Authors: Mary Daheim
Vida was right. The Wilsons had been joined by Coach
Rip Ridley and his wife, Dixie; the principal, Karl Freeman, whose spouse, an elementary teacher, was named Molly; and Steve and Donna Wickstrom. Steve taught science and math; Donna’s first husband had been Art Fremstad, on whose headstone Vida thought she’d spotted blood. The four couples seemed to be relishing at least two different types of wine and a large tray of hors d’oeuvres.
Vida, however, was ready to cut to the chase. “If I remember my French, I recognize roast chicken and potatoes. That sounds safe.” She put the menu aside and tried again to turn discreetly in her chair. “More wine for the high school faculty,” she said in an undertone, though there was no possibility of being overheard from across the room in the busy restaurant. “The waiter is positively
fawning
. My, my!”
“That’s the owner,” I said. “He’s French. His wife is from California.”
If I thought I possessed a fragment of information that Vida didn’t know, I was wrong. “So it is,” she agreed, removing her glasses to stare. “Jean-Nicol Saint-Something-or-Other. His wife is Becky. She’s four months pregnant.”
I sighed. “Marje Blatt?”
Vida nodded. “Of course. My niece knows how I like to hear about new babies. The Saint-Whoevers live between Index and Gold Bar, but Becky finds it easier to see Dr. Flake than someone farther down the highway because she can come in on her way to the restaurant.”
Vida declined a second drink. So did I, though I couldn’t resist ordering a slice of the liver pâté. Vida sneered. “It does taste like paste, you must admit. Now what awful thing are you ordering for dinner?”
I’d decided on the oysters in cider. Vida professed indifference. “Panfried or raw—I wouldn’t eat oysters any other way. Really, Emma, you’re like so many Americans—if the French baked a gopher and stuck sprigs of parsley in its ears, you’d think it was delicious.”
“It might be,” I allowed. “The gang from the high school is certainly enjoying their meal. They just brought the fish course.”
Vida swiveled again. “Honestly, I should have sat where
you’re sitting. This is so awkward! Why don’t they have a mirror on that wall behind you?”
“Why don’t you go over and say hello?” I was serious. “You know all of them. Maybe they’re celebrating something. It could be a news item.”
“I already thought of that.” Vida gave me a reproachful look. “I’ll wait until they’re having dessert. They’ll be full and sleepy then. Their guard will be down.”
I felt my eyes open wide. “You’re not going to ask Wendy what her sister was doing at the Icicle Creek Tavern with a man who is probably dead, are you?”
Vida looked affronted. “Certainly not! That’s hardly the sort of thing to mention in the middle of a social gathering. I’ll drop by tomorrow and offer her some hyacinth bulbs. I dug a few up by mistake last week. Extra bulbs always come in handy. So do tubers.”
Somehow, Vida and I managed to avoid analyzing the recent murder during the rest of our dinner. The meal was excellent, and even she had to admit that the roast chicken was properly cooked. Despite her carping over French food, Vida’s performance in the kitchen is, at best, uneven. She gardens much better than she cooks.
We were finishing our demitasses when Vida announced she was going to drop by the Wilson table. “I’ll commiserate about the kidnapped mascot. On my way to the rest room,” she added, as if needing to excuse herself to me as well as to Wendy and the other diners. I sat back and watched as Vida worked the room. The high school faculty weren’t the only people she knew. Though I recognized only one other couple who happened to be my fellow parishioners at St. Mildred’s, Vida made four interim stops: two older women, who laughed uproariously at her greeting; a family of five, with mother, father, and three adult children exchanging what I presumed to be birthday presents; a handsome older couple whose sophistication seemed out of place for Skykomish County; and three men of Vida’s own age, one of whom either turned his hearing aid up or off when she approached.
Vida hit the Wilson gathering on her return from the rest room. Molly Freeman kissed her on the cheek. Karl Freeman hugged her warmly. Coach Ridley vigorously shook
her hand. Dixie Ridley gave a languid wave. I couldn’t see the Wickstroms, who were temporarily hidden by the arrival of Jean-Nicol and a silver wine bucket at the next table. Wendy and Todd Wilson seemed polite, if not effusive, in their greeting. Vida chatted for a full five minutes, leaving only after the waitress had presented the bill.
“Well!” she gasped, sitting back down and polishing off her demitasse in a gulp. “Five hundred and eighty-four dollars and twelve cents! It’s not even a special occasion, just a chummy night out! And Todd Wilson insisted it was his treat! Why, with a generous tip, that’s almost seven hundred dollars!”
