The Alpine Legacy (11 page)

“Yes,” I responded, looking again at the sunset, “it's beautiful. You must have a gift for glasswork.”

“I love art,” Melody enthused. “I've always drawn and
painted. But this is much more interesting. I'm working on a sunrise to match.”

Holding out my hand, I introduced myself, then waited for Melody's reaction. There was none.

“Do you like stained glass?” she inquired.

“Very much,” I said, nodding to the Episcopal rector, Regis Bartleby, and his wife, Edith. “I'm a friend of Paula Rubens. One of these days I'm going to splurge and buy a piece from her.”

Melody's face brightened at the mention of Paula's name. “Ms. Rubens is the most wonderful teacher. If you signed up for her class next quarter, you could make your own. There were several older students taking it fall quarter.”

My smile was strained. There were some days when I didn't mind being middle-aged. There were very few when I enjoyed being reminded that most of my forties were in the rearview mirror.

“I met your parents yesterday,” I said, changing the subject. “Mrs. Runkel and I stopped in to offer our condolences.”

“Because of Aunt Crystal?” Melody sounded open to other ideas. Certainly she didn't seem aggrieved by the reference.

“Yes. How is your mother doing today?”

“Okay.” Melody gave a little shrug, then strolled over to the next exhibit. “Mom and Aunt Crystal weren't close. What do you think of this one? It's my cousin Tiffany's. We took the class together.”

Tiffany Eriks, whose family I knew better than Melody's, had done something with a seagull. It was perched on a piling with the ocean in the background. As clichés go, it was adequate. At least I could tell it was a seagull.

“The colors are a bit muted,” I said. It was a kinder description than
dull.

“I don't think Tiffany's really into it,” Melody said without malice. “She has trouble focusing. That's why she's never finished college.”

I figured Melody for nineteen, maybe twenty. Tiffany was a few years older, and currently working for Platters in the Sky at the mall. She had bounced around between jobs over the years, which meant she didn't focus on a career, either.

“My brother's
too
focused,” Melody said as we moved on to the last piece, which was another of Paula's. “He's starting his master's next quarter at the University of Washington. Thad wants to be a Wall Street wizard.”

My eyes widened in surprise. Seldom had I heard Wall Street mentioned in Alpine, and upon those rare occasions when it came up, the context was always derogatory, as in “Those bloodsucking bastards on Wall Street.”

“Your brother must be an ambitious guy,” I remarked.

Melody giggled, a rather unmusical sound, considering her name. “He wants to get rich. He's been reading
Forbes
and all those other magazines since he was fifteen.” She pointed to Paula's final piece. “Isn't that great? Look at those colors.”

The stained glass was also large, intended, perhaps, for a tall window on a staircase landing. The central figure was a breast-plated goddess, with her sword raised on high, and the ruins of a city in the background.

“Minerva?” I guessed.

“No, Hera,” Melody replied. “This shows her after she helped the Greeks destroy the Trojans. Isn't she magnificent?”

She was. Her armor, sword, and shield were a burnished gold, which was reflected in the flames of Troy. The flowing skirts seemed to move, and the handsome face was exultant.

“How long did it take Paula to do this?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Melody said. “A long time, I'd guess. The detail is so rich.” She looked beyond me and made a face. “Here come the old folks. Reverend Nielsen brought a vanload in from the Lutheran retirement home. Excuse me, I've got to show them through.”

I studied Hera for a few more minutes, then headed out of the RUB. On the way to the parking lot, I spotted Nat Cardenas, looking as if he'd just come off the ski slopes.

“Emma,” he said in that charming tone he reserves for civic leaders, the press, politicians, and whoever else he figures can do him some good. “How are you?” He whipped off a heavy glove and put out his hand.

“You've been skiing?” I asked.

Nat shook his head. He was a rugged, handsome man in his fifties with thick iron-gray hair and deep-set dark eyes. “Snowmobiling,” he answered, then gave me his engaging smile. “It's not a good day for it, though. I decided to come back to the campus and get some work done before I went home.”

“I was taking in the glass exhibit,” I said in a conversational tone. “Paula and her students have turned out some nice things.”

Nat gave a single nod. “Paula's an excellent instructor. She has rapport with the students and she knows how to teach. We were lucky to get her.”

