The Alpine Recluse (12 page)

“Not falling out in clumps,” I retorted. “Actually, he’s never said. Would it matter? I can’t do anything with it except get a decent cut.”

“You
are
a freak,” Stella remarked. “Sometimes I worry about you. But then I worry about all my clients. I’ve been worried about Toni, if you want to know the truth.”

Finally.
I knew it was only a matter of time before Stella dished the dirt on Toni. She loved doing it, but she always needed coaxing. I supposed that was how she dealt with her conscience.

I asked the obvious question. “How come?”

Stella stopped snipping long enough to see how my hair was shaping up. “I shouldn’t say anything,” she said in a low voice, “but the last time Toni came in for a manicure about a week ago, Tiffany Eriks—I mean, Tiffany Rafferty—was getting highlights in her hair. You know how it is with those foil jobs; the person is virtually unrecognizable with all those things covering her head. In fact, I’d recommended that Tiffany put off doing it until the baby was born. Sometimes the chemicals don’t take when you’re pregnant. But Tiffany insisted. She can be stubborn in her own way. So Toni sat down at Debbie’s nail station”—Stella nodded toward the front of the shop—“and just before Debbie got started, Tiffany stood up to stretch her back. Toni saw her, and would you believe she got up from the chair and ran out the front door. We haven’t heard from her since.”

“How odd.” I waited for Stella to confide her conclusions.

“Toni had never mentioned the name of whoever she was seeing,” Stella continued, as if on cue. “That made us all suspicious. He had to be married, right?”

“He could have been someone from out of town,” I said, playing devil’s advocate. “Someone nobody in Alpine would know.”

“But wouldn’t she say so?” Stella responded, now sounding rather excited. Too excited, maybe. She was cutting off quite a bit of my hair. “You know—a drop-dead gorgeous guy from Everett, a big spender from Seattle—
some
kind of identification. Women
have
to talk about the men in their lives. Unless they don’t dare.”

“Which means the man is married,” I noted. “How did Tiffany react?”

“I don’t think Tiffany even noticed Toni,” Stella replied. “She’s pretty self-absorbed.”

“So you think that Toni was seeing Tim Rafferty?” I grimaced. “Hey, Stella, I’m beginning to look like a boy.”

“What?” Stella frowned at my hair—or what was left of it. “Oh, no, Emma, it’s darling. Pixielike, and perfect for this hot weather.”

“I’m too old to be a pixie,” I informed her.

Stella began to fluff up my hair with her hands. “No, no. Think how easy this is going to be when it comes to maintaining it. Even you can manage with the help of some product. Here, let me show you.” Stella reached into a small cupboard next to the mirror. “Bumble and Bumble styling cream. All you do is put about this much on your hands and . . .”

I wasn’t paying attention. If Adam’s guess, Janet’s suggestion, and Stella’s deductions were correct, then Toni Andreas had been having an affair with Tim Rafferty. Toni had cancelled her vacation plans. Why? Because Tim couldn’t or wouldn’t go with her?

Tim, Tiffany, Toni—altogether too many people whose names began with
T.
But
T
also stood for
triangle.

And triangles of a romantic type often supplied a motive for murder.

NINE

V
IDA WAS TWITTERING
away at Ginny when I returned to the office at one o’clock. “Such a fine specimen of youth,” she was saying. “I must confess, I’ve despaired over the younger generation, but when given a chance, they can bravely bear responsibility. And leadership! You should have seen how the other youngsters reacted to Roger!”

“You must be very proud of him,” Ginny remarked in her quiet manner.

Vida’s sharp gaze shifted as she saw me come into the newsroom. “Naturally,” she affirmed. “Who wouldn’t be proud of someone who wants to help his or her fellow beings?”

“That’s true,” Ginny agreed with a quick glance in my direction. She knew that Roger annoyed me, and probably felt as if she was caught in a buzz saw. “I’d better get back to the front desk,” Ginny said, and skittered off to sanctuary.

“Any reports yet?” I inquired of Vida, trying to sound neutral.

