The Alpine Quilt (15 page)

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We all get sidetracked now and then.” I thanked Terri and hung up.

Two minutes later, I realized I’d gotten sidetracked, too. I hadn’t thought to ask her what the tour group was doing in Alpine besides having brunch. Whatever and whoever they were, it was news. Like Terri, my head was also too full.

I turned the Wenatchee bit over to Vida. She seemed to be in a good mood, despite her complaints about Gen Bayard passing off the quilts as her own designs.

“I could sue, I suppose,” Vida mused. “But what good would it do? Gen’s dead, and it would only offend Buddy and Roseanna, since any monies would come out of the estate.”

I shrugged. “That’s true. And you’d have to have proof. Do you have your mother’s quilt patterns stashed away somewhere?”

“No,” Vida admitted with a rueful expression. “I gave them away after she passed on. Those templates were made of cardboard from cereal and gift boxes. Very bulky, and I’d never use them. Honestly, I don’t recall who I gave them to. I was quite upset after my mother died. But I certainly didn’t give them to Gen. Indeed, I believe she’d moved away by then.” Vida frowned in concentration. “I might have donated them to the Burl Creek Thimble Club itself.”

Bravely, I posed a question: “Could you ask Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt?”

“Mary Lou?” Vida grimaced. “I wouldn’t ask my sister-in-law for the time of day. In any event, she’s a pill.”

I had been leaning against Vida’s desk. Scott was busy at his computer and Leo was on the phone. I moved closer to Vida and lowered my voice. “Would you be mad if I talked to Mary Lou?”

Vida bristled. “Why would you want to do that? I told you, she’s a pill. Haven’t I always said she was difficult? She hasn’t changed.”

“I’m trying to sort out this whole poison thing,” I replied quietly. “For Annie Jeanne’s sake. For Ben’s.”

“For Ben?” Clearly, Vida was dismissing Annie Jeanne as another ninny. But she liked my brother, even if he was a Catholic priest. She’d once said that he wasn’t as “Romish” as most. “Well . . .” Vida frowned. “I appreciate your concern. Gen did die at the rectory and people do talk. If you feel you must, go ahead and speak to Mary Lou. But I warn you, she won’t be any help. She’s a—”

“Witness,” I finished for Vida. But I smiled and thanked her for giving permission.

Mary Lou Blatt was home, having just come inside from raking leaves. She sounded suspicious when I asked if I could stop by her house in the Icicle Creek development. But after I finished flattering her upside and downside, she agreed to let me call on her.

“I’m at the end of the cul-de-sac by the golf course,” she informed me. “It’s a blue house, with a cottonwood tree.”

I knew the place. Mary Lou lived only a few doors down from Milo. The Blatt residence looked much like many other homes at Icicle Creek—a compact rambler built in the sixties with a big picture window and just enough yard to satisfy an occasional gardener.

“Come in, come in,” Mary Lou urged in her slightly gruff voice. Like her sister-in-law, she was a big woman, but she lacked Vida’s commanding presence. “If that windbag of a Vida sent you here to snoop around,” Mary Lou said as she led me into the overdecorated living room, “you’re wasting your time.”

“Vida doesn’t send me anywhere,” I declared. “I’m the boss at the
Advocate.
”

“Hunh.” Mary Lou didn’t comment, but motioned to a floral-covered loveseat. “Tea? Coffee? Juice?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to impose. You look as if you’ve been busy.”

Mary Lou, who was wearing wool slacks and a sweatshirt that displayed the American flag, glanced down at her rubber boots. “I have. I’m sick of raking leaves. I still burn them like a lot of folks do around here instead of fussing with all that recycling. Since my husband died, I keep up this place by myself. It’s not big, but there’s plenty of work to be done. Luckily, I can fix the plumbing and the electricity. Ennis taught me. He thought women should know how to do things. Just in case,” she added with a grim expression.

“You taught school, I understand,” I said.

Mary Lou nodded. “Off and on for forty years. Third and fourth grade, mostly. I’m glad I retired when I did. Pupils these days are spoiled brats. No discipline, no sense of responsibility. What are their parents thinking? If they think at all. Most of them are as bad as the children. It must be even worse in the city.”

I could easily imagine Mary Lou wielding the ruler with which she had—teasingly, I assumed—threatened Annie Jeanne and Genevieve. “You’ve racked up a lot of accomplishments. Are you a quilter, too?”

