The Alpine Recluse (6 page)

Cookie returned with a yellow plastic tumbler. “I couldn’t find any more apple juice, hon. Is orange okay?”

Tiffany made a face. “Orange juice gives me heartburn. I’ll just have some bottled water.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot! I’ll get the water. If I can find it.” Cookie retreated to the kitchen.

I had several questions I wanted to ask Tiffany, specifically about the circumstances of Tim’s death. But her self-absorption and her suspicious manner stymied me. Nor did I want to upset her. People showed their pain in different ways. I couldn’t get a good read on Tiffany Eriks Rafferty.

I stood up. “I should be going. I understand you have an appointment this afternoon. I don’t want to keep you.”

Tiffany glanced across the room at a clock with hands and numbers on a wood slab decorated with a painting of an idyllic farm scene. “I’ve got plenty of time to get ready.” She looked at both hands. “I should do my nails, though. They get ruined using the cash register so much.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t think of what else to say. I made my way out before Cookie returned with the bottled water.

I
T WAS AFTER
noon, and I was hungry. But instead of heading for a restaurant, I drove to the Grocery Basket. I could pick up something from the deli and, with luck, talk to Jake O’Toole. If I got even luckier, Betsy O’Toole might be there. She would not only be more candid, but wouldn’t abuse the English language the way her husband did.

The store was busy. I saw Buzzy, Jake’s brother, in the produce section, unloading ears of corn into a bin. Jake was talking to a man wearing a Budweiser jacket and holding a clipboard. If Betsy was around, she’d be in the office. Katie Freeman, the high school principal’s daughter, had just finished checking out Bertha Tolberg, who had purchased a half-dozen bags of groceries. The Tolbergs raised chickens on their farm, so I assumed Bertha wasn’t buying eggs.

With a nod to Bertha, I approached Katie, a tall, fair-haired teenager who wore transparent braces. “Is Betsy in the store?” I inquired.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Lord.” Katie’s smile was self-conscious. “Yes, she’s working on invoices. Should I page her?”

“No, I’ll surprise her,” I replied. I needed privacy. “Thanks, Katie.”

The O’Tooles’ office was only slightly bigger than my own cubbyhole and even more jammed with materials. I knocked first, then opened the door as I heard Betsy respond.

“Emma,” she said in a pleasantly surprised voice. “To what do I owe this honor? Or did we sell you a bad ham?”

I shook my head. “I’ve come to grill
you,
not your meat.”

Betsy smiled. “I’m not sure what’s worse.” She pushed her chair back a few inches from the desk and removed her glasses. “Let me guess—it’s about Tiffany and Tim, right? Have a seat—if you can find one.”

The only other chair in the little room was piled high with folders. “May I?”

“You can toss them in the Dumpster for all I care,” Betsy said. “Jake’s overorganized. I drive him nuts because I’m not.” She waved a hand at her surroundings. “He saves every scrap of paper and files it away for God-only-knows-what. Then he gets ticked off at me because I don’t keep everything in here neat. I tell him I keep our house tidy, why should I have to be the cleaning lady at the store? Men!” She shook her head.

I set the files on the floor next to a Campbell Soup carton that was filled with yet more folders. “I just came from calling on Tiffany and her mother,” I said. “Have you gotten to know Tiffany very well since she started working here?”

Betsy shook her head again. Maybe she was showing off her recent foil job, which had turned her shoulder-length hair into leonine streaks of brown and gold. “It’s hard to communicate with fog. Talking to Tiffany is like talking to a phantom. Honestly, the poor girl isn’t very bright.”

“But she could handle her job?”

“Once she caught on,” Betsy said. “It took a while to train her. Katie Freeman is half her age, and she learned in about an hour. But the real problem with Tiffany is her attitude. She’s rude with customers, especially the older ones who get a little fuddled. A week ago, she practically had Grace Grundle in tears.” Betsy hung her head. “I shouldn’t be talking about Tiffany like this, especially after what’s happened. But frankly, Jake and I would have fired her if she hadn’t been pregnant, and we knew she’d be quitting in a few months. We hoped she wouldn’t want to come back to work. Now that Tim’s dead, I suppose we’re stuck with her.”

Betsy was more than candid; she was downright blunt. But that was her style. She’d honed it over the years with the public wrangling she practiced with her husband. After the visit with Tiffany and Cookie, I found Betsy’s attitude refreshing.

