The Alpine Recluse (17 page)

At exactly five o’clock, I left my stuffy cubbyhole and walked out into the bright sunshine. The Alpine Building is directly across Front Street, but I was sweating when I arrived at the gallery. Donna had just put up the
OPEN
sign and unlocked the door for me.

“You came,” she said, apparently surprised.

“I wanted to.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but of course I should have been on my way to Seattle to meet Rolf. “Everything looks very elegant.” That much was true. Donna had an artistic eye. The space was small, no bigger than my living room, but she had managed to make the most of it without a sense of clutter. There were the expected mountain and forest paintings, some abstract works, a couple of gorgeous vases, sculptures done in various media, and jewelry. What caught my eye was a river scene, with dark green water tumbling over boulders gilded by the sun.

“That’s very nice,” I said, pointing to the painting.

“It’s called
Sky Autumn,
” Donna said. “It’s my favorite, too.”

I read the label attached to a corner of the painting. The artist’s name was Craig Laurentis and the price was five hundred dollars. “Is he local?” I asked.

Donna shook her head. “Not really. That is, he doesn’t live in Alpine. I have two more of his paintings in storage and one that’s already been sold. The couple who bought it are from Monroe. They’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

I’m a sucker for rivers. Others may prefer seascapes, or just watching the surf at the ocean. But for me, the tide goes in—and the tide goes out. It just keeps doing that, and I get bored. Rivers are unpredictable, from sudden surging floods to lazy ripples over rocky beds. Rivers turn color, from brown to blue to gray to black to green. They change course; they cut new channels; they go wherever they will. Maybe it’s that sense of reckless freedom that appeals to my inherently cautious nature.

“This Laurentis has really captured the feeling of a river,” I said. “It looks like you could touch the water and get wet.”

“Do you want to see the two I have in storage?” Donna asked.

“Rivers?”

“One river, one waterfall,” she replied. “Craig paints only scenes from this side of the Cascades. I’ll be right back.”

While she was gone, I studied some of the other works. Two or three were done by locals, including Nina Mullins, Deputy Jack’s wife. I had no idea Nina painted, but she didn’t do it very well. It was no wonder that the asking price was only fifty dollars. Her rendition of a red barn in a snow-covered field was amateurish, even to my untrained eye.

The two vases, however, were a different matter. Both were tall and graceful, with cherry blossoms around the rim. One was pink, the other white. The price made me reel: Each one cost nine hundred dollars. I didn’t know the artist, whose name was Anton Kublik.

“Who’s this?” I asked when Donna reappeared.

“A Colorado glassmaker,” Donna replied. “He’s a Nordic skier, and stopped by last winter on his way to Stevens Pass. He showed me some pictures of his work and asked if he could send a couple of items. I was thrilled. I’ve already sold one to a couple from Everett. It’s surprising how many western artists want to exhibit their wares in small-town galleries. At least, the ones that get some tourist trade.”

Carefully, Donna removed the protective packaging from the Laurentis paintings. The waterfall was a spring freshet that could have tumbled down the slopes of Highway 2. The earth was a rich, damp brown, after a heavy rain.

“Lovely,” I said.

The second picture was even more vigorous. A river poured white water through a narrow canyon, sweeping an uprooted cedar on its crest. It was Nature on the rampage, an unstoppable force that the artist had captured so realistically that I could almost feel the spray as river struck rock.

“I’d wear hip boots if I owned that one,” I said. “But it’s quite stunning.”

“These just came in this week,” Donna explained. “I’ll leave them out now and set them up. Craig wasn’t sure he wanted me to have them, but I talked him into it. All of the works I have are of the Sky—or along it, in the case of the waterfall. I’ll say this for him—he’s loyal.”

“But not from here?”

“No. In fact, I’ve never met him. We handle everything by e-mail. I think he lives in Monroe or around there someplace. The paintings are always sent from there.”

“Interesting. So you don’t have him hovering over you telling you how to display his works?”

Donna shrugged. “Half of the works I show are by out-of-towners. The other half are locals, or at least summer people. Frankly, we don’t have many truly good artists in Alpine, although there are a couple of promising students at the college.”

My gaze returned to
Sky Autumn.
“I really like that. I’ve had Monet’s water lilies in my living room forever. I like it, but this is so evocative of the area.” I grimaced. “Can I think about it?”

Donna laughed. “Most people do. I never encourage people to buy art on impulse. My husband’s always loved paintings, but he’s bought at least three over the years that are now in the garage. It was love at first sight, and complete loathing after he hung them up at home. That’s how I got interested in opening the gallery. I didn’t want him making any more mistakes.”

“Five hundred dollars,” I murmured. “That’s a serious investment for a poor newspaper person.”

“I know.” Donna looked sympathetic. “Steve’s high school math teacher’s salary doesn’t go very far, either. That’s why I still run the day care. As for the gallery, I figure if I can pay the rent, I’m doing okay.”

I nodded. “I’d better be going. By the way, you haven’t had any more thoughts about Tim and Tiffany, have you?”

She shook her head. “Frankly, I try not to think about them.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Tiffany’s lucky she didn’t lose the baby,” Donna said. “That happened to me when Art was killed. Of course, I was only six weeks along, but his death triggered the miscarriage. Or so I’ve always felt.”

I hadn’t known that. “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that Donna and Tiffany had more in common than I realized. Both had been widowed young, and their husbands had died violently. “Tiffany seems to be holding up pretty well, all things considered.”

“Maybe she’s tougher than she looks.” Donna’s expression was enigmatic. “Let me know if you want the painting. The best time to call me at home is early afternoon. Most of my charges take naps then.”

I thanked her and said we’d be in touch.

But I could hardly take my eyes off of
Sky Autumn.
In my mind, it followed me out of the Alpine Building. It seemed to speak to me.

It would take me some time to find out what the painting was trying to say.

THIRTEEN

I
JUST HAD
time to go home and change into something that didn’t reek of perspiration. By the time I got to the ski lodge it was ten after six. Beth Rafferty hadn’t arrived yet, but the hostess who had replaced Heather Bardeen Bavich showed me to a corner table.

The Norse gods and goddesses who stood guard over the dining room looked blessedly cool. As I waited, I kept thinking about
Sky Autumn.
I could hardly do much else, given that the ski lodge’s décor is forest and streams and waterfalls. Maybe the painting was meant for me. Or, possibly having lost a lover, I wanted to replace him with a live-in extravagance that didn’t require care and coddling. It would be better, I supposed, than changing my hair color as many women seem to do when they break up with the man in their lives.

Beth appeared, looking tired and hot. Her blond hair clung damply to her fair skin.

“I should’ve changed,” she said, allowing the hostess to seat her. “But then I’d have been late. It was awfully nice of you to invite me.”

I shrugged. “I felt remiss about not talking to you this morning.”

Beth smiled grimly. “Better to talk where liquor’s available. Unlike you Catholics, the Lutherans don’t allow alcohol on church premises.”

“I’ve never understood that,” I admitted. “Jesus’s first miracle was changing water into wine at his mother’s urging. I assume Mary wanted to see the good times roll. It was a wedding, probably family, and she didn’t want the host to look cheap. It was a small town; think how people would carp and criticize.” A small town like Alpine—where even now Beth and I were attracting covert glances.
Sister of murder victim dining with newspaper editor. What can it mean?

Beth looked pensive. “Goodness, I never thought about the Bible story that way. In fact, I guess I’ve never thought about it much at all.”

I smiled. “Father Kelly is very bright, but that’s part of the problem. His sermons tend to be intellectual exercises. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a Jesuit. In any event, sometimes I drift during his homilies. That’s when I mull over the readings.”

“Our parents never took us to church,” Beth said. “At least, not very often. Christmas and Easter, sometimes. We’d go to whichever church had the best choir.”

“That probably wasn’t St. Mildred’s,” I replied dryly. “We’ve never attracted very good singers, and only recently have we had an organist who can play well.”

Our waitress, Becky Erdahl, came to take our orders. Beth requested a gin and tonic; I asked for a margarita. Scandinavian restaurant or not, it was summer, and a margarita sounded cool.

“I’m so sorry about your brother,” Becky said in a low voice. “He was here for dinner just last week.”

Beth looked surprised. “He was? I didn’t think Tim and Tiff ate out that often.”

Becky is the daughter of Ione Erdahl, who owns the local children’s store and had been the unfortunate victim of Alfred Cobb’s crash landing in her lap at the library. “Tiff wasn’t with Tim,” Becky said. “He came with his father-in-law.”

Beth looked puzzled. “With Wayne Eriks?”

“Yes, Tiff’s dad.” Becky suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “I’d better get your drink orders in. The bar is beginning to get busy.” She hurried away.

I waited for Beth to say something, but she was studying the specials on the menu. “Were Tim and Wayne close?” I finally asked in what I hoped was a casual voice.

Beth put the menu aside. “No,” she said frankly. “They never bonded, not even after all the years that Tim and Tiff were together. I suppose it was because Wayne was old-fashioned and didn’t believe in couples living together without a marriage license.” She laughed scornfully. “I couldn’t wait to get married—and after six months, I wished I had. I was too young, so was my ex. We’d have been better off living together to find out we couldn’t really stand each other.”

“So you find it odd that Tim and Wayne had dinner together?”

“Oh . . .” Beth’s gaze roamed around the dining room’s beamed ceiling. “I guess not. Maybe Wayne decided it was time to give Tim some fatherly advice about raising kids.”

Her face seemed to shut down. I decided to change the subject. “How is your mother?” I inquired.

“Pitiful,” Beth answered. “She used to be so spunky. She’s tiny, you know, but she had to be tough to stand up to Dad. He could give her a bad time when he’d had a few too many.” She shook her head. “That’s the flip side of putting pottery bowls on your head, I guess.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “Drinking isn’t funny when people overdo it.”

“The Irish, you know,” she said with an ironic expression.

“It’s a cliché, of course.” Tom Cavanaugh hadn’t been a big drinker. “Tim wasn’t a big boozer, was he?”

Beth frowned. By coincidence, our own cocktails arrived. Beth waited to answer until Becky was out of earshot. “He drank more than he should have. Being in the bartending business causes that, I think.” She tapped her glass. “I keep to one drink, just enough to take off the edge.”

I raised my glass. “To Tim.”

“Tim,” Beth echoed, a hint of tears in the single syllable. We tapped glasses. “He wasn’t an alcoholic. Don’t get me wrong. Maybe I overreact because our dad went on the occasional bender.”

“Sometimes alcoholism is hereditary,” I remarked. “That is,” I added hastily, “I’m not saying your father was . . .”

Beth waved a hand. “I know what you mean. But Dad only drank on paydays. Unfortunately.”

“How’s Tiffany? She seemed to be making it through the funeral.”

“Oh, yes.” Beth sighed. “Maybe it hasn’t hit her yet. That’s just as well.”

“She’s very wrapped up in the baby,” I noted.

Beth sipped her drink. “Isn’t she, though? I’ve never had children, so I don’t know how you’re supposed to act.”

“Everyone is different.” I’d not only been sick as a dog, but frantic. If Ben hadn’t insisted I join him down on the Mississippi Delta, I don’t know what I would have done. Except, of course, that I’d have done whatever it took. I supposed that Tiffany would do the same. “I hope she hadn’t bought a lot of expensive baby things.”

“A few,” Beth said. “She was waiting for the showers. I think she’d gotten a crib and a stroller and some newborn clothes. Luckily she stored them at her parents’ house.”

“That
was
lucky,” I agreed. “How come?”

Beth shrugged. “I guess she didn’t have room until she put the nursery together. Tiff’s not terribly organized. Of course, she has plenty of time.”

“Yes.” I didn’t say anything for a few moments. Beth again studied the menu. Something was wrong about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Finally, the word came to mind: dispassionate. I was sure that she was mourning for Tim. Yet when I thought about how I’d feel if something had happened to Ben, I’d be a wreck. I certainly wouldn’t be going out to dinner with a mere acquaintance the evening after his funeral. I probably wouldn’t even go out with a close friend.

It occurred to me that maybe Beth didn’t have friends. So many people don’t. I could count but three—Vida, Milo, and my old buddy from the
Oregonian,
Mavis, who still lived in Portland. Perhaps Beth was looking for a friend. Perhaps that’s why she was here, sitting across the table from me, scanning the menu, but—I decided—not actually reading it. Most would-be diners made comments: “Oh, good, fresh halibut” or “What’s with this
white
salmon?” Beth said nothing.

“The sheriff’s office has been undergoing some changes lately,” I remarked. “That must be kind of hard.”

Beth eyed me curiously. “You mean the addition of Doe Jameson?”

“Well—yes. Sometimes men—especially macho types like the deputies—aren’t keen on working with a woman.”

Beth gave a little shake of her head. “Dwight complains about everybody and everything. But even he hasn’t criticized Doe much since she started working. I think she’s fitting in quite well. She’s a real no-nonsense type. If I wanted someone covering my back, I wouldn’t hesitate having her do it.”

“That’s good to know,” I said, traveling a circuitous route to my destination. “I guess it was Toni who was having some problems.”

Beth smiled wryly. “Toni’s used to being the office princess. The approval of men is very important to her. She doesn’t like the competition. Not that Toni and Doe are at all alike. To be honest, I don’t get mixed up in office politics. I stay in my little dungeon and keep away from all that. I have to keep focused.”

I didn’t respond. Having had to supervise interns occasionally on the
Oregonian,
I’d been forced to attend a workshop on managerial skills. One of the few I remembered regarded listening responses. Saying nothing at all was supposed to coerce the speaker into revealing more than he or she had intended.

It didn’t seem to work. Beth announced she wasn’t very hungry. That was hardly the revelation I’d hoped for. “I’ll have the crab cakes on the starter menu and a small salad.”

