Alpine Icon (16 page)

Vida wore a puzzled expression. “But she was active in your church. Surely you must have dealt with her.”

Monica's close-set gray eyes strayed to a framed piece of embroidery that proclaimed,
LIVE IN CHRIST, DIE IN CHRIST, DWELL WITH CHRIST FOREVER.
Maybe she was
seeking inspiration. “Ms. Randall came to see Father Den several times,” she finally said in her light, nervous voice. “I hardly talked to her while she waited for him. Not that she waited long—I don't think she liked to be kept waiting.”

The observation seemed astute. “Was she experiencing a spiritual crisis?” I inquired, noting a faint nod of approval from Vida for coming up with the question.

Monica's gray eyes widened. “I don't know. I don't think so. Her attitude was … assertive.”

Vida started to say something, but Monica hadn't finished: “I didn't sense the Spirit moving in Ms. Randall. She seemed more material, more earthbound. Once, I did ask if she'd like to join our Thursday prayer group. She was actually kind of rude about it. She laughed, and said prayer groups were silly.” Dismay clouded Monica's face. “I didn't say anything, but she could tell I didn't approve. We've been praying for her ever since.”

“We?”
Vida sounded ingenuous.

“Our prayer group,” Monica replied with a beatific smile. “Sister Mary Joan, Pia Patricelli, Debra Barton, Nina Mullins. There are some others who sort of come and go, depending on whether the Spirit is with them.” Still looking sublime, Monica turned to me. “You ought to join us, Emma. There's a real sense of community, of women getting in touch with themselves and each other. Sometimes we feel isolated from the Church proper, as if our role isn't valued. Women sharing their sense of spirituality among themselves is very important to our self-esteem. Marisa Foxx came once and said it was an unforgettable experience. I can't think why she hasn't come back. Maybe her law practice keeps her too busy.”

Maybe, I thought, Marisa wasn't a complete idiot. I'd gone to a prayer meeting once, twenty years ago in Portland. We sat around in a circle, with the putative leader urging us all to share our most intimate secrets. By the time they got to me, I'd developed a leg cramp and
realized I was stuck in the beanbag chair. Announcing that I felt immobilized, my coreligionists took the statement as a spiritual, rather than a physical, malady and began to pray over me. With kindly pats on the head, they assured me that God would soon lift the veil from my soul. Then they all trooped off into the kitchen to drink coffee and eat cookies while I ended up rolling around on the floor, trying to get on my feet. Needless to say, I never went back to the prayer group. I suspected that Marisa Foxx, who struck me as a no-nonsense kind of person, had had a similar, if less clumsy, reaction. Such incidents definitely could be termed “unforgettable.”

I evaded Monica's invitation by pouncing on the mention of Marisa. “Do you have any idea if Ms. Randall had engaged Ms. Foxx as her attorney?”

Monica's response bordered on indignation. “Really, I know almost nothing about Ms. Randall. I don't know Marisa that well, either. She just doesn't seem to be someone who likes to share. The only time I've talked to her lately—except at church to say hello—was when she came to see Father Den a couple of weeks ago.”

I could see the alarm flares light up in Vida's eyes, and couldn't resist my next question: “A spiritual crisis?” Spiritual crises seemed to appeal to Vida.

Monica's face hardened. “I don't think so. She brought her briefcase.”

“Perhaps,” Vida suggested with a straight face, “Marisa had cataloged her doubts.”

“Well…” Monica considered the idea. “It's possible. She seems very organized.” The close-set gray eyes skipped around the living room's disorder, dancing from scattered toys to discarded winter sports catalogs to all manner of books, ranging from children's stories to pop psychology and pap theology. “It's much more important to organize your inner life than to worry about the externals,” Monica stated, as if to defend her careless housekeeping.

Looking pained, Vida stood up. “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” she murmured, then gave Monica an artless smile. “Of course that's a Presbyterian precept. I'm sure you Catholics would deem it heresy.”

“Oh, not necessarily,” Monica replied, very serious. “We don't think in those terms anymore. We believe in openness.”

“But not in organization.” Vida was now smiling broadly, as if she had made a big joke. I knew better, and all but hustled her out the door.

The little girl was on her way into the house. “Mama!” she cried, stepping on my foot as she crossed the threshold. “John Paul broke my shovel!”

