The Alpine Christmas (12 page)

We all laughed, but Francine was shaking her head.

“No, I won’t. I’ll wait for Buddy to come in here looking hopelessly baffled. Then I’ll whip out the blouse and the sweater. Buddy will practically kiss my feet in gratitude, and
you’ll end up with something you really want for Christmas. Your kids can give you the damned scarf.”

We laughed some more. After Roseanna had gone out into the dark late afternoon, I told Francine what I was looking for. She led me not to the rack of moderately priced dresses, but back up front to the display window where three mannequins stood on a sparkling snow-covered floor and huge crystal snowflakes were suspended from almost-invisible wires.

“The dark green is you, Emma. You’ve got a nice figure and it will emphasize your height.”

I gazed at the green wool crepe with its surplice bodice and gently draped waistline. In my head, I also translated Francine’s comments:
Your bust’s okay, your hips aren’t bad, you don’t have much of a waist, and you’re kind of short. This dress will make for good camouflage
.

“I’ll try it on,” I said, “but I hate to have you wreck your window display.”

Francine was already heading for the back room. “That’s an eight. I’ve got a ten out here. I was saving it for Dr. Starr’s wife, but she didn’t think the color looked right on her. She got purple silk instead.”

The last words were spoken from behind a mauve velvet curtain. I looked around the shop, marveling as always that Francine could make a go of it in Alpine. Her clothes were in what retailers laughingly call the
moderately priced
designer range, which meant that anything under a hundred bucks could be found only on the clearance sale rack. Vida once told me that Francine had made out like a bandit ten years earlier when she’d divorced her alcoholic attorney husband from Seattle. Apparently, she had taken the money and run—back to her hometown of Alpine, where she’d opened Francine’s Fine Apparel. It was the only store within sixty miles where a woman could buy clothes that didn’t look as if they were designed primarily for spilling beer down your front at the bowling alley. Despite the dearth of customers
on this dark December afternoon, Francine obviously did enough business not only to keep going, but to make a profit.

“Roseanna Bayard’s off-line, of course,” Francine announced as she emerged from the back room. She held the green wool crepe up for my inspection, not unlike a wine steward proffering a bottle of champagne. I wondered if I should ask to sniff the sleeve.

“About what?” I finally inquired, coming out of my shopper’s daze.

“Teresa McHale. I don’t think she’s spent her life as a parish housekeeper. She applied for a job here first.”

I’d already stepped inside one of the two small dressing rooms. They were also curtained off by velvet draperies. “She did? You mean after she moved here?”

“No, before that.” Francine’s voice was slightly muffled by the curtain. “She’d worked at a couple of apparel stores in Seattle. Nordstrom’s, I think, and then some place in the Westlake Center. But I don’t need anybody full-time. Gerry Runkel fills in whenever I have to be out of here.”

Geraldine Runkel was one of Vida’s numerous in-laws. She was married to Everett, Vida’s husband’s youngest brother. Or so I recalled from the complicated and extensive Runkel-Blatt family tree.

I stood back a few paces. More than my bangs needed a trim; I realized I was at least two weeks overdue on a haircut. Most of my makeup had worn off during the course of the day and the harshness of the elements. Still, I looked good in the dress. Or did the dress look good on me? I peered at the price tag: Francine’s dollar amounts were always printed in round numbers and so smashed together that it practically took a magnifying glass to decipher them. Two hundred and fifty dollars, the tag read. I gulped, and visualized my rapidly sinking checking account balance.

“Let’s see,” Francine called.

Dutifully, I walked out of the dressing room. Francine beamed at me. “I was right. What a difference—Carrie Starr
couldn’t handle that color. It’s great with your brown eyes and that almost-olive complexion. Here, Emma, let me show you something.” Francine dashed over to the display case where the cash register was located. She whipped out a single strand of pearls set with random dark green oval beads. “Put this on. There are earrings to match. It’s going to be dynamite.”

It was. I guess. In fact, after I left Francine’s Fine Apparel, I felt as if I’d been blown up by a ton of TNT. The dress, necklace, and earrings had set me back three hundred and forty-seven bucks, sales tax included. I’d had to use my bank card.

As I drove home through the swirling snow, all I could think was
Did I do this for Milo
? The answer was
No
. I’d done it for me.

