The Alpine Recluse (25 page)

“I’m not.” She dumped the carton on the kitchen table. “Ooof! That’s heavier than I thought it was.”

The unmarked carton was sealed with strapping tape. “What’s in it?” I asked, wondering if I should listen to see if the damned thing ticked.

“I’m not sure,” Toni said in her vague manner. “Baseball stuff. Tim asked me to keep it for him. I don’t care about baseball, but I hate to throw it away. I’d have asked Sheriff Dodge to store it—I know he’s a sports fan—but he’s mad at me. Then I thought of you.”

“I see.” But I wasn’t quite sure what I meant. “When did Tim give this to you?”

Toni shrugged. “I forget. Last spring? Around Easter, maybe.”

Easter. April. The opening of baseball season. “Did Tim say why he wanted you to keep this box?”

“He wanted it to be in a safe place,” Toni replied.

“It wasn’t safe at his house?”

“I guess not,” Toni replied, then looked at me as if I were the one who was short on brain cells. “It wouldn’t have been, would it?”

I thought she meant the fire. But I didn’t think that was what Tim had been trying to say.

“Maybe,” Toni went on, “I’ll figure out what to do with it after I get settled in Fairbanks. I’ll let you know.” She started for the back door, but stopped. “The thing is, Tim said if Tiffany had a boy, he wanted him to have what’s in the box.”

I gave Toni my best impersonation of an investigative reporter’s stare. “Why don’t you give it to Tiffany?”

Toni looked faintly exasperated. “Because,” she responded in a tone that suggested she really was dealing with a nitwit, “Tiff would have thrown the box away. That’s why he gave it to me in the first place, don’t you see?”

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

That’s what I’d been wondering all along.

T
ONI LEFT
. I gazed at the carton for about ten seconds before I got out my kitchen shears and cut the strapping tape. Inside, the items were safely preserved in varieties of plastic: a baseball signed by members of the 1995 Mariners’ team that had played for the pennant; scorecards autographed by Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Edgar Martinez, and Randy Johnson; a full-color poster signed by Chris Bosio commemorating his 1993 no-hitter; two fielders gloves, one bearing Jay Buhner’s autograph, another with Ichiro Suzuki’s signature in English and in Japanese; an album of baseball cards in mint condition, most signed by all-star players from all over the major leagues—Derek Jeter, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, Curt Schilling, Roger Clemens, Cal Ripken Jr., and many, many more. There were signed photos, autographed game programs, and even a few roster cards with the players’ names written in by several famous managers.

I had no idea how much these items were worth on eBay. Maybe none of them individually would bring in more than a few hundred dollars. But taken altogether, the collection was probably worth several thousand. Yet, from what I understood, Tim hadn’t tried to sell many of these treasures. Suddenly I could imagine Tiffany, pregnant, standing on her feet for long shifts at the Grocery Basket, berating her husband for not cashing in. And threatening to destroy his beloved souvenirs in retribution.

As a woman, I felt sorry for Tiffany. As a baseball fan, I sided with Tim. I wished he’d collected coins. Then I wouldn’t have been torn.

But while my emotions might be in conflict, my brain was not. The collectibles legally belonged to Tiffany. I should turn them over to her as soon as I got the chance. Whether she had a boy or a girl, the child should inherit the father’s belongings. Besides, lots of women—like me—loved baseball.

I closed the box and resealed it. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I would’ve pored over each item. Tomorrow I’d take the collection to the Erikses’ house. Maybe.

The storm seemed to have passed. I hadn’t heard thunder or seen lightning for the past half hour. So far, there was no sign of rain. I started into the bathroom to get ready for bed when the blasted phone rang. I was tempted to let it trunk over to the answering machine, but shuffled back into the living room and picked up the receiver on the fourth ring.

“Emma?”

I didn’t recognize the agonized voice at the other end of the line. “Yes?”

“Can you come over? Please?”

It was Beth Rafferty, speaking almost in a whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything. Please come. I don’t know who else to call.”

Desperation seeped from every syllable. “I . . .” Taking a deep breath, I resumed speaking. “I’ll be right over.” I was already getting my car keys out of my purse. “Can you at least tell me what’s going on?”

“It’s . . . a . . . confession. I must see you before I call the sheriff.”

She hung up.

Even as I drove to Beth’s house, I wondered if calling the sheriff might not be a bad idea. I didn’t know what I was facing. Had Beth finally gone over the edge? Certainly the last few days, even weeks and months, had taken their toll on what had seemed to be a stable personality. I’d known other people who had cracked with less provocation.