Bending down, Monica put a gentle hand on her daughter's arm. “Now, Teresa, don't be angry. Your brother is trying to tell you something, and he doesn't have the right words. Let's bring him inside and we'll share our feelings and say a little prayer. Remember, you must always see the part of him that's Jesus.”

“I saw his wee-wee!” Teresa screeched. “He piddled in the sandbox!”

“Teresa!” Monica's voice was firm, though not raised. “First of all, you're not to call body parts by crude nicknames. Second, you must be more open to—”

“Goodbye,” Vida called over her shoulder.

The gait that she achieved in getting to her car came the closest to a run that I'd ever seen on the part of my House & Home editor. By the time I got into the passenger seat, I was laughing so hard that I could barely speak. Vida, of course, was fuming.

“I don't believe I can stand interviewing these people,” she declared after running out of invective. “My acquaintanceship with the St. Mildred's crowd has been casual, for the most part. At least as far as the younger members are concerned. Really, Emma, how do you endure such silliness? I'm beginning to think Ursula Randall wasn't so dreadful after all.”

I started to give Vida a glib reply, then thought better of it. “The truth is, I don't socialize with most of them, and I don't participate much in church activities. In some ways, it's kind of like high school. People are thrown together for one reason. They share a certain thing— getting an education or belonging to the same faith—and they live in a specific geographical area. But that doesn't mean they have much else in common. In a way, it's one of the things I like about being Catholic. The Church— I'm talking with a capital C, Vida—is catholic. Little c. It has room for all sorts of people, from simpletons to saints. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. But I keep my distance because if I hung out with some of those people, I'd go nuts. They're enough to make me lose my religion—or at least to wonder about it. Losing faith is another matter.”

“Yes.” Vida was thoughtful. “Faith is very personal. I despise talking about it. To be frank, we have a few members in our congregation who are not unlike Monica Vancich. They're younger, like her. But Pastor Purebeck watches them like a hawk. Talking in tongues indeed!”

Vida's remark about Pastor Purebeck reminded me of Father Den—and the visit from Marisa Foxx. “I wonder why Marisa went to see Den,” I mused. “I'll bet it had nothing to do with a spiritual crisis.”

“You and Marisa should be friends,” Vida asserted. “I've often wondered why you haven't become better acquainted.”

I'd occasionally wondered that myself. Marisa had moved to Alpine a couple of years earlier and joined the Doukas law firm. Her brisk manner and lack of overt femininity had given rise to rumors that she was a lesbian. But I neither knew nor cared about her sexual orientation. The truth was that we both seemed too caught up in our busy lives to extend a hand in friendship.

“Maybe I'll invite Marisa over for dinner this coming
week,” I said. “I can use one of the menus I planned for Ben.”

Vida's gray eyes slid in my direction. “Good. Very good.”

“Do you want to come?”

“No, no. Not this time. You two Catholics need to be alone. Girl talk. Catholic talk. Talk, talk, talk. It may prove interesting.” Vida looked pleased with herself—or with me—as she eased the Buick into a diagonal parking space in front of the sheriffs office. We were lucky to find such a convenient place. Front Street was busy, mostly with out-of-towners enjoying the Labor Day weekend.

Milo had the big fan going, which was good, because his ashtray was overflowing and Vida detested the smell of cigarette smoke. Still, the air was stale and oppressive. The sheriffs offer of hot coffee was refused by both of us.

“I was wondering when you two would come by,” Milo said, settling into his swivel chair and putting his feet up on the desk. He looked a bit smug.

“We're here now,” Vida responded, adjusting her glasses and smoothing the wrinkles in her striped culottes. “Have you some news?”

The sheriff ruffled his graying sandy hair. “Could be. What do you want to know? Traffic accidents? Attempted break-ins? Bad checks? Crazy Eights Neffel swiping Grace Grundle's underpants off the clothesline and wearing them on his head in the public library?” Milo seemed uncharacteristically playful.

It clearly strained Vida to humor the sheriff. “Actually we had some questions about Ursula Randall. For example, was there any indication that she might have suffered an injury that caused her to fall down? Doc Dewey thought not, according to Emma, but his examination was admittedly cursory.”