“No,” Mary Lou replied, looking slightly defensive. “I crochet.” She pointed to several antimacassars and table covers that were scattered around the room. “Not many of us Betsys quilt anymore, except Ethel Pike and sometimes Darlene Adcock. But there’s no quilting group in Alpine. No knitting club, either, so we all do what we like to do best and enjoy each other’s company.”

“It sounds like a congenial bunch,” I remarked as a large white Persian cat strolled into the living room.

“As a rule.”

The cat had sidled over to my feet. It looked up at me with probing green eyes, as if wondering about my worthiness to occupy space on the loveseat. “Did you know that Gen sold her quilts to a store in Seattle?”

Mary Lou raised her sparse gray eyebrows. “No! That’s interesting.”

The cat jumped up and landed beside me. “In what way?” I asked.

Mary Lou shrugged. “That she made money off of them, I guess. Clever of her.”

I was steering the conversation down a tricky road. The cat seemed to be growling at me, so softly that I assumed Mary Lou couldn’t hear her pet’s displeasure. “Gen must have been very creative. I heard the quilts were all designed by her.”

Mary Lou frowned. “I’m surprised. Gen hadn’t much imagination. I remember once years ago that she and Ethel Pike got into a row because Ethel thought Gen was copying her patterns. Gen finally had to start over. Ethel didn’t like being copied.”

“But they remained friends?”

“Oh, yes, they both got over it. Ethel can be sort of grumpy sometimes, but she doesn’t hold a grudge.”

“I hate to bring this up,” I went on as the cat moved so close that I could feel its breathing, “but Vida believes that Gen actually stole some of her mother’s designs and passed them off as her own.”

Mary Lou hooted with laughter. “That sounds like Vida! What does she know about quilting or any other kind of handicraft? I always figured poor Ernest had to sew on his own buttons. Vida’s all thumbs—and mouth.”

“Vida says she has a quilt her mother made that’s the exact same pattern as the one of Gen’s we saw in the Seattle store,” I said.

Mary Lou grew serious again. “Vida does? Well, either she does or she doesn’t.” There was a pause. “I have to admit, Gen wasn’t the kind to dream up her own designs. I suppose it
is
possible. On the other hand, Vida and Gen didn’t get along.”

The cat was encroaching on my lap. I assumed I was sitting on its turf. “Ever? Or did they have a quarrel?”

“You know Vida.” Mary Lou shot me a knowing glance. “She’s so danged critical. And she
does
hold a grudge. Still . . .” My hostess suddenly clamped her lips together. “But all that’s in the past. Gen’s gone. I don’t speak ill of the dead. Vida does, of course.”

I noticed that Mary Lou had assumed a self-righteous air. I didn’t know whether I should pretend to know what she was talking about or just be forthright. Since the damned cat was starting to knead its paws on my jacket, I opted for the direct route.

“Did Gen hurt Vida’s feelings, or was it the other way around?”

Mary Lou studied me closely. “You don’t know?”

I shook my head. “I never heard Vida mention Gen’s name until she—Gen—came to town.”

“I see.” Mary Lou stared at her hands, which were roughened by hard work. “The truth is, I’m not sure what really happened. I won’t go telling tales, either. But mark my words, there was trouble between them. I think that’s why Gen moved away from Alpine. Just up and left. Didn’t even finish the quilt she was working on. I think Vida’s mother took it over not long before she died.”

That must have been the quilt that had been burned at the Pikes’ house, but there was no point in mentioning it. “What kind of trouble did Vida and Gen have?” I inquired, inching toward the end of the loveseat and away from the cat.

Mary Lou pursed her lips. “I was never sure, but I could guess.” She grimaced. “The usual, I suspect. Ennis thought so, too.”

“The usual?”
Not more gourds,
I thought. With Vida it could be almost anything that besmirched her name or dishonored her family.

“Yes.” Mary Lou nodded three times, very slowly. “You know.”

I didn’t, but I kept quiet. And then, as Mary Lou continued to stare at me with an expectant expression, I made a wild guess.
“Ernest?”

Mary Lou nodded once more.

FOURTEEN

I could hardly believe my ears. “Are you suggesting that Ernest and Genevieve had an affair?”