I, too, was stunned. “What does it mean? Job security for Wendy at the high school? That must be close to two weeks’ take-home for a teacher. What do you think Todd earns at the PUD?”
Vida turned thoughtful. “We ran those salaries awhile back. I think his would be around forty thousand by now. That’s certainly not the kind of salary to splurge on seven-hundred-dollar dinners. The Wilsons live high on the hog in general, when you think about it. Wendy has lovely clothes, though she doesn’t wear them well, and they both drive nice cars. In fact, they have three.”
“No kids,” I pointed out.
“True.” Vida chewed on her lower lip. “Still, their home in the Icicle Creek development is one of the more expensive houses.”
Across the room, I saw the Wilson party laughing over their after-dinner drinks. I wondered what the more straightlaced parents would think about the principal and three of his teachers tossing off goblets of French wine and stuffing themselves with Bretagne delicacies. If someone raised the issue at the next PTA meeting, it wouldn’t be the first time. Only last January, there had been a protest about several faculty members drinking champagne, dancing with other people’s spouses, and wearing silly hats on New Year’s Eve.
“Maybe,” I ventured, after we had paid our own comparatively modest bill of sixty-five dollars plus tip, “Lloyd has been generous with his earnings from Alpine Appliance. He seems to have done quite well over the years.”
Vida was grappling with her cotton jacket. “Don’t even think about it. Lloyd is a Scot, and you know how tightfisted they are. Oh, they travel now and then, they spend money on their house, but they’re careful. Bargains, cut-rate, wholesale. To give an example, consider the flank steak.”
I was scarcely qualified to argue with Vida. We made our exit just ahead of the Wilsons and their guests. I was relieved, preferring to be ahead of them on the highway. After only one drink and a dozen oysters, I could lay a solid claim to sobriety.
Nor was I sorry. Vida and I had enjoyed a delicious meal, and as she would have put it, “a nice visit.” We were home before ten o’clock. If my Saturday night hadn’t been fraught with excitement, it had been replete with friendship. I could ask for nothing more.
After changing into my bathrobe, I took the WNPA registration form out of my briefcase and filled it in. I would mail it on the way to Mass in the morning. Somewhere between the Café de Flore and the bridge over the Skykomish River, I had made up my mind to go to Lake Chelan.
T
HE VISITING PRIEST
from Monroe made short work of Sunday Mass. Not only did he keep his homily to under ten minutes, but he was seen pulling out from behind the rectory while the rest of us were still chatting in the vestibule.
“I miss Father Fitz,” Francine Wells lamented, referring to our former pastor who had suffered a series of strokes the previous December and was now in a nursing home for priests.
“I hear we’re getting someone new when the Chancery makes the assignments in June,” Roseanna Bayard confided. “I’m glad. It’s one thing to run a parish as a mission church, but it’s another matter when there’s a school.”
I had to agree with both Francine and Roseanna. We had seen at least a half-dozen different priests on the altar of St. Mildred’s since New Year’s. I was about to say as much when Francine jabbed me in the arm and lowered her voice:
“Say, Emma—what’s this about that black man who was shot at Marlow Whipp’s store the other night? Was he really robbing the place? I wouldn’t figure Marlow to have more than small change in the register.”
Roseanna nodded vigorously. “I guess it was just awful. The robber was armed, and Marlow wrestled him to the ground to get the gun. Then he shot the guy as he was running out of the store. Gee!”
As expected, the gossip mill had been busy. And wrong. Both Roseanna and Francine were intelligent women. In addition to helping her husband, Buddy, run Bayard’s Picture-Perfect Photography Studio, Roseanna tutored children with reading problems. Francine owned her own business, an upscale women’s apparel store that did remarkably well in a
beer-and-bowling town such as Alpine. Yet my fellow parishioners were quite willing to accept hearsay as gospel truth.
I attempted to clarify the matter, choosing my words with a journalist’s care. “It wasn’t an attempted robbery. The victim came into Marlow’s store and collapsed. Apparently, he’d already been shot somewhere else. He died inside the store. Marlow insists he’d never seen the man before in his life.”
Francine bent her carefully coiffed head closer; Roseanna leaned in my direction, her blonde pageboy swinging at her wide shoulders. Buddy Bayard had also joined our little group, along with a half-dozen other parishioners.
“Somewhere else?” Roseanna breathed. “You mean … he was murdered?”
