The Alpine Quilt (16 page)

The sheriff ought to know. He’d picked some real local lemons. “Maybe we’re getting too old to fish for love,” I noted as Milo signaled to the bartender, Oren Rhodes, to bring our usual cocktails.

“Maybe,” Milo agreed.

I scowled at him. “No, we’re not. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t feel old. I don’t feel much different than I did thirty years ago.”

“I do,” Milo asserted. “I’m not as quick. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be, and my joints feel stiff sometimes. Not good for a lawman. In a face-off, I’d get gunned down in the middle of Front Street before I could get my weapon out of the holster.”

“You still look fine,” I declared. “Solid, strong.” Those guilt pangs still nagged at me, but the words were true. The sheriff had put on some weight over the years, there was gray in his sandy hair, and the lines in his long face were deeper. Indeed, he was aging slowly and aging well. If I kept telling myself these things, I’d end up canceling on Rolf Fisher and never budge from Alpine again.

Oren brought my bourbon and Milo’s Scotch-rocks. “Doubles,” the bartender said. “House special to honor veterans. You were in ’Nam, right, Sheriff?”

“So I was,” Milo replied, cradling the glass. “Wish I’d had more of this stuff there.”

Oren nodded at me. “You’re a veteran of the newspaper wars. Don’t let the bastards get you down, Emma.” He flipped the bar towel that had been slung over his shoulder and trudged back to his post.

“I suppose you’ve been sleuthing,” Milo said after taking a deep drink and lighting a cigarette. “Any luck?”

It wasn’t like him to ask me about an ongoing investigation. Either he believed I might have some insights because the death had occurred under my brother’s nose, or the sheriff was more frustrated than I thought.

“Not much,” I answered slowly, still not wanting to bother Milo with the lost Miraculous Medal. “Mostly talking to people who knew Gen, especially the women at the party. She seemed well liked. Except by Vida.”

Milo gave a brief nod. “They had some kind of falling-out years ago. I heard about it later. I was either in college or ’Nam at the time.”

I assumed an innocent expression. “Do you know what the row was about?”

Milo frowned and puffed out his cheeks. At least a minute passed before he responded. “It had something to do with Ernest. I think Vida thought Gen was making a play for him. Probably a lot of bullshit, but you know Vida. Once she gets something in that head of hers, it doesn’t come out.”

“You never thought it was true?”

Milo started to answer, but apparently changed his mind. “Well . . . no. I was young, mid-twenties or so, and Ernest seemed like an old man to me. I suppose he wasn’t more than late forties, younger than I am now. As for Gen, she was good-looking, but everybody knew she had an eye for the men. Ernest wouldn’t have been the first guy she’d come on to.”

“Are you saying Gen was promiscuous?”

“No.” Milo gazed at me as if I could have qualified for the Salem witch hunt. “She was just lonely. Her husband—what was his name?”

“Andy. Andre.”

“Right. He was a drunk, and probably abused Gen. People didn’t talk about battering those days like they do now. I remember seeing Gen once on a dark winter day wearing sunglasses. I was still a naive teenager, and all I thought was that she looked like a movie star. In reality, she’d probably gotten a shiner from Andy.”

“Has Buddy ever talked to you about his dad?” I asked before giving in to my weakness and slipping one of Milo’s cigarettes out of the pack he’d put on the table.

“Not really.” The sheriff offered me a light. “In fact, Buddy hardly ever mentions him. He didn’t talk much about his mother, either. I’m guessing Buddy wasn’t raised in a happy family.”

“And Dad left when Buddy was still young,” I murmured. “Do you remember Andy Bayard at all?”

“Oh, sure, I’d see him around town. He was kind of a snappy dresser, at least for a town like—” The sheriff’s cell phone went off. “Damn. I’d better take that,” he said, reaching into his jacket, which was resting on the back of his chair.

I watched and listened. Milo’s face registered surprise, then puzzlement. “Have you talked to Buddy?” he asked into the phone. “Sorry,” the sheriff said after a pause, “I can’t do much about it. It sounds like a couple of lawyers are going to make a few bucks off of this one.” Another pause. “Keep me posted. Talk to you later.”

“Well?” I said as Milo put the cell back in his jacket. “What’s up?”

Milo gestured at Oren to bring us another round. “That was Al Driggers. You knew he’s got Gen’s body at the mortuary. Well, some dude who claims he’s Gen’s
other
son phoned Al and asked to claim the remains and have Gen buried in Citrus Heights, California. Al was suspicious and Buddy went ballistic. He insists he was his mother’s only child.”

“Is the alleged offspring also named Bayard?”

Milo shook his head. “No. He gave his name as Anthony Knuler.”

FIFTEEN

I choked on my drink. “Are y-y-you k-k-kidding?” I sputtered.

Of course Milo wasn’t. “Have you heard of this Knuler guy? The name sounds kind of familiar.”

I wiped my mouth with a cocktail napkin and then began to explain Anthony Knuler’s role as the Mystery Man.

“So this guy from the motel may still be in Alpine,” Milo remarked after I’d finished telling him everything I knew. “You say Terri Bourgette saw somebody who might have been Knuler at the diner yesterday morning?”

“He must have given Al a phone number,” I said. “Will should have an address in California.”

“Al told me it was a don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you situation. He wondered if this Knuler was using a pay phone. There was a lot of noise in the background, like cars and trucks going by.”

“A rest stop, maybe,” I pondered aloud. “Tony Knuler may be heading south. But if so, why didn’t he request Gen’s body while he was in town?”

Oren whisked away Milo’s empty glass and delivered the second round. Since the drinks were doubles, I was taking my time.

“How old did Terri say this guy was?” Milo asked.

“Thirties,” I replied. “Younger than Buddy by at least ten years.”

Milo lit another cigarette. “Bastard? Adopted? A husband Gen never told Buddy and Roseanna about? A divorce not long after the marriage but a baby as a souvenir?”

“Roseanna did mention that she thought her mother-in-law had a live-in boyfriend for a while,” I recalled. “But she and Buddy never saw him, and Gen never spoke of him. Then, a few years ago—if I’m remembering this right—it looked as if the guy had moved out.”

“Or died,” Milo noted. “I’ll have to talk to the Bayards about this deal.” Milo sighed as he checked his watch. “It’s not quite five-thirty. Maybe I can catch them at the studio. Damn. I thought I was done for the day.”

I finished my first drink. “May I tag along?”

Milo frowned at me. “The visit’s official, not social.”

“You’re right.”

The sheriff was suspicious of my docile manner. “You’ll show up anyway.”

“Finish your drink,” I said. “I’m paying for it, remember?”

Milo sipped in silence. I guessed that he was mulling over this latest, surprising development. Halfway through his second Scotch, he reached again for his cell phone.

“Dwight? Hey, do me a favor. Look up Anthony Knuler in the database. I’m guessing at the spelling. Check with Will Pace at the Alpine Falls Motel. The guy stayed there the other night.”

“Has Knuler become Suspect Number One?” I asked after Milo clicked off. “Or merely a Person of Interest?”

“What do
you
think?” Milo’s flowing bowl wasn’t giving him much cheer. “He’s either a swindler or the X factor.”

“Or a killer,” I put in.

Milo said nothing.

We parted company at a quarter to six. Milo, presumably, was still going to see if the Bayards were at the studio. I decided to wait until they went home. After two doubles, I didn’t want to drive in what was turning into a wind and rain storm.

The office was empty, locked up for the weekend. I wasn’t inclined to give my employees three-day weekends. Instead, I paid them double for working holidays. We needed both Monday and Tuesday to make our deadline.

I considered phoning the Bayards before Milo could reach them, but he was probably already there, having walked the three blocks from the Venison Inn to the studio. Besides, it would be impolitic to usurp the sheriff’s official duties.

I’d never heard of Citrus Heights, California. Turning on my computer, I entered the town’s name. Sure enough, it came up, appearing on the site map as being very close to Sacramento, which was what Tony Knuler had listed as his hometown at the motel.

Next, I dialed the number of the Alpine Falls Motel. A harried-sounding Will Pace answered on the fourth ring.

“A quick question,” I said.

“It better be,” Will snapped. “I’m busy. A bunch of people are checking in because they don’t want to go over the pass in this crappy weather.”

“How many nights did Tony Knuler stay at your motel?”

“Hell! Why do you care?”

I didn’t respond. I wasn’t the one pressed for time.

“Just one,” Will said after my silence. “Tuesday, the sixth.” He hung up.

Gen had been poisoned on Monday, the fifth. Had Tony Knuler arrived in Alpine before the murder? If so, where had he been? And who on earth was he?

At precisely six o’clock, I punched in the Bayards’ business number. Roseanna answered, sounding only slightly less harassed than Will Pace. I asked her if the sheriff was there.

“How did you know?” she demanded, lowering her voice. “And how the hell did you get involved with this Knuler creep?”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “If Milo hasn’t explained that part, I will when I see you. Should I wait until you get home?”

“Not tonight,” Roseanna retorted. “This is going to take some sorting out. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She, too, hung up on me.

I considered driving to the studio while the sheriff and the Bayards were still there. But I’d already offended Buddy and Roseanna by pulling our darkroom work. Maybe I should do as she wished.

It wasn’t easy. I fidgeted at my desk for a few minutes before calling Dwight Gould. Hopefully, Milo’s deputy wouldn’t provide me with a hat-trick hang-up.

“We didn’t find Knuler in the database,” Dwight said in answer to my question. “Fact is, we didn’t find him or any other Knulers anywhere. Maybe we’re not spelling it right.”

“Maybe Will Pace didn’t spell it right,” I suggested.

“No, he gave it to us right,” Dwight said in his cheerless manner. “I was the one who stopped by the motel after Will made the complaint. I saw the registration that Knuler had filled out. Guests have to print their names and write their signatures.”

“Yes, that’s so,” I agreed. “Have you got a Sacramento address for Knuler?”

“Sort of. It was hard to read.” He paused, perhaps looking up the address. “It was something like 1112 H Street, or maybe A Street. Or the ones could’ve been sevens. It was really hard to tell. Dodge won’t be happy about that.”

I wasn’t, either. Tony Knuler either had poor penmanship or was deliberately trying to obscure his place of residence.

At loose ends, I called Ben. Betsy O’Toole answered.

“Your brother just left for an ecumenical dinner with Regis Bartleby,” Betsy said. “Is there a message?”

“No, not really. I forgot he was dining with the vicar this weekend.” The truth was, Edith Bartleby hadn’t mentioned which night the two pastors were getting together. “How’s Annie Jeanne?”

“Fine,” Betsy said tersely. “As far as I’m concerned, Doc Dewey should give her a dose of gumption.”

“Are you saying she’s malingering?”

“I won’t say that,” Betsy replied, “but I don’t think the woman’s ever put in a hard day’s work in her life. Believe me, Jake and I know what work is. The Grocery Basket wouldn’t have survived if we didn’t. But Annie Jeanne’s been what you might call a dilettante most of her life. She’s been a clerk in some of the stores off and on, but she’s been able to get by on next to nothing. Being the housekeeper here at the rectory doesn’t require much more than a swipe of the broom and a flip of the duster. Any real labor is done by parish volunteers. Oh, she cooks, but she’d have to do that anyway unless she intended to starve.”

“Her parents left her some money,” I recalled. “She was an only child, and probably pampered. They could afford music lessons, for one thing.”
Better they should have bought her a chemistry set,
I thought to myself.

“She says she isn’t well enough to play the organ for five o’clock Mass tomorrow or Sunday, for that matter,” Betsy complained. “Not that that’s any great loss,” she went on, reading my mind, “but what she suffered from was just a big stomachache.”

“And shock,” I pointed out. “The emotional toll on her has been far greater than any physical damage.”

“Tell me about it,” Betsy said in a grim voice. “And if I hear one more word about the ‘dear Betsys’ and how much they love each other, I’m going to legally change my name to Buttsy.”

“Do you want me to relieve you? I’m not doing anything tonight.” Ah, but tomorrow was a different matter. . . .

“Oh—Jake’s working at the store until seven, seven-thirty.” Betsy sighed. “Father Ben said he’d be home around eight. I’ve fed Annie Jeanne—though she eats like a damned bird. I suppose I could go home and get a start on our dinner. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

And I was, despite the pelting rain and hard-driving wind.

“I’ll finish that,” I said to Betsy, who was cleaning up the kitchen. “I see Ben left the rectory door unlocked. Maybe that’s a tradition he should change.”

“Dubious,” Betsy replied. “Your brother’s dead set against making any kind of changes, lest the parishioners rise up and take arms. He doesn’t want to look like he’s sabotaging Father Den.”

I uttered an ironic laugh. “I remember when Dennis Kelly came here, and most of the parish was shocked to see that he was black. Father Den’s overcome some big hurdles in Alpine.”

Betsy wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “I’ll be honest,” she said with a wry expression. “Jake and I were put off by him at first. Back then, before the college was open, we’d never had an African-American living here, let alone being an authority figure.” She made a face. “It’s funny, isn’t it? Once you get to know someone, you stop thinking about the color of their skin.”

Betsy’s tardy insight might be forgiven. Alpine had been all-white for decades, with a traditional Scandinavian majority.

“Where’s Annie Jeanne?” I inquired as Betsy put on her hooded coat.

“In her room. She’s spending more time in there the last day or so.” Betsy paused to rummage for her car keys in her leather purse. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad. But we haven’t had many visitors, so there’s not much point in her staying in the parlor and holding court.”

“What about the thimble club members?” I asked, walking Betsy to the door.

“Char and Dar stopped by once—Wednesday, I think. Edith Bartleby phoned; so did Jean Campbell. Oh, Debra Barton brought a hot dish for last night.”

“That’s it?”

“There’ve been cards,” Betsy said, inching through the door. “Grace Grundle and Ella Hinshaw don’t drive much anymore. I don’t think Ella ever did. And of course Ethel Pike is out of town.”

“Yes. Not to mention that the ones who aren’t old as dirt keep busy.” I shut up at that point, sensing that Betsy O’Toole was anxious to be off.

But after she left I locked the rectory door.

So kind,” Annie Jeanne declared from the rocking chair in her room on the second floor. “Betsy O’Toole, Mary Jane Bourgette—oh, and Debra Barton. Such a lovely casserole! Crab and shrimp and mushrooms!” She burst into tears. “Emma, Emma,” she groaned through the thin hands that covered her face. “Am I going to prison?”

I hadn’t yet sat down. “Of course not,” I assured Annie Jeanne, putting an arm around her quivering shoulders. “Why would you? You haven’t done anything.”

“But I did! I made the cheesecake!” She sniffed a couple of times, pulled a crumpled handkerchief out of her housecoat pocket, and wiped her eyes. “I was the one who killed Genevieve,” Annie Jeanne went on, her voice dropping. “If nothing else, I should have locked the door behind me when I went to the store. I just keep waiting for Sheriff Dodge to arrest me.”

“I don’t think he’s even considered such a thing,” I said, stepping away and sitting down on the single bed. It was covered with a well-worn quilt. I guessed aloud that Gen had made it.

“Yes, yes.” Annie Jeanne attempted a smile. “Years ago, before she moved. It’s still lovely, isn’t it?”

I supposed that it was, but the pieces in the wedding ring design had faded and the edges were frayed. “Did Gen work in Alpine after she and her husband divorced?”

“She did,” Annie Jeanne replied after blowing her nose. “At the dress shop. It wasn’t Francine’s then—before her time. It was Helen Jane’s. Bernie Shaw’s mother owned it, and sold out to Francine Wells. Gen worked in a yarn shop for a short time, too, but it went out of business.”

“Gen must have been lonely after she and Andy broke up,” I said in a thoughtful tone. “Raising a son on your own is hard to do. I know, because I’ve done it. And from my own experience, it’s difficult to meet eligible men in Alpine when you’re older.”

“I suppose,” Annie Jeanne agreed in a disinterested manner.

It was hard to picture Annie Jeanne stalking bachelors at any age. “Gen was very good-looking,” I went on in the same thoughtful voice. “She must have had an occasional suitor.”

“If you could call them that,” Annie Jeanne said scornfully.

“What would
you
call them?” I inquired in a mild tone.

Annie Jeanne frowned. “Lechers, perhaps. Skirt-chasers. Stepping out on their wives.”

Her words seemed to crawl up from out of the past. “Surely Gen wouldn’t fall for men like that.”

“Oh, she made short shrift of them, all right,” Anne Jeanne asserted. “But that doesn’t mean they didn’t try. Sometimes they were hard to discourage.”

Or did it take a while before Gen tired of them? I tried to keep such evil thoughts at bay. “I would think,” I said, watching Annie Jeanne carefully, “that somewhere along the way, Gen would have found a man she could love.”

Annie Jeanne lowered her eyes. “That wasn’t easy.”

“But did she?”

The black eyes still didn’t meet my gaze. “I really couldn’t say.”

Couldn’t or wouldn’t? I forced a laugh. “Oh, come on, Annie Jeanne, I’ll bet you and Gen stayed up late at night, drinking cocoa and sharing confidences. You were such good friends. If anyone knows, it’s you.” I managed another chuckle.

Her skin darkened slightly, and she cast a swift glance in my direction. “That doesn’t mean I can talk about it, not even after she’s gone. You mentioned ‘confidences’; that’s what they were. I won’t betray them.”

I suppressed a sigh. “Of course. I understand.” An uneasy silence settled over the room. It wasn’t a large space, but Annie Jeanne had filled it with furniture, knickknacks, and other décor that presumably had come out of the family home. Two baby dolls on the end of the bed looked as if they were from the pre–World War II era. The outfits they wore were pristine, as if they had been much admired, but seldom engaged in play. There was no television set, only a small radio on the bedside table.