The Alpine Quilt (20 page)

Vida opened the door before I was halfway up the walk. She looked awful. Her chin was trembling, and her face was ashen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, hurrying to meet her.

“I tried to call you to tell you not to come,” Vida said in a voice that was hardly recognizable. “But you’d already left.”

She’d backed into the narrow entry hall. I’d never seen her in such a state. “Shall I make tea?” I asked, utterly confounded.

A whistling sound told me that Vida had already put the water on. “I’ll get it,” I said. “You sit.”

I also felt shaken, and took extra care not to drop Vida’s English bone china cups and saucers. Whatever caused her distress had occurred in the last thirty minutes. A devastating phone call, maybe. I doctored Vida’s tea with cream and plenty of sugar before joining her in the living room, where she’d collapsed on the sofa, holding her head.

“Is it the family?” I inquired. “Has something happened to one of them?”

But she mouthed the word
no.

“Buck?” I asked.

“No,” she said out loud. “Nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

Vida sat up straight and took a sip of tea from the cup I’d placed on the side table. “Maybe I’m being a silly old fool,” she said.

“I can’t tell unless you let me know what upset you so,” I responded, sitting down beside her. “I take it no one died?”

She shook her head. “That’s the problem,” she murmured.

“What do you mean?”

Obviously, Vida was making an enormous effort to pull herself together. She even managed a croaking laugh. “I
am
a silly old fool. I’m sorry I alarmed you.” She cleared her throat. “Now tell me about the break-in.”

“Vida,” I said firmly, “I won’t let you get away with this. Something scared the hell—heck, I mean—out of you. What was it?”

She was scowling into space, apparently at war with herself. Finally she took off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes. “Ooooh . . . It’s probably nothing. Maybe I got upset because of your robbery. It was bad timing, that’s all.”

“What was?” I’d started to survey our surroundings. A round Chippendale table was flanked by two armchairs on the opposite side of the room. A stack of mail sat next to a lamp with a crystal base. Several catalogs, no doubt enticements for Christmas shopping, along with a couple of circulars and what looked like a letter were spread out on top. “Did something come in the mail?”

Vida shot me an accusing glance, perhaps because I’d reached the right conclusion. “Yes,” she said after a pause. “Marlow Whipp—or his substitute—was so late yesterday that I forgot to check the mail after four-thirty yesterday. I’d forgotten about it until I phoned you. I’d just gotten home from church, you see.” She paused, taking another drink of tea. “There was a letter, anonymous. Really, it’s probably someone’s idea of a prank.” She nodded in the direction of the round table. “See for yourself. I can’t think why I let it distress me so.”

I got up and retrieved the letter as well as the envelope. The single sheet of plain paper read:

I KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT ERNEST.

The envelope, with no return address, was typed in the same font. The postmark was from Seattle.

I put the letter and the envelope back on the table. “We shouldn’t touch this anymore. There may be fingerprints.”

“No, no, no,” Vida said adamantly. “I’m not turning it over to Milo. Goodness, such a fuss about nothing!”

But Vida was still pale, and her hand trembled when she picked up the teacup. “Let me get you some more,” I said, holding out my hand. “I haven’t poured mine yet anyway.”

“Oh. Thank you.” She tried to smile, but it wasn’t much of a success.

When I returned, Vida was no longer trembling and her jaw was set. “A joke. Definitely a joke. Ernest spent his life putting up with Oscar Wilde allusions. You know—
The Importance of . . .
etc. This may be from some old friend.”

My face became severe. “You know that’s nonsense. That letter has nothing to do with Oscar Wilde. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re so upset.” I had an inkling, but Vida didn’t need to know that. “Ernest has been dead for . . . what? Over twenty-five years?”

“Thirty, to be exact,” Vida replied. “Come January.”

I’d forgotten how young Vida was when Ernest died. Meg, the youngest of the three girls, wasn’t in her teens yet; Amy and Beth were in junior high and high school. It was no wonder that Vida had gone to work for the newspaper just a few weeks after Ernest’s death.

I sat down on the sofa beside Vida. “Let’s rule out a joke,” I said firmly. “Can you think of any reason—no matter how far-fetched—why you’d receive such a letter after all these years?”

Vida shook her head. “That’s why it came as such a shock.”

“Do you think the letter is a prelude to blackmail?”

She looked bleak. “What a horrible idea.”

