The Alpine Scandal (2 page)

“Sometimes I think Vida’s related to everybody in Alpine,” Ginny declared. It wasn’t much of an exaggeration. “She’s amazing. I’d better take her the mail.”

I polished off my share of the delivery in less than five minutes. The next day was the deadline for the weekly edition. I had no inspiration for an editorial. Maybe I could write a stirring piece asking our readers to donate money to a fund for the Bronsky family. I wondered how many of the locals would be gloating over Ed’s decline and fall. I knew he’d rubbed a number of Alpiners the wrong way with his conspicuous consumption.

I strolled out into the newsroom, where Leo Walsh had just returned and was already on the phone. He gave me a high sign as I passed his desk on the way to the coffeemaker. My only reporter, Scott Chamoud, was scouring the streets for news. Or, I should say,
street
. Alpine had only one main east-west artery, which was where most of the local government and business offices were situated. Scott had had some news of his own before the holidays when he and his longtime girlfriend, Tamara Rostova, had gotten married in October. The wedding had been celebrated at the Russian Orthodox cathedral in Seattle. Our entire staff had attended, along with many of Tamara’s Skykomish Community College colleagues. I couldn’t give Scott a raise, but I ran up my much-abused credit card by giving them four settings of their china pattern. It was akin to a bribe, since I feared that the newlyweds might make good on their mild threat to move out of Alpine.

Vida was scowling at a single sheet of typewritten paper. “This is bizarre,” she declared. “There must be some mistake.”

“What?” I asked, perching on her desk.

“People get crazier by the day,” she declared, handing me the paper and the envelope in which it had arrived. “Here. Read this for yourself. And check the postmark.”

I looked at the postmark first. It was dated Saturday, January 4, from Alpine. My eyes shifted to the typewritten sheet. There was no heading, only the date, which was the same as the postmark. I read it aloud to let Vida know I wasn’t missing anything:

“Elmer Edward Nystrom, longtime Alpine resident, died Monday, January sixth. Elmer, sixty-one, was born in Williston, North Dakota, the son of Oscar and Alma (née Engelman). He moved to Washington State in 1970 and worked as the service department manager at Nordby Brothers General Motors dealership for the past thirty-four years. Mr. Nystrom was a member of the Rotary Club, the Kiwanis Club, the Alpine Chamber of Commerce, the Elks Club, and Trinity Episcopal Church. He is survived by his loving wife of thirty-six years, Elizabeth (Polly), and his son, Carter. Funeral arrangements are pending.”

I stared at Vida. “Will we know when the funeral is by the time we go to press tomorrow?”

Vida’s scowl deepened. “Emma! Didn’t you pay attention to what you read?”

I looked again at the typewritten envelope with its canceled stamps and no return address. “Oh! Good God—this was mailed
before
Elmer died! It’s got to be a mistake—or a joke.”

“A nasty joke—and a stupid mistake,” Vida said, retrieving the letter and the envelope from me. “I’m guessing that the son, Carter, wrote it and that he was rattled. From what I know of Polly, she’s probably gone all to pieces. I’ll call the house. Carter lives with his parents, you know.”

I didn’t know. But I was aware that Carter Nystrom had returned to Alpine two years earlier after having finished dental school and getting his orthodontist’s degree at the University of Washington in Seattle. Our longtime dentist, Bob Starr, was glad to have a local orthodontist he could refer patients to instead of shipping them off to Monroe or even Everett. I knew all three of the Nystroms by sight but had never had any personal contact with the family. When Carter had returned to Alpine, Scott had interviewed him for a feature story. His office was in the Clemans Building on Front Street.

Vida had dialed the Nystrom number, but it was busy. “Not unexpected,” she said, hanging up. “I think I’ll drive over there. They live just this side of the college.”

“I’ll go with you,” I offered. “That is, I’ll follow you. I have to admit I’m curious about the obit, too, and I’ve scheduled an interview with May Hashimoto about a couple of new programs they want to introduce at Skykomish Community College.”

Vida glanced at her watch. “What time?”

“Eleven,” I replied. “It’s ten-ten, so I might as well tag along.”

Vida gazed at me through her big glasses. “Why?”

I grimaced. “Maybe I’m afraid Ed will come back. I’d rather not be here.”

“Ed?” Leo had just hung up the phone. “What’s he up to now?”

