The Alpine Quilt (4 page)

I couldn’t resist. “And have
two
of them?”

Milo turned his head away from me. “Sheesh. You know our budget. What do you want, have me call in the frigging FBI?”

“A quote would work,” I noted. “I need a minimum of two inches of copy. How about, ‘Sheriff Dodge says he doesn’t believe the break-ins are the work of a professional ring of thieves,’ adding that if the burglaries continue, it will be easier to establish an MO and eventually capture the perps?”

Milo looked at me again, his hazel eyes serious. “That’s not bad. Leave out
eventually.
It makes me sound slow.”

No kidding,
I thought.
Plodding
had been the word that came to my mind, though to be fair, it should have been
thorough.

“Okay,” I said, quickly writing down the quote I’d given him. “You’re sure?”

“Sure of what?”

“That you want to say this in print.”

He shrugged. “It can’t do any harm, I suppose.” Removing his foot from the chair, he stood up to his full height. With his Smokey Bear hat, Milo was close to six-nine. The top of the hat barely cleared my office’s low ceiling. “Want to grab some lunch at the Venison Inn?” he asked.

It was only a little after eleven-thirty. “Now?” I said.

“Well . . .” Milo lifted his hat and scratched above his left ear. “Half an hour okay? That’ll give me time to check on the weirdo at the Alpine Falls Motel.”

I stared at Milo. “What weirdo?” I tried not to sound annoyed. Milo—along with most of Alpine—didn’t recognize a potential news story unless it had
HEADLINE
stamped all over it.

“It’s no big deal,” Milo assured me. “Some guy checked in last night and won’t come out of his room so it can be cleaned. He only paid for one night, and checkout was at eleven. We just heard about it. For all I know, he’s gone by now.”

I waved Milo off, thinking that maybe he was right. The guy was probably trying to sleep off a hard night at Mugs Ahoy. The motel had opened last May just off Highway 2 near the steel bridge over the Skykomish River. The two-story building looked like a cracker box, with cheap rates to compete with the two existing motels and the ski lodge. Scott had written a story in which he’d interviewed the manager who was running the place for a national chain of budget-rate hostelries. Leo couldn’t stand the manager, whose name I didn’t recall, and had had to practically hold the guy’s head under water to get him to take out an ad for the grand opening. The motel hadn’t advertised in the paper since.

Milo was waiting for me when I arrived at the Venison Inn a couple of minutes after noon. He already had his coffee, and was smoking a cigarette despite the ban on tobacco in the restaurant section.

“False alarm,” he said. “The guy was gone. He took off about ten minutes before I got there.”

“Did he leave any souvenirs?” I inquired, not needing to look at the menu.

Milo shook his head. “Not if you mean drugs, booze, or condoms. I guess he just likes to sleep late. It’s not the souvenirs guests leave that bother Will Pace. He’s the manager, and kind of a jackass. If anybody acts the least bit unusual, he’s sure they’re stealing the TV, the towels, and everything including the bathroom sink. That’s why we get called in. Will’s not exactly what I’d call a gracious host.”

“Will Pace.” I repeated the name. “I should try to remember that, even if Leo is trying to forget.”

“How come?” the sheriff asked as Mandy, one of the inn’s usual blond waitresses, brought Milo’s standard order of a cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad.

I put in my own request before explaining to the sheriff about the motel manager’s reluctance to advertise in the paper. We moved on to other topics, including my excitement over Adam’s Christmas visit.

Milo was happy for me. “By the way,” he said, “I’m going to be a granddad. Or so Mulehide informs me.”

Mulehide
was Tricia, Milo’s ex-wife, who had remarried and lived in Bellevue, east of Seattle. “Which kid is having the kid?” I asked.

“Tanya,” Milo answered, looking bemused. “She and that sculptor she’s been living with. Chipper, I call him. They figured if they had a baby, they might think about getting married. Jeez, what’s with this younger generation?”

I had to laugh. “Don’t ask me. I have a son and I’ve never been married.”

Milo turned sheepish. “I didn’t mean . . . That was different. Anyway, you were going to marry Tom. It just took you thirty years to get around to it.”