Vida stared at me over the rims of her big glasses. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, “has any trace of Old Nick been found?”

Vida pointedly looked at her watch. “It’s scarcely after one. The searchers have been gone for less than three hours. I’d hardly expect them to have returned with any sort of information by now.”

She was right, of course. But I couldn’t resist needling Vida. On the other hand, I wanted to consult with her. I tried weaseling my way out of the confrontational state between us.

“I was wondering if Old Nick actually left town,” I explained. “That is, he might have gone somewhere else to hide out.”

“That would be uncharacteristic of his type,” Vida asserted, though her expression softened. “Those hermits always return to their lairs.”

“Yes, I suppose they do,” I allowed, gingerly approaching her desk. “How do you like my hair?”

“What hair?” Vida asked. “You don’t seem to have any.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Well now . . .” She pursed her lips. “It
is
very short.”

“Stella got carried away,” I said.

“Indeed. She also seems to have applied some sort of goo,” Vida said, still studying me from all angles. “I won’t permit Stella to put anything except a wisp of spray on my hair.”

“It’ll grow out,” I said hopefully. “Don’t you want to hear why Stella lost focus?”

“You’re serious?”

I nodded. Vida leaned forward. “Do sit,” she urged, sounding like her usual self.

I saw no further reason to hold back on what Adam and Janet had told me. Stella’s account only confirmed their suspicions. A possible affair between Toni and Tim might be a motive for murder.

“My, my,” Vida remarked when I’d finished. “That’s most intriguing. Tiffany’s reaction makes more sense if Tim had been unfaithful. I almost feel sorry for her. But can you tell Milo all this? You know how he hates tales out of school.”

I nodded again. “Maybe I should invite him over to dinner and ply him with strong drink.”

Vida was disapproving. “That’s a poor idea—for various reasons.”

Vida couldn’t know but probably suspected that there’d been many occasions in the past when Milo ate dinner at my house—and stayed on for dessert in the bedroom. But those interludes had ended a long time ago. Now Milo and I had settled for being friends. Good friends, I liked to think.

“I don’t intend to seduce him,” I asserted. “I only want to make him more receptive to the idea that Old Nick shouldn’t be the sole suspect.”

Vida frowned. “You must admit Nick’s presence in the vicinity is highly suspicious. Do you think either Tiffany or Toni would be able to overcome Tim and crush his skull with a baseball bat?”

“A woman could do it if the man was asleep,” I pointed out.

“Yes, that’s so.” Vida considered the concept. “Tiffany’s alibi must be checked. She had a dinner break that night, didn’t she? It wouldn’t take her five minutes to get home. As for Toni, if Tim let her in while Tiffany was at work, he might have gone to sleep after a romantic interlude.” Vida ran a hand through her jumble of gray curls. “Goodness, it’s quite gruesome to dwell on.”

“It puts us on the spot,” I said. “Milo doesn’t seem aware of what’s going on in Toni’s life. I’m not sure I want to be the person who suggests that one of his own employees could be a suspect.”

Vida nodded absently. “A pity I don’t know that new deputy better. Doe, I mean. Still . . .” Vida drummed her short nails on the desk. “There’s always Billy.”

I agreed. “Your nephew is a very sympathetic kind of guy.”

Vida looked troubled. “He’s engaged, you know. I don’t want Billy having coffee with Toni turned into gossip fodder. Earlene is very nice.”

The engagement was news to me. “Earlene?”

“Earlene Engebretsen,” Vida replied without her usual bravado. “A niece of George’s, the county commissioner. She grew up in Skykomish. Actually, her last name is Farrell. She married a most unfortunate young man from Monroe. They had a baby—Brant is now four, I believe—and then Corey—the husband—walked out on them. Earlene has had no help from Brant’s father, and has very gallantly raised the boy by herself. She works at a restaurant in Sultan. I admire her fortitude.”

I sensed that Vida secretly disapproved of the match, especially since Bill would be taking on a child who wasn’t his own. It was no wonder that she hadn’t blared the news on her trumpet.

“A small December wedding is planned,” she added, as if she were typing it into an engagement article for her House & Home page.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Bill will make a fine stepfather.”