Mary Lou regarded me as if I were the class dunce. “Well, people do, you know.”

But Ernest? That model of rectitude? He’d been an elder in the Presbyterian church, involved in Future Farmers of America, a member of the Rotary and Kiwanis clubs, president of the Chamber of Commerce, and a volunteer firefighter. I’d never known Vida’s husband, but he sounded like an unlikely candidate for adultery.

Yet as I gathered my wits, I realized I could have misjudged his character. I had only Vida’s word for his goodness. Ernest may have been ripe for an affair. His married life might not have been easy. Vida was critical, domineering, opinionated, and she couldn’t cook. She was a doting mother and grandmother, but had she been a devoted wife? Of course, she always spoke of Ernest in the most glowing terms. Vida made him sound like a man without a flaw. But that was only in retrospect, after he was dead.

I shook my head. “It just . . . jars me. I’d never considered such a thing. And Vida never ever hinted at it.” I looked Mary Lou in the eye. “Are you sure?”

“Of course not,” Mary Lou replied frankly. “You can’t ever be sure of such a thing unless you catch the couple in the act. But where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

The cat was still kneading my jacket, growling disdainfully, almost covering my lap, and shedding long white fur on my black slacks. “What was the smoke?”

“Attitude. Mannerisms. What do they call it nowadays? Body language.” Mary Lou displayed some of her own as she folded her arms across her big bust to indicate disapproval. But there was also a touch of satisfaction in her expression. No doubt anything that might upset Vida would please her sister-in-law. “Not to mention that my late sister, Marguerite, saw them drive away from a motel in Monroe.”

Hearsay,
I thought. “But the . . . gossip was never confirmed?”

Mary Lou didn’t answer directly. “The motel sighting happened around Thanksgiving. It was my turn to have the family dinner. Vida and Ernest always dropped by before we served. They had their own dinner on the Runkel side. But that year Vida called and told me they weren’t coming. Ernest had a cold, and couldn’t make both events. I happened to run into Ernest the next day at the Sears catalog pickup. He certainly didn’t act like he had a cold. Furthermore, he wasn’t anything like himself. He practically tried to hide from me. I figured he knew that I knew. I didn’t see him and Vida again until Christmas. They weren’t very friendly, not just with me, but with each other. It wasn’t long after New Year’s that Gen moved away. Add it up. You’ll get the correct sum. Gen was quite a looker in those days, I might add.”

“And Ernest? Was he attractive?”

“You’ve seen pictures?”

I nodded. “Vida has one of him in the living room, but it must have been taken when Ernest was very young, even before they were married. He was what I’d describe as nice-looking. The rest were snapshots, and not close-up. I mean, was he attractive in middle age?”

“I suppose,” Mary Lou responded. “A big man. Still had his hair. A pleasant smile. Yes, I imagine some women would consider Ernest easy on the eyes.”

I stifled a sigh. If the story was true, Vida had my sympathy. Despite her faults, I could imagine how difficult it would have been for her to discover that her husband had been unfaithful. The fact that no one seemed to know for certain that the affair had occurred indicated that the Runkels had managed to weather the storm. The worst thing for Vida would have been being the subject of tawdry, demeaning gossip. Her pride must have been wounded deeply. If Ernest had really strayed, she had kept the fact to herself all these years and put on a brave front.

“I suppose,” I mused, “that even a mild flirtation would have caused a serious rift between Vida and Gen.”

“Hunh.” Mary Lou gave me a baleful look. “What do you think, knowing Vida?”

“Yes.” I managed—with effort—to move the cat off my lap and stand up. “Thanks for your time, Mary Lou. Of course, I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve just told me.”

“Good.” Mary Lou was also on her feet. “As I said, I don’t like to tell tales. Especially since Ernest got himself killed in that foolish waterfall stunt not long after.”

“Oh?” The damned cat was following me to the door. I felt as if I were under surveillance. “That’s sad. I hope that if the story’s true, Vida and Ernest had mended things by then.”

Mary Lou shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

The cat sat down in the doorway, blocking my path. “Pretty animal,” I remarked. “What’s its name?”

Mary Lou smiled in a spiteful kind of way. “That cat is proud, ornery, self-centered, and more curious than most of her species. What do you think I call her? Vida, of course.”