“Do you think that pregnancy caused her irritability?” I asked.

“Maybe. But Tiffany never has been the cheerful type.” Betsy sighed. “I suppose you’re trying to figure out if she was having problems at home with Tim.”

Having had people wonder about the status of her own marriage over the years, it was natural for Betsy to assume that any outward display of discontent would indicate relationship problems. “Well,” I said, not entirely sure what I was trying to find out, “I was thinking more along the line of money trouble. Tiffany must have had to work. Obviously, she isn’t cut out for a career.”

“She sure isn’t,” Betsy agreed. “She has no ambition, and she’s lazy. But they bought that property by you and they built that house. Tim’s jobs never paid very well, though I understand he did some of that E-trading on the Internet.”

“He also had a baseball memorabilia collection,” I pointed out.

“Oh, that’s right.” Betsy paused as the phone rang. “I’d better take that. I’m expecting a call from our produce people. They’re mad because we’ve been buying so much local stuff this summer.”

The call, however, was from Ryan O’Toole, their oldest son. Betsy made it quick. “The big black suitcase is in the basement behind the furnace. Don’t touch the rest of the luggage. The red ones are strictly for your dad and me. And take out the garbage.”

She set the receiver down in its cradle. “Ryan’s off to WAZZU. They start early because of the semester system. He leaves for Pullman tomorrow. Would you believe he’s a sophomore already?” Once more, she shook her head. But before I could say anything, she snapped her fingers. “That’s right! Ryan bought some baseball stuff from Tim a couple of years ago. He saved his money from working as a box boy here and got some autographed cards. Only four or five, but they cost him fifty dollars. I thought it was a gyp, but then I’m not a baseball fan. Jake and I like hockey.”

No doubt the fighting part, I thought. “Then Tim did sell some of his collection,” I remarked before confessing that I’d never noticed his ad in the
Advocate.

Betsy shrugged. “So what if you can’t keep track of every detail? That’s what a staff’s for. You think I know every item we stock in the store? I don’t. For one thing, Jake’s always changing brands or trying something new.”

“So you think Tim and Tiffany got along okay?” I said.

Betsy considered the question. “Oh, shoot, Emma, how do you ever really know?” She winked. “Take Jake and me, for instance.”

I smiled. “You’re right. I suppose I’m trying to judge Tiffany’s sense of loss. She seems so wrapped up in herself. And the baby, I think.”

“That’s Tiffany,” Betsy said. “She and Tim lived in a very tight little world.”

“No friends?”

“She doesn’t mention them,” Betsy replied. “Oh—yes, there was another girl she talked about, somebody she’d gone to high school with, but who’d moved to Snohomish. What is her name?” Betsy frowned. “The family was here only for a couple of years. I think the dad worked for the fish and game department. Wylie or Wilder or Willard. Something like that. Does it matter?”

“Not really. I just wondered.” I got to my feet. “I didn’t recall ever seeing them hang out as a couple with their peer group. Tim apparently chatted it up with customers at the Venison Inn.”

“That was his job,” Betsy pointed out. “That’s how you stay in business. Jake and I ought to know. And now that Tiffany’s a widow with a baby on the way, she’d better learn that lesson fast.”

“S
O PREDICTABLE
,” V
IDA
declared after I told her about my visit to the Erikses’ home. “That’s exactly how I’d expect Tiffany to behave. Sulky. Selfish. And Cookie takes the wrong approach. Can you imagine me babying my daughters like that?”

Of course I couldn’t, though she’d certainly spoiled her grandson, Roger. Maybe she’d saved up all her spoiling for him, as grandparents often do. But I was more interested in what Vida had found out at the courthouse—if anything.

She had succeeded. Vida never took notes, keeping every detail in her remarkable brain. “The vacant house was built in 1931, right about the time the ski lodge opened. It belonged to a ski instructor, in fact. His name was Ole Knutson. He lived there for three years until he moved on. He was a bachelor at the time, I gather, and rootless.”

In Vida’s biased lexicon, that translated as not being enchanted with Alpine. “Ole sold the house?” I asked as I unwrapped the bagel, lox, cream cheese, and dill pickle I’d bought at the Grocery Basket’s deli.

“Yes, to a couple named Hornby.” She sat down in one of my visitor’s chairs and removed her hat, a net confection covered with daisies. “They lived there until the war, when he went into the service and she moved away to be closer to her family. The house sat vacant for a year or so, and then she—Marcella Hornby—sold it. I couldn’t help but wonder if her husband was killed in battle.”