“Yes, I should think so,” Vida allowed. She squinted up at the window above her desk. “I’ll put a flea in his ear about Toni,” she went on. “Though I still think Old Nick was involved. Certainly he’s someone that Milo should talk to. He may have seen or heard something. I’m convinced that Roger’s search party isn’t in vain.”

Vida would want to believe that. I left her then and went into my office. I wasn’t sure that Bill Blatt would get Toni to open up. Another woman—Vida, for instance—might elicit what had been going on in Toni’s love life. I’d already flunked the course.

Sitting at my desk, I tried to remember the names of Toni’s friends. She might have confided in them. As for Tiffany, according to Betsy O’Toole, the young widow had no special chums.

I wrote down the names Milo had mentioned as Toni’s girlfriends. First was Mandy Gustavson. I didn’t know her very well, though all the Gustavsons were somehow related to Vida. I listed Mags Patricelli next. Neither Milo nor I could recall her married name. I didn’t know her, either, except for occasionally seeing her at church.

But Heather Bardeen Bavich was a possibility. Since her marriage to Trevor, she’d continued to work for her father at the ski lodge. Her husband’s job was in Everett. The couple had settled in Monroe, approximately halfway between the two work sites.

Until her marriage, Heather had been the restaurant hostess, usually working in the evenings. But the couple had had a baby in the spring, and when Heather returned to the ski lodge, it was during the day, behind the main desk. I called to ask if she had time for a break.

“I don’t take breaks,” she said. “I work only six hours a day, so except for getting some lunch in the coffee shop, I don’t take extra time.”

“That’s commendable,” I remarked. “I didn’t realize your dad was such a slave driver.”

“He isn’t,” Heather replied. “But he
is
my dad.”

Heather and Henry Bardeen had a close relationship. Heather’s mother had died young, and her father had never remarried. “Do you have time to answer a couple of questions?” I inquired.

“About what?” Heather sounded puzzled.

I didn’t blame her. A phone interrogation was going to be awkward. There was no opportunity to work my way into her confidence without wasting time.

I came to the point. “You’re a friend of Toni Andreas, right?”

“Yes,” Heather replied, sounding surprised. I suspected that wasn’t the query she’d expected. “Toni was two years behind me in high school, but we were both in choir. I always felt kind of sorry for her.”

Ah. The perfect opening.
“Yes, I can see why you would,” I said, “which is why I’m calling. I don’t know if you’ve talked to her the last day or so, but . . .” I went on, detailing Toni’s distress.

“That’s a shame,” Heather said when I’d finished. “I haven’t talked to her, in fact, not for . . . oh, maybe a month. I don’t have much spare time at work or at home these days with the baby and all. Now I feel guilty. Maybe I should call her before I leave this afternoon. You say she’s taking a sick day?”

“Yes.” I paused. “I hope it’s not the job that’s upsetting her. She’s worked in the sheriff’s office for several years. I would think that with the hiring of Doe Jameson, Toni’s job would be a little easier.”

“Maybe.” Now it was Heather’s turn to hesitate. “I’m not sure that she likes Doe that much. Maybe Toni enjoyed being the only female on the staff. I don’t know.” Heather sighed into the receiver. “The sheriff isn’t going to fire Toni, is he?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I assured Heather. “It’s just that Toni always seems to be on such an even keel.” As in complacent, almost apathetic. “In fact,” I continued, lowering my voice to a more intimate level, “Milo seems oblivious to any problems Toni might be having. You know men. They don’t notice mood shifts, or if they do, they always figure it’s that time of the month.”

Heather laughed in her moderate manner. “Yes, that’s the truth. I insist that Trevor and I sit down every week and discuss our relationship. I know he can be sensitive if he really tries.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said, though from my age and perspective, it sounded like a waste of time. Men—and women—will listen, but that doesn’t mean they can change. “Maybe,” I hinted, “Toni’s in love.”

Heather was silent for so long that I wondered if we’d been disconnected. Finally, she spoke. “Toni’s history with men is poor. That’s one reason I don’t see her much since I got married. She envied me, especially after I told her I was pregnant. She feels left out.”