I would keep my word to Mary Lou and never mention what she’d told me about the rumors of a romance between Ernest Runkel and Genevieve Bayard. People talked, especially in small towns. The tale might not be true.

But I could see how it could be. Gen a lonely widow, Ernest a badgered husband, two aging babes in the woods. Until now, my sympathy had rested only on Vida. But compassion rose in my breast for Ernest, whose life had ended so tragically in that crazy barrel at Deception Falls. Certainly that stunt was an indication of midlife crisis.

Vida was out when I returned to the office just before three-thirty. Scott was in the back shop with Kip, working on a layout of autumn color photos. Leo was at his desk, looking smug.

“The Thanksgiving issue is shaping up,” he announced. “That is, the ads are.”

“Oh!” I slapped myself on the head. The holiday was always awkward, with merchants wanting their wares in the paper a full week ahead, while editorial content and Happy Thanksgiving ads ran on the Wednesday before the big event. “I’m not keeping up. Turkey Day is early this year, right?”

Leo nodded. “I’m talking about next Wednesday, the fourteenth. This week we’ve got a bunch of tie-in ads for Veterans Day.” He gave me a scrutinizing look. “Are you okay? You seem kind of frazzled.”

“Murder has that effect on me,” I replied. “Especially when it happens right under my brother’s nose.”

Leo’s well-worn face broke into a grin. “Dodge hasn’t collared Ben yet?”

“Frankly,” I said, trying not to steal the cigarette that my ad manager was lighting, “it’s a wonder that some of the more prejudiced locals haven’t demanded Ben’s head. For the anti-Catholics, he’s a perfect suspect—not to mention that he’s a newcomer.”

“Even the goofballs recognize that he didn’t know Gen Bayard from a kumquat,” Leo noted.

“That’s true,” I agreed, “but people aren’t always reasonable. Some of Ben’s parishioners have acted kind of weird.”

“That’s what happens when you go to church all the time,” Leo declared. “That’s why I only go a couple of times a year. I don’t want to be weird.”

I stared at Leo in exasperation. “You don’t go to church because you’re lazy.”

“Me? Lazy?” Leo assumed an offended manner. “After Ed Bronsky, you’re calling
me
lazy?”

I smiled. “It’s different. Ed goes to church, but he’d go anywhere if he could sit down and nod off.”

Ginny poked her head into the newsroom. “There’s a call for you on line one.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

Ginny looked apologetic. “He won’t say.”

“I’ll take it.” Wondering if Tony Knuler was trying to get in touch with me again, I rushed into my cubbyhole.

But it wasn’t my Mystery Man—even though he said he was.

“This is your Mystery Man, Brenda Starr,” Rolf Fisher said. “What’s the hottest spot in Alpine on a Saturday night?”

Somehow, I was both disappointed and elated at the same time. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

“I never disappoint a lady,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Ah . . .” I’d forgotten the question. “Oh! Well, there isn’t a hot spot in Alpine on any night. Unless you consider the big stone fireplace at the ski lodge.”

“Do they serve viands and potables?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick you up at five,” Rolf said. “I have your address, but you better give me directions.”

I was so flabbergasted that I got my lefts and rights mixed up, and had to go over the relatively simple route twice.

“See you tomorrow. Wear something irresistible. If we never leave your house, just perfume will do.” Rolf rang off.

I felt giddy. I was going to have an
actual date.
And with an
eligible man.
Not only eligible, but
attractive.
I could hardly believe it.

“Now what?” Leo inquired, leaning against the door frame. “You look like you won the lottery.”

I forced myself to appear normal. “Do you know Rolf Fisher from the AP?”

Leo shook his head. “I only know dreary advertising types, like me.”

I didn’t explain my reason for asking, and Leo didn’t probe. Vida returned a few minutes later, holding her head.

“So sad,” she said, flopping into her chair. “So confusing. So few veterans left. At least, from World War Two. Do you realize there are only seven here in Alpine, and of those, only three of them make sense?”

“What about the county commissioner troika?” Leo inquired. “They’re old enough to have served.”

Vida waved a hand in dismissal. “Did they
ever
make sense? Besides, only Alfred Cobb was in the military—intelligence, of all things. I can’t believe we won with someone like him serving in such a capacity. It’s a good thing we had the Korean and Vietnam wars. Otherwise, I couldn’t write a readable feature for Armistice Day.”

