The Alpine Quilt (11 page)

The mirror showed me smiling ironically. Maybe I should do something different. Not exotic, not erotic—but funny. The puckish mood that had beset me during Ed’s visit hadn’t yet evaporated.

I had some balloons in my kitchen junk drawer. They were left over from a baby and his mother who’d temporarily lived with me several years ago. I also had a couple of squeaky toys that had belonged to the little tot. One was—appropriately enough—a pink pig. The other was a mangy-looking orange cat.

Fortunately, the sweatshirt was baggy, a necessity in Alpine winters when I put a sweater under it in order to keep warm. I blew up the balloons and laid them over my bra. I looked a little weird, but not outrageous. Using a strip of Velcro, I attached the squeaky pig to my waist and the cat to my backside. I thought it was a funny idea; Milo might not agree. I’d have to wait and see.

The sheriff arrived five minutes early. He gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before heading into the kitchen. Apparently, he didn’t notice my expanded bust.

“Don’t ask me anything until I get a drink,” he said, taking an almost-empty bottle of Scotch out of the cupboard. “You got any more of this stuff?”

“It’s right next to that bottle,” I said, amazed anew at men’s inability to see what’s practically bumping their eyeballs.

“Oh. Good.” He took down the new bottle. “You got yours yet?”

I pointed to a full glass on the counter about two inches from where he was standing. “I just made it. Are you going to get a glass or just drink it straight out of the jug?”

The sheriff looked as if he was considering the idea, but finally got a glass, added ice, a stiff shot of Scotch, and a dash of water. “I’m having a job crisis,” he announced.

I stared at Milo to make sure he was serious. Judging from his doleful expression, he was. “Why?”

“Over this poisoning deal,” he replied, leaning against the fridge. “I’ll have to question Annie Jeanne tomorrow. I know damned well she’ll deny anything to do with the insulin in the cheesecake, but she’s the only person who’s a real suspect.”

Cocktail glass in hand, I looked Milo straight in the eye. “Not so.”

Milo stared back, but at my face, not my bosom. “How do you mean?”

“Let’s sit down,” I said. “I don’t need to put the steaks on yet.”

“I like mine pretty well done,” the sheriff reminded me as we went into the living room.

“I know, I know, bootlike.”

“Your steaks look like you could put a tourniquet on them and they’d go out to pasture,” he said as we assumed our accustomed places—he in the easy chair, me on the sofa. He still didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about my person. “What do you know that I don’t?” he asked, taking a pack of Marlboro Lights out of his pocket. “About the poison, I mean.”

I got out the ashtray and handed it to Milo, who promptly lit up, but not before offering me a cigarette, too. With a show of reluctance, I accepted. Why not? I was in for an evening of semidebauchery, even if smoking was a much graver social sin these days than sex outside of wedlock. “The cookies that made up the crust weren’t homemade. Gen bought them at the bakery and gave them to Ethel Pike, who couldn’t eat them because of her diabetes and handed them over to Annie Jeanne.”

“Hold it.” Milo was obviously trying to follow the cookie trail. “So the Crowes made the cookies?”

I nodded. “I doubt that they put insulin in them, however.” I winced. That seemed to bring us back to Annie Jeanne. You can’t make a crust without breaking the cookies.

The same thought struck Milo. “So Annie Jeanne was the only one who could have put the insulin in the crust,” he mused.

“Well—no. Annie Jeanne left the rectory for what she called just a few minutes to go to the store. Knowing Annie Jeanne,” I continued, “she may have been gone for an hour. She tends to dither.”

“The rectory wasn’t locked?”

“No.” I hesitated. “Ben was there.”

To my relief, Milo laughed. “I don’t consider your brother a suspect.”

“I’m so relieved,” I said, only half joking. “Say, do you remember if Father Fitz had diabetes?”

Milo frowned. “How would I know? I was never a member of his flock.”

“You’d remember if the EMTs had ever been called to the rectory because he’d gone into a diabetic coma,” I said.

“Well . . . I might at that,” Milo admitted. “But his tour of duty at St. Mildred’s goes back to before I was on the force. Hell, when did he come here? It must have been back in the fifties, when I was still a kid.”

“That sounds about right,” I agreed.

We were both silent for a few minutes, sipping and smoking. It was moments like these when I could almost imagine myself saying, “What time are the kids coming home tonight?”