“I’ll bet you haven’t eaten much all day,” I said. Indeed, neither had I, but my appetite seemed to have returned. “You need to keep up your strength.”

“I munched a bit at the reception,” Beth said.

“You also worked this afternoon,” I pointed out. “You’ve had a long, exhausting day.”

“I’ll be fine.” Beth looked up as Becky approached again.

“Another round? Or would you like to order?” she asked. A pert blonde a few pounds overweight, Becky was typical of Alpine’s younger waitresses, who all seemed to be fair-haired and of Scandinavian descent. I’d often wondered if those qualities were a job requirement at the local eateries.

“We can order,” I said. “I’ll have the smoked salmon platter and a Caesar salad on the side.”

Beth made her request. Becky nodded, but instead of walking away, she leaned closer to Beth. “I meant to tell you, my mother feels bad about that call she made to you a week or so ago.”

Beth looked puzzled. “What call?”

Becky blushed. “Maybe she didn’t give her name. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Never mind.” Uttering an embarrassed giggle, she hurried off.

“Ione Erdahl called 911?” I said.

Beth looked stony-faced. “I don’t remember.”

Ione lived on Fifth Street, between Fir and Spruce, just around the corner from Edna Mae Dalrymple. And a stone’s throw from the Rafferty property in the cul-de-sac. I was convinced that Beth definitely remembered the call.

“I thought you had a memory like Vida’s,” I said lightly. “Milo told me once that you had just about everybody’s address in Alpine memorized.”

Beth didn’t look at me. She removed the napkin from her lap and put it on the table. “I’m not feeling well. I’m sorry, Emma. I’ve got to go.” She fumbled for her purse and began pushing back her chair.

“Beth!” I spoke sharply, but softly, aware that we were being watched by several of the other customers. “Let me help you.”

Beth shook her head. “No. No, I don’t need help.” She scrambled to her feet and all but ran from the restaurant.

I swore under my breath. I could chase her, but that would cause a scene. Becky was at a nearby table, waiting on two of Vida’s sisters-in-law, Mary Lou Blatt and Nell Blatt. Both women had married Vida’s brothers and had been on poor terms with her for years. I didn’t want to draw any further attention and create a gossip fest that inevitably would involve Vida. I waited until Becky had left their table.

Luckily, Becky saw me wave. “I’m afraid Beth suddenly became ill,” I explained. “The strain, you know. Can you cancel her order and make mine to go?” Having been dumped by Rolf and now by Beth, I didn’t feel like eating alone at a table for two.

Becky clenched her fists. “I knew it! I shouldn’t have said anything about Mom calling 911! But I feel so bad about Tim, and Mom has been having a fit ever since he died!”

“Why is that?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

Becky struggled for composure. The couple at the next table—thankfully unknown to me—were discreetly gazing at us. “I can’t say. Honest.” Her plump features contorted with distress. “Ask Mom. God, she’s going to be so mad at me!” She smoothed the skirt of her apron with its blue and white Norwegian snowflake pattern. “In fact, please don’t say anything to her. It’ll only make it worse.”

“Wait, Becky,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

But she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Honest. Let me cancel Beth’s order and get yours to go. Excuse me.” She moved away almost as quickly as Beth had done.

Annoyed, I finished my drink and waited. Not patiently. Mary Lou and Nell had noticed me and were staring. I waved. They waved back. They must have noticed Beth’s departure. Neither of them was as curious as Vida, but they were equally opinionated and strong-minded, which was why my House & Home editor had never gotten along with her sisters-in-law.

They had turned back to each other. I knew they were talking about me—and Beth. Not to mention Tim and Tiffany and her parents and the Parkers and whoever else was connected to the tragedy. No doubt everybody in the restaurant—except the out-of-towners—were also chattering about the homicide. I could sense the speculation clinging to the air, along with the Edvard Grieg sonata for cello and piano that played in the background.

I decided not to wait for Becky to deliver my meal and the bill. Beth’s bill, too, I realized, though I’d only have to pay for her cocktail. As soon as I reached the desk, Becky appeared, carrying a takeout box featuring a Viking ship motif.

“I can’t tell you how bad I feel about upsetting Beth,” Becky said in a low voice. “I ruined dinner for both of you. Never mind the bill. It’s on the house.”

“Nonsense,” I declared, opening my handbag and taking out two twenty-dollar bills. “I insist,” I said, pressing them into Becky’s hand. “You can’t blame yourself for Beth’s behavior.”

Reluctantly, she took the money. “Gee, Emma, that’s really nice of you. That’s more than enough. Don’t you want change?”

I shook my head. The only change I wanted was to see some progress in finding out who killed Tim Rafferty. Still, I’d seen a big change come over Beth, and I wondered how it might help find a solution to her brother’s murder.