And, just in case he might show up over the holidays, I’d done it for Tom Cavanaugh. It occurred to me that if Alpine had a contest for the Christmas Fool, I could win it hands-down.

Vida arrived ahead of Oscar Nyquist, stamping snow off her buckled boots and shaking out a long plaid muffler. Her black hat looked like the sort that Italian country priests are supposed to wear, but in this informal, global era, I suspect they lean toward Mets baseball caps.

“You didn’t come back to the office,” she said accusingly.

“I didn’t say I would,” I countered, taking her coat.

“I thought you might want to check in with Milo.” She plopped down on the sofa and gazed around my living room. “Now this looks very nice,” she said approvingly. “Why is there a camel on your Nativity stable’s roof?”

I stared at my cherished set. Sure enough, the standing camel, as opposed to the other two which were seated, appeared to be stalking across the stable. “Ben,” I muttered. “He must have come by to get the rest of his stuff. The camels don’t go up until this weekend.” I whisked the little figure away, putting it back in the desk drawer.

“Milo didn’t call,” Vida remarked, apparently willing to excuse me for my truancy.

“He probably won’t know anything until tomorrow,” I said, going out into the kitchen to fetch us an eggnog. “Rum or not?”

“Half milk,” Vida called back, and I winced. I like my eggnog pure and simply fattening. I only put liquor in it when I figure I need to cut my cholesterol count. Happily, I rarely gain weight. I have too much nervous energy.

I told Vida about my encounter at the mall with Arnie and Louise Nyquist. Vida was mildly interested in Louise’s description of the so-called lurker. She had been more intrigued by Milo’s suggestion that Bridget knew the man’s identity.

I was putting another slab of wood on the fire when Oscar Nyquist arrived. He looked like a snowman, having walked—uphill—the six blocks from his home on Cedar Street. Snow was caked to his overcoat, his stocking cap, his boots. I practically had to pry him loose from his outerwear. Yet at eighty-two, he seemed none the worse for his exertion.

“I been here all my life,” he said, easing into the beige armchair. His voice bounced off the walls, but he wasn’t operating at full bellow. “You get used to the snow. The rain, too. The weather’s good for the movie business.” He nodded sagely, as if he’d invented the climate.

“Good,” Vida retorted. “We’re going to talk about just that in a minute. Meanwhile, tell us about this pest and what’s worrying you.”

Oscar squinted at Vida. “You think I’m nuts?”

“Of course I do. Most people are.” Vida sounded impatient. “But why are you so concerned about your granddaughter-in-law?”

Oscar didn’t respond immediately, but gazed into the flickering flames and barely seemed aware that I was shoving an eggnog at him. Absently, he took the mug and sipped. I’d laced it lightly with both rum and milk. I had a feeling that Oscar Nyquist could have drunk Drano and had neither a reaction nor a complaint.

“She’s an odd girl,” he finally said. “Different. Maybe that’s because she comes from the city.” His gaze lighted briefly on me, as if I, too, might be pretty odd. “She’s up, she’s down. You never know. She seemed so scared the other day, then she’s happy as can be. I figure it’s this fellow, hanging around and making her nervous. He can’t mean any good.”

It was time for me, the official interviewer, to speak up. “Has Bridget expressed a fear of this man?”

Oscar’s bald head tipped to one side. It seemed that he never answered any questions impulsively. “Not outright. But she’s scared. No doubt about it. When she isn’t being happy, she acts like she’s scared to death.”

Scared to death
. Vida and I exchanged swift glances. Two young women, approximately Bridget Nyquist’s age, were already dead. Was there a connection? If Carol Neal was missing and Bridget knew it, she had a right to be scared. To death.

But her erratic behavior was strange. I kept thinking of Milo’s explanation. “Do you think Bridget has any idea who this person is?” I asked, hoping to sound casual.

Oscar shook his head. “Why should she?”

I was sitting on the sofa next to Vida. I leaned forward, trying to gauge how far I could go without riling Oscar. “Travis said Bridget didn’t want you to talk about this. Why? Is she embarrassed?”

Oscar made a stabbing movement with his right hand. “Nyaaah! She’s silly! She’s a kid, she still thinks everybody’s decent! She’s a city girl, she ought to know better.” His voice dropped to a rumble.

