The Alpine Pursuit (20 page)

“Yes.” Justine’s brittle manner seemed to crack just a bit. “I was backstage Thursday night, not Friday.”

Nat smiled sadly. “When something like this happens, you tend to lose track of time. The tragedy seems as if it took place weeks ago, not mere days.”

“Do you know who’s handling the arrangements for Hans?” I inquired.

Nat shook his head. “Hans never mentioned any next of kin. I understand Al Driggers has been trying to track down any Berengers who might be related to Hans. He’s concentrated on the Chicago area, but as of this afternoon, he’d had no luck.”

“That’s very sad,” I remarked. “Have you contacted his previous places of employment?”

“Have
I
?” Nat seemed put off by the question. He probably felt that such dog work was beneath him. “I assume that’s part of Al’s responsibility.”

Justine, cocktail glass in hand, stood up. “We mustn’t keep you from your deadline.”

“Yes,” I said, rising from my uncomfortable chair and wondering when back spasms would begin. “I must head for the office.”

I noticed that Justine’s Chippendale side chair was upholstered with a handsome piece of needlepoint. Feeling an obligation to say something flattering about their house, I commented on the beauty of the seat covering. A spray of red roses with lush green leaves lay against a white background. The detail was amazing.

“Thank you,” Justine said, her sharp features softening almost imperceptibly. “I did it myself. Needlepoint is my hobby.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed, seeing the small, precise initials
JBC
in the bottom right corner. “You signed it.”

“I sign all my pieces,” Justine replied. “It was our children’s idea. Since they both live so far away, they wanted to show off their mother’s needlework. I made a set of dining room chair covers for each of them—a dozen in all, and every one is different.”

“You do lovely work,” I enthused. I decided that the way to Justine’s heart was through her needle and thread.

“You’re very kind.” Justine edged toward the door. “I’m working on a footstool cover right now,” she added.

We were on the threshold. I gestured at the wreath. “Did you make that?”

“Yes.” Her face assumed its usual cool expression. “I enjoy other crafts, too, but my passion is needlework.”

“It’s very handsome,” I said. “And such a beautiful way to mourn.”

The cool expression became absolutely stony. “Yes,” she said. “Good night, Emma.”

THIRTEEN

I felt as if I’d made some kind of gaffe, but my misinterpretation of the wreath’s purpose had definitely been a conversation killer. Just when I’d detected a tiny slit in Justine’s armor, she’d soldered it shut. Maybe it didn’t matter. We would never be bosom buddies.

It took only a few minutes to type up Nat’s statement and hand it off to Kip. I cringed at Nat’s lobbying tactic, but the words were his, not mine. Indeed, I almost didn’t blame him for taking every opportunity to goose the legislators in Olympia.

Pub Day dawned, Crank Day for the
Advocate
. I tried to put myself in a forgiving state of mind by attending 8:00
A.M
. Ash Wednesday services at St. Mildred’s. Knowing that his parishioners had to get to work, Father Kelly whipped through the liturgy and distribution of ashes. There would be a second service in the evening that would probably run closer to an hour. As it was, I managed to get to the office shortly after eight-thirty.

Vida was again somewhat unlike herself and humming unrecognizable tunes. After listening to phone calls telling me I was a radical, a reactionary, and a Roman pawn of the pope, I invited Vida to step into my cubbyhole.

“Are you all right?” I asked point-blank. “You seem a bit off lately.”

“Off?” She bristled at the question. “What do you mean, ‘off’?”

“I mean, you’re kind of . . . not like yourself,” I said.

She puffed up like a grouse. “Honestly, Emma, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re not still mad at me for throwing Thyra out of the office?”

“Heavens, no.” She shook her head vigorously; the unruly gray curls went every which way. “That’s in the past.”

“Good,” I said, though I retained some doubts. Vida definitely holds grudges. “Is Buck back from California yet?”

“Not until the end of the month.” She eyed me shrewdly. “Did you think I was lovesick?”

“No, of course not.” I smiled at Vida. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. How’s Roger? Has he recovered from the trauma of Hans’s murder?” The query was a peacemaking gesture. I suspected that Roger was glorying in his role as a witness to homicide.

“Roger’s doing very well, though I don’t see how he manages such a brave face,” Vida replied solemnly. “I suggested to Rip Ridley that they bring in a grief counselor at the high school to help Roger move on with his life. Rip said he’d think about it. Being an ex–football player, Rip is somewhat callous.”

I didn’t explore Vida’s rationale about Rip, nor did I voice my opinion that after talking to Roger a grief counselor would need counseling—or at least consoling. “Just so Roger is doing okay,” I said.

Vida rose from her chair. “He’s managing, poor darling.” Her sympathetic expression changed abruptly and there was a glint in her eyes. “If you really want to know, tune in KSKY at seven tonight.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

The glint shone brighter. “Remember. Seven o’clock.”

Vida exited my office, humming.

∗ ∗ ∗

Later that afternoon, I phoned Driggers Funeral Home. Al answered, so I assumed Janet was working at the travel agency. The woman has so much energy that she holds down two jobs, and when the death business is slow she moves on to Sky Travel. As Janet puts it, either way she’s sending people somewhere.