But there were no kids; nobody was coming home. I offered Milo a refill. He accepted. I went into the kitchen, put his steak on to cook, and returned with a full glass for him and a few more sprinkles of bourbon for me.

As I handed him his drink, he stared up at me. “You look different. Putting on some weight?”

“I don’t think so,” I replied, hastening to sit down on the sofa. “I stay around a hundred and twenty, a hundred and twenty-five. Frankly, I hardly ever weigh myself.”

“Hunh.” Milo was looking puzzled. “It must have been the way you were standing. I’m used to looking down at you.”

I’d draped my arms across my chest. “I suppose.”

“Hunh,” Milo repeated.

During dinner, we spoke of topics unrelated to poisoning or my shape. The main subject was the string of break-ins. It was Wednesday; there had been no further reports since the Pikes’ burglary Monday. Milo, however, wasn’t sanguine about the thief—or thieves—giving up the crime spree.

“Too many houses in this town that can’t be easily seen, what with all the trees and bushes,” he said, making good headway on his dinner. “Not enough streetlights, either.”

The sheriff was right. Despite numerous editorials on my part, Alpine had adequate lighting only in the commercial district. As for sidewalks—for which I’d also beaten the
Advocate
’s drums—they didn’t exist south of Tyee Street or north of the river. My own front lawn dwindled into a strip of gravel between my property and the pavement. According to Vida, my street hadn’t been paved until the mid-eighties.

“You must have some suspects,” I pointed out. “There’s always a few bad boys with nothing better to do than break into houses. Not to mention the druggies who are trying to support their habit.”

“It used to be easy,” Milo said with a sigh. “We knew who all the bad kids were—they’d usually grown up in Alpine. But now, with the college, we’ve got ten times as many outsiders. Plus, they come and go.”

I glanced at the clock. It was ten to seven, almost time for
Vida’s Cupboard.

I started clearing away the dirty plates and putting them in the dishwasher. Milo had wandered out into the living room, where he turned the radio on. Spencer Fleetwood didn’t usually work the weeknight shifts, leaving the DJ responsibilities to Tim Rafferty or some of the college students with an interest in broadcasting. But he was deferential to Vida, and always gave her a live introduction. The hour turn had just concluded as I joined the sheriff, who was now sitting on the sofa.
Milo’s version of foreplay,
I thought, flopping down next to him. He threw a long arm around my shoulders. I moved a couple of inches closer.

“We’re back with you on KSKY-AM, the voice of Skykomish County,” Spence announced in his best radio voice. “This is Wednesday, a special night for our listeners. Without further ado, let me introduce the voice of the people, Vida Runkel, as she opens
Vida’s Cupboard.
”

A creaking sound that symbolized the cupboard’s opening was followed by Vida’s unmistakable slightly nasal tones. “Good evening, dear listeners. This has been such a busy week for me, and not entirely pleasant.” Pause. Was she going to mention Gen’s demise? “I was forced to leave town for a few days to help take care of my daughter Beth, who had foot surgery. I left early Friday morning, and was—thankfully—back in Alpine late Monday night. I’m not only delighted to be home, but also happy to tell you that Beth is recovering nicely. While I was staying with her in Tacoma, I had the opportunity to spend time with my grandchildren, which is always such a joy. . . .”

Vida continued for at least three minutes discussing the charms and talents of Beth’s offspring. Milo and I exchanged puzzled looks just before his hand began exploring my balloons. His expression became downright mystified.

“You haven’t . . . gotten one of those boob jobs, have you?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I replied, sounding indignant.

“You feel . . . different.”

“Not to overlook my grandson right here in Alpine,” Vida went on. “Roger Hibbert is attending Skykomish Community College and hopes to become an actor. He’s taking English 101, drama, and music in his first quarter on campus.”

“He also took remedial math in summer school,” I said to Milo out of the corner of my mouth.

He put his hand under the sweatshirt. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “What the hell?”

The left balloon popped. We both jumped.

“My God!” Milo cried, and tugged at the sweatshirt.

“Roger,” Vida said in a proud voice, “is writing a paper for his English class. The students were asked to research an important historical figure. Roger chose Billy the Kid, which I think is very original of him.”