Six months ago, I might have felt like bursting into tears. In fact, six months ago, Milo would never have said such a thing. On this rainy afternoon in November, I merely nodded. “When’s the baby due?”

“In the spring,” Milo replied after swallowing a big bite of cheeseburger. “Late May. How’s Ben? I’d like to get together with him sometime. Does he still fish?”

“He used to,” I said, recalling a long-ago outing with Milo that ended abruptly in a grisly discovery. “Ask him. He, too, can be cold, wet, and miserable while not catching any steelhead. Ben will consider it as penance.”

“I’ll give him a call,” Milo responded.

I smiled. Milo and Ben had hit it off when they first met many years earlier. They’d be good for each other. They were both lonely men.

Shortly after I returned to the office, I received a call from Ethel Pike. “I wanted you to know that me and Pike are leaving this afternoon instead of Tuesday morning. We don’t want to have to fight all that traffic and worry about getting to the plane on time, so we’re going to stay at a motel by the airport. Just tell Vida to put that in her story. I wouldn’t want her to make a mistake and say we left on Tuesday when we didn’t. I remember the time she printed my rhubarb pie recipe and left out the salt for the crust. And didn’t I hear about that! Everybody in town thought
I’d
made the mistake when it was Vida.”

Apparently, that was before my time. Vida had worked for Marius Vandeventer almost twenty years before he sold the paper to me. Seeing my other line light up, I wished Ethel and her husband bon voyage.

The new call was from Ben. “Hey,” he said, “I think I’ll ask Adam to give the Christmas homily. He can soak the C&Eers for the home missions with a second collection. They’ll all feel guilty anyway, so they might want to bribe their way to heaven.”

C&Eers were Catholics who came to Mass only for Christmas and Easter, the two biggest feast days on the church calendar. “Good thinking,” I replied. “How’s everything at the rectory?”

“A-twitter,” Ben said. “Annie Jeanne is scurrying around like a mouse in a cheese shop. She’s invited Genevieve Bayard for dinner tonight so they can have a long one-on-one visit.”

“That sounds sweet,” I remarked. “Does that mean you won’t get dinner?”

“I’m being treated this evening by Bernie and Patsy Shaw,” Ben said. “They’re taking me to the ski lodge. Bernie’s probably going to try to sell me insurance.”

“Do you have any?”

“No. Why should I?” Ben chuckled. “I’d end up leaving it to you or Adam, and neither of you needs it.”

“Gee, thanks,” I retorted. “Have you forgotten that if it weren’t for Don, my former fiancé, and his Boeing insurance policy, I wouldn’t have been able to buy the
Advocate
?”

“That was a fluke,” Ben scoffed. “The poor guy forgot to change the beneficiary when you dumped him.”

“So? I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t.”

“I thought you didn’t always like being here. In a small town, I mean.”

I paused. “Well . . .” I paused again. “I definitely miss the city.”

“Who doesn’t?” Ben responded. “I haven’t lived in a city for almost thirty years.”

“I know.” I looked up to see Leo standing in the doorway with an ad mock-up in his hand. “I have to get back to work, Big Bro. Say hi to the Shaws. And tell Annie Jeanne to enjoy her little dinner party with Gen.”

“Oh, she will,” Ben assured me.

Ben was wrong. His crystal ball was already clouded by a deadly shadow from the past.

FOUR

When I got home that evening, Vida had left a message on my answering machine. “I’m staying with Beth another day. She isn’t able to drive, so I have to pick up the children from school. I do hate to miss deadline tomorrow, but I’m afraid I must ask you—or Scott—to write up whatever has to go into this week’s paper. Now if you’ll look on my desk, you’ll see that I’ve already done . . .”

It was a long message, instructing me about the holdover features, the recipe file, the gardening tips, the helpful hints, and all the other fillers that Vida used for her section. “As for ‘Scene,’ ” she concluded, “I must apologize for not having any items myself. I’m sure that you and the rest of the staff can come up with enough to fill the column.”

The call had come through at three-oh-nine. Vida had purposely phoned me at home when she knew I wouldn’t be there. I considered calling her back, but since she had hung up on me during our last conversation, it appeared that she didn’t want to talk to me. I grew more curious than ever.