It struck me as odd that Vida didn’t dismiss the suggestion out of hand. “This might be an attempt to . . .” I hesitated. “To soften you up for the next letter.”

Vida threw up her hands, almost hitting me in the head with her elbow. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! You make me sound like a victim in a cheap detective novel!”

“Sorry. But we have to explore the possibilities.”

“No, we don’t,” Vida asserted. She drank a big swallow of tea. “It’s all very silly. I wish I hadn’t told you. Let’s talk about something else. Your gentleman friend, perhaps. Or the break-in.”

I surrendered. The truth was I wanted to talk about Rolf; I needed to talk about the break-in. Vida, however, listened with half an ear. That wasn’t like her. After about an hour, I wound down and stood up.

“I should get going,” I said. “Maybe Milo has some information on the robbery. I haven’t talked to him today.”

“Very well,” Vida said, also rising to her feet. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

After I went down the walk, I glanced over my shoulder. Vida had already gone back inside. Usually she waited until her guest had driven off, waving her arms like a windmill, and shouting, “Do come back!” Farewells also gave her an opportunity to scour the neighborhood for any interesting activities.

Vida was obviously not herself.

As I drove down Tyee Street, I realized that I had never checked out the story about Ernest’s death in the
Advocate.
If I felt like it, I could call Milo from the office.

January, thirty years ago. I found the correct volume, which had not yet been put on microfiche. Kip had been working on that project for some time, but could do it only in his very sparse leisure time. I hauled the heavy book down from the shelf and took it to Scott’s desk.

It didn’t take long to find the story. It was on page one of the edition from the second week of the new year.

ERNEST RUNKEL
DIES AT FALLS

The article was written under Marius Vandeventer’s byline. “Alpine timber broker Ernest Runkel died Friday night in a tragic accident at Deception Falls. He had been attempting to go over the falls in a barrel when the borrowed truck he had driven to the site accidentally ran over him.

“A native of Alpine, Runkel, 49, was a well-liked and respected businessman. According to his widow, Vida Blatt Runkel, her husband had harbored a longtime desire to make the falls attempt in the winter months when the water was running full spate.

“Sheriff Eeeny Moroni was called to the scene when Cornelius Shaw, Alpine insurance man, noticed a truck perched haphazardly on the edge of Deception Creek and phoned the authorities to ask them to check it out. Sheriff Moroni and Dr. Cedric Dewey agreed that the accident had occurred close to an hour before they arrived on the scene.

“See Obituaries, page 4.”

I felt as if ghosts were reaching out from the past. Cornelius Shaw, Eeeny Moroni, and Cedric Dewey were all dead. Bernard Shaw’s father had died before I arrived. The doctor—known as Old Doc Dewey after his son, Gerald, set up practice—had passed away a couple of years after I arrived in town. And Sheriff Moroni had turned out to be as crooked as a logging road.

I turned to the obituary. Ernest had indeed been a pillar of the community. He was an elder in the Presbyterian church, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, Kiwanis, and Rotary clubs. He’d worked with the Girl and Boy Scouts, the Future Farmers of America, and the Red Cross. He’d served as a volunteer firefighter and an organizer of Loggerama, the town’s annual summer festival, which, in recent years, had metamorphosed into the Summer Solstice. The lengthy list of Ernest’s survivors included, of course, his “devoted wife” Vida and their three daughters. Services would be held at First Presbyterian Church on Friday. There would be no viewing. Mourners were asked to sign the guest book, and memorials were to be sent to the Red Cross and various Presbyterian charities. A two-column photo of Ernest ran above the obit. It was a studio pose, probably taken a few years earlier, since he looked closer to forty than fifty. He was indeed a “nice-looking” man, as Mary Lou Blatt had informed me. He also appeared stolid, even a bit pompous.

I checked the following week for a follow-up story, but there was nothing further. That struck me as curious. In fact, the coverage itself made me curious. Thirty years ago, the
Advocate
had been published on Thursdays. Marius Vandeventer had five days in which to write the page-one article. Given Ernest’s status in the community—and the bizarre nature of his accident—I would have expected at least a couple of dozen inches instead of a mere five.

I reread the news story twice and the obituary once. A strange feeling of unease crept over me.

But I wasn’t sure why.

