The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (26 page)

“Right,” I agreed, placing two cheese knives on the table before I sat down, too.

“Hmm,” Vida murmured. “It seems as if no one has opened this until now. Some of the pages are still stuck together.”

“Maybe Alison couldn’t bear it,” I said.

“Very likely.” She closed the book. “Let’s start by thinking back to the funeral. What do you recall about it?”

“The Wailers,” I answered promptly. “It was my first time hearing them shriek their way through a funeral.”

“So it was,” Vida said grimly. “At least one of my sisters-in-law, Nell Blatt, dropped out years ago. Unfortunately, they found a replacement for her. I do wish our local clergymen would unite to ban them from such outlandish displays of grief. Half the time they hardly know the deceased.”

“They’ve still never managed to invade St. Mildred’s.”

“Nor Trinity Episcopal. Regis Bartleby is as firm about their exclusion as Father Fitzgerald and Father Kelly.” She thought for a moment. “I can visualize the pallbearers—Rick and Andy from the bank, JoAnne’s brother, Duane Bergstrom, a Gustavson …” She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. “Which one? There was an Everson … or an Iverson? Oh, goodness! My memory is failing.” She shook her head and nibbled on a plump olive. “Roy Everson,” she said suddenly. “From the post office. He’d been a golfing chum of Marv’s, and maybe Larry’s, too. Oh, Karl Erdahl. He retired from the forest service and moved to some lake outside of Spokane. I can’t think why.”

“You’re amazing,” I said after swallowing some of the Boursin cheese. “The only pallbearers I remember are Rick and Andy.”

“Understandable,” Vida said in a charitable voice. “You’d lived in Alpine a mere five years. There was one odd thing, though. All the Petersens were in the family room except Alison. I realize that Howard and Susan Lindahl wanted to keep her with them, but she was Linda’s daughter, after all. Still, I remember thinking it odd. It was if the Lindahls wanted to disassociate Alison from all of the Petersens, including her birth mother.”

“I can’t blame them,” I said. “Linda hadn’t been much of a mother to Alison for a long time.”

Vida wagged a finger. “True—except that not long before Linda was killed, she’d made overtures to Alison. Taking her shopping, spending more time with her. In retrospect, that’s odd, too.” Vida ate some pâté before speaking again. “Let’s move on to the reception in the church basement. There really was quite a crowd.”

I cut off another piece of chèvre. “Why are we doing this?”

Vida’s face was somber. “Because we missed something.”

“ ‘We’? What do you mean?”

“You, me, Milo, everybody involved.” She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Gently. “Ever since that first letter came to Milo, I’ve had this peculiar feeling that the person who sent it is right. Then, after what Cole said on my program about his father telling him he didn’t kill Linda, my feeling became stronger. I believe Larry was innocent. If no one else will help me, I intend to prove he was telling the truth.”

Y
OU SOUND AS IF
L
ARRY’S WORDS WERE A DEATHBED CONFESSION
,” I said. “Or I should say ‘retraction’?” Vida had put her glasses back on. “I think that’s what it was. He had—as Cole sensed—a premonition that he was dying. Perhaps he’d had other symptoms of heart trouble. In any event, he didn’t want to leave this world without making sure the rest of his family—and everyone else—knew he was not a murderer.”

I considered Vida’s words carefully. “That’s not impossible,” I finally allowed. “Do you think he knew who killed Linda?”

“I can’t be sure,” she admitted. “But I suspect he did, which means he was shielding someone very dear to him.”

“His three children,” I said, thinking out loud. “JoAnne. Even his father, Marv. Who else meant so much to Larry?”

“There may be a dark horse.” Vida sighed. “I can’t think who. I never heard any rumors of Larry and another woman, but you never can be sure about people, can you? Deep down, we don’t always know others as well as we think.”

“No,” I said, my eyes fixed on the tablecloth’s butterfly pattern. “We don’t.”

“So,” she went on more briskly, “let’s go through the list of
people who signed the guest book. That will help us envision the reception.” Vida scanned the first page. “Marv’s handwriting was very shaky. If he and Cathleen are on a cruise, I wonder if he knows about Larry’s death. In fact, I wonder if Marv knows he’s on a cruise.”

“Surely someone would’ve notified him,” I said. “Are you sure Marv has Alzheimer’s?”

“That’s what Thelma Petersen told me,” Vida replied. “Of course she’s never been fond of her in-laws. She certainly had no time for Cathleen, and always took Elmer’s side when he and Marv got into some sort of sibling set-to. So silly. The brothers couldn’t be more different.”

“I think the only time I saw Cathleen up close was at the funeral reception,” I said. “I don’t recall speaking with her.”

“You wouldn’t even if you did,” Vida said. “Cathleen never had anything to say that was worth listening to. Nice woman, decent taste in home decorating, but quite empty in the brains department. She was rather pretty before she went to fat.”

“Big Mike Brockelman,” I said suddenly. “He wasn’t at the funeral or the reception.”

Vida regarded me with a curious look. “Why would he be?”

“It was rumored he and Linda were having an affair,” I said, and then remembered mentioning his absence at the time to Milo. “I suppose Big Mike’s wife wouldn’t give him permission to leave Monroe for his girlfriend’s funeral.”

“Oh!” Vida obviously had thought of something important. “Yes, there was talk about Linda and Mike. In fact, on the night she was killed, hadn’t he gone to visit her at Parc Pines? She wasn’t home, so he ended up with Amanda Hanson instead. Remember?”

I’d forgotten that tidbit. “Oh, yes, back in Amanda’s wanton-wife era. I hope she really is beyond that now.”

Vida leaned back in her chair. “I’m trying to recall alibis, of
which there seemed to be aplenty. Howard Lindahl was a prime suspect at one point, being Linda’s ex, but it turned out he was set up, apparently by the killer. So hard on his wife, Susan, and Alison, of course.”

“Even at twelve, Alison was a trouper,” I said.

Vida nodded. “Credit for that goes to Susan for being such a fine stepmother. Let me think about the seemingly solid alibis … Mike and Amanda, Marv and Cathleen giving a dinner party, Larry and JoAnne hosting guests, too.” She stopped, biting her lip. “What was it Betsy O’Toole told me about her recollections of the night Linda was killed? I used it in ‘Scene’—innocently, of course.” Her gray eyes sparked. “It was about JoAnne rushing around the Grocery Basket, having forgotten she and Larry were having a card party that evening. How could you forget that?”

“It’s not impossible,” I said, recalling a few incidents, mostly, but not all, in Edna Mae Dalrymple’s case, when members of my bridge group had become confused about whose turn it was to be hostess. “There’s another factor to consider. Larry was supposed to be home, but he had no alibi for that time period because JoAnne was shopping. If you flip that around, it could work the other way.”

“Ah.” Vida nodded. “JoAnne may have been seen rushing because she was doing something besides going to the Grocery Basket, such as murdering her sister-in-law. Betsy was her unwitting alibi. My, my. That
is
interesting.”

“Motive?”

“The same as Larry’s,” Vida replied. “JoAnne couldn’t bear the thought of her husband being passed over in favor of his sister to run the bank. JoAnne always struck me as a social climber. Some of the other Bergstroms have been like that.”

The interweaving of longtime Alpine families still confused
me. Despite having lived here for over fifteen years, I’d never been able to sort through all the more notable dynasties, including Vida’s. In fact, I’d given up trying, content to rely on her flawless and copious knowledge of the town’s residents. Complicating matters for me was that a whole new generation had come of age in that time span—marrying, divorcing, birthing, and in some cases, dying.

I had another question. “Could JoAnne have carried Linda’s body from Parc Pines to the forest where you and Roger found her body in the rotted-out log?”

“Linda was larger than JoAnne.” Vida paused, apparently to think through the scenario. “If Larry was protecting someone, he still might be the one who moved Linda. That would make sense.”

“I talked to Denise at the funeral reception,” I said, “but I never realized that Strom and Cole were there, too. I wouldn’t have seen them during the service if they were in the family room.”

“You wouldn’t know who they were,” Vida pointed out. “Ten years ago they were still boys. Now they’re men. I spoke to them briefly, but they didn’t linger. You know how young people are when it comes to functions such as funerals. And of course they both had to get back to their respective colleges.”

“Right.” I was silent for a moment. “Is JoAnne’s the only breakable alibi among the suspects?”

Vida grew thoughtful again. “Christie Johnston had a strong motive for killing Linda, in a more immediate way than Larry or JoAnne. That is, Marv could’ve changed his mind about whether Linda or Larry should be his heir apparent as president. Linda had discovered that Christie was stealing money from the bank. At the time, I thought Christie and her husband, Troy, were the murderers. They said they were home together
watching TV. That’s no alibi at all. But why would Larry want to give up his freedom for an embezzler?”

“He might if Christie was his lover,” I suggested. “Maybe he thought it was better to be known as a killer than an adulterer.”

Vida shook her head. “I understand what you’re saying, but JoAnne ended up divorcing him anyway. That’s another thing—I thought she’d remarry eventually. But she hasn’t.”

“According to Strom, his parents loved each other deeply,” I said. “When I talked to JoAnne today, she behaved like a grieving widow. Maybe the divorce was a legal thing, with Larry in prison.”

“Possibly,” Vida murmured.

“Who represented JoAnne when she got the divorce?”

“Simon Doukas. His mother was a Bergstrom.”

“I’d forgotten that,” I admitted, getting up. “Here, have some chocolate truffles. Maybe they’ll recharge our brains.”

“My brain is fine,” Vida assured me, “but I shouldn’t eat candy. I’m dieting, you know.” She peered into the elegant little box holding the chocolates. “Hmm. I suppose one wouldn’t do any harm. I see they have a flavor key. My high school French is quite rusty, but ‘orange’ is the same in both languages. I’ll try that one. The fruit will cut down on the calories.” She plucked the dark chocolate Grande Seville from the box, took a bite, and sighed with pleasure. “Is there a raspberry one?”

“Here.” I handed over a second truffle.

“Olives and oranges and raspberries,” Vida said after she’d polished off both chocolates. “That’s a wholesome combination. Aren’t you going to eat one?”

“Not right now,” I said. “I’ll stick to the pâté and some of the crackers I haven’t opened yet.”

“Did I see apple pie in the refrigerator? You could eat that and get some fruit.”

“I’m fine. Let’s get back to business. Who can we eliminate?”

“Marv and Cathleen,” Vida answered promptly, though her expression was wistful as I put the lid back on the truffles box. “Marv would never harm his own child, and Cathleen wouldn’t know how to go about killing someone. Their alibi is solid, too. I know how their dinner parties were conducted. Guests arrive at six-fifteen, a cocktail or two, sit down at the table at seven or a few minutes after, two or three courses, then a slight lull to digest before dessert and coffee. After that, they’d move back to the living room and visit for an hour or so. Occasionally a liqueur might be served. Guests usually departed by ten, giving Cathleen time to clean up before bed. She’s never been one to face a mess in the morning.”

“You amaze me,” I said.

“Nonsense. I’ve been to many of their dinner parties. Cathleen always kept to the same routine. There’s never been anything spontaneous about her. Nor Marv. Neither of them has an ounce of imagination. Adhering to a strict schedule is suited to a banker. It’s part of the mind-set, dealing with all those numbers. Like his father before him, Marv was very disciplined in his habits. I believe Larry and Linda inherited those same traits. But Linda was smarter than Larry.”

“Marv and Cathleen out,” I said, writing their names on a clean paper napkin. “Who else?”

Vida was silent for so long that I wondered if I’d have to give her another truffle to make her talk. “I don’t think I ever heard where Cole and Strom were that night,” she said at last. “They were both college students—Strom at the UW before he transferred to WSU, just before Cole decided to leave Western Washington State University and finish at Pullman. Like ships passing in the night, if you think about it. There was talk that Strom followed a girl there, but apparently nothing came of that romance.
He went on to get a graduate degree at … dear me, I forget. The University of Oregon, perhaps. So much switching around between schools by young people these days.”

“Don’t I know it,” I murmured, recalling Adam’s college hopping until he finally settled at Arizona State.

Vida continued her recital. “Both Petersen boys might’ve come home that weekend, especially Cole, who was still going to school in Bellingham, being closer to Alpine than Pullman. Do you recall Milo asking about their whereabouts the night of the murder?”

“If you don’t remember, I sure don’t,” I said. “I assume they weren’t in Alpine. What about Andy and Reba?”

“They were home,” Vida said. “Their children were with them, but they were quite young and might not have been questioned.” She frowned. “That alibi is rather shaky, though I can’t see a motive.”

“Andy’s running the bank,” I reminded Vida.

She shook her head. “No, that doesn’t fit. How could he guess Marv would retire so soon? I doubt he’d know that Linda was the heir apparent. If the murder was premeditated, it’d take a very different kind of mind than Andy’s. He’s reasonably bright, very thorough, but not the least bit cunning or ambitious.”