Thus, I didn’t dial Beth’s number in Tacoma. Instead, I poured myself a bourbon and water, got out my laptop, and went to work. I could write Ethel Pike’s story from memory, though I’d have to fill in her children’s and grandchildren’s names later. Vida could handle the follow-up article when the Pikes returned next week. On a big-city daily, only celebrities were given such coverage; in a small town, Ethel and Bickford Pike’s itinerary made headlines.

I was also able to type up most of the article about Genevieve Bayard’s welcome-home party. I should, however, set up an appointment with her for an interview sometime tomorrow.

Maybe she hadn’t yet left for her dinner at the rectory. I dialed the Bayards’ home number, and hoped I wouldn’t get Buddy. I didn’t want him hanging up on me again, either.

Luckily, Roseanna answered. She sounded pleasant enough, albeit a bit harried. Her mother-in-law was still there, changing her clothes for the dinner with Annie Jeanne Dupré. Roseanna summoned Gen to the phone, explaining first who I was and what I wanted.

“I’m flattered,” Genevieve Bayard replied in a silky, if wary, voice. “After all, I’ve been away from Alpine for many years. Who cares about an old battle-axe like me?”

“I do,” I replied. “I’ve heard you’re not old, and no one has suggested you’re a battle-axe. Returning Alpiners always make news, even if it’s only for a visit. When can we get together tomorrow? Tuesday is our deadline for the Wednesday edition.”

Gen hesitated. In the background, I heard Roseanna call to her. “Midafternoon would be best,” Gen said into my ear. “My daughter-in-law just reminded me that we’re going to visit some old friends in Index for lunch. The Briers, John and Jessica. Do you know them?”

The name rang a faint bell. Vida could tell me.
If
she was around. “I associate the name with logging,” I said.

“Yes, John was in the logging business for many years, as were his father and grandfather before him. But nowadays . . .” Gen’s voice drifted away. There was no need to explain. The timber industry was in decline, and had been for an entire generation. Work in the woods was hard to find: The vocation was no longer handed down from generation to generation.

“Two o’clock would be fine,” I put in. “Would you like to stop by the office?”

“Well—if you don’t mind, could you come to Buddy and Roseanna’s house?” Gen asked. “Actually, two-thirty would be better. We wouldn’t want to rush our visit with John and Jessica. I’m sure you understand.”

I did. The interview shouldn’t take long, nor would it require more than fifteen minutes to write the story. I’d send Scott, who could also take a photo. But I didn’t dare say so to Gen, lest Buddy get wind of it and pitch another five-star fit.

“Two-thirty is fine,” I said. I didn’t add that I wouldn’t be there. My excuse would be the looming deadline, which wasn’t a lie.

“I really must dash,” Gen said. “Annie Jeanne’s expecting me at six. She’s always been so prompt. I’m sure dinner will be on the table the minute I arrive.”

I wished Gen bon appétit, and rang off. Finishing my drink and a rough draft of the BCTC story shortly before six-thirty, I studied the contents of the fridge. Nothing inspired me. I took a can of oyster stew, a can of sliced peaches, and some soda crackers out of the cupboard. No frills for Emma. No ski lodge, no Annie Jeanne, certainly no Le Gourmand.

On the other hand, I love oysters in any form. I managed to slurp down my supper in less than ten minutes. I was closing the dishwasher a few minutes after seven when the phone rang. Vida? Not likely. Milo? Doubtful. Adam? Possibly. I picked up the receiver from the kitchen counter and said hello.

It was Ben. My immediate reaction was to wonder why he wasn’t at the ski lodge with the Shaws. But it took only the tone of his voice to tell me that something was amiss.

“Emma?” he said, sounding shaken. “A terrible thing has happened.”

I panicked. To Ben? To Adam? I thought I could hear a sharp wailing noise in the background. “What?” I asked, breathless.

“Genevieve Bayard just died. She collapsed at the dinner table.” His voice was hushed, though it grew in strength as he spoke. “I anointed her, but she was already dead. Doc Dewey is on his way, as are the usual medical personnel. I’ve also called the sheriff.”

“The sheriff?” I was stunned. “Why?”