“That’s possible,” I said. Certainly that would give him an excuse in Vida’s mind for not returning to Alpine.

“A man from Monroe—Russell Byers, aptly named, as it turns out—purchased the house from Mrs. Hornby in 1943. Apparently, he owned several houses from here to Snohomish and rented them out, mainly to mill workers. He died in 1968 in a nursing home in Everett.”

I swallowed a bite of pickle and gazed quizzically at Vida. “How did you find out these details just from records of sale?”

“I happened to run into Dolph Terrill at the courthouse,” Vida replied, looking smug. “Dolph is much older than I am and he has to use a walker, but his mind is still sharp. Or at least his memory for the past is good. I must admit, after we spoke, I saw him go into the women’s restroom. I don’t think he sees too well.”

“That depends on what he wanted to see,” I remarked.

“Now, now,” said Vida. “Anyway, he recalled that Mr. Byers left everything to his son who lived in Everett. The son—his first name was Clinton—rented the house to a series of tenants, but wasn’t much of a landlord. Dolph told me that he didn’t think Clint Byers ever bothered to visit Alpine. Imagine!”

“So the place went to pot?”

“In more ways than one,” Vida said darkly. “The last tenants were hippies. That was back in the early eighties. Apparently, Clint Byers died or simply faded from the picture. He didn’t keep up the property taxes, and the city put a lien on the place. Fuzzy Baugh became mayor not long after that, and has never done anything about the house. It’s just sat there, except for the occasional squatters.”

“Like Old Nick,” I noted.

“Yes.” She shot me a look that smacked of reproach. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen him—or anything else suspicious—going on a mere block from your home.”

I felt defensive. “I explained, I don’t take that route to work or to church or much of anywhere else. Furthermore, both the vacant house and the Rafferty place are set back from the street. You know we don’t have sidewalks on Fir. Every time they propose Local Improvement District funding to build them, the idea gets shot down.”

Vida’s expression didn’t change. Clearly, she believed I was oblivious to my surroundings. I couldn’t say out loud that I wasn’t the type to take evening walks so I could peer into my neighbors’ windows when they didn’t pull the drapes. Vida did it all the time, which was another reason she didn’t like summer or daylight saving time. People didn’t turn on their lights until after dark.

“Anyway,” I continued when Vida didn’t honor me with a response, “Milo’s checking on Old Nick’s whereabouts. I plan to see him after lunch.” For emphasis, I bit off another chunk of bagel.

“Bagels,” Vida muttered. “I’ve never understood them.”

I ignored the comment. Vida occasionally ran a contemporary recipe she received in the mail, but she usually resorted to her basic old-fashioned cooking file. Tuna noodle casserole with a cornflake crust and Jell-O mold in the shape of a fish were about as exotic as she got. The strange part was that readers seldom complained.

I kept my word and walked down Front Street to the sheriff’s office shortly after one o’clock. Milo wasn’t in. Toni Andreas informed me that he’d taken a late lunch.

Toni managed to retain her receptionist’s job only because over the years Sam Heppner had exhibited the patience of a saint. The deputy had taken the trouble to guide her like a teacher with a special-needs student. Long before she ever got the job, Toni had dated my son, who found her pretty and sweet but dim. She was also the person responsible for the sheriff’s loathsome coffee. As I leaned against the curving mahogany counter, she didn’t look up from her console. “Dodge said he’d be back around two,” she mumbled.

Doe Jameson was nearby, flipping through a stack of reports. “Can I help you?” she inquired in her brisk manner.

I hesitated. Doe was quick to notice my reluctance to query her. “Sheriff Dodge is keeping me in the loop on the Rafferty homicide,” she assured me.

“Oh, of course.” I smiled, probably looking a bit silly. “Any progress?”

Doe’s sharp dark eyes studied me. “In what way?”

“In any way,” I retorted, unaccustomed to anything but a certain amount of deference from the sheriff’s employees. “Specifically, I was wondering if he’d found any sign of Old Nick at that vacant house next to Tim’s.”

“Other than that somebody’s been occupying it?” Doe shook her head. “No. What’s with these recluses anyway? If I believed half of what Jack Mullins says—which I’ve learned not to—I’d figure that the woods are full of them.”