“You don’t want to know,” I said. “But I’ll tell you when I get back. In fact, want to have lunch with me at the Venison Inn? I’ll treat. I just decided it’s Ad Manager Appreciation Day.”

Leo grinned in his off-center manner. “Sure, why not? See you there around noon?”

“Right.” I scurried into my cubbyhole to grab my jacket and purse. Vida was fastening the black galoshes that she hadn’t bothered to take off. It had been raining all morning, steadily if not heavily.

Before we could make our exit, Ethel Pike limped into the newsroom. “Burl Creek Thimble Club Christmas pictures,” she announced to Vida in her somewhat glum manner. “Got room?”

Vida looked as if she were trying to be patient. “Perhaps. You should have brought them last week.”

“I couldn’t,” Ethel said. “Me and Pike were out of town for Christmas. Pike’s sister invited us to Hoquiam for the holiday. I don’t know why: She can’t cook for sour owl’s sweat, and Pike and her always get into it over some crazy thing that happened when they were knee-high to a gopher. But where else would we go, with our kids and grandkids all the way down to Orlando?”

Pike was her husband, Bickford, but he was known by his last name. Vida accepted the packet of photos. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “I noticed you were limping. Not bunions, I hope. Such a nuisance.”

Ethel glared at Vida. “Not bunions. Circulation, ’specially in this damp weather.”

“Ah.” Vida nodded. She and I both knew that wasn’t the whole story. Ethel suffered from diabetes but was too proud to let on. Even some Burl Creek Thimble Club members didn’t know about her health problems.

Vida was smiling stiffly at the other woman. “If you’ll excuse me, I was about to leave.”

“So was I,” Ethel retorted. “Pike’s out and about on his errands, and I got to run him down so he can fix the electrical. The fuses all blew this morning. I won’t touch electrical. Too risky. Pike don’t even wear gloves when he does it.”

“Very foolish,” Vida murmured.

“’Course it is,” Ethel agreed. “He’ll blow himself up one of these days. Serve him right, the crazy old fool.” On that cheerless note, she stalked out of the newsroom.

We waited a few moments until we were sure Ethel was gone. Vida’s Buick was parked two spaces down from my Honda. She carried a plaid umbrella; I simply put up the hood on my car coat. Like many Pacific Northwest natives—Vida notwithstanding—I didn’t own an umbrella. They were a nuisance, especially in Alpine, where winds blew through the Skykomish River valley and down the mountainside from Tonga Ridge.

Skykomish Community College was a little over a mile from the newspaper office, nestled among tall cedar, fir, and hemlock trees. Between the college and the commercial area there were scattered homes, some old, some new, and some originally farmhouses or loggers’ shacks. An occasional gnome or St. Francis sculpture stood forlorn in the rain. Several residents’ idea of garden décor was an old tractor or a rusted pickup in the front yard. There were tree stumps and even a toilet that during the summer months served as a planter for perennials. But on a dark January morning, everything looked a little bleak.

Ahead of me, Vida turned into a gravel driveway. A half-dozen mail and newspaper boxes stood slightly askew. I saw
NYSTROM
on one of them, a miniature red barn on top of a steel post. Pulling up behind the Buick, I studied the white one-story craftsman house set away from the road. It appeared well tended. The property probably once had been an orchard. A few bare fruit trees remained. Two of them sported large bird nests in their gnarled branches. A chain-link fence ran between the driveway and a newer, if faded blue house next door. There were fruit trees there, too. I suspected that the former orchard had been subdivided at one point.

But what struck me most as I got out of my car was the absence of activity. A death in the family—especially in Alpine, where everyone knows everybody else—usually brought visitors offering condolences along with casseroles and salads and an occasional dessert. There were no cars except Vida’s and mine in the driveway or even alongside the road. The double garage’s doors were closed. It almost looked as if the Nystrom house was deserted.

I said as much to Vida.

“Very odd,” she agreed. “Odd, too, that I haven’t heard about Elmer’s passing. The Nystroms should be Lutheran with that Scandinavian surname, but they go to Trinity Episcopal.”

I translated that to mean that Vida wouldn’t have heard the sad news at Sunday’s Presbyterian church service. But it also indicated that her grapevine somehow had withered. There’d be hell to pay for the slackers involved.

A dried huckleberry wreath hung on the front door, appropriate not just for the Christmas season but for the entire winter as well. Vida punched the doorbell. I could hear a soft chime inside. We looked at each other expectantly.

A few moments passed before the door was opened. “Vida?” said the stout little woman I recognized as Polly Nystrom. “What a nice surprise! Come in out of the rain.”

As usual, I felt like the caboose on Vida’s train. But Polly collected herself as we entered a sunroom filled with bookcases. “You’re the newspaper lady,” she said to me. “I know you by sight.” She put out a pudgy hand. “I’m happy to finally meet you. Let’s go in the living room where we can be comfortable. I’ve just been putting the Christmas decorations away in the basement, and a cup of tea sounds good.”

“Lovely,” Vida said, her gray eyes swiftly appraising the tastefully appointed room with its whitewashed brick fireplace, framed French Impressionist prints, Oriental carpeting, and Duncan Phyfe–style furniture.

Vida sat down on a richly textured traditional sofa with coordinated throw pillows. I decided to join her. Polly smiled at us.

“I won’t be a minute,” she promised. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Polly,” Vida said in a solemn voice, “before you do that, please tell us about Elmer. What happened?”

Polly looked mystified. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”

Vida whipped off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Ooooh! This is so…awkward!” She stopped beating up her eyeballs and sighed. “It must be a prank. I received Elmer’s obituary in the mail this morning.”

Polly’s blue eyes grew enormous. “No!” She stared at Vida. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Vida admitted. “But Emma and I felt we should call on you. Obviously, an explanation is needed. If you have one.”

“Oh, dear.” Polly pressed her thick lips together. She was close to sixty, with short blond hair going gray, and probably had been a pretty girl, though her features had coarsened with age and weight. “I can’t imagine.” She twisted her hands as she stared into the carpet. “A prank. Who would do such a thing? Maybe Elmer knows. Shall I call him?”

Vida shook her head. “No, no. Don’t bother him at work. He
is
at work?” she added.

“Yes, certainly,” Polly replied, her composure returning. “He left at the usual time, right after he fed the chickens. We still keep chickens, you know. Would you care for some eggs? I’m watching my cholesterol and can’t eat them very often, so we always have some extras.”

“How nice,” Vida replied. “Fresh eggs are such a treat.”

“I’ll put that kettle on now.” Polly attempted a smile. “What a way to start the new year! Goodness, I hope it all isn’t going to be so…strange.” She bustled off through the dining room and into the kitchen.

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost ten-thirty,” I said to Vida. “Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to be late for my appointment with May Hashimoto.”

“Then let’s skip the tea,” Vida said, getting up. “Polly,” she called out, “don’t trouble yourself. Emma and I should be on our way. We both have work to do this morning.”

Polly met Vida in the kitchen doorway. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Vida asserted. “Tomorrow is our deadline. I’m just so glad this turned out to be a farce.”

Polly’s smile seemed genuine. “So am I! Elmer will be upset, of course. But Carter will make him laugh about it. Our son is so clever at always finding the funny side of things.”

“Really.” Vida sounded skeptical.

“My, yes,” Polly declared, bristling ever so slightly. “He has to be clever—and amusing—when he’s dealing with teenagers who don’t want braces, not even the new kind you hardly notice. They’re so self-conscious at that age.”

“Expensive, too,” Vida said, never willing to give an inch. “Thank goodness my grandson, Roger, had his braces removed two years ago. His teeth are now perfect.”

Roger’s teeth. I considered them briefly. They were good, if not perfect. There were few positive things I could say about the spoiled-rotten kid, but maybe I could allow that his teeth weren’t as bad as the rest of him.

“I’m going now,” I said in case Vida and Polly had forgotten that I’d ever come.

Polly stepped forward. “Goodbye, Emma. It was nice to meet you.”

I wasn’t searching for sincerity, which was a good thing. The comment was perfunctory at best, even though Polly smiled politely.

Vida also announced her departure, wheeling around on her heel and heading toward the front door.

“Ninny,” she remarked after we reached the driveway. “No wonder I’ve never enjoyed Polly’s company. She constantly brags about Carter. So irksome.”

I wouldn’t have dared point out that Vida bragged a great deal about Roger, and with far less cause. Carter Nystrom was ten years older and had completed a rigorous education. Roger was still dawdling his way through community college.