But I’d kept her confidence before. I could do it one more time. I hoped. And prayed. Mostly for Beth.

The Rafferty house looked normal. Despite its own tragedies, it didn’t exude the aura of misery that I’d sensed when I’d gone to see the Eriks women earlier in the day.

Beth was waiting for me at the door. “Thank God, Emma,” she said in that same voice of muted desperation. “I was afraid you might not come.”

“I’m here,” I said, feeling wobbly. “What’s going on?”

Beth led me into the living room, where we sat down on the sofa. The surroundings were more tangibly poignant than the house itself. Several bouquets, probably from Tim’s funeral, were wilting. Dust covered all the surfaces, and a stack of unopened mail had toppled over from a side table onto the floor. Beth had closed the door behind us. All of the windows were shut tight and the drapes were drawn. The room smelled stale and unhealthy.

“I brought Mom home,” Beth said. She looked defiant. “Physically, she’s okay. Doc Dewey advised against it, but I couldn’t bear to put her back in the nursing home. Mom should be in her own environment right now.”

I was blunt. “Does she know the difference?”

“I think so.” Beth nodded. “She’s asleep. Doc gave me some pills for her. I’ll pick up the rest of her medication tomorrow.”

“You’re not going to work?”

Beth shook her head. “I can’t.” She looked away.

I waited. But Beth remained silent, her nervous fingers tracing circles on the sofa’s arm.

“You mentioned a confession on the phone,” I finally said, trying to keep my voice casual. “Did you refer to removing your mother from the nursing home?”

“No.” Beth still didn’t look at me. She shuddered, and I thought she was going to cry. But when she finally met my gaze, her eyes were dry. “I killed Tim.”

TWENTY-ONE

I
WAS STUNNED
. “You killed your own brother?” I gasped. “Beth, I can’t believe it!”

“It’s true.”

The simplicity of her words struck me like a strong wind. Maybe I should have been frightened. But I was too shocked to have room for fear.

“Why would you do such a thing?” I demanded. “You loved your brother. I know you did. What happened?”

“Let me explain.” She swallowed hard, but kept her voice down. “I knew that Tim and Tiff weren’t getting along, not after she got pregnant. Tiff had always been a whiner and she was spoiled. Her parents—her mother, anyway—doted on her after her brother was killed in that rafting accident. Tiff could do no wrong. And once she found out she was going to have a baby—which she’d wanted for years—her whole personality changed. In fact, it wasn’t unlike the way my mother’s did with Alzheimer’s. It’s chemical I gather, or hormonal, in Tiff’s case. She began to criticize Tim for everything. She even got physically abusive. When Ione Erdahl called 911 to report a disturbance at their house, I knew what was happening, but I couldn’t log it. I didn’t need to send a response; Tiff wasn’t strong enough to do any serious damage, and I . . . well, I figured Tim could defend himself without hurting her. I believed—I tried to believe—he could handle the situation, and that after she had the baby, Tiff would change.”

I wanted to mention Tim’s affair with Toni, but I couldn’t risk getting Beth sidetracked. I was still in shock over her admission of guilt. Beth was uncomfortable in more ways than one. She’d paused to shift her position on the sofa, making an effort to fold her hands and hold them steady in her lap.

When she spoke again, it wasn’t of Tiffany and Tim. “Visiting with Mom was so hard,” Beth lamented. “It was impossible to carry on a real conversation. I ran out of mundane things to say—not that it mattered. Then I started voicing my concerns about Tim and Tiff. It was like therapy, I suppose, just rambling on about how they weren’t getting along and the quarrels and the abuse. Mom didn’t seem to pay attention. She never made a comment. Her gaze was always far-off, and if she said anything, it was like, ‘Look at the bird out in that tree,’ or ‘I never did like popcorn.’ ”

Beth’s face suddenly crumpled. “How could I know?” she all but shouted.

I jumped. Until that moment, her voice had been so low and controlled, almost as if she was giving advice to a 911 caller. “Know what?” I asked.

“That she did understand . . . enough.” Beth had turned away again. “That she recognized a bad marriage and abuse. That a baby was on the way. And that’s why I might as well have killed Tim with my own hands.”

It took me a few seconds to understand what Beth was saying. “Your mother killed Tim?” It was incredible. I actually recoiled in horror. “Her own son?”

Beth held a hand to her forehead. “She thought it was my dad. She told me she’d finally stopped Liam. He’d never hurt anyone again.”

Footsteps nearby startled me out of my shock. Someone was coming down the hall from the bedroom. Either Beth didn’t hear anything or she didn’t care. She simply sat on the sofa, holding her head.