“You've been able to hire some first-rate people,” I said, hoping the praise wasn't too transparent. “After three years, does Alpine feel like home?”

Nat tipped his head to one side, gazing up at the snow-covered evergreens that had been left standing as a backdrop for the campus. “Yes, it does. Of course, it's quite a change from L.A.” He laughed in his self-deprecating manner.

Skykomish Community College had recruited Nat from
a JC in Los Angeles. His previous years had been spent in various parts of the Southwest, and his Hispanic roots were from somewhere in Texas, where he had grown up poor but ambitious.

“Alpine is a huge change,” I remarked. “I'm glad you've adjusted. Many people who come to the Pacific Northwest from sunnier climates often find this part of the world depressing.”

Nat gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Not at all. I like the weather changes.”

“Good for you.” I smiled. “You've been here long enough to know you can take it. The rain and snow drive some people over the edge. Which reminds me,” I continued, not needing any such reminder and finally weaving my way to the subject of my quest, “you have to wonder how much effect all our snow had on Crystal Bird. I lived in Portland for years, and some winters we didn't have any snow at all. She must have felt isolated down there at Baring when the roads got impassable.”

Nat's charming facade disappeared. The expression that emerged was distant, even austere. I actually liked it better. “I figured she enjoyed being alone in her little aerie,” Nat said.

“All the better to sharpen her claws on the rest of us?” I forced a small laugh.

Nat made a noise that sounded like “Hmm-mm-m.” Then he cleared his throat and put the glove back on his right hand. “Public figures are always fair game. Or so the expression goes. I've never seen anything fair about it.” The glove was back on; so was the mask. “Now, if you'll excuse me, Emma,” he said with his big smile, “I'd better head for the office so I can get home in time for dinner. Justine is making something special.”

Justine was Mrs. Cardenas, a rather handsome, if somewhat asocial, woman. I sensed that she came from money,
and wondered if her bank account had helped put Nat through graduate school. As Crystal had done with Dean Ramsey—but with less fortunate results.

As soon as I got home, I called Ben in Tuba City. For once, he was at the rectory.

“What's up?” he asked in his crackling voice. “Did you get Adam's message?”

“I did. I've tried to call you four times this week, but you were always out. How come you never called back?”

“Because my answering machine is broken,” Ben replied. “It
seems
to take messages, but it's only a tease. I never get them at this end. Bob Spotted Dog is coming to fix it tomorrow.”

Bob Spotted Dog was the Navajo handyman who could fix just about anything. He had been invaluable to my brother, who could fix nothing, and had long ago given up trying.

“I'm not really happy about you and Adam visiting Tom Cavanaugh,” I said, disdaining small talk. “How come?”

“How come?” Ben sounded puzzled.

“Don't be dense,” I retorted. “You aren't in San Francisco. Neither is Adam.”

“But that's where I'm going for a two-day meeting,” Ben replied. “Thus, Adam will fly in from St. Paul and meet me there instead of going straight through to Seattle. It gives me a chance to finally meet my nephew's father. Why are you pissed?”

I'd been asking myself the same question for a week. “Because I seem to be the one factor left out of this entire equation,” I said. “Tom and I are Adam's parents. Tom has, upon occasion, declared his undying love for me. Tom is now a free man. And, while everyone else seems to be yukking it up with Tom, including my ad
manager, I have not heard word one from the SOB.” The last few words fell from my tongue like hot lead.

My brother is a compassionate man, a priest who has devoted his life to God and to the service of others. He lacks neither charity nor patience. Ben's virtues are admirable, enviable. But he is human.

“You know,” he said, his voice deeper but still crack-ling, “I'm damned pissed with all your melodrama. What's wrong—you don't have a phone? How the hell did you call me? You can't do the same with Cavanaugh?”

“It's not up to me to call,” I snapped. “I'm not the grieving spouse.”

“Bullshit. How many times do I have to tell you that you enjoy all this thwarted-passion crap?” He stopped to take a quick breath. “How's this? I tell Tom you want to marry him. I insist he gives me an answer. If he says, ‘Yes, yes, yes, I cannot go on without the help and support of the woman I love, ‘ what do you say?”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“I would.”

I didn't doubt Ben. But I doubted myself. “I'd say yes.”

“Liar.”