“I don’t know yet,” Al said in frustration when I asked what he was going to do with Hans’s body. “I called at least a dozen Berengers in Illinois and they’d never heard of him. Rita Patricelli insists Hans never mentioned any relatives except his parents, who are deceased.”

“What about his late wife’s family?” I inquired.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I never thought of that. Hunh. You’re right. I could check Illinois vital statistics for a marriage license issued . . . when?”

I thought back to Milo’s recapitulation of Hans’s career. “More than ten years ago,” I finally said. “If I were you, I’d check Wisconsin as well. Hans met his wife, Julia, while he was attending graduate school in Madison. Do you have her maiden name?”

“No.” Al sounded mournful. “Wouldn’t you know it? Here I am, stuck with an unclaimed body, and the weather’s still bad. We’re going to lose at least a couple more Alpiners in the next few weeks. I don’t have that much storage space.”

I pictured Al regarding his funeral home as some kind of human freezer. The concept made me shiver. It hadn’t been so long ago that several bodies were found in the local meat locker.

“Let me know what you find out,” I said. “If nothing comes of your inquiries, I can contact some of the local papers and we can run classified ads asking for anyone who knows—or knew—of a Hans Berenger in the Illinois-Wisconsin loop.”

“That sounds like a lot of trouble,” Al murmured. “Oh, well. It’s all in a day’s work.”

I checked in with Milo via the phone. The forensic lab in Everett had gotten some prints off of the Mitsubishi and was running them through the FBI’s database. The sheriff didn’t expect to hear anything until tomorrow.

By five o’clock, the weather was again threatening snow. Al was right. We were still deep in winter. Driving the Honda into the carport, I once again wondered about enclosing the open structure. A few years earlier, I’d gone as far as getting some quotes, but the expenditure was beyond my means. Eventually, maybe. Meanwhile, I’d trust the Japanese car’s durability.

I was finishing my Lenten dinner of scrambled eggs and canned fruit when I turned on the TV to watch a college hoops game. March madness was almost upon us, and I didn’t want to be completely ignorant of the teams that might be contending for the NCAA basketball title.

I managed to catch the end of a close Michigan–Michigan State game, watching a parade to the free-throw line. A time-out was called. I happened to glance at my watch and noted that it was a couple of minutes before seven. Suddenly I remembered what Vida had said about turning on KSKY. I quickly shut off the TV before clicking on the radio. Spence was just concluding an ad for the Grocery Basket.

“And now, stay tuned for the big event we promised you on KSKY,” he said, his usual mellow tone injected with enthusiasm. “For the first time, we are proud to present that super source of news in Alpine, our oracle of the airwaves, the woman who knows all and is willing to tell it—may I present Vida Runkel with our new weekly program,
Vida’s Cupboard
.”

My jaw dropped. I could hardly believe my ears. But I had to—Vida’s familiar, if somewhat reedier, voice was coming from my radio.

“A very pleasant evening to all of you in Alpine and Skykomish County. I can’t even begin to tell you how delighted I am to have my very own fifteen minutes of fame, courtesy of Spencer Fleetwood and KSKY. Let’s start right in with some of the news we weren’t able to fit into
The Alpine Advocate
this week. Unfortunately, there wasn’t space for the conclusion of my article about Darlene and Harvey Adcock’s recent jaunt to Palm Springs. While the couple had an enjoyable time in California, Darlene emphasized how much she preferred the weather here in Alpine to . . .”

No wonder Vida had been acting so strangely. My first reaction was wrath. I felt betrayed. The seeds of hostility between the printed word and the electronic media had been sown in my college days. Rivalry between the two communications groups starts early and lasts a lifetime. My reaction was that Vida had gone over to the Enemy. I recalled Spence’s remark that he didn’t have time to sleuth—and he didn’t have Vida. Well, he had her now. I glared at the radio.

But I listened. Vida was talking about the upcoming christening of a new baby at the Presbyterian church. We didn’t have room to run more than the basic facts about such events. She went on to offer a recipe for Darla Puckett’s upside-down banana cream pie. That would be filler—as well as filling—for the
Advocate
. I began to wonder what I’d have done if Spence had offered me my own program. It would be good advertising—which was what Vida was doing. Maybe I shouldn’t be angry. But I still was, even as she stopped for a commercial break on behalf of the Upper Crust Bakery.

Vida’s Cupboard,
I mused. At least it wasn’t called
Vida’s Drawers
.

Vida returned to the airwaves, her voice sounding more normal. Apparently, a technical adjustment had been made.

“Now, dear listeners and fellow Alpiners,” she announced in her most exuberant tone, “you’re in for a very special treat. My first guest on KSKY is someone I hold near and dear. May I proudly present my grandson, Roger Hibbert. Welcome, Roger. It’s my pleasure as a journalist and a grandmother to have you on our inaugural program.”

Please don’t ask Roger to define inaugural
was my first mean thought.