NINETEEN

Confusion chiseled away at the gray matter of my brain. I needed to stop dwelling on the
Advocate
’s coverage of Ernest’s death, so I called Milo to inquire about any progress on the break-ins, mine in particular.

“As a matter of fact,” he said in a rather smug tone, “we are making progress. I’ll let you know by tomorrow morning.”

“That’s great,” I replied with enthusiasm. “I have an idea what direction you’re looking in.”

“Thought you might.” He paused. “Aren’t you going to ask if I had any luck this morning?”

I’d forgotten that Milo had gone fishing. “Sure,” I fibbed. There was no greater gaffe than not asking a fisherman if he’d had any luck. “Catch anything?”

“You bet. A ten-pounder. Real fight in that baby. I’m going to cook it for Ben.”

“Good for you,” I said, with even more enthusiasm. At least he wasn’t going to cook the steelhead for me. I’m a fish lover, but the steelies don’t taste as good as trout or salmon. “Martin Creek?”

“Yep. I’d only been out about twenty minutes.”

“Hey,” I said on a whim, “how long do you keep accident reports?”

“Seven to ten years,” Milo replied. “That is, until the insurance liabilities run out.”

“Oh.” I was disappointed. “Were you working for Eeeny Moroni when Ernest Runkel was killed?”

“I was,” Milo replied, his tone changing. “I never guessed he was such a bastard. But I was green in those days, and Eeeny was one clever SOB. Why are you asking me that?”

I made a face. Dare I suggest to Milo what I was thinking? Could I? I wasn’t even certain why I felt so curious. “Were you on duty that night?”

“No,” Milo said. “It was a Friday, and it was Mulehide’s birthday,” he went on, referring to his ex-wife, whose real name was Tricia. “We’d gone into Seattle for a—excuse the expression—romantic weekend.”

“What about the other deputies? Were any of them around?”

“What year was that?” he asked.

I told him.

“No,” Milo said. “Dwight came aboard a year or so later, Sam maybe five years after that, and Jack didn’t join the department for another ten. Of course, Bill Blatt and Dustin Fong are relative newcomers.”

Dustin had been hired a few years after I arrived in Alpine. “Who were the deputies?”

“There were only two of us,” the sheriff answered. “Me, of course, and an old-timer named Zeke Zacharias. I think he was some shirttail relation of Eeeny’s pal Neeny Doukas. Why do you want to know?”

I suppressed a sigh. “Do I have to tell you?”

“What’s the big secret?” He sounded more miffed than curious.

I chose my words carefully, explaining first how I’d never looked up the article on Ernest Runkel’s death until now. “I’m surprised so little was made of it in the paper,” I went on. “Granted, before I bought the
Advocate,
I only went through the previous year’s issues. It seemed to be that Marius—like any small-town publisher—used twenty words when he could have managed with two. It’s the problem of filling up the front page with local news. You give the reader more than they need—or want—to know.”

“Maybe there was a bunch of other stuff going on,” Milo suggested.

“No. I scanned the rest of the page-one stories,” I said. “It was the usual county commissioners, school board, and timber industry news. Nothing big, no controversies. In fact, Marius ran a three-column picture of snow in Old Mill Park.”

“Well,” Milo said, “you know more about that stuff than I do. What’s your point?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “It just strikes me as odd. This was huge news. Not only was Ernest a native son, but his father was Rufus Runkel, who helped save Alpine. There was no mention of that in the obituary or much other background, either. I would’ve expected Vida to put together a foot-long death notice.” I paused, my brain working double-time. “What do you remember of all this? Were you back in town that Monday?”

“Right,” the sheriff replied. “We got home Sunday night. We had one of those two-night off-season deals at the Westin.”

“And?” I coaxed.

“Jeez . . . It’s been thirty years, Emma,” Milo said. “I didn’t know about Ernest until I got back. I didn’t go to the funeral. I had to work, and anyway, I didn’t know Vida and her husband all that well in those days. I mean, I
knew
them—who didn’t?—but they weren’t friends of ours. Remember, I was still in my twenties at the time.”

“There had to be a buzz, especially in the sheriff’s office,” I said. If Milo and I had been face-to-face, I would have shaken him.

Milo made an impatient noise. “Hell, I don’t remember gossip and crap like that. It’s women’s work. Ernest tried to pull off a lame-assed stunt. He wanted to try getting into the barrel once before they hauled it upcreek above the falls. It was cold as a well digger’s ass, and he hadn’t tried to get inside with his all-weather gear. The barrel was right in back of the truck, and the brakes slipped. He got run over and croaked. Sad, but true.”