“Try me.”

“I will.” Ben paused again. “Do you want me to bring him gift-wrapped and stuff him under your Christmas tree?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” I said, sounding unintentionally sarcastic. “I want to hear his answer to your question first.”

“Do you.”

There was no question in Ben's voice. But there was sarcasm to match my own.

On Monday morning, I sent Scott Chamoud to interview Victor Dimitroff at the hospital. According to the
sheriff's log, Victor's accident had occurred Friday night at ten-forty. He had been traveling eastbound at the time.

When Vida heard about Scott's assignment, she flew into my office. “How could you? Talk about sending a boy to the mill! Why wasn't I given this Russian?”

Looking up from the Wenatchee Forest news release that had showed up at
The Advocate
Friday, I offered Vida my most innocent expression. “Because it's an accident story. Because it's hard news. Because it's Scott's beat.”

“How often do you interview people who've been in auto accidents?” Vida demanded, leaning on my desk. “If you did, Durwood Parker would be an entire series.”

“Okay,” I allowed, sitting back in my swivel chair, “so this
is
a little different. But if Victor Dimitroff really is a composer, it's a feature. He's going to be released today, and for all I know, he's leaving the area. You don't do this kind of feature, Vida.”

“I do culture.” She resumed standing straight up. “Just last week, I had the Merry Methodists' Musicale. This issue, I'm writing up the Burl Creek Barbershop Quartet's trip to Monroe.”

There was indeed a fine line between such assignments. Basically, they depended on who received which news release. The established groups, such as the churches and private organizations, sent most of their releases to Vida. In the past, anything else was parceled out between Carla and me. As the new mother's successor, Scott had taken over the stories I wouldn't or couldn't do.

I didn't mind offering Vida an apology, however. “Maybe I should have let you interview Victor. But I need to load Scott with work so that he gets a sense of urgency and makes his deadlines. As you may recall, he hadn't finished two of his features for last week's issue, and we had to fill the holes with holiday recipes.”

Vida inclined her head, which was covered with a faux-fur hat sitting so low on her forehead that it almost obscured her eyebrows. “You have a point. However, you should have considered that an interview with Victor—at least as conducted by me—would not have been limited to musical composition.”

“I know,” I admitted. “But what's the point of digging around in the guy's private life? Crystal's dead, he's probably out of here, and anything you find out would be inappropriate in an article about his musical background.”

The eyebrows merged with the fur. “There's always curiosity.”

“I know,” I said, grinning at Vida. “To be frank, I want to forget about Crystal and move on. She was a sour chapter in my life. For once, I'm not curious about the rest of her miserable life. Just hearing about it would get me mad all over again. The poor woman killed herself, and that's that. Which reminds me, you do the obit, and I'll do a brief page-one story.”

“You have confirmation from Milo as to cause of death?” Vida inquired as the hat slipped still farther and her eyebrows disappeared, gobbled up by the animal on her head.

“Not yet,” I said, “but Jack Mullins told Scott that they expected to hear from the ME in Everett by this afternoon. Surprisingly, it was a slow weekend for dying in Snohomish County.”

“Not surprising,” Vida responded, turning toward the door. “This time of year, so many sick and elderly people are determined to hang on until Christmas. You know what the obituary page in
The Seattle Times
and P-Ilook like the last ten days of December. A half, maybe even a third of a page from the nineteenth until the twenty-ninth. Then—whoosh!” Vida's arm flew up. “They have to jump the death notices to a second page.”

I knew Vida was right. To make up for not having given her the Dimitroff assignment, I told her about Crystal and Dean Ramsey's runaway daughter.

“Now where did you hear that?” she demanded, leaning back into my office.

“Paula Rubens,” I said without apology.

Vida sniffed. “I trust she knows what she's talking about. How long ago did the girl run away?”

Paula hadn't said. “Several years,” I estimated. “Amber was seventeen, and Crystal was married to Aaron. I suppose the daughter would be in her early to mid-twenties by now.”

Vida's expression was enigmatic. Then without further comment, she walked away in her splayfooted manner while I went back to the timber ban story. Leo, meanwhile, was on the phone, getting a jump start on his calls for the annual double-truck Christmas church advertising. The two center pages of the December 17 issue would feature each house of worship's special holiday services.