“Cursory, but on target.” Milo reached for his cigarettes, caught Vida's warning glance, and toyed with a
ballpoint pen instead. “We heard from Everett about a half hour ago. It seems that some high muck-a-muck in Seattle at the Catholic church headquarters called my SnoCo colleagues and put on the pressure. The preliminary report is in.” Milo put down the pen and reached into his shirt pocket for a roll of mints. “Ursula Randall had an accident, all right. She passed out and fell on her face in the Sky because she was drunk. The lady was loaded with alcohol. Hell, the lady was loaded. What more can I say?”

Milo popped a mint into his mouth, held out both hands, and gave us a triumphant grin.

Vida told him he was an idiot.

T
HE SHERIFF EXPLODED
in anger. What was so strange about a willful woman who had swigged down a fifth of vodka, wandered away from her fancy house, and collapsed at the edge of the river while she was contemplating her navel or her future or her next drink? People walked in front of railroad trains, meandered across major highways, stepped off curbs in front of buses. Accident or deliberate, the result was the same—they ended up dead.

“Hell, what were you expecting?” Milo demanded, his tone finally becoming less harsh.

Vida leaned forward in her chair, one arm planted firmly on the sheriffs desk. “Foul play. Which, I believe, is what you told Emma in the first place. Do you really intend to dismiss this as an accidental death?”

“I didn't tell Emma any such thing,” Milo retorted. “I said it might have been foul play. Look.” The sheriff wagged a long finger. “How often do you read—or in your case, write—an obituary where you say something like 'So-and-so died of apparent kidney failure' or 'Memorials in Blah-blah's name should be sent to the American Heart Association'? Sure, it sounds like natural causes. But you know damned well—especially you, Vida—that So-and-so and Blah-blah drank themselves to death. Or worse, they OD'ed on drugs. You never read that a person who died in a house fire caused by a smoldering cigarette had passed out first with an
empty jug by his—or her—side. Ask Doc Dewey, ask Peyton Flake. They'll tell you that one hell of a lot of people right here in Skykomish County peg out on booze. You've got almost forty percent of the population living below the poverty level. What little money they've got goes into a bottle.” Milo paused, his eyes fixed on the map of Skykomish County. “It wasn't always like this. There used to be jobs, people had pride. A man could hold his head up and support his family—” He stopped altogether. I could have sworn there was a catch in his voice.

“Pitiful,” Vida murmured. “But, alas, true. I'm older, I remember even more of the good times.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose we ought to be going. Thank you, Milo, for your help.”

Milo had turned his attention back to us. “Damn it, you're going to have to trust me on this. It was the booze.”

Vida had risen, a majestic figure in the striped culotte costume and sailor hat. With a stretch of the imagination, I could picture her as a figurehead on a New Bedford whaler. “Perhaps,” Vida said in a noncommittal tone. “Though I do have a quibble. The people you've been describing are unemployed, uneducated, living in despair. That doesn't really suit Ursula Randall, does it?”

The sheriff's expression was ironic. “You think rich people don't drink? They just buy better brands.”

“That's not the point,” Vida said with dignity. “1 don't think that rich people—such as Ursula—walk three miles from the elegant comfort of their own homes to pass out in the Skykomish River. It doesn't make sense.”

“You'd be surprised what weird things people do,” Milo replied gruffly.

“No, I wouldn't.” Vida's glance veered in my direction. “Ursula's clothes, her shoes, the time of day—none of it fits. But most of all, where was the bottle?”

“The bottle?” For the first time Milo looked jarred.

Vida leaned both hands on the desk. “Of course. Now, I'll confess I've never been inebriated. But my uncle Otto, whose family nickname was Uncle Blotto—well, never mind, let's say that I've had some experience with alcoholism. I do know that if a person walks a great distance in fresh air, they begin to grow sober. 'Walking it off—isn't that the expression? Now, if Ursula did indeed go on foot from The Pines almost to the end of River Road, she shouldn't have passed out when she got there. Unless, of course, she had brought a bottle or a flask or some such container with her. In which case, where was it? Did Richie find it? Did you? Emma and I certainly saw no sign when we were there this afternoon.”

Milo was drumming his fingers on the desk. “She might have dropped it and it broke. If it was a flask, it could have been carried off by the current.”

“Rot,” I put in. “The current next to the shore is relatively slow. It only picks up toward the middle of the river, where that underbrush is caught. You know that, Milo. You're a fisherman, for God's sake.”