“Who was with him?”

“Huh?”

“You said ‘they.’ Somebody had to put the barrel into the creek after he got in it.”

“Oh. Right.” He paused, perhaps thinking through the situation in his usual methodical manner. “I’m trying to remember who Runkel’s friends were, especially if one owned a pickup truck.”

“It was a pickup?”

“A red Chevy,” Milo said. “I remember seeing it in the impound area out back behind the office.”

The impound section of the SkyCo sheriff’s department was two parking spaces next to the building. “Who owned it?”

“Good God Almighty,” Milo said in a low, startled voice.

“God owned it?”

“No,” Milo replied, still sounding shaken. “How the hell could I have forgotten? It was Andy Bayard.”

It took me a few seconds to absorb this startling revelation. “Were Andy and Ernest friends?” I asked in a voice filled with dismay. They seemed like an unlikely duo.

“Not really,” Milo replied, sounding more like himself. “But Andy worked—
when
he worked—hauling stuff. I suppose Ernest paid him for the trip to the falls.”

“What did Andy have to say about the accident?”

Milo didn’t answer for so long that I thought he’d dropped the phone. “He didn’t,” the sheriff finally said after searching his memory. “That was when he took off. Don’t ask how; I suppose he hitchhiked. Eeeny tried to track him down, but the next thing we knew he’d gotten killed in a car wreck somewhere south of Seattle. Auburn, I think.”

The Runkel-Bayard connection didn’t end with rumors about a romance between Ernest and Genevieve. Had Andy been so jealous of Ernest that he’d killed him? It was a horrendous thought.

“Whoa!” I blurted. “Are you saying that Eeeny didn’t bother to go after Andy under such suspicious circumstances?”

Milo didn’t answer right away, and when he spoke, his voice was pained. “Back then we didn’t know how crooked Eeeny was. At least I didn’t. Maybe Zeke did. I always wondered, but by the time I figured it out, Zeke was dead. For all I know, Andy paid Eeeny off. Looking back, there were a lot of cases that might have had different outcomes if our previous sheriff hadn’t been a corrupt SOB.”

Milo was undoubtedly right. He’d been young, inexperienced, maybe naive. Eeeny Moroni had been in office for years, using charm and a gift of gab to win votes in the days when the sheriff was elected.

“Incredible,” I murmured. “Didn’t it occur to you that Ernest might have been murdered?”

“No,” Milo replied. “Everybody—including Vida—said it was an accident. I didn’t work the case, remember? Hey, for all I know, Eeeny may have tried to find Andy but came up empty. It happens.”

“Who told you Andy had died?”

“Oh . . . Jesus, Emma, I can hardly recall much about it. Vida, maybe. She probably got it over the wire service.”

That made sense. But Vida had never hinted that foul play had been involved in Ernest’s death. Nor had any such suggestion appeared in the newspaper. Quickly, I flipped through the next six issues. Nothing. Maybe I was crazy.

Or maybe not. There was definitely something crazy—besides Ernest’s stupid stunt—about Milo’s account of the accident.

“If Andy Bayard took off right after the debacle, who was the witness to the accident?”

“There wasn’t one,” Milo replied, “except for him. Eeeny and Zeke must have reconstructed what happened.”

That was possible. “Okay,” I said, and sighed. “I’m making a mountain out of a molehill. Forget I brought it up.”

“Easy to do,” Milo grumbled, “since I don’t remember much about it except that it was a damned fool stunt for Ernest to attempt.”

I couldn’t argue with that. But after we hung up, I sat staring at the article about Ernest Runkel’s death.

It still didn’t sound right.

If, I thought, I could only discuss the matter with Vida. But I didn’t want to upset her or make her angry. Instead, I made a list of people who’d still remember the incident, particularly those insightful types who might have felt the coverage was odd at the time.

It was a short list, but Buddy and Roseanna Bayard were at the top. They usually stayed for coffee and doughnuts after Mass, but should be home by now since it was just after noon. I didn’t like drop-in callers or being counted among them. But I was a journalist and often had to set manners aside. I hoisted the
Advocate
volume I’d been perusing, locked up the office, and headed for the Bayards’ home.