I got to my feet, heedless of the pain in my ankle. The only way out of the living room was through the hall. If Delia Rafferty was strong enough to wield a baseball bat, she might do anything. I’d confronted some dangerous people in my life, but never a crazed old lady who had no compunction about bashing in the head of the son she thought was her husband. What might she do to a virtual stranger?

I started to speak Beth’s name, but before I could say anything, Vida walked into the living room.

“There now,” she said in her usual brisk manner. “Your mother finally settled down.” Vida stared at me. “You really shouldn’t be here, Emma. You’re worn out. I could have handled this.”

My mouth was dry. I could hardly speak. “Beth asked me to come,” I finally said.

Warily, Beth looked at Vida. “Emma’s been a good friend. You have, too, Vida, but I . . .” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I should have told you, too.”

Vida looked faintly miffed. She wasn’t used to being a secondary confidante. “Yes, you should have. After all, I knew what your mother had done.”

Beth and I both stared at Vida. “How could you?” Beth asked in a breathless voice.

“It was the eggs.” Vida sat down in an armchair. “You know the old adage, ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking the eggs.’ Your mother rattled on about that, and I wondered why. Then she was obsessed with my hat and the eggs in the bird’s nest. It all dawned on me earlier this evening when Emma was at my house after the fire. Eggs are a fertility symbol, a sign of new birth. I called Margaret Peterson and asked if she knew what your mother was doing in the kitchen when she let the water boil over. Margaret thought she was trying to boil eggs. Delia not only wouldn’t have her meals in the dining room after that—unless you insisted—but she never ate eggs again.”

Beth seemed dazed. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand how her mind works, either,” Vida admitted. “But she associated eggs with babies. She knew there was going to be a new baby in the family—but she was confused. Maybe she thought she was having the baby. She didn’t want the baby—or the mother—to be abused in any way, not after what she’d gone through with your father in his drunken rages. Yes, she’d heard you talk about Tim and Tiffany and mention the word
abuse.
It all came back to her.”

Beth waved a hand at Vida. “I never told anyone but Emma about my father’s—”

“Beth!” Vida interrupted. “Do you think that people in this town didn’t know? Your neighbors heard quarrels. Your mother often had bruises. And sometimes your father did, too. We—well, at least
I
always wondered if she didn’t wait until he was asleep or passed out, and give him a few whacks in retribution. She was small, but strong. I suppose Tim left the door unlocked, or even open because of the hot weather and the fact that Tiffany would be home later that night. Your mother probably walked in, found Tim asleep, and thought he was Liam. There was a resemblance, of course. She picked up a baseball bat and—” Vida stopped and shrugged. “But my point is, your parents’ marital situation was no secret.”

There never were any secrets from Vida. Still, Beth looked puzzled. “I didn’t mention the conversations with Mom until just now.”

Vida blinked a couple of times behind her big glasses. “I know.”

Of course Vida had eavesdropped. She’d probably been in the hallway all along, but had quietly retraced her steps to make it sound as if she’d just arrived. My House & Home editor was a wizard when it came to learning secrets.

She spoke gently to Beth. “You knew your mother had gotten out of the nursing home that night, didn’t you?”

Beth nodded. “I’d gotten a call around ten. She’d gone to bed, but she wasn’t there when someone checked on her. She could get around quite well without the wheelchair, of course. She used it only because I guess she thought she was supposed to. And she had had several falls, even while she was still living here at home with me. Anyway, I got another call just before I heard about the fire—and Tim. Mom was back in bed. They didn’t know if she’d actually left the nursing home or had just been wandering around.”

Vida nodded. “She set the house on fire, I suppose.”

Beth sighed. “Yes. She must have. And the fire in the linen closet tonight. She was obsessed by fire. Her brother had been burned to death in a tank in Italy during the Second World War.”

“Ah. Of course,” Vida said. “She mentioned something about that when Emma and I visited her. His name was Tim. He’s listed on the Alpine war memorial. I’d forgotten. Of course, I was quite young at the time.”

We were silent for a couple of minutes. Beth was the first to speak again. “I suppose she’ll have to be put in another, more secure facility.”

“Yes,” Vida agreed. “You’ll have to tell Milo. Your mother certainly isn’t competent to stand trial.”

Beth shook her head. “No. She’s not.”

“You could wait until morning,” I said. “It won’t hurt Wayne to spend another night in jail. It’s already after eleven o’clock.”

But Beth balked. “I can’t let him do that. I’m calling the sheriff now. I want to do something right. I still blame myself for Tim’s death.”