“That happens with some women,” I said. “Then they settle for any man who comes along. It’s sad. There are, as my granny used to say, worse things than
not
being married.”

“There are?” Heather sounded as if she didn’t get it. “Oh! Yes, I see what you mean. That’s true. So many husbands are abusers, one way or another. Thank heavens Trevor isn’t like that.”

I made one last stab at getting something useful out of Heather. “So you think she’s settled for someone second-rate? I wasn’t aware that she was dating anyone right now.”

There was another long pause. “I think she makes poor choices.”

I forced a laugh. “I hope not. Years ago, she dated my son, Adam.”

Heather laughed, too. “Oh, that was different. I mean, that was a casual thing, if I remember. Adam wasn’t in Alpine very long. I’m talking about the last few years, when Toni started to feel desperate. There was a countertop salesman from Seattle and a truck driver from Wenatchee and a dog handler from the Monroe reformatory. I don’t mean he was a convict,” she added quickly, “but he trained dogs for prisoners or something like that. Toni seemed to date men who were never around much until—” She stopped. I waited. “Until lately.”

“Toni was seeing somebody local?” I asked.

I heard a clatter at her end of the line. “Oh! I spilled my coffee!” Heather exclaimed in a not-very-convincing voice. “I must go, Emma.”

“Wait!” I hadn’t slogged this far without getting an answer. “Heather—are you there?”

“Ah . . . yes, but I made such a . . .”

“Was Toni seeing Tim Rafferty?”

“Um . . . maybe. I mean . . . I’m sorry, I have to hang up.” The receiver clicked in my ear.

I stared out at Vida, who had been making phone calls the entire time I’d been talking to Heather. I returned to my Wild Sky editorial, but kept one eye on the newsroom. Five minutes later, Vida got off the phone and started toward the restroom. I waited until she came out.

“How,” I inquired, “are you related to Mandy Gustavson?”

Vida showed no surprise at the question. “Ernest’s sister, Evelyn, is her grandmother. Evelyn married a Gustavson, so that makes her my great-niece-in-law.”

Vida’s late husband had as many Runkel relatives in town as Vida had Blatts on her side of the family. It was no wonder I could never keep them straight. “Do you know Mandy very well?”

“Of course,” Vida replied. “Why?”

I told her about the truncated call to Heather Bavich. “I thought Mandy might confirm it. I only know Mags Patricelli by sight,” I added.

“Mags
Dugan
since her marriage,” Vida noted. “No, I’m afraid I’m not well acquainted with Mags, either. So you want me to see if Mandy can confirm the story about Toni and Tim? Certainly. I’ll take some geranium cuttings to her this evening.”

That sounded like as good an excuse as any. I went back into my cubbyhole and dialed Milo’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“I think I’ll barbecue burgers tonight,” I said. “Want to join me?”

“I can’t,” he replied. “I have a meeting at seven-thirty. Don’t you read the
Advocate
?”

I’d forgotten that this week’s calendar listed the sheriff as the library’s Thursday-night speaker. The public meetings were held each month, and occasionally an out-of-town writer was invited. Usually, however, the highlight was one of our local luminaries. The events seldom contained much news value, so I let Edna Mae Dalrymple, the head librarian, turn in a detailed—though accurate—account.

“Drat,” I said. “Oh, come anyway. I’ll leave work a half hour early so I can get the barbecue started. You can have a drink, eat, and be at the library by seven-thirty. I’ll make homemade French fries.”

“What’s up with you?” Milo asked in a bemused tone. “I don’t think this invitation flew off the top of your head.”

Either I have no feminine wiles—and no knack for subterfuge—or the sheriff was occasionally more prescient than I thought. “I want to discuss the Rafferty case with you,” I hedged. “I want to do it in a more comfortable setting than our offices or Vida’s sidewalk.”

“You make good French fries,” Milo said, “but you always screw up the barbecue stuff. Get it started early, I’ll cook the burgers. See you around five-thirty.”