The temperature had dropped in the last hour, though the sun directly overhead peeked around the high clouds. Sure enough, both Bayard vehicles were parked out front. They had a garage, but Buddy had remodeled it for storing his photos.

Roseanna didn’t look happy to see me. “What now?” she asked in a weary voice.

“Some questions,” I said, following her into the living room, where Buddy was watching a Seattle Seahawks game.

He moved just enough to catch me out of the corner of his eye. “Hi, Emma,” he said before turning back to the TV where a field goal attempt was under way.

I knew better than to interrupt. But the Baltimore Ravens’ try was good and Buddy shut off the sound in disgust. “No defense,” he grumbled. “What’s up, Emma?”

First, I showed Buddy and Roseanna the newspaper article about Ernest Runkel’s death. Then, as tactfully and succinctly as I could, I related my reaction to the paucity of information.

“I also flipped through the issues for the next few months,” I added. “There was no mention of your father’s death. That’s odd because Marius Vandeventer always published former residents’ death notices. We still do. Can you explain any of this?”

Buddy shrugged. “Ma told me when Pa died. I suppose she got word of it from Vida. I don’t think Ma gave a damn whether it was put in the paper or not, since he was drunk at the time. She’d written Pa off years ago.”

That made a certain kind of sense. Perhaps Vida—or Marius—had accommodated Gen’s wishes. I wouldn’t have been so generous.

“To get back to Ernest’s disaster,” I said, turning to the front page of the second January edition, “did the story bother you in any way?”

“You bet,” Buddy retorted. “I wondered how a guy like Runkel could have been such a damned idiot.”

“You mean it was totally out of character?” I asked.

“Yes,” Roseanna replied as she reread the lead story before looking up. “He’d talked about doing it, but everybody thought it was a joke. You know, to get a rise out of Vida.”

Again, that part made sense. Maybe, in retaliation, Vida had begun to goad him, forcing his hand. People
did
act out of character now and then. If nothing else, I was beginning to get a clearer picture of the Runkel marriage.

“Honestly,” Roseanna said with a wary expression, “I don’t see anything peculiar. Granted, there aren’t any details, but Ernest couldn’t tell them, and if Andy really was there—though it doesn’t mention his name—you say he ran off.”

“But that’s my point,” I asserted. “It’s what the article
doesn’t
tell the reader that makes the difference.”

Buddy was scratching his beard and scowling. “Thirty years ago, Marius didn’t print all the news. He was . . . discreet. He didn’t want to cause trouble or offend readers if he could help it. You’re the one who brought a different style to the paper, Emma. You even print the names of people who get picked up for drunk driving.”

“That’s a matter of public record and as such, it’s news,” I stated. Buddy was right: Marius had definitely treated his fellow Alpiners with kid gloves. And I had been heavily criticized for what I considered my integrity as a journalist. “Okay,” I said, and sighed. “Maybe it’s a case of ‘least said, soonest mended.’ Did you know your dad was involved in Ernest’s death?”

“I heard some rumors that he’d been there,” Buddy replied, beginning to sound defensive. He’d turned all the way around in his recliner, and Roseanna sat down on the footstool next to him. “To be brutally honest, I didn’t pay much attention to what people said about my father. We were . . . I guess you’d call it ‘estranged.’ ”

The bitterness in Buddy’s voice made me feel sorry for him. His childhood must have been miserable, with a drunken father and an unloving mother. No wonder he was irascible at times. The family he’d built with Roseanna was a marvel I hadn’t considered until now. Maybe as a lonely child, he’d determined that his life would be different, that unhappiness wasn’t genetic. Maybe it was his faith, or Roseanna herself who had shown him how to love. Perhaps he’d had so much unrequited love stored inside that it had burst like a dam when he started his family.

Roseanna had moved closer to her husband. “Why are you spending a Sunday looking up all this stuff? Isn’t it up to Milo?” she inquired, breaking the awkward silence.

“Of course,” I replied. “But this is what’s called investigative reporting. I’m not bound by such strict rules and regulations like Milo is. I also tend to look beyond mere facts.”

Buddy took Roseanna’s hand. “It seems to me you’re looking damned hard at us.”

I shook my head. “That’s only because it was your mother who was poisoned.”

Roseanna gave me a challenging look. “But now you’ve got Buddy’s dad involved in Ernest Runkel’s nutty accident. Is all this going into the paper?”