“You mustn’t,” Vida asserted. “That’s foolish. You had no idea what your words would lead to.”

Beth didn’t look convinced. Maybe she never would be. As she reached for the phone on the end table, she glanced at me. “Would you mind checking on Mom?”

“I can do it,” Vida said, starting to get up.

“You’ve spent over an hour with her,” Beth said as she started to punch in the sheriff’s number. “You must be tired, too.”

“I’ll go,” I insisted. The truth was, I didn’t want to hear Beth’s painful admission to the sheriff.

The bedroom door was ajar. I opened it quietly and stepped over the threshold. A night-light was plugged into an outlet near the bed. I could see Delia’s small form under the covers, which moved ever so slightly with her regular breathing. I stepped closer. She was smiling in her sleep. Sitting next to her on an extra pillow was Vida’s bird’s nest hat. The eggs were safe.

A
FTER HIS RELEASE
from the county jail, Wayne Eriks had vowed to sue for false arrest. Milo managed to forestall him by threatening to charge him with impeding justice. The ploy worked, and Wayne finally told the truth. He hadn’t come home from work Monday night. Cookie was worried about him and called her parents. Dot and Durwood had rushed over to be with her, leaving Vida in the lurch.

Wayne explained that for most of the evening, he’d been drinking heavily at Mugs Ahoy, upset about the situation with Tiffany and Tim. The dinner at the ski lodge had not gone well between the in-laws. Wayne refused to believe Tim’s insistence that Tiffany was behaving in an abusive manner. Intending to take out his drunken frustration on Tim, Wayne discovered that the house was on fire. Sobering up in a hurry, he tried to get inside, and was burned in his efforts. Realizing it was hopeless, he left in a panic. When he got home and learned that Tim had been killed, Wayne suspected his daughter. Maybe Tim had been right after all. At least, that was his rationale for his phony report about seeing Old Nick by the football field. He wanted to shield Tiffany. Wayne and Cookie Eriks had had plenty of practice doing that over the years.

On Monday, we didn’t lack for news to fill the upcoming edition of the
Advocate.
The Rafferty story was a delicate matter, so I wrote it myself. There was no way to cover up Milo’s error in judgment in arresting Wayne. Nor could I do much about the terrible part that Delia had played except to be compassionate and explain the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease. Scott promised to do a series on early detection and ongoing research. Vida was going to write about support groups for family members and how to seek outside help.

There was other news, too, including an overturned double-wide trailer home near Deception Falls bridge, broken windows in the middle school, and a break-in at Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery Sunday night or early Monday morning. As usual, I let Scott handle those items, along with other, more minor police reports that had come in during the weekend. I’d call Donna later about the break-in, but assumed she kept no cash on hand after she closed up on the weekends.

I didn’t finish work until going on six. Clouds had gathered over the mountains, but the air remained heavy and oppressively warm. I’d had no word from Rolf Fisher. Still limping and very tired, I headed home to my empty log cabin. I’d left all the windows open to air the place out. No burglar in his right mind would break in anywhere during the heat of the day. I fretted that the hot weather could last into October. It had happened before. We used to call it Indian summer. Now the climate aberrations bore names such as the Pineapple Express. I called them Living in Hell.

I ate a ham and cheese sandwich and carrot sticks for dinner. It was still too hot to cook. There had been no messages on my answering machine. Around seven-thirty, I reached for the phone on the kitchen counter. I had to apologize to Rolf. I missed him. I liked him. I could even learn to love him. But love seemed to come with a high price tag these days. When love died, sometimes people did, too. Maybe that was the difference I sensed in the Eriks and the Rafferty houses. Beth still selflessly loved her mother. Wayne and Cookie had invested the wrong kind of love in their surviving daughter. Tiffany didn’t know how to give it back. She knew only self-love. I wondered if she had any real love to give her baby.

Love suddenly seemed too complicated for my weary brain. My hand froze on the receiver. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe my emotional and physical resources had been completely sapped by the events of the last week.
My roots need to be watered,
I thought.
I’m withering like a fir in the forest.

I wandered into the living room and sensed that something was different.

It took me a few moments to figure out what it was. Then I saw it.

On the wall where Monet’s water lilies had hung was
Sky Autumn.
A small scrap of paper was taped to the frame.

I caught my breath as I limped across the room and detached the paper. There was writing on it, difficult to read, but I finally made it out.

“So you don’t have to wait for autumn on the Sky. Craig.”

I couldn’t believe it. I stood there staring at the painting, awash in its beauty and power.

And when I finally turned around, I looked outside.

It was raining.