The Alpine Recluse (19 page)

“To visit Delia Rafferty,” Vida said, collapsing into an easy chair. “Actually, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s rather depressing at the nursing home. So many addled old people. Of course, most of them were addled long before they went into the home, but it still makes conversation very difficult.”

Coming from Vida, that translated as not being able to get satisfactory gossip. “Why are you going to see her? Didn’t you speak to her at the funeral reception?”

“Yes, but I came away perturbed,” Vida said. “I felt there was something odd about Delia. I can’t explain it, but as if she wanted to talk to me.”

“She mentioned your hat,” I noted, omitting the part about Delia also referring to Vida’s size.

“Yes, yes,” Vida said impatiently. “It was how she looked at me. Searching, perhaps. Or beseeching—that’s a better word. It’s bothered me ever since. By the way,” she continued with an inquisitive stare, “did you ever hear back from Rolf?”

“No,” I said. “I told you he had to go to Spokane.” I hadn’t yet sat down, and now I felt as if I should keep on my feet, perhaps to elude Vida’s perceptive eyes.

Vida sighed. “I’m still not sure about him.”

“You hardly know Rolf,” I challenged.

“I know enough to know I’m not sure.” She shrugged. “You never mentioned your weekend once after he made the original call. I think you forgot. Perhaps on purpose. You don’t want to get in too deep. That’s wise, of course.”

I should have known Vida would see through me. “It’s not quite like that,” I argued. “I got so caught up in the Rafferty case that everything went out of my head.”

“Then Rolf wasn’t lodged there very solidly in the first place. I’m the last person to give such advice, I suppose, but I do think you should occasionally consider how closely wedded you are to your career. I’ve been fortunate in that Buck has his own interests and keeps busy when I’m not available. But at our age, that’s different. I’m not urging you to become besotted. On the other hand, you need some time for yourself as a woman. You have no family close by. You have very few friends. I think you’re lonely, Emma. You don’t think about it because you make sure your brain is otherwise occupied. That’s too bad.” Vida stood up. “Come, we must go.”

I had been standing a few feet away from her, ostensibly to take in the benefit of the fan’s cooling breeze. But her presence in the easy chair had reminded me of a teacher lecturing a dull-witted student. Maybe that’s what I was.

“You’re my friend,” I asserted. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was quite dumbfounded.

“Of course.” She put the straw hat back on her head. “I wouldn’t speak so frankly if I weren’t.”

I lingered in the living room as Vida collected her purse and got out her car keys. “I’m not sure I want to go with you,” I said. “Nursing homes are so bleak.”

Vida peered at me through her big glasses. “They’re also air-conditioned.”

“Oh.” I decided to join her.

T
HE
L
UTHERANS HAD
done their best to make the facility homelike. Three years ago, they had bought the small block across Seventh to build a nursing and hospice addition. The fact that the other side of the block was on the service road in back of the cemetery had struck some people as morbid and others as practical.

Delia Rafferty lived on the first floor, officially called the assisted-living residence. The top three stories were individual apartments, added over the years as the retirement population grew. According to Vida, they were very nice units, complete with kitchenettes. She had said at one point that she might consider moving there someday—if the facility were run by Presbyterians.

The lobby resembled a pleasant boutique hotel, with fresh flowers on the main desk. Vida approached a fair-haired middle-aged woman and asked to see Delia.

“You’re a Peterson,” Vida said. “Which one?”

“Margaret,” the woman replied with a stiff smile. “My sister-in-law, Constance, is a nurse at the hospital.”

“Of course.” Vida nodded sagely. “How is Delia today?”

Margaret tipped her head to one side. “Well . . . you know how it is. She’s in her room, watching TV. She’s not one to mix with the other guests.”

“She was never particularly social,” Vida noted. “Which room?”

“One-thirty-four,” Margaret replied.

Vida nodded. I trotted along, feeling, as I often did, that I was her stooge. Margaret had scarcely looked at me. I could have been a terrorist with a suicide bomb attached to my head.

The hotel atmosphere was quickly dispelled as we walked down the corridor. Instead of stargazer lilies, the air smelled of disinfectant. Several old people sat in wheelchairs, some of them asleep, a few moaning pitifully, and a couple of the others eyed us as if we’d come to rob the place.

Delia Rafferty’s room was small and crowded. Apparently Beth—and possibly Tim—had wanted their mother to keep many of her own possessions and trinkets. The TV was turned on to a cable news program, but there was no sound. Delia stared at the screen as if hypnotized.

Vida was undaunted. She tromped over to the wheelchair where Delia was sitting and put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Delia,” she said, “it’s Vida. See my hat?”

Delia’s gaze slowly moved from the TV screen to Vida’s looming presence, and she spoke quite firmly. “Vida. Big woman. Big hat.”

“That’s right,” Vida replied. “Emma is here, too.” She motioned for me to come forward. “Emma is a friend of Beth’s.”

Neither my name nor Beth’s seemed to register. But Delia did stare at me curiously. I hadn’t seen the woman up close in years. She was much younger than I’d realized—perhaps no older than Vida. Delia’s skin was virtually unlined, though her short-cropped hair was almost white. She had big blue eyes and probably had been a pretty young woman. The bone structure was good—though her body was petite. I couldn’t guess accurately because she was seated and slightly hunchbacked. I figured she probably wasn’t much over five feet tall. Her late husband, Liam, had been a six-footer with red hair going gray.

“Eggs,” Delia said.

“Eggs?” Vida was wearing her Cheshire cat smile. “What eggs, Delia?”

“Brown eggs. For omelets.” Delia was looking down at the afghan that covered her lap. Apparently, her circulation was poor. Even with the air-conditioning, the room’s temperature felt like eighty degrees.

“You raised chickens during the war, didn’t you?” Vida inquired, sitting down on a straight-back chair while I remained standing by a curio cabinet filled with ceramic figures.

“My parents did,” Delia responded. “We had a victory garden.”

“So did we,” Vida replied. “Many people did, even in the city.”

“Tim died in the war,” Delia said.

“Did he now?”

Delia nodded. “In Italy. Or was it Idaho?”

“I don’t know,” Vida said. “What happened?”

Delia’s lips trembled. “He was burned up.”

“Gruesome,” Vida remarked with a sharp glance at me. “So sad.”

Delia didn’t respond.

“Would you like to talk about Tim?” Vida coaxed.

Delia shook her head.

“What about Tiffany?” I asked, venturing to include myself.

Delia shook her head again.

Vida wasn’t giving up. “How is Beth?”

Delia was still staring down at the afghan. “Beth didn’t break the eggs.”

“That’s good to know,” Vida said. “Beth’s a nice girl. Who did break them?”

Delia’s blue eyes gazed around the room. There were several photographs, showing Tim and Tiffany’s wedding, Beth and Tim’s high school graduations, Delia and Liam in middle age, and various babies.

“It’s cold in here,” Delia finally said. “Tell the boy to turn up the heat.”

Vida moved about in the chair, obviously pondering her next move. “You’re going to be a grandmother,” she said at last. “I’ve had grandchildren for years. They’re such a joy. Are you excited about your grandbaby?”

Delia’s gaze shifted to the baby pictures. “That’s my baby. That other one, too.”

“Yes,” Vida agreed, though her patience was becoming strained. “I mean the baby that’s on the way.”

Delia didn’t respond.

Vida sighed and stood up. “We must go now, Delia. Thank you for having us.”

To my amazement, Delia struggled to her feet and put out the hand that wasn’t clinging to the afghan. She shook Vida’s hand, then reached for mine. “Thank you both.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. She looked back at Vida. “I want your hat. I can put eggs in a hat.”

Vida seemed uncharacteristically flummoxed. “Oooh . . . here.” She removed the hat and carefully set it on Delia’s white hair. “There. It looks very nice.”

“Thank you. Goodbye.” Awkwardly, Delia sat back down in the wheelchair.

We left, Vida shaking her head all the way down the hall. “Hopeless,” she declared as we reached the lobby. “Is it Alzheimer’s or dementia? Goodness, the woman’s not as old as I am!”

“That surprised me,” I admitted as Vida waved farewell to Margaret Peterson, who was talking on the phone at the main desk. “I remember her as always being elderly.”

“She’s two years younger than I am,” Vida said as we stepped out into the midday sun. “She has osteoporosis and her hair started turning gray when she was in her early thirties. Living with Liam did that, no doubt. He was poor husband material. Oh, good grief! My head feels like it’s on fire without my hat!”

“That was very generous,” I declared. “I’ve never seen you part with a hat before.”

“I almost never have,” Vida replied as we got into her Buick. The Lutheran home was only a block and a half from her house, but we didn’t want to walk in the heat. “That straw hat was very cheap. I have four others just like it, three dollars apiece at a street fair I attended in Bellingham with my daughter Meg.”

“What’s with the eggs?” I inquired while Vida turned the car’s air-conditioning on full blast.

“Delia’s family did have chickens during World War Two,” Vida explained. “That part made sense. For all I know, there was some relative named Tim who was killed in combat. Or in Idaho. Perhaps Delia named her son for him. Whatever I thought she wanted to tell me apparently was a figment of my imagination. We wasted our time, and I lost my hat. Oh, well.”

“Maybe Delia liked having company,” I said.

“I doubt that she remembers we were even there,” Vida retorted.

“But she’ll remember your hat.”

Vida sniffed. “Indeed. A pity there’s no longer a brain operating under it.”

I didn’t know why, but I wondered if—for once—Vida could be wrong.

FIFTEEN

I
KNEW
V
IDA’S
criticism of Delia Rafferty was born of frustration, not a lack of kindness. Knowing how keenly she felt about unraveling the mystery that was Tim and Tiffany, I couldn’t blame her. After I left Vida’s house, I drove to Icicle Creek. I wanted to find out if Milo had spoken with Wayne Eriks.

The Grand Cherokee was in the driveway, but the house was closed up. Maybe Milo was at the Erikses’ home, grilling the man I’d suddenly decided was my favorite suspect. I went to the door and rang the bell anyway. I’d rung it a second time when Milo appeared.

“I was in the basement,” he said. “What’s up?”

I asked if he’d seen Wayne.

“He wasn’t home,” Milo replied as I stepped inside. “At least, that’s what Cookie told me, although his truck was parked outside. Come on downstairs. It’s cooler there.”

The basement was also tidier than the living room. Upstairs, empty pizza and TV dinner boxes usually littered the sofa, chairs, and carpet. I hadn’t seen the surface of the dining room table in years, and I avoided the kitchen at all costs. It was as if once his ex-wife had walked out, he’d never bothered to keep house. Yet in the basement, he kept his fishing and hunting gear in perfect order. Even his tool area was organized, including a large plastic file container that held back issues of his favorite outdoor articles.

“Do you think Cookie was lying?” I asked as Milo rolled an office chair in my direction.

“Probably.” The sheriff leaned against his worktable. “So maybe you’re right. Something’s going on with Wayne.” His hazel eyes narrowed. “I wish I knew what the hell was going on in your head about this Eriks and Rafferty bunch. You don’t know them that well. What’s the deal?”

I wanted to level with Milo. But I couldn’t. At least, not about Beth. She could lose her job for not logging a 911 call. I decided, however, to tell him about Wayne.

Milo laughed. “The SOB made a pass at you? Jeez, Emma, weren’t you kind of flattered?”

“Are you out of your mind?” I all but shouted. “He’s married, he’s just lost his son-in-law, he’s
gross
!”

Milo was still laughing, though he apologized. “Sorry. But haven’t I told you it’s risky to go around sleuthing on your own? Hell,” he continued, growing serious, “you’ve almost gotten yourself killed a couple of times. Maybe you should keep your investigating to the telephone.”

“I usually do just fine,” I declared, shooting Milo a few daggers from narrowed eyes.

He shrugged. “You’re okay for an amateur. Want a beer? Or did you get your fill with Wayne?”

His words provoked a small smile. “I guess it
is
kind of funny,” I said. “Wayne, I mean. A little groping might be considered an improvement over the phone calls and letters I get calling me everything from a moron to a whore.”

“At least the jerk knew when to stop,” Milo remarked. “We get some of them who don’t. The word
no
isn’t in their dictionary.”

“But you will talk to him again?”

The sheriff nodded. “Especially if he’s avoiding me. Maybe he thought you’d carried out your threat to rat on him. Who knows? I can always start by asking him a few more questions about his sighting of Old Nick. Did his description mesh with yours?”

“Yes—but it was getting dark when I saw Old Nick. Neither Wayne nor I could describe features or details. ‘Ragged old guy with a beard’ is vague. Do you think he’s still around town?”

Milo considered the question in his usual deliberate manner. “Hard to say. It’s not typical. They come to get what they need, they take off. They don’t like civilization. They don’t like people. And in this hot weather, they’re bound to be cooler in the forest.”

“Good point,” I said. “So why is Old Nick wearing a bunch of ragged clothes in ninety-degree heat?”

“Who knows? He’s like the Arabs, thinking that clothes keep out the heat.” Milo turned to the near wall where his fishing poles were lined up on racks. He took one down and fondled it like a baby. “See this? I treated myself. Top of the line, for salmon and steelhead. I got it through a catalog from the NRA. Graphite, cork handle, terrific action in this spinning rod.”

“Nice. Now if you could only catch some fish . . .”

Or a killer.

T
HE DAY WAS
slipping out of my hands. Everywhere I turned, everybody I spoke with, every lead I tried to follow eluded me as craftily as a ten-pound steelhead would defy Milo’s expertise—and expensive new fishing rod.

I felt glum. My weekend was ruined, my investigative reporting skills were a shambles, and I’d probably wrecked the best chance for romance that I’d had in years. How could I make it up to Rolf? Did he want me to try? Did he really care? I felt like writing myself a “Dear Moron” letter.

If Milo could treat himself, so could I. Although I’d started to head for home from his house, I took a detour off the Icicle Creek Road and went back to Front Street. Parking was no problem. It was too hot to shop, except at the air-conditioned Alpine Mall. I had no problem finding a space right in front of Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery.

Donna was talking to a young couple I didn’t recognize. They were admiring one of the spectacular vases by the glassmaker from Colorado.

“If she has to have it,” the young man said to Donna, “then let’s do it. Her birthday’s next Thursday.”

The young woman leaned over and kissed the young man. “I love you, Derek.”

“You’d better,” he said with a smile. “Are you sure which one you want?”

She grimaced. “That’s the problem. I can’t make up my mind between the two of them. One is perfect for the entry hall; the other would look wonderful in the guest bathroom.” She paused. “We do have a wedding anniversary coming up in September.”

“Oh, why not?” The husband hugged the wife, but spoke over her shoulder to Donna. “Can you ship it? We’re off to British Columbia for a few days to visit friends in Osoyoos.”

I had drifted over to
Sky Autumn.
The painting was every bit as glorious as I’d remembered. I stared at it the entire time that it took for the young couple to give Donna their billing and shipping information. Five minutes later, they walked out of the store, arm in arm.

“Mercer Island people,” Donna noted, referring to the Seattle suburb in the middle of Lake Washington. “Aren’t they all rich?”

“Not all,” I replied. “But quite a few of them are. It’s prime property, if you don’t mind having to take the floating bridge to get there.”

“Anton will be really pleased,” Donna said. “I know he’ll send me a couple of other pieces. Vases, I hope, though he does some beautiful bowls and pitchers.”

“Thank God for tourists,” I murmured. “It’s too bad we don’t have more rich people in Alpine. Tell me, has Ed Bronsky—or Shirley—ever bought art from you?”

Donna held her head. “Shirley’s been in several times, but she’s never bought anything. She looks and looks, but always says she can’t make up her mind. She wants cherubs—and I haven’t got any unless I order prints from a catalog. Ed told her they’d go with the Italian décor of their so-called villa. In fact, Shirley was in last week. She says Ed is thinking of having his portrait painted. She wanted me to recommend an artist. I stalled her. I can’t think of anyone who would want Ed sitting for them.”

“Sitting or squatting?”

Donna laughed. “You choose.” Suddenly, she shifted into her gallery-owner mode. “Are you still tempted by the Laurentis?”

“I’m hooked,” I admitted. “I want it. Can I pay for it on the installment plan? Five hundred dollars is a bit of a stretch for my overextended credit cards.”

“Well . . .” Donna looked pained. “Craig doesn’t like credit sales of any kind. He wants cash—certified checks, I should say.”

I frowned. “I understand about creative types,” I said. “Unless they have a day job, they get paid very irregularly. Not to mention the matter of taxes. I assume some artists don’t declare sales on their IRS returns.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Donna said, looking innocent. “Craig Laurentis is the only artist I’ve dealt with who insists on cash. I mail it to a PO box in Monroe.”

“How about this?” I ventured. “I write you a check for two-fifty now and the rest next month? Would you be willing to hold the painting for me until then?”

Donna nodded slowly. “Yes, I could do that. I’ll wrap it and put it in the back. I should point out that in my opinion—and I’m really not an expert—Craig’s works are undervalued. I’ve tried to get him to raise his prices, but he refuses. He thinks art belongs to the world.”

“That’s very idealistic,” I said. “Does he have another job?”

“No.” Donna shrugged. “He doesn’t seem interested in money or material things. I don’t believe he’s ever married.”

“He sounds like someone with a busted vocation,” I remarked. “Maybe he should have gone into the clergy. Is he Catholic?”

“I’ve no idea,” Donna replied. “What do you mean?”

“My brother, Ben, has a theory that many Catholics in today’s secular world ignore their religious calling,” I explained. “They often end up making bad marriages or not marrying at all. Sometimes they live a very ascetic life, even if they don’t always attend church. He also thinks that happens with Protestants. That is, some of them may become ministers and marry and have families, but others ignore the call. Am I making sense?”

“I guess,” Donna replied, though she looked puzzled. “Really, I wouldn’t know about Craig’s beliefs. He never talks about anything but art, and none of it has a religious theme.”

“That depends on how you define
religious,
” I said. “I think
Sky Autumn
is quite spiritual.”

Donna looked at the painting. “Well . . . yes. The forces of nature, water and earth. Very . . . visceral. I can see that.” Suddenly, she looked distressed. “I guess I have a love-hate relationship with Craig’s art. At least with the river scenes.” She stopped and turned to me. “You understand.”

It took me a few seconds to realize what she meant. The murdered body of her first husband, Art Fremstad, had been found by a river. Ironically, his killer eventually had been murdered, too. “Yes, of course.”

Donna looked away. “It’s been thirteen years. I was lucky to find Steve. I hope Tiffany gets lucky, too.”

“Yes,” I said again. But I also hoped Tiffany was as blameless as Donna.

A
T HOME, AN
e-mail from Adam awaited me.

“I heard from Toni again,” he wrote. “She said she talked to you about Alaska. She thought it all sounded too complicated. Cannery work doesn’t appeal to her. She thinks it must smell bad. She’d like to do what she’s doing now—some kind of office work, but not in law enforcement. She looked up the state’s 2000 census and learned that the male-female split is fifty-two to forty-eight percent, but she can’t figure out how many of the men are eligible. All I can say is thank God I’m not one of them. Toni’s driving me nuts. Patience and compassion are great virtues, but I’ve got people up here with REAL problems, like survival. About now, I’m one of them . . . Love and prayers, Adam the Nonmatchmaker.”

I smiled at the laptop’s screen. Religious vows or not, Adam was still Adam. Like his mother, he had little patience with people who couldn’t get a grip on real life. I replied to him, saying that Toni’s quest was for a husband. Her vision was no wider than that, and it probably wasn’t the worst goal she could have, but it was the only one that seemed to matter. Meanwhile, I added, his dim-witted mother had managed to blight her own romantic prospects with Mr. Fisher. When it comes to romance, even bright people behave stupidly. I ought to know; I’d just done it.

I tried to put personal and professional problems aside for a few moments. Instead, I gazed at Monet’s water lilies and decided that I still liked it. It would look nice in my bedroom. I tried to visualize
Sky Autumn
in its place above the sofa. Artistically, Laurentis was no Monet. Yet he had captured the river scene so vividly that my heart and soul overruled my taste and intellect. I grew curious about the artist. He must be a native. His affinity for the area’s elements seemed inherent, rather than acquired.

What the hell was I talking about?

My mind had gone off on a tangent. In fact, my brain seemed scattered, rambling, disconnected. It was the weather. Unrelenting sunshine has that effect on natives from the Cascades’ western slopes. The rivers dwindle, the lakes shrink, the waterfalls dry up. So do our brains. Maybe that was another reason that
Sky Autumn
beckoned me. Its churning waters ran deep and plentiful. It reminded me of what I was missing during this hot, sometimes humid summer.

That was when I realized I had to learn more about Craig Laurentis. A strange suspicion was growing in my mind.

I checked the Internet. His name came up, but the only information was about his paintings that were for sale in galleries around the Puget Sound basin: Seattle, Tacoma, Bellevue, Everett, Bellingham, and Olympia. I saw several reproductions, all of rugged mountain, lake, and forest scenes. No people, no animals, not even a seascape. He concentrated on the Cascades and the range’s surroundings. The prices were from four hundred to nine hundred dollars. I found no biographical information except that Laurentis was an artist who lived in the Puget Sound area and had been painting for almost thirty years.

Donna Wickstrom didn’t have a web site. I guessed there were other small galleries that didn’t either, but might also feature Laurentis’s work. Apparently, he was fairly prolific.

I couldn’t locate him anywhere else on the Internet, and a call to directory assistance proved fruitless. After an hour, I had become obsessed. I felt a pressing need to find out about Craig Laurentis. I telephoned Donna.

“I have a strange question for you,” I said. “Remember, I’m a journalist, and therefore a professional snoop. What bank do you send Craig’s money to?”

Donna sounded surprised. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me for some reason I can’t explain,” I admitted.

“Let me double-check.” She went off the line for a few moments. “It’s Washington Mutual in Monroe, right on Highway 2. Do you have a line of credit there or something?”