Ben’s voice dropped even lower. “I want to cover all the bases. A sudden death at the rectory could cause scandal. Got to run. Annie Jeanne is in a state of collapse.”

For once, I hadn’t changed clothes when I arrived home. Making sure that the stove was turned off, I grabbed my purse and my winter jacket before heading out to the carport. This was news, but that wasn’t my first concern. This was Ben calling, and he needed me. I drove to St. Mildred’s so fast that I forgot to turn on the windshield wipers. Fortunately, the rain wasn’t heavy and traffic was light.

Approaching the church, I saw the flashing red lights of the emergency vehicles—one fire truck, one aid car. Pulling into the parking lot, I recognized Doc Dewey’s black Volvo. I guessed that while Genevieve Bayard was beyond help, Annie Jeanne Dupré wasn’t. Fortunately, the hospital was catty-corner from the church. There was no sign of Milo Dodge’s Grand Cherokee.

The rectory door was wide open. So was the door to the parlor. I could hear moans and groans, apparently coming from Annie Jeanne. Ben, Doc Dewey, Del Amundson, and two firefighters blocked my view.

Not wanting to interfere, I kept my distance. The kitchen and the small dining room were down the hall, past Ben’s study. I stepped back a few paces. Vic Thorstensen, another medic, was coming toward me from the rear of the rectory.

“You don’t intend to take pictures, do you?” he asked without preamble.

“No,” I replied, having forgotten—as usual—to bring a camera. “Why?”

Vic gestured over his shoulder toward the dining room. “It’s kind of messy in there.”

I assumed he meant that Gen had thrown up—or worse—before she died. “What was it?” I asked. “A heart attack?”

Vic shrugged. “That’s what it looks like. Del and I tried to revive her, but she was too far gone. I’m wondering if we could’ve saved her if Annie Jeanne had called for help right away.”

I was taken aback. “She didn’t?”

Vic shook his head. “I get the impression she went to pieces and was running around like a chicken with her head cut off. Your brother didn’t know anything had happened until he came out of his quarters to go someplace. Annie Jeanne was huddled in a corner, shaking and blubbering like a baby. Doc’s sending her to the hospital. Frankly, I always thought she was kind of daffy.”

I felt I should defend Annie Jeanne, even if it meant stretching the truth. “She’s not daffy. She’s merely excitable. It’s because of her musical talent; it’s artistic temperament.” Vic was a Lutheran who wouldn’t know the difference, probably never having had to endure Annie Jeanne’s boxing-glove punishment of the organ. “Besides,” I added, “her oldest and dearest friend died right before her eyes. That must have been horrible.” I suppressed a shudder; I ought to know.

“Yeah,” Vic responded, “I guess I should cut her some slack. Where are those two nuns?”

Sister Mary Joan and Sister Clare shared a small condo across the street. The convent had burned down years ago, and was never rebuilt because of the scarcity of vocations. “For all I know, they’re at the movies,” I said after filling him in on their place of residence.

Vic cocked an eyebrow. “The Whistling Marmot’s showing
Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
”

“So?”

“I didn’t know nuns went to movies, let alone ones with violence and raw—” He stopped and looked beyond me. “Ah. Here comes the long arm of the law.”

I turned to see Milo loping through the open door. He nodded abruptly at Vic and me before going into the parlor. My curiosity got the better of me, but first I dialed Scott’s number. He’d recently moved in permanently with his fiancée, Tamara Rostova, who taught at the community college. Scott answered on the third ring. I asked him to grab his camera and come to St. Mildred’s.

When I started to move into the parlor, I was forced to backtrack. Vic, Del, and Doc Dewey were putting a subdued Annie Jeanne on a gurney. After they tucked her in, Doc gave me one of his kindly smiles. Like his father before him, he was of the old school. He even made house calls. I gave them plenty of room as the medics wheeled Annie Jeanne away. Doc was right at her side, holding an IV bag aloft. The firefighters also trooped toward the exit.

“We’ll be back in ten minutes,” Del called over his shoulder to Ben, who had joined me in the hallway.

“No rush,” Milo said from the parlor doorway. He was dressed in his civvies—blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. “Okay,” he said, after the others had left, “Gen Bayard’s in the dining room?”

Ben nodded. “They’d just finished eating. Or at least that’s what I got out of Annie Jeanne. She was pretty damned incoherent.”

I lagged a bit behind my brother and the sheriff. I’d seen too many dead people in my time, but I hadn’t yet grown the callous shell that protected other journalists.

A third firefighter was standing by, but he excused himself when he saw the sheriff. Milo bent down by the body, which was lying next to an overturned chair. I couldn’t see Gen’s face, only the tinted blond hair. She lay in an awkward position, as if she had died in agony. There was nothing gruesome about the sight, but the smell made me feel slightly nauseous—a combination of roasted meat, something very sweet, and sickness. Moving closer to Ben, I swallowed hard.

Milo stood up. “Her color’s really bad. Doc thinks it was a heart attack?”

“That’s his offhand guess,” Ben replied. “He wants a good look before he signs off on the death certificate.”

The sheriff got down on his knees, taking a close look at Gen’s face. “Doc’s cautious,” Milo said slowly, “so he’ll check with Buddy to see if his mother had a history of heart trouble.”

Ben slapped at his forehead. “I haven’t called them yet. I’ll do that now.” He left the dining room.

I wandered into the kitchen. Milo followed me.

“What’re you looking for?” he asked, hands jammed into his pockets.

I hadn’t realized I was looking for anything. “Who knows? I’m a professional snoop, remember?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe I just want to see if Annie Jeanne has been keeping my brother well nourished.”

“He looks fine,” Milo remarked. “It’s good to see him. He’s a solid guy for a priest.”

I shot Milo a dirty look. “He’d be a solid guy if he were a sheriff. We come from solid stock.” I waved a hand at the dirty pots and pans in the sink and on the counters. Bowls and measuring cups and spoons and spatulas littered the counters. Two soiled dinner plates were perched precariously on a butcher block in the middle of the room. “Annie Jeanne makes quite a mess when she cooks. I assume she keeps the rest of the place clean.”

“Father Den never complained, did he?” Milo looked thoughtful. “Den’s a good guy, too. I guess Alpine got lucky when it comes to priests.”

I assumed the sheriff alluded to the sexual scandals that had been wracking the church. “Most priests are decent, holy men. How many nonpriests have you arrested over the years for misconduct?”

Milo chuckled. “At least four Boy Scout leaders, three camp counselors, and a couple of teachers. Not to mention the assorted nonprofessionals, who probably number a few dozen.” He paused, gazing at a half-eaten cheesecake on the counter. “Mmm. Chocolate cheesecake. That’s a great favorite of mine. It looks homemade.”

“It is,” I said dryly. “That’s why it’s still in the pan.”

“Funny Emma.” Milo, of course, wasn’t laughing. “Roast chicken,” he went on, pointing to a couple of small carcasses in the garbage can. “Kind of little, aren’t they?”

“They’re Cornish game hens,” I said. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”

The hazel eyes threw me a sharp look. “Yeah, in fact, you have. But it wasn’t anything about chickens.”

I ignored the remark. “What are we waiting for?”

Milo looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. “Just in case, Dwight’s coming by to take some pictures.”

“So’s Scott,” I replied, “but I’m not sure what of. I’m trying to think what we could run in the paper that wouldn’t look morbid.” I glanced toward the dining room. “Maybe after they remove Gen’s body, Scott can shoot the dining room table. Gen’s Last Supper. Or is that too ghoulish?”

“Not for me,” Milo said, “but I’m not your average sensitive reader.”

Looking grim and still holding his cell phone, Ben entered the kitchen. “I got hold of Buddy,” he said. “He’s pretty shaken up. I told him it’d be better if he and Roseanna waited until Gen was taken to Driggers Funeral Home.”

The phone rang in Ben’s hand. Milo and I kept quiet while Ben responded. “Yes. . . . You’re certain of that. . . . It’s up to you, of course. . . . No, they’re not back yet. . . . Fine, I’ll tell them.” Ben clicked off. “That was Buddy. He doesn’t want his mother sent directly to the mortuary. He says Gen has never had any heart problems and just had a complete physical a month ago over in Spokane. Buddy wants a full autopsy.”