“You should give Sheriff Dodge a description,” Vida said crisply. “You and Arnie may not think much of Milo, but most people agree he’s a good lawman. It seems to me you’re making a mountain out of a molehill with all these petty complaints, and in the meantime, ignoring the mole. The deputies cruise around town all the time. They should know who to be on the lookout for.”

Oscar all but sneered. “I did tell them, this afternoon. Tall, skinny fellow, young. Big jacket, jeans. Maybe jeans; I forget. Bridget told me.”

I gave Oscar a skeptical look. “But told you not to tell?”

Oscar’s chin jutted like the prow of a Viking ship. “ ‘Don’t bother, Popsy,’ ” he mimicked in a girlish voice. “ ‘This is
such a little town. What else do people have to do but look in other people’s windows?’ Pah!”

Bridget wasn’t entirely wrong. Since moving to Alpine, I’d gone on a few evening strolls with Vida. While I admired the sunset or commented on the gardens, Vida’s eyes fixated on windows. Her usual long-legged stride always slowed when we came upon a house where the drapes hadn’t been pulled. “Daleys—new picture above the mantel, a Maxfield Parrish,” she’d murmur. Or, “Eversons have company—out-of-town plates. Seattle, I’d guess.” She didn’t consider it snooping, merely doing her job of keeping up with the local news. I suspected that a lot of Alpiners did the same, but weren’t in a position to give their curiosity such a noble name.

Again, I glanced at Vida. She was frowning into her eggnog. “This is all very vague. I hope Bridget uses good sense. If you’re worried about her, it’s up to her to see to her own safety.”

With a grimace, Oscar nodded. I felt it was time to make some sort of professional commitment. He had trudged through the snow to unburden himself and not received much in return.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, darting a quick glance at Vida. “We’re going to do an article on the Marmot. If we slant it so that it’s as much of a family story as it is about the theatre, then we can work in some of the problems you and Arnie have had with vandalism and such.”

I couldn’t tell if Oscar Nyquist was alarmed or mollified. Something sparked in his blue eyes, but his only verbal response was a grunt. Vida was regarding me with a vexed expression. I knew she thought I was compromising myself.

“We’ll need photos,” she said, and it was my turn to feel a sense of relief. “Old ones, as well as new ones. We have some, but yours might be better.”

Oscar nodded again, this time with more assurance. “In the basement. At the Marmot. Come by tomorrow around nine. I can show you a lot of old stuff. If you’re interested.”

Vida didn’t respond, but I did. “That’s wonderful,” I enthused. “If I have time, I’ll come with Vida. I like old movie mementos.”

Now on his feet, Oscar gazed at me as if I were a bit lacking. “It’s junk,” he asserted. “We should have thrown it out a long time ago. But we didn’t.”

Visions of lobby cards from
Casablanca
and
Rebecca
and
Gone with the Wind
danced in my head. Publicity stills of Chaplin, Pickford, Gable. Souvenir programs from blockbusters such as
Ben-Hur, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Godfather
. I am not a movie buff in the true sense, but I definitely appreciate the art form.

“What have you got?” Vida asked dryly. “W. C. Fields’s false teeth?”

Oscar Nyquist took Vida seriously, but at least his denseness averted bloodshed. It was probably a blessing that I intended to visit the Marmot the next morning. My House & Home editor’s lack of respect for the movies and their local purveyor might land her—or him—into trouble.

I never thought to include myself in that equation. Foolish me.

There were compromises to be made. In the summer, a University of Washington professor had devised a plan to thin out or prune almost two million acres of ten- to thirty-year-old forests in Washington and Oregon. The process would not only increase quantity, but would also enhance quality. If the trees were not cut, their density would choke out animal life and create a sterile environment.

That was just one of the proposals I included in my editorial. Naturally, we had run the story when it first broke in
The Seattle Times
. The article had elicited enthusiasm—and criticism. While most Alpiners are pro-logging, there are quite a few people who have moved to town because they love the wilderness. They would just as soon melt every
chain saw in the Pacific Northwest as prune a limb from an evergreen.

I typed away, trying to balance my editorial, while at the same time taking a stand. I noted that one of the problems was that the spotted owls were—and I phrased this more gently—screwing themselves by not screwing each other. The birds had resorted to miscegenation, mating with different owl species. While that might not be a bad method to resolve racial tensions among human beings, it wasn’t good news for the owls.