I fell back on Milo’s lame excuses. “The sheriff doesn’t know the details yet. He’s waiting for the lab report.”
Roseanna and Francine exchanged quick glances. “He was a black man, right?” Roseanna saw my faint nod. “Edna Mae Dalrymple said she saw him hanging around Old Mill Park Friday morning on her way to work at the library. Now where on earth did he come from—unless he was a friend of that new nurse’s?”
“A boyfriend, I’ll bet,” Francine said, straightening up and smoothing the lapels of her Anne Klein jacket. “He’s probably from one of those gangs in Seattle. I lived there for almost fifteen years before I divorced Warren. I never went near the Central District.” She gave a little shudder.
The Central District is Seattle’s version of a ghetto, and while it has its share of inner-city crime, it is considered an up-and-coming neighborhood in many ways. Most Seattleites have no qualms about going there, and often do, if only to get their teeth into Fran’s chocolates and Ezell’s chicken.
Roseanna was nodding. “The last time I was in downtown Seattle, three black kids followed me down Fourth Avenue after I left The Bon Marché. I just knew they were going to grab my purse. I all but ran around the corner and went back in the Pine Street entrance. I waited until they were gone.”
I tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. I’d heard the Big City horror stories before, always capped with the great
sigh of relief uttered when the out-of-towners finally reached the safety of Highway 2. Indeed, their paranoia was contagious. On a trip to Seattle the previous February, I had stopped at a cash machine before heading home. The bank was closed, the parking lot was deserted, and it was almost dark. An African-American man in his early thirties was lingering near the cash machine, ostensibly reading something from a small notebook. I became so nervous that I botched my PIN number twice. While the automatic teller finally spewed out my forty bucks, the man went up to a pay phone a few feet away and made a call. He turned out to be a real estate agent, scheduling an appointment to show a two-hundred-thousand-dollar condo on Queen Anne Hill. I felt so silly that I departed as furtively as if I’d been passing counterfeit money at the bank.
It was pointless to argue with Roseanna, Francine, or any other Alpiners who regarded Seattle as a den of iniquity. The city’s evil justifies their very existence as small-towners. So there they stay in their splendid rural isolation, absolved of guilt for the wider world’s social ills.
But I stay there, too, so I kept my mouth shut. When I speak out, it’s usually through the editorial page. I state my opinions professionally, not personally. I have to get along; I have to make a living. And I don’t want to get run out of town.
Extricating myself from the little group, I headed for the Jag and home. With no pressing plans for the day, I thought about calling Marilynn Lewis. Perhaps she’d like to have lunch or go for a short hike. After finishing the Sunday paper, I phoned the Campbell house. Jean answered on the fourth ring. I thanked her again for a lovely dinner, then asked for Marilynn.
“She went to church—the Methodist church,” Jean answered in a voice that suddenly had grown stilted. “We just got back. The phone was ringing when we came in the house. I imagine she’ll be along shortly. She walked.”
Marilynn returned my call about fifteen minutes later. She expressed surprise at my invitation. “I’d like to see Deception Falls,” she said, sounding rather shy. “It’s not far, is it?”
It wasn’t, being only a couple of miles up the pass. Nor
would we have to hike, which was fine with me. I told her I’d pack a lunch. There were picnic tables at the falls, and we could eat there. Marilynn sounded very pleased.
An hour later, I was in front of the Campbell house, waiting for Marilynn. Cyndi was out in the yard, cleaning off the lawn furniture. She came over to the Jag and said hello.
“What’s new on that guy who got killed Friday night?” she asked, leaning against the door of my car.
The question seemed natural; her body language did not. Cyndi appeared to be bracing herself on the Jaguar. “Not much,” I replied, wondering how to tactfully broach the subject of her rendezvous at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Vida, of course, would use blunderbuss tactics. Encouraged by her example, I threw caution to the winds. “Did you know him?”
Cyndi’s green eyes widened and she backed away a couple of steps. “Heavens, no! How could I?” She stared at me, and I could almost see the wheels spinning in her head. Cyndi knew as well as I did that if she’d been spotted with Kelvin Greene at the tavern, most of Alpine had heard the story by now. She uttered a nervous laugh. “Oddly enough, I ran into a black man that afternoon. I had to deliver something for Todd to the Icicle Creek Tavern, and there was this guy who wanted to know how to get to the ski lodge. I gave him directions.” Her gaze had shifted to the hood of my car.