Milo saw the other balloon. “Emma!” He poked it, and it, too, blew up. The sheriff started to laugh.

“Speaking of studies and books, in this coming edition of the
Advocate
,” Vida resumed, giving the paper its usual plug, “I’ll be telling you about Edna Mae Dalrymple’s adventures at the library conference in Yakima. The article will focus on the conference itself, but I won’t have room to include Edna Mae’s adventure at a service station in Yakima. She stopped on her way into town to fill up the tank and was amazed when . . .”

Milo and I were both laughing so hard we barely heard Vida. The gist of the anecdote was that Edna Mae had encountered one of the many Hispanics in Yakima and couldn’t understand a word he said. She thought he asked her if the car took soup or realtor, and if she needed hair or fodder. Vida continued in this vein until the commercial break for the Grocery Basket.

“This doesn’t sound at all like her usual show,” I said, controlling my mirth. “Vida hasn’t announced a guest, though I thought she told me she’d invited Doc Dewey to urge people to get flu shots.”

“Maybe Doc had an emergency,” Milo suggested, now caressing my real breast and pulling me closer. The pig went off.

Milo pulled away. “Is that your stomach growling?”

I was laughing so hard I couldn’t answer. The sheriff yanked my sweatshirt up to my armpits. “It’s a pig!” he cried, and gave me a swat on the bottom.

The cat meowed.

“Oh, Jesus,” Milo groaned, falling back on the sofa. “You’re really booby-trapped!” He started to guffaw again, holding his sides.

I’d never seen him laugh so hard, which practically sent me into hysterics. I was afraid I’d wet my pants, though that wouldn’t be a bad encore, all things considered. Instead, I rolled off the sofa onto the floor.

Vida was on the air again. “I’ve been talking to some of our friends and neighbors about their Thanksgiving plans. Clancy and Debra Barton have already ordered a twenty-two-pound free-range turkey from Jake and Betsy O’Toole’s Grocery Basket. Dot and Durwood Parker plan to have three kinds of stuffing—traditional, mushroom with oysters, and fresh fruit. Molly and Karl Freeman are traveling to a turkey farm near Centralia to pick out their bird. The Freemans have gotten their turkey from the same farm for the past three years. They tell me it’s actually a very difficult task. Some of the turkeys look grumpy, which they think indicates that the meat won’t be tender. Then there are the ones who look friendly and have such a cheerful gobble-gobble-gobble. You can imagine how Molly and Karl want them spared. Last year they chose what they considered the perfect bird: It looked bored, and the Freemans decided it didn’t have much to live for anyway.”

By this time, Milo had laughed so hard that he’d rolled off the sofa, too, but his lanky frame knocked over the coffee table, and the ashtray fell on my head. Milo took one look at me and laughed some more as I picked dead butts out of my hair and brushed off ashes.

But Vida wasn’t done. “I’ll be running some of Alpiners’ treasured family recipes—and some new ones, too—in upcoming issues of the
Advocate.
I already have six cranberry ideas, including a . . .”

The Thanksgiving theme lasted until the end of the show. Milo and I finally regained our control and sat on the floor staring at each other.

“What’s going on?” I said, finally getting up and turning off the radio just as Vida’s cupboard creaked shut. “That wasn’t anything like her usual program. She always manages to elaborate on the big news stories around town. But she never so much as alluded to Gen’s death, the break-ins or mentioned that St. Mildred’s parishioners shouldn’t be afraid of drinking communion wine.”

“Say,” Milo said in a wondering voice, “now that I think about it, how come Vida hasn’t been badgering Bill Blatt about Gen’s poisoning?”

“Good question.” I turned to face Milo, who was now standing up. “She claims she’s not interested. Apparently, she and Gen had a big falling-out years ago. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nope. I sort of remember when Gen moved away, but that’s it.”

I took some deep breaths. I was weak from laughing. To my surprise, Milo wasn’t making any moves.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Well . . .” He put a hand to his back. “I think I pulled something when I fell off the couch.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. Does it feel serious?”

The sheriff shrugged as he looked at me with a wry expression. “No,” he replied as the phone rang.

I waved at the receiver on the end table. “They’ll call back,” I said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” The wry expression remained. “But somehow I don’t think I’m in a bedroom kind of mood anymore. I should probably head home and go over my tackle box. I may go steelheading Saturday.”