“That certainly justifies all those deaths in Korea and ’Nam,” Leo remarked. “And by the way, they’ve been calling it Veterans Day for the last forty, fifty years.”

Vida glared at Leo. “You know what I mean. We need to honor our veterans, to let them tell us what war was really like. Then maybe we wouldn’t have countries at each other’s throats.”

“ ‘What if they had a war and nobody came?’ ” Leo murmured, paraphrasing an old protest slogan.

“Ernest enlisted in the navy when he was sixteen,” Vida declared. “He lied about his age. He was sent to the Pacific, but the war ended before he saw any real action. I’ve always blamed Mr. Truman for that, though I suppose that rogue of a Roosevelt would have done the same thing and dropped the horrid bomb.”

Vida was a staunch Republican. Indeed, she would probably have made a wonderful Whig. She gave me her gimlet eye. “Why are you looking at me like that, Emma? You know my feelings about the Democrats.”

“Hey—I’m an independent,” I replied. “It’s my duty as a publisher to be unbiased.” But of course, I wasn’t staring at Vida because of her politics. I was thinking of Ernest and Genevieve.

I felt guilty. It was stupid of me, but I couldn’t make the feeling go away. I was still arguing with myself when I left work ten minutes early and walked down Front Street to the sheriff’s office.

“It’s Friday,” I said upon entering Milo’s inner sanctum. “Let me treat you to a drink. Can you leave right now?”

The sheriff was doing paperwork. “I could if I didn’t have to fill out all these damned forms. Right now I’d rather go out and bust somebody’s chops.”

“How come?” I asked, perching on the desk’s one clear space.

Milo shrugged. “It’s the homicide. I’m nowhere. And we’re not doing any better with the break-ins. We haven’t had one in days. Were the crooks out-of-towners who’ve moved on? Or did they get scared?”

It wasn’t like the sheriff to volunteer his frustration. I suffered even more guilt. Especially after his next remark. “I need a woman.”

“Oh, Milo!” I gave him a compassionate look. “You know that if . . . I mean, when you want or need . . . I don’t have any more balloons!”

Milo made a face. “I’m not talking about sex, for God’s sake. I mean in the office. Toni can’t handle all this crap. Face it, she’s kind of slow. What I want is a female officer, someone who can deal with battered women, wives whose husbands are doing time, even hookers. But we don’t have the funds. It’s a damned shame.”

“Oh.” I think I blushed. Rolf Fisher would have accused me of blushing, though I rarely did. “Sorry. I felt bad about the other night.”

Milo shrugged. “Hey—it was a good laugh. That does me good, too. I’m not laughing much on the job these days. Maybe I’m getting stale.” He scooped up the paperwork and shoved the pile in a drawer. “Let’s hit the bars. I can do this over the weekend. Or Monday. It’s an official holiday, since Veterans Day falls on Sunday. Maybe the local perps will take it off, too.”

“We’re doing our homage to the vets a bit late this year,” I said as Milo took his regulation jacket off of a peg by the door. “Too many holidays all bunched together. We decided our advertisers needed a break after Columbus Day and Halloween. The problem is, Thanksgiving comes early . . .”

Milo put a big hand on my shoulder. “Hey—how come you’re so wound up?”

I sighed before turning to look him in the eye. “I’ve got a date.”

“Good for you.” If Milo was wounded, it didn’t show. “Who’s the guy?”

“Rolf Fisher, from the AP in Seattle.” As we progressed through the outer office, I reminded Milo how Rolf had helped us with background information in a homicide case the previous winter.

“I thought you told me he was a creep,” Milo said as we walked against the wind toward the Venison Inn.

“He may be,” I responded, “but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least he’s not as hideous as I thought he’d be.”
That
was an understatement, but the sheriff didn’t need to know.

“Hell, Emma, you don’t have to apologize for going out with some guy,” Milo assured me. “I’ve seen other women over the years.”

Entering the restaurant, I gazed up at him. “How about now?”

Milo shook his head after removing his Smokey Bear regulation hat. “Maybe it’s like you. I’d have to leave town to find somebody.”

“It’s a small pond,” I commented, leading the way into the bar.

“And chances of getting skunked are pretty damned good,” Milo said, commandeering a table away from most of the other after-work drinkers.