t need to.” She pinched off a wilted azalea blossom from a huge bright pink plant, then waved a hand at the array of flowers. “This is the third load to go off to the service. You waited so long that you’re going to get stuck with an orchid spray.”

I asked for a price quote. Delphine’s response wasn’t as horrendous as I’d feared. “I’ll take it,” I said.

“It’s a good decision,” she replied, her bleached blonde head bent over an order form. “We won’t send them to the church, but we’ll strew the orchids around the grave site. It makes a nice touch. Linda would have liked it.”

Vaguely, I nodded. A lavish arrangement of at least four dozen white and yellow roses caught my eye. Unlike some of the memorial bouquets, there was no ribbon with the deceased’s name etched in gold.

“Lovely,” I remarked. “Is that family?”

Delphine patted her blonde coiffure. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” She simpered at me, her generous bosom jiggling. “You must pay handsome salaries, Emma. Those roses for Linda are from Leo Walsh.”

I
F
C
HRISTIANS CARVED
totem poles, the Lutherans would sit at the top in Alpine. The predominance of Scandinavians has persisted since the beginning, and most of them have remained loyal to their national religion. Faith Lutheran Church is the most handsome house of worship in Alpine. It stands in conservative modern brick splendor on the corner of Seventh and Cedar Streets. The Lutherans were the first denomination to erect a church in Alpine, but this is their third building. The cornerstone was laid in 1979, at the same time that the synod started construction on the adjacent retirement home.

The church was packed, as was the parking lot. I arrived two minutes before the hour and ended up leaving the Jag across Cedar Street. Nodding at Al Driggers in the vestibule, I scanned the polished pine pews for an empty seat. Up near the front, I saw Vida on the aisle, waving her arms like a windmill. Apparently she had saved me a place.

“Where were you?” she demanded in a whisper that could have been heard by deaf residents in the retirement home next door.

“I couldn’t find my shoes.” Feebly I smiled at Christie Johnston and a husky, crew-cut man I assumed was her husband, Troy. They were sitting next to Vida,
while Reba Cederberg and her in-laws were on their immediate left. I assumed that all of the Petersens were in the curtained mourning room just off the sanctuary.

The organ was playing a hymn I didn’t recognize, a doleful number that announced the entrance of the pallbearers and the closed casket. As we rose, I noticed Howard, Susan, and Alison Lindahl on the other side of the church. They were jammed in between Cal and Charlene Vickers and the Dithers sisters. Alison’s young face was very pale, and it seemed to me that Howard had shrunk into himself. Maybe he was trying to look inconspicuous.