“Roger,” Vida said in her warmest voice, “you are one of those rare teenagers who knows precisely what they want to do with their life. Tell us why you’ve chosen acting as your future career.”

Roger didn’t answer immediately. I could picture Vida smiling fondly and pinching his cheek. The lull was broken by a clawing sound and a couple of squeaks. I guessed that Roger was fiddling with the equipment.

“It was when Davin fell down,” Roger finally replied, sounding slightly less sullen than usual.

“You refer to Davin Rhodes, one of
The Alpine Advocate
’s outstanding carriers?”

Ah. A plug for the paper. Good.

“Yeah. Davin Rhodes. Rhodesy. Hey, what’s up, Rhodesy? How’s that hot sister of yours? Woo, woo!”

“Excuse me, Roger. We mustn’t send personal messages over the air.” She cleared her throat, probably to cover up the rattling noise her grandson was making with the equipment. “Now then.” Vida must have been smiling her head off with encouragement for Roger dear. “Could you explain for us how Davin’s accident made you realize you wanted to be an actor?”

A beat, another beat before Roger spoke. “He was in this play, like, at the college, and he couldn’t, like, be in it ’cause his ankle hurt. So he, like, asked me to do it for him. So, like, I did.”

“Now this was just two days before opening night,” Vida said. “How was it possible for you to learn the lines so quickly? That was an amazing feat.”

“Feet? I didn’t have to, like, dance. But I did, like, have to run. That’s why Rhodesy couldn’t do it. He couldn’t run with his ankle all bummed out.”

I wondered if Vida was gritting her teeth. “I’m sorry, Roger, I didn’t make myself clear. I meant how did you know the part so well?”

“I’d hung out with Rhodesy at rehearsals,” Roger replied, sounding impatient. “He didn’t, like, have to say a lot. So I kind of knew like what he had to say. When he said something.”

“That’s remarkable,” Vida said. “Such a quick study. But since then, you’ve expressed a deep interest in acting. How do you explain that?”

Another pause. “Like acting’s way cool. You know, like in the movies and TV. It’d be really cool to be an action hero, like Steven Seagal and Clint Eastwood. Except Clint’s kind of old and gnarly now.”

“Who knows? Maybe you can become the new Clint Eastvold.”

“East
wood
, Grams. Jeez, don’t you know—”

Vida laughed like a braying mule. “Oh, Roger, such a way to tease your grandmother. Aren’t you the one?” She made a noise that sounded like clearing her throat. Or strangling herself. “On a more serious note, Roger, we all know about the terrible tragedy that occurred at opening night of
The Outcast
. Would it disturb you too much to discuss your reaction?”

“To what?”

“To Hans Berenger’s untimely demise.
Shooting,
that is.”

“Weird,” Roger replied. “I mean, like, Otto—the guy in the play—was supposed to get shot, but not totally. After the curtain came down, we were all supposed to join hands to take our bows. We started to do it, but Otto—Professor Berenger—didn’t get up. Professor Parsons yelled at him. So did Coach Ripley. Then Coach and Dr. Medved took a look at him—Professor Berenger—and said there was something wrong. The blood looked real, and Otto—I mean, Berenger—still didn’t move. There was blood, but we had this cool stuff in what they call squids, and I thought, like, well, he’s supposed to have blood from the squids.”

“I think that’s ‘squibs,’ Roger dear,” Vida interjected. “Do go on.”

“Whatever. Anyways, everybody went crazy, and that was when somebody—Coach, I think—told us he was really, really dead. I thought,
Oh, wow!
and tried to get a good look, but Ms. Patricelli was pitching a fit and everybody went, like, nuclear.”

To my surprise, Roger’s recollection was sufficiently articulate.

“Such a shock,” Vida murmured into the microphone. “How have you coped with being involved in such a tragedy?”

“I chilled. I mean, like, the play was over, right? And the dude was dead. It was just like TV.”

“So much violence. It’s particularly dreadful when Hans was shot in front of a child.” Vida’s sigh quivered over the airwaves, along with some more scratching and scraping noises. “Thank you, Roger, for a most interesting eyewitness account. I’m sure everyone in our listening audience will agree that you are very brave. Spencer Fleetwood and I are both grateful to you for telling your story. That’s all for now until next Wednesday at seven o’clock, when I’ll be here to chat with Judy and Connie Dithers about their horses. So for now, I’m closing my cupboard”—a creaking sound and a gentle slam could be heard in the background—“until we meet again on the voice of Alpine, KSKY.”

As soon as a canned commercial for Safeway began, the phone rang. I switched off the radio and grabbed the receiver, expecting Spencer Fleetwood to gloat over me.

But it was worse than that. “Hey, hey,” shouted Ed Bronsky. “Why didn’t Vida have me on her show? I was an eyewitness, too. I could’ve talked about my reaction and my new book,
Mr. Ed Gets Wed
. And how does Vida get her own program anyway? I’m the one with multimedia experience.”

I hadn’t made a drink before dinner, but I decided I needed one now. “This is all a surprise to me, Ed,” I responded, carrying the phone out into the kitchen. “Vida kept the program a secret. You might know she’d have Roger as her first guest.”