The Alpine Scandal (18 page)

The phone rang from the living room. The receiver was on the end table. No wonder I hadn’t found it in the kitchen.

“Where did those sirens go?” Vida demanded.

The query caught me off guard. “What? I thought you went to Sultan with Buck.”

“Thelma got sick and threw up all over the table,” she said. “We left. I just got home. What about those sirens? They sounded as if they were near your house.”

Thelma, I presumed, was Vida and Buck’s hostess. But she was the least of my problems. “It’s Milo,” I said. “He’s had another spell.”

“I wondered,” Vida murmured. “Whatever were you doing?”

“Nothing!” I virtually shouted the word into the phone. “The medics are…” I walked back toward the kitchen. Vic was still with Milo, but Del had disappeared. Probably he’d gone out the back door to get the gurney. “I think they’re taking Milo to the hospital.”

“A good place for him,” Vida huffed. “They never should have let him out so soon. I’ll meet you there.”

“Where?”

“The hospital, of course.” Vida hung up.

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But of course I’d follow Milo and his merry band of medics. That silly phrase had slipped into my mind. I suppose I was trying to stay optimistic, cheer myself up, prepare to deal with a long, anxious wait.

Del returned with the gurney. I still kept my distance, not wanting to get in the way.

“You coming, Emma?” Vic asked.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Want to ride in the ambulance?” he inquired.

“Uh…no, I’ll drive.”

Vic frowned. “How’re you going to get your car out? The Cherokee’s blocking it.”

“I’ll get Milo’s keys and move it.”

Vic nodded. Milo was making an unsuccessful effort to stand up.

“Don’t,” Del said. “We provide all the transportation you need.”

Milo said something unprintable about what they could do with their transportation. But he stopped trying to stand. Wanting to spare the sheriff from having me observe his “lack of manliness,” I grabbed his keys and went back into the living room, taking my time to put on my jacket. As soon as I heard the gurney leaving the kitchen via the back door, I returned to make sure the stove was off and everything was unplugged. I felt kind of unplugged myself. If not dying at the roots, my sturdy oak was being buffeted by the winds of ill health. I was overcome with a sense of vulnerability as unfamiliar as it was disturbing.

The medic van was out of sight if not out of hearing range by the time I backed onto Fir Street. The most direct route was to go down Third. As soon as I turned the corner, I could see the flashing red lights nearing the hospital. The steep, wet pavement in front of me was safe enough in daylight, but after dark several bumps and potholes were concealed. My editorials urging a bond issue for street improvements had gone for naught.

I parked on Pine and crossed the street to the hospital’s main entrance. The emergency room was off to the right of the small lobby. Milo would have been taken in through a different entrance, near the corner of Second and Pine. Vida was already at the reception desk, badgering a stout middle-aged woman I didn’t recognize.

“He’s here, I tell you,” Vida said, wagging a finger. “Sheriff Dodge just came in.”

I sidled up to Vida, who was wearing what looked like a chocolate layer cake on her head. It was probably the hat she’d worn to her dinner party in Sultan.

“Tell her,” Vida commanded, turning to me.

“You just did,” I said.

The receptionist’s name tag stated that she was Mona Lysander. She sure wasn’t Mona Lisa, judging from her sullen expression.

“Nothing’s official,” she declared, “until the patient has been formally admitted.” In a gesture of dismissal she swiveled her chair in the direction of her computer.

Vida leaned on the counter. “Where’s Bree Kendall?” she demanded in a voice so loud that a dozing elderly man sitting by the aquarium woke up with such a start that his glasses fell off into his lap.

Mona glared at Vida. “She works days.”

Vida didn’t budge. She remained leaning on the counter, eyes fixed on Mona, who had turned back to her computer. The receptionist looked up. “Would you please take a seat.”

Vida shook her head, causing the cakelike tiers of felt to sway atop her gray curls. “Not until we hear what’s going on with Sheriff Dodge.”

An older woman I hadn’t noticed came toward us carrying an embroidery hoop and a threaded needle. “What’s this about the sheriff?” she asked. “Is he dying?”

I recognized Ethel Pike’s round, pugnacious face. I also saw her husband, Bickford, in a chair by the far wall, staring vacantly at the old guy by the aquarium who was still fumbling with his glasses.

Vida straightened up, towering over Ethel. “Certainly not! He’s had another spell, that’s all. Indigestion, if you ask me. He doesn’t eat properly.”

I knew that Vida was worried far more than she’d let on to Ethel. But she wouldn’t start unfounded rumors or give Ethel the satisfaction of knowing that Vida was in the dark when it came to Milo’s health.

“Well,” Ethel said, “he’d better spend more time on the job and catch whoever killed Elmer. If you ask me, whoever did it croaked the wrong Nystrom. They should have done in his missus.”

I’d forgotten that the Pikes lived on the Burl Creek Road, probably less than a quarter mile from the Nystrom house.

“You don’t like Polly?” Vida asked, finally stepping away from the reception area.

“She’s a pill,” Ethel declared, jabbing her needle into a random spot on what looked like a pillowcase. “Polly’s always complaining about Pike.” She nodded in her husband’s direction. “He’s got the bronchitis. I had to drag him in here before it gets to be the pneumonia. Stubborn as a mule, that’s Pike. Says he wouldn’t be sick at all if we’d spent the winter with our kids in Florida. All he wants to do is go beachcombing, but I tell him he’d get eaten by them crocodiles. Anyways, we can’t afford it.”

“What did Polly complain about?” Vida asked, steering the conversation back to the Nystroms.

“Pike’s truck,” Ethel replied. “He hauls stuff, you know. He can’t stay retired from the mill, has to run himself ragged even in bad weather, carting this and that around. No wonder he’s got the bronchitis.”

Anxious about Milo and impatient in my role of Vida’s mute puppet, I spoke: “You mean Polly complained about the truck making noise?”

Ethel glanced at Pike, who broke into a coughing fit, perhaps to prove that he was still alive. “The noise—that old Silvery-aydo truck kind of rattles when it’s got a big load of junk—and because sometimes things’d fall off along the road. Like a mattress that landed by the Nystroms’ mailbox. As if Pike wouldn’t pick it up! You can’t sell junk from the side of the road.”

“Certainly not,” Vida agreed, showing uncustomary commiseration for Ethel, who my House & Home editor usually deemed “an idiot.” “Tut, tut,” Vida went on. “Polly sounds quite unreasonable.”

“That’s for sure,” Ethel said. “Pike picked up that mattress the very next day. Or so.”

“What,” I asked, “does Pike do with all his…collectibles?” Maybe there was a feature story in his junk business.

“He takes it to Snohomish and Everett,” Ethel replied as her husband finally stopped coughing. “Snohomish’s got so many of them antique places. Sometimes he gets as much as twenty-five dollars for a load.”

“Yes,” Vida murmured, “I’ve heard that Pike’s quite a scavenger. So many people—hikers and campers and that sort—leave all sorts of items in the forest. Even automobiles and motorcycles.”

“Boats, too,” Ethel put in. “Too lazy to haul ’em back down the mountains. ’Course they’re not worth much—usually good only for firewood.”

I noticed that Mona had left her post and disappeared into the examining room area. Maybe she was in the process of officially admitting Milo. The bold face on the clock above the entrance showed the time as seven thirty-seven. Somehow, it seemed as if it should be much later.

Mona returned to her post and busied herself with some paperwork and the computer. I half expected Vida to reach over the counter and snatch away what I guessed was the sheriff’s admittance form. Ethel, however, interjected herself between Vida and me.

“Say,” she barked at Mona, “how much longer does Pike have to wait? He’s coughed up half a lung already.”

A still-hostile Mona looked up. “He’s next after Mr. Almquist.”

Mr. Almquist, I presumed, was the old guy who’d gone back to sleep by the aquarium. Or maybe he’d already died.

“It won’t be long,” Mona said in a voice that was anything but reassuring.

Vida was about to make her move as Ethel stepped back from the counter and barked at Pike to stop coughing. “You’re driving me crazy. Keep your yap shut and just sit there!” She turned back to us. “Honest, that man’ll be the death of me. Won’t take care of himself, but wait and see—he’ll live to be a hundred while I’ll be moldering in my grave.”

Before either Vida or I could respond, Jack Mullins suddenly burst through the doors that led to the examining rooms.

“There you are,” he said to Vida and me. “Come outside. I need a smoke.”

“You don’t smoke,” Vida pointed out. “How’s Milo?”

Jack kept walking. “I smoke when my boss gets hauled to the hospital. I stole his cigs.” He opened one of the double doors for us. “Jesus, this is getting to be a habit.”

“Smoking?” Vida said, holding on to her hat as a brisk wind blew down from Tonga Ridge. “Or Milo’s hospital visits?”

“Both.” Jack lit up before he spoke again. “Sung’s on duty tonight. Doc may get called in. No news is good news. I guess.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke well away from Vida. “He wants you to go home, Emma. You can’t do a damned thing waiting around. You, too, Vida. Dodge didn’t know you were here.”

“Where did he think I’d be?” Vida snapped. “And stop swearing!”

“Knock it off, Vida,” Jack shot back. “I’m not in the mood for lectures. This stuff with Dodge is getting me down. It’s getting to all of us at headquarters.”

For once, Vida reined in her reprimands. In fact, she appeared almost docile. “Of course you’re upset. We all are, or we wouldn’t be here.” She tapped my arm. “Jack’s right. Or, rather, Milo is. We can’t do anything waiting all night for news. We should go home. Are you staying, Jack?”

He took another puff and nodded. “Unless I get called away. I’m on duty along with Doe. She dropped me off in the patrol car.”

“You’ll call us if you hear anything?” I asked.

“Sure.” Jack’s usually cheerful face looked drawn and sickly under the harsh overhead light above the emergency entrance door.

“Call,” Vida said, “even if you don’t hear anything.”

Jack nodded again. Vida and I walked out the short driveway to the sidewalk.

“Most upsetting,” she said quietly. “Milo doesn’t take care of himself. He needs a wife.”

“He had one,” I pointed out as we stopped at the corner. “She didn’t turn out so well for him.”

Vida frowned. “No. Tricia hated his work. Milo was gone too much and far too involved in his job. But that’s the way it is with law enforcement. She knew that when she married him. So silly of her to have that affair with the schoolteacher. Retaliation, of course, for being left alone. I never thought she’d actually marry the man. If only…” She shrugged. “I’m parked over there,” she said pointing across Third.

“I’m on the other side, opposite the hospital.” I hesitated. “If only what?”

Vida stared straight ahead into the intersection, where a beat-up old Chevy was going far too fast for the driver’s own good. Kids, I figured, with nothing better to do than try to maim themselves on a Thursday night in Alpine.

“Well, now.” Vida sighed and then looked at me. “It’s really a shame you aren’t in love with Milo. Despite what you think about your differences, you two would do well together.”

“That’s hardly a reason to get married,” I said.

“But you should,” Vida declared. “Growing old alone isn’t desirable. I’ve been thinking about that myself, but I don’t know…” She stopped and tugged at my sleeve. “It’s not the same with you, Emma. You’ll never find another Tommy. Don’t end up like me.”

She let go of my sleeve and tromped away into the night before I could speak.

But I was too stunned to say anything at all.

Chapter Fourteen

I
MANAGED TO
get hold of Ben shortly after nine o’clock. He offered to come over and keep me company, but I knew he was tired. His voice had lost its usual crackle.

“Stay put,” I insisted. “You’ll have dinner with me tomorrow night, right?”

“Sure. But I’ll have to pack first. I’m leaving at eight.”

“In the morning?”

“No. Friday night.” Ben paused. “If I don’t, I can’t make it to East Lansing by Monday. There’s supposed to be a snowstorm in Montana.”

“Oh, Ben!” I cried. “Why did you drive out here? Why couldn’t you have flown?”

“You’d rather have me die in a plane crash than on the highway?” He suddenly swore under his breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I knew he meant the unintentional reference to our parents’ death. “I’d rather,” I said firmly, “not have you die at all. I’ve got enough to worry about with Milo in the hospital again.” I didn’t mention that Vida’s revelation about her loneliness had shaken me to the core.

“I’m coming over,” he said, and hung up.

Naturally, I was glad. I needed Ben. I could be selfless for only so long. My inner resources were drained. Milo. Vida. My stalwarts were reeling.

Ben arrived five minutes later, looking energized. Maybe he needed to be needed as much as I needed him.

“I’ll make us a drink,” he said, heading straight into the kitchen.

“Fine.” I remained on the sofa, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring.

“Here,” Ben said, handing me a glass of bourbon and water over ice. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

I watched him in alarm as he sat beside me. “What? Are
you
sick?”

“No.” He chuckled and took a sip of his bourbon cocktail. “I’ve been talking to Den Kelly about Mrs. Della Croce’s phone call. He figured that since it had nothing to do with baring her soul, maybe he and I should speak up. Preferably to the sheriff, but he’s not exactly available at the moment, and you’re our next best bet.”

My brain, which had seemed numb, began to function again. I had something to do besides worry. “This pertains to the Nystrom murder?”

Ben sighed. “Maybe not. But it does have something to do with the Nystroms, which is why Mrs. Della Croce phoned the rectory.” He gazed at me with the same brown eyes I saw every time I looked in the mirror. “You know I trust you.”

“I should hope so,” I said with a lame little laugh. Then I frowned. “You don’t trust Vida? Or Milo’s deputies?”

“Except for Jack Mullins, who’s a parishioner, I don’t know the deputies,” Ben said. “Let’s face it, Jack can be a little flaky. He doesn’t always think before he speaks. As for Vida…” Ben grinned. “I do trust her, but you’re the editor and publisher, whether you always remember that or not. Besides, she’s not my sister.”

“Okay. I think I get it. So what did Anna Maria say?”

Ben cradled his glass in his lap. “When she thought I was Kelly, she started talking in abstract terms—about a neighbor’s duty and a parent’s responsibility. Frankly, I couldn’t make much sense of it. I realized I was supposed to know at least something about what she was saying—or at least who she was. That’s when I stopped her and said I wasn’t Kelly.”

I nodded. “You never met her when you did your stint at St. Mildred’s.”

“No,” Ben agreed. “She’s not a regular. The Della Croces may have gone to one of the Christmas Masses, but there was such a mob that I didn’t notice them. I still wouldn’t know them by sight. Anyway, she spoke to Den later. The gist of what she told him was that her daughter, Gloria, was upset about what she’d been hearing from the Nystrom house.”

“Quarrels?” I asked.

Ben shook his head. “Far from it. And not recent, actually. It seems that Gloria got an assignment in her senior English class to write about something that had surprised or amazed her or somehow given her a new perspective on approaching adulthood. She’d been mulling over what she’d heard ever since school started. In fact, after that, she hadn’t heard anything because the weather changed and both families closed their windows. But during the spring and summer the houses are so close to Gloria’s bedroom that she could hear plenty. Not all the time, but maybe once or twice a week.” Ben paused to sip his drink. “Elmer, I assume, belonged to various civic clubs around town?”

“Yes,” I replied, growing impatient for Ben to get to the meat of his story. “He was a former Kiwanis president and chaired the roadside litter cleanup for Rotary. Elmer also belonged to the Chamber of Commerce.”

“Okay, then we can assume Elmer wasn’t home on the evenings that Gloria overheard the conversations between Polly Nystrom and her son, Carter.”

“Conversations?” I stared at Ben. “A plot to kill Elmer?”

“No, no.” Ben laughed again, though not with his usual gusto. “Polly and Carter talked like lovers.”

“Oh, ick!” I shrieked. “What kind of aberration is that?”

Ben looked bemused. “I guess you’re still a little naïve, Sluggly. There isn’t much I haven’t heard since I became a priest. People are damned odd. Inventive, too. They can think of more ways to sin than the old prophets ever dreamed of.”

I shook my head. “It still sounds gross.”

“Don’t get me wrong—Gloria never suggested that there was anything more than talk,” Ben explained. “In fact, she figured that Carter was either in the bathroom or his bedroom while his mother was in the other bedroom. He always called her Polly, not Mama or Mom or whatever. He’d say things like ‘How’s my best sweetheart tonight?’ and ‘Don’t ever be jealous—you’re the only girl in the world for me’ and ‘Is my true love looking as pretty as ever in the frilly pink bed jacket her devoted Carter gave her?’”

“Ick times ten,” I said, making a face. “Do sons talk to their mothers like that?”

Ben shrugged. “I didn’t. Our mother would’ve whacked me with her infamous wooden cooking spoon. But maybe some do utter endearments that sound a little off. Still, this stuff seems too far out to not exhibit some kind of obsession or kink.”

“Was Gloria shocked?” I inquired.

“No.” Ben smiled. “She’s eighteen. Kids these days are pretty worldly. She just thought it was really weird. Mrs. Della Croce didn’t think there was anything sexual, just this St. Valentine card stuff, ballad lyrics kind of thing. It was harder for Gloria to hear Polly, but apparently she’d simper and egg him on.”

“It’s peculiar,” I said.

Ben drained his drink. “Of course it may have nothing to do with Elmer’s murder.”

“Maybe not.” On the other hand, it might have everything to do with it. “Has Gloria written about this for her English class?”

“No. She sounds pretty smart. She decided that while it might have been unusual behavior—I’m using Kelly’s interpretation of what her mother said—it wasn’t really something that helped her mature. But it worried Mrs. Della Croce, who was more shocked than her daughter. Mother frets over daughter’s moral corruption—or something like that. The Della Croces might try going to Mass more often instead of fussing about what the next-door neighbors are doing.”

“Except,” I said softly, “that the neighbors—or one of them—got murdered.”

“I leave the sleuthing to you,” Ben responded. “My report may be worthless.”

“Maybe,” I allowed. “I suppose I should tell Vida. Even if Milo wasn’t sick, he’d consider Gloria’s eavesdropping as salacious gossip, not evidence.”

“Do what you will,” Ben said with a shrug. “I know you won’t put it on the local grapevine.”

That was true, even if I told Vida. She could, when necessary, keep things under her bizarre collection of hats. With my thoughts turning to both the sheriff and my House & Home editor, I told Ben about my concerns for them. He shrugged off Milo’s health problems.

“There’s nothing you can do about that,” my brother said. “Milo may have to change his lifestyle. Or it might be a virus.”

“Let’s hope so,” I said, still fretting.

“Vida’s another matter,” Ben remarked. He’d refilled our glasses with Pepsi and fresh ice. Neither of us wanted any more liquor. “I’m a little surprised,” he went on. “I thought she enjoyed her independence.”

“So did I. But Vida’s a very private person. Ernest has been gone for almost thirty years. The three daughters left home to get married not too long after that. Only Amy still lives in Alpine. Vida’s in her seventies. I hope she never retires. I can’t imagine the
Advocate
without her.”

“Or Alpine,” Ben remarked. He grinned at me. “The
Advocate
’s a bigamist. You both seem married to it.”

“It’s different,” I said in a serious voice. “To Vida, the
Advocate
and Alpine are one and the same. For me, they’re separate entities. I love the paper and my work, but the town…well, I still feel a bit like an outsider. That comes from not being born here.”

Before Ben could say anything, the phone rang. I practically fell all over myself reaching for the receiver on the end table. Instead of saying “Hello,” I barked “Yes?” and steeled myself for the worst.

“Emma?”

“Yes.” I tempered my tone but still must have sounded impatient. “Who’s this?”

“Scott,” my reporter replied. “Are you okay?”

“Oh!” I fell back against the sofa. “Yes. I was expecting a call about Milo. He’s in the hospital again.”

“No kidding,” Scott said in surprise. “I mean…well, you know what I mean. What happened?”

Briefly, I explained the circumstances. After Scott had made the appropriate commiserating comments, I asked why he’d phoned.

“I met up with Coach Ridley after work,” Scott said. “I tried to call you when I got home around seven, but you didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message because Tammy and I had to go grocery shopping.”

I scribbled Scott’s name on a notepad to show Ben who had called. He nodded and got up to wander around the living room. “And?” I prompted Scott.

“Brad Nordby and Brianna Phelps had been dating off and on for a year,” Scott said. “But they broke up just after Thanksgiving. Then she found out she was pregnant. The Reverend Phelps insists that his daughter and Brad get married ASAP. The Nordbys are dead set against it because Brad has a chance at a track scholarship to Seattle Pacific University.”

“A Methodist school,” I remarked. “Not good for the minister’s son-in-law to show up with a pregnant bride in tow. When’s the baby due?”

“Uh…I don’t know.”

Men. “Late spring, early summer,” I guessed out loud. “But it’s still a problem for Phelps’s image around here. Did Ridley say anything about Elmer giving Brad fatherly advice?”

“A little. Just that Elmer seemed to take it upon himself to lecture kids on safety and taking care of their vehicles. Coach thought that he’d probably chewed out Brad about Brianna and how he should do the right thing. Like ‘Be a man and marry the girl.’”

“That’s not much of a motive for murder,” I said.

“Coach told me Brad had quite a temper.”

Quick tempers can lead to violence, but it’s usually spontaneous. Brad would have been more likely to throttle Elmer during a lecture on good behavior. I couldn’t see him biding his time and hiding out in a henhouse at seven in the morning.

“I guess,” I said to Scott, but also for Ben’s benefit, “we can rule out Brad Nordby as a suspect. Rip Ridley didn’t think that Elmer and Brad had more than words, right?”

“Coach had some words of his own for Brad,” Scott replied. “He’s threatening him with suspension from the track team. That’d mean goodbye scholarship.”

“I’d say Brad’s in a pickle. Thanks, Scott. You’ve done well.”

“Glad to help,” my reporter said, sounding pleased. “I’ve been thinking. How about an editorial promoting vehicle safety in SkyCo and offering an annual award in Elmer’s name? He was really hard-nosed on the subject. Elmer didn’t lecture only teenagers. According to Coach, he came down hard—well, as hard as it went with Elmer—on everybody.”

“That’s a good idea,” I said. “We’ll have to figure out how a winner would qualify. Maybe AAA or the state safety council can help. But we should check with Polly and Carter first. We can do that after the funeral.”

Assuming
, I thought sadly,
that the wife and the son would care about Elmer’s memory
.

Jack Mullins finally called a little after ten. There was no real news on Milo. He was feeling better, but despite his protests, Dr. Sung was holding firm on keeping the sheriff overnight. Jack was going back on patrol, waiting for the inevitable accident along the Highway 2 corridor.

Ben went back to the rectory a few minutes after I’d hung up. I tried not to think about my brother being on the road to Michigan in less than twenty-four hours. I also tried not to think about Milo or Vida. I failed miserably and spent a restless night.

The next morning Vida was dressed in her funeral garb, which included a broad-brimmed black hat with precariously dangling jet poodles. “You’re not coming?” she said, noticing my emerald-green sweater and dark green slacks.

I shook my head. “You’re a keen observer. I didn’t know the family at all. Just give me a full report.”

“Of course.” Vida looked surprised that I’d bother to make such a request. “I’m leaving early so I can stop by the hospital and see how Milo’s doing. Or have you called this morning?”

I shook my head again. “I haven’t had time. It’s only five after eight. Sit. I’ve got something to tell you.”

It took me only a couple of minutes to relate the Gloria Della Croce eavesdropping story. Vida made a face but otherwise showed no overt amazement.

“Such silliness,” she declared. “An unnatural attachment, of course. But perhaps harmless. The question is why. Is Polly so deprived of spousal affection from Elmer that she seeks it from their son? Or is Carter unable to commit to a woman in his peer group and thus transfers his romantic notions to his mother? I’m not a great believer in psychiatrists, but I do think a good shake is often in order.”

“I’m not sure that’d work,” I said. “I wonder how long this has been going on.”

“Well…” Vida considered it, tilting her head to one side and fingering her chin. The black hat’s poodles danced in my drafty cubbyhole. “Carter’s been back in Alpine for two years. Anna Maria’s daughter might have heard similar exchanges the previous summer, but being a teenager, she paid no attention. So self-absorbed at that age. But this past summer, she was more grown up.” Vida shrugged. “Who can say?”