The Alpine Recluse Part 18

I nodded. "I'd better be going. By the way, you haven't had any more thoughts about Tim and Tiffany, have you?"

She shook her head. "Frankly, I try not to think about them."

"I don't blame you."

"Tiffany's lucky she didn't lose the baby," Donna said. "That happened to me when Art was killed. Of course, I was only six weeks along, but his death triggered the miscarriage. Or so I've always felt."

I hadn't known that. "I'm sorry," I said, realizing that Donna and Tiffany had more in common than I realized. Both had been widowed young, and their husbands had died violently. "Tiffany seems to be holding up pretty well, all things considered."

"Maybe she's tougher than she looks." Donna's expression was enigmatic. "Let me know if you want the painting. The best time to call me at home is early afternoon. Most of my charges take naps then."

I thanked her and said we'd be in touch.

But I could hardly take my eyes off of Sky Autumn. In my mind, it followed me out of the Alpine Building. It seemed to speak to me.

It would take me some time to find out what the painting was trying to say.

THIRTEEN.

I JUST HAD time to go home and change into something that didn't reek of perspiration. By the time I got to the ski lodge it was ten after six. Beth Rafferty hadn't arrived yet, but the hostess who had replaced Heather Bardeen Bavich showed me to a corner table.

The Norse G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses who stood guard over the dining room looked blessedly cool. As I waited, I kept thinking about Sky Autumn. I could hardly do much else, given that the ski lodge's decor is forest and streams and waterfalls. Maybe the painting was meant for me. Or, possibly having lost a lover, I wanted to replace him with a live-in extravagance that didn't require care and coddling. It would be better, I supposed, than changing my hair color as many women seem to do when they break up with the man in their lives.

Beth appeared, looking tired and hot. Her blond hair clung damply to her fair skin.

"I should've changed," she said, allowing the hostess to seat her. "But then I'd have been late. It was awfully nice of you to invite me."

I shrugged. "I felt remiss about not talking to you this morning."

Beth smiled grimly. "Better to talk where liquor's available. Unlike you Catholics, the Lutherans don't allow alcohol on church premises."

"I've never understood that," I admitted. "Jesus's first miracle was changing water into wine at his mother's urging. I a.s.sume Mary wanted to see the good times roll. It was a wedding, probably family, and she didn't want the host to look cheap. It was a small town; think how people would carp and criticize." A small town like Alpine-where even now Beth and I were attracting covert glances. Sister of murder victim dining with newspaper editor. What can it mean?

Beth looked pensive. "Goodness, I never thought about the Bible story that way. In fact, I guess I've never thought about it much at all."

I smiled. "Father Kelly is very bright, but that's part of the problem. His sermons tend to be intellectual exercises. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was a Jesuit. In any event, sometimes I drift during his homilies. That's when I mull over the readings."

"Our parents never took us to church," Beth said. "At least, not very often. Christmas and Easter, sometimes. We'd go to whichever church had the best choir."

"That probably wasn't St. Mildred's," I replied dryly. "We've never attracted very good singers, and only recently have we had an organist who can play well."

Our waitress, Becky Erdahl, came to take our orders. Beth requested a gin and tonic; I asked for a margarita. Scandinavian restaurant or not, it was summer, and a margarita sounded cool.

"I'm so sorry about your brother," Becky said in a low voice. "He was here for dinner just last week."

Beth looked surprised. "He was? I didn't think Tim and Tiff ate out that often."

Becky is the daughter of Ione Erdahl, who owns the local children's store and had been the unfortunate victim of Alfred Cobb's crash landing in her lap at the library. "Tiff wasn't with Tim," Becky said. "He came with his father-in-law."

Beth looked puzzled. "With Wayne Eriks?"

"Yes, Tiff's dad." Becky suddenly seemed uncomfortable. "I'd better get your drink orders in. The bar is beginning to get busy." She hurried away.

I waited for Beth to say something, but she was studying the specials on the menu. "Were Tim and Wayne close?" I finally asked in what I hoped was a casual voice.

Beth put the menu aside. "No," she said frankly. "They never bonded, not even after all the years that Tim and Tiff were together. I suppose it was because Wayne was old-fashioned and didn't believe in couples living together without a marriage license." She laughed scornfully. "I couldn't wait to get married-and after six months, I wished I had. I was too young, so was my ex. We'd have been better off living together to find out we couldn't really stand each other."

"So you find it odd that Tim and Wayne had dinner together?"

"Oh . . ." Beth's gaze roamed around the dining room's beamed ceiling. "I guess not. Maybe Wayne decided it was time to give Tim some fatherly advice about raising kids."

Her face seemed to shut down. I decided to change the subject. "How is your mother?" I inquired.

"Pitiful," Beth answered. "She used to be so s.p.u.n.ky. She's tiny, you know, but she had to be tough to stand up to Dad. He could give her a bad time when he'd had a few too many." She shook her head. "That's the flip side of putting pottery bowls on your head, I guess."

"That's true," I agreed. "Drinking isn't funny when people overdo it."

"The Irish, you know," she said with an ironic expression.

"It's a cliche, of course." Tom Cavanaugh hadn't been a big drinker. "Tim wasn't a big boozer, was he?"

Beth frowned. By coincidence, our own c.o.c.ktails arrived. Beth waited to answer until Becky was out of earshot. "He drank more than he should have. Being in the bartending business causes that, I think." She tapped her gla.s.s. "I keep to one drink, just enough to take off the edge."

I raised my gla.s.s. "To Tim."

"Tim," Beth echoed, a hint of tears in the single syllable. We tapped gla.s.ses. "He wasn't an alcoholic. Don't get me wrong. Maybe I overreact because our dad went on the occasional bender."

"Sometimes alcoholism is hereditary," I remarked. "That is," I added hastily, "I'm not saying your father was . . ."

Beth waved a hand. "I know what you mean. But Dad only drank on paydays. Unfortunately."

"How's Tiffany? She seemed to be making it through the funeral."

"Oh, yes." Beth sighed. "Maybe it hasn't hit her yet. That's just as well."

"She's very wrapped up in the baby," I noted.

Beth sipped her drink. "Isn't she, though? I've never had children, so I don't know how you're supposed to act."

"Everyone is different." I'd not only been sick as a dog, but frantic. If Ben hadn't insisted I join him down on the Mississippi Delta, I don't know what I would have done. Except, of course, that I'd have done whatever it took. I supposed that Tiffany would do the same. "I hope she hadn't bought a lot of expensive baby things."

"A few," Beth said. "She was waiting for the showers. I think she'd gotten a crib and a stroller and some newborn clothes. Luckily she stored them at her parents' house."

"That was lucky," I agreed. "How come?"

Beth shrugged. "I guess she didn't have room until she put the nursery together. Tiff's not terribly organized. Of course, she has plenty of time."

"Yes." I didn't say anything for a few moments. Beth again studied the menu. Something was wrong about her, but I couldn't put my finger on it. Finally, the word came to mind: dispa.s.sionate. I was sure that she was mourning for Tim. Yet when I thought about how I'd feel if something had happened to Ben, I'd be a wreck. I certainly wouldn't be going out to dinner with a mere acquaintance the evening after his funeral. I probably wouldn't even go out with a close friend.

It occurred to me that maybe Beth didn't have friends. So many people don't. I could count but three-Vida, Milo, and my old buddy from the Oregonian, Mavis, who still lived in Portland. Perhaps Beth was looking for a friend. Perhaps that's why she was here, sitting across the table from me, scanning the menu, but-I decided-not actually reading it. Most would-be diners made comments: "Oh, good, fresh halibut" or "What's with this white salmon?" Beth said nothing.

"The sheriff's office has been undergoing some changes lately," I remarked. "That must be kind of hard."

Beth eyed me curiously. "You mean the addition of Doe Jameson?"

"Well-yes. Sometimes men-especially macho types like the deputies-aren't keen on working with a woman."

Beth gave a little shake of her head. "Dwight complains about everybody and everything. But even he hasn't criticized Doe much since she started working. I think she's fitting in quite well. She's a real no-nonsense type. If I wanted someone covering my back, I wouldn't hesitate having her do it."

"That's good to know," I said, traveling a circuitous route to my destination. "I guess it was Toni who was having some problems."

Beth smiled wryly. "Toni's used to being the office princess. The approval of men is very important to her. She doesn't like the compet.i.tion. Not that Toni and Doe are at all alike. To be honest, I don't get mixed up in office politics. I stay in my little dungeon and keep away from all that. I have to keep focused."

I didn't respond. Having had to supervise interns occasionally on the Oregonian, I'd been forced to attend a workshop on managerial skills. One of the few I remembered regarded listening responses. Saying nothing at all was supposed to coerce the speaker into revealing more than he or she had intended.

It didn't seem to work. Beth announced she wasn't very hungry. That was hardly the revelation I'd hoped for. "I'll have the crab cakes on the starter menu and a small salad."

"I'll bet you haven't eaten much all day," I said. Indeed, neither had I, but my appet.i.te seemed to have returned. "You need to keep up your strength."

"I munched a bit at the reception," Beth said.

"You also worked this afternoon," I pointed out. "You've had a long, exhausting day."

"I'll be fine." Beth looked up as Becky approached again.

"Another round? Or would you like to order?" she asked. A pert blonde a few pounds overweight, Becky was typical of Alpine's younger waitresses, who all seemed to be fair-haired and of Scandinavian descent. I'd often wondered if those qualities were a job requirement at the local eateries.

"We can order," I said. "I'll have the smoked salmon platter and a Caesar salad on the side."

Beth made her request. Becky nodded, but instead of walking away, she leaned closer to Beth. "I meant to tell you, my mother feels bad about that call she made to you a week or so ago."

Beth looked puzzled. "What call?"

Becky blushed. "Maybe she didn't give her name. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned it. Never mind." Uttering an embarra.s.sed giggle, she hurried off.

"Ione Erdahl called 911?" I said.

Beth looked stony-faced. "I don't remember."

Ione lived on Fifth Street, between Fir and Spruce, just around the corner from Edna Mae Dalrymple. And a stone's throw from the Rafferty property in the cul-de-sac. I was convinced that Beth definitely remembered the call.

"I thought you had a memory like Vida's," I said lightly. "Milo told me once that you had just about everybody's address in Alpine memorized."

Beth didn't look at me. She removed the napkin from her lap and put it on the table. "I'm not feeling well. I'm sorry, Emma. I've got to go." She fumbled for her purse and began pushing back her chair.

"Beth!" I spoke sharply, but softly, aware that we were being watched by several of the other customers. "Let me help you."

Beth shook her head. "No. No, I don't need help." She scrambled to her feet and all but ran from the restaurant.

I swore under my breath. I could chase her, but that would cause a scene. Becky was at a nearby table, waiting on two of Vida's sisters-in-law, Mary Lou Blatt and Nell Blatt. Both women had married Vida's brothers and had been on poor terms with her for years. I didn't want to draw any further attention and create a gossip fest that inevitably would involve Vida. I waited until Becky had left their table.

Luckily, Becky saw me wave. "I'm afraid Beth suddenly became ill," I explained. "The strain, you know. Can you cancel her order and make mine to go?" Having been dumped by Rolf and now by Beth, I didn't feel like eating alone at a table for two.

Becky clenched her fists. "I knew it! I shouldn't have said anything about Mom calling 911! But I feel so bad about Tim, and Mom has been having a fit ever since he died!"

"Why is that?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

Becky struggled for composure. The couple at the next table-thankfully unknown to me-were discreetly gazing at us. "I can't say. Honest." Her plump features contorted with distress. "Ask Mom. G.o.d, she's going to be so mad at me!" She smoothed the skirt of her ap.r.o.n with its blue and white Norwegian snowflake pattern. "In fact, please don't say anything to her. It'll only make it worse."

"Wait, Becky," I said. "I don't understand."

But she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. Honest. Let me cancel Beth's order and get yours to go. Excuse me." She moved away almost as quickly as Beth had done.

Annoyed, I finished my drink and waited. Not patiently. Mary Lou and Nell had noticed me and were staring. I waved. They waved back. They must have noticed Beth's departure. Neither of them was as curious as Vida, but they were equally opinionated and strong-minded, which was why my House & Home editor had never gotten along with her sisters-in-law.

They had turned back to each other. I knew they were talking about me-and Beth. Not to mention Tim and Tiffany and her parents and the Parkers and whoever else was connected to the tragedy. No doubt everybody in the restaurant-except the out-of-towners-were also chattering about the homicide. I could sense the speculation clinging to the air, along with the Edvard Grieg sonata for cello and piano that played in the background.

I decided not to wait for Becky to deliver my meal and the bill. Beth's bill, too, I realized, though I'd only have to pay for her c.o.c.ktail. As soon as I reached the desk, Becky appeared, carrying a takeout box featuring a Viking ