Alpine Icon (20 page)

But most upsetting was that in all of his unburdening, he hadn't mentioned me.

I wasn't used to waking up with someone beside me. Milo wasn't used to waking up with someone who had to get to church. Somehow he found the situation paradoxical. I didn't. Pointing him in the direction of the pancake batter I'd whipped up, I headed off to St. Mildred's in the softly falling rain.

Small knots of parishioners braved the weather to gather in the parking lot, presumably discussing Ursula's death, the school-board vote, and whatever else might have been going on under the camouflage of good Christian people attending worship. Inside, I gazed around the small frame building with its whitewashed walls, worn wooden pews carved from the forest's once limitless bounty, not-quite-life-size statues, and small stained-glass windows where the rain ran like tears. The church was full, with perhaps three dozen visitors. Two of them sat on my left, while the Bartons were on my right. Annie Jeanne Dupre thumped on the organ, signaling us to rise for Father Den's entrance in the green vestments that denoted what is known as “Ordinary Time” in the church calendar.

As so often happens, my attention strayed during Den's sermon. Next to me, Debra and Clancy Barton seemed transfixed—or maybe they were merely in a zone. The sleekly groomed duo of Francine Wells and Alicia Lowell were across the aisle, contemplating their sins—or the Paris collections. Polly Patricelli fingered her rosary and prayed under her breath. The Bayards, the Mullinses, the Daleys, the Luccis, and the Jake O'Tooles all faced forward with benign if vacant expressions. Ed Bronsky twitched and Shirley shifted. Ronnie Wenzler-Greene appeared deadly earnest, while Monica and Verb Vancich struck me as ill at ease. Or perhaps it was only Verb; on closer scrutiny, Monica may have been experiencing ecstasy or gas.

Reproaching myself for lack of attention as well as uncharitable thoughts, I tried to concentrate on Father Den. He looked drawn, and his usually smooth, if somewhat soporific delivery, suffered from occasional hesitation. Maybe he was worried about his mother.

Again, I drifted. So many different types of people, yet all here on this rainy Sunday morning, presumably honoring God. I knew their agendas were varied, and not always selfless. I was aware that there was ambition and pride and arrogance and pettiness under their pious exteriors. But they were here, and that must count for something. Nor did I kid myself that I was any better.

Discreetly I turned just enough to see who lurked in the rear of the church. There was no Laura or Buzzy O'Toole but that didn't surprise me. There were others who should have been there but weren't. Maybe they'd gone to five o'clock Mass on Saturday. Maybe they were out of town. Maybe they didn't give a damn.

But one face struck me as out of place: in the second to the last pew, I spotted Murray Felton. Everybody belongs in church, or so I've always felt.

But Murray didn't belong in St. Mildred's. I sensed that he was working, seeking background, studying the
congregation. The brilliant blue eyes caught me staring, and I quickly turned away.

After Mass, I waited my turn to mark my school-board ballot. Ursula's name was there, indicating that the list of candidates had been run off on the school's venerable mimeograph machine before she died. The instructions said to vote for two. Feeling that memberships should be limited to Catholics, I skipped Derek Norman of fish-hatchery fame. I had faith in Debra Barton's basic good sense, so I checked her box with a certain amount of confidence. Then I came to Laura O'Toole and Rita Patri-celli Haines.

Rita was of at least average intelligence, but I almost never saw her in church and I didn't know if her children were enrolled in St. Mildred's school. She could be stubborn as a mule; I had found that out in my dealings with her at the Chamber of Commerce. On the other hand, Laura O'Toole struck me as someone who might have trouble reading the ballot, let alone complex educational issues. But she was Nunzio Lucci's candidate, and while Luce might have a brain like a brick, he seemed rock-solid on basic Church doctrine.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him talking earnestly to Father Den. Delia Lucci was standing awkwardly by the door that led from the vestibule to the crying room. She looked forlorn, and somehow her demeanor literally forced my hand. A vote for her husband's candidate was a vote for Delia. I felt the need to appease Luce, if only because it might make life easier for his wife. I checked off Laura O'Toole's name, and handed the ballot to Ronnie Wenzler-Greene. The principal looked grim.

Still feeling sorry for Delia Lucci, I went over to her and gave her a warm smile. “The forecast was right for once,” I said, falling back on the weather as a topic of conversation. “It looks like we won't have to worry about water rationing.”

Delia Lucci's plump face brightened ever so slightly. “Isn't that the truth, Ms. Lord? Maybe summer is finally over.” The light went out in her eyes as she saw her husband approach. Luce was limping, and he looked disturbed.

His nod to me was perfunctory and his tone was sharp as he spoke to his wife. “Come on, Delia, let's go. I gotta start haulin' stuff over to Old Mill Park for the picnic tomorrow.”

“What's wrong with your leg?” I asked, trying not to notice how Delia cringed when Luce spoke to her.

Luce glowered at me. “It's the rain. That's the leg that got bunged up in the woods.” He gestured impatiently at Delia. “What're you waitin' for—Santa Claus? He ain't comin' till December, Del. Let's move it.”

With a timorous smile, Delia said goodbye. I watched the Luccis leave the vestibule, Luce limping, Delia carefully keeping a couple of paces behind. I held back until they had descended the six wooden stairs. Then I, too, made my exit.

Ed and Shirley Bronsky waylaid me in the parking lot. Shirley held an umbrella over their heads. It featured the stained-glass windows of Notre Dame, and no doubt was a trophy from their European tour. Having grown up in Seattle, where the rain is usually as gentle as it is frequent, I eschewed umbrellas of any kind. I found them a nuisance, and easier to misplace than car keys.

“Hey-hey!” Ed exclaimed, beaming. “You and I have to take a meeting, Emma. How about Monday, say around ten?”

“Monday's a holiday,” I reminded Ed with what I hoped was a friendly smile. “But Tuesday would be fine. In fact, I was thinking about calling you. Milo and I have a project in mind that might interest you. We've been talking about the problem with the homeless. We thought that if—”

Ed held up a beefy hand. “Put all that stuff on hold,
Emma. If you're asking me to get involved with any more volunteering, you'll have to wait.” He gave Shirley a conspiratorial glance, then turned back to me and lowered his voice. '7
finished the book.”

I'd all but forgotten about Ed's autobiography. He'd started writing it the previous winter, and had nearly driven me crazy by asking for help. At one point he had begged me to ghostwrite it for him. But a combination of flattery and intimidation had finally persuaded Ed that he should be the sole author.

I tried to look thrilled. “Great, Ed. How did it turn out?”

Ed again looked at his wife, who giggled and jiggled and almost conked her husband with the umbrella. “It's absolutely fantastic,” Shirley said with enthusiasm. “I couldn't put it down.”

Ed's attempt to look modest failed miserably. “It's pretty good, I'll admit. That's why I want to talk to you, to set up an interview when I get the contract. I sent the book off Friday to Doubleday. Maybe I'll hear from them by the end of next week.”

Having worked with a number of reporters who had tried to get books published, I knew a little about the industry. “I don't think they turn projects around quite that fast,” I cautioned. “Maybe you should try to get an agent first.”

Ed scoffed. “What for? Why lose fifteen percent off the top? This book will sell itself. Heck, the title alone is worth it.”

“Which is?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“I needed something that told the reader what the book was about, namely me,” he replied, now very serious. “I wanted to keep it simple, but to have a familiar ring, so it would be easy for people to remember. I call it
Mr. Ed.”

“That's … good,” I gulped, exerting every ounce of restraint to keep from laughing, smiling, or falling down in a coma. “Let me know what happens.”

Shirley twirled the umbrella like a top. “Everyone will know. We'll give a huge party. The only thing is, we hope they don't rush it into publication before we get the house finished. It'd be so much better to host the gala in our new banquet hall.”

I didn't know if the new Bronsky house actually had a banquet hall, or if Shirley was suffering from her usual delusions of grandeur. But the allusion to excess reminded me of my original intention.

“While you're waiting to hear from New York,” I began, managing to keep a straight face, “you might think about how we can build a multipurpose shelter in Alpine. The number of homeless people is growing by the day. Maybe you could talk to Father Den about it.”

Ed frowned and shook his head. “I don't know about that, Emma. Like I said, we should wait.”

“Ed,” I said, now growing impatient, “we can't wait too long. The good weather is coming to an end. We should get something up and running before the first snow. Believe me, it might take six months before you get a reply from Doubleday.”

Ed obviously didn't believe me. “I can't take the chance. Besides, it's not a good idea to bring up any big projects right now. Things around here are kind of shaky. If you know what I mean.” His small eyes darted toward the church, where Father Den now stood on the steps, bidding farewell to the stragglers.

“Are you talking about the school-board vote?” I asked in a puzzled tone.

Ed shook his head and took a couple of backward steps, forcing Shirley to move with the umbrella. “I mean Den. I've got a feeling that his days are numbered here in Alpine.”

I was shocked. While it was seldom wise to take Ed seriously, his pronouncement made an impression. “You can't mean he's being transferred,” I said in an incredulous
voice. “The chancery doesn't move priests this time of year, they do it in the spring.”

The rain was coming down harder now. Ed looked over his paunch, apparently trying to see what effect the water was having on his black alligator shoes. “They'll move him if enough pressure is put on the archbishop. Or if he flat out resigns.” Turning to Shirley, he placed a guiding hand on her shoulder. “Let's go home, Shirl. My feet feel damp.” Over his shoulder, Ed nodded benignly. “See you, Emma. Don't worry, you'll get one of the first autographed copies of
Mr, Ed”

Trying not to feel appalled by Ed's cocky attitude, I trudged to my car. Murray Felton was leaning against the passenger door, holding a black umbrella over his curly dark hair.

“I recognized your Jag from last night,” he said, giving me that big grin. “Want to take me for a ride?”

I couldn't quite summon up a smile. “Where? Why?”

“Don't forget who, what, and when.” Murray reached for the handle and found the door unlocked. He shot me a look of mock amazement. “Talk about trust! You smalltown folks really do feel safe from crime. Do you suppose that Randall babe got overconfident?”

“She wasn't a babe,” I said stiffly. “Move it, Murray. I'm going home.”

“Not quite.” To my astonishment, he closed the umbrella and got inside the Jag.

Angrily I marched around to the other side. “Listen, jackass,” I barked, leaning across the steering wheel, “get out of here! Or do you want me to call the sheriff?”

Murray's expression was insolent. “What do you call him? Quick Shot or Slow Draw?”

Rarely have I had the urge to throttle anyone. To keep from doing Murray Felton bodily harm, I flew out of the car, slammed the door, and stomped off in the direction of the rectory. Separated from the church by a covered walkway, the modest frame building is set off. from the
parking lot by a small garden. I galloped up to the front porch and punched the bell, hoping that Father Den had had time to change in the sacristy.

Apparently he hadn't. There was no answer. The era of the full-time housekeeper had ended a few years earlier, forcing the pastor to rely on sporadic help. Frustrated, I started back to the parking lot.

To my relief, Murray Felton had gotten out of the Jag. He met me halfway back to the car. “Okay,” he said in a cheerful voice, “so I trash-talk sometimes. It's the cynical reporter in me, so what? Meet me at Starbucks. I'll buy you a latte, and explain how Ursula Randall managed to get herself drowned.”

“I thought you needed a ride,” I said in an irritable voice.

Murray shrugged. “Just kidding. My car's over there.” He nodded across the lot at the red Mazda Miata that was the only other remaining vehicle besides my Jag. “In fact,” he continued, now turning more serious, “I thought maybe we could go see Mrs. Patricelli together. She wouldn't let me in last night.”

I wasn't surprised. Polly was a nervous, suspicious widow who lived alone. A stranger who appeared on her doorstep after dark would not be welcomed. Finally calming down, I considered my options.

“I'll lead the way to Mrs. Patricelli's,” I said, brushing wet hair from my forehead. Now that Murray was putting on the pressure, I decided it was time to take a look at the miracle vase. “If you've really got a viable theory about Ursula, you can come with me and tell the sheriff.”

Murray seemed appeased. His Miata followed me closely along the two blocks to the Patricelli house on Tyee Street. From the outside, it seemed impossible that nine children had been raised in such an old crackerbox. Vida, however, had told me that the inside, especially the second story, was a veritable rabbit warren of rooms.

Eight cracked and chipped concrete stairs led through
an overgrown rockery. An ancient lilac, which looked as if it had been split down the middle by lightning, stood at one end of the porch; at the other, a towering yew blotted out the daylight from the front windows. Boards creaked underfoot as we approached the front door, a solid slab of oak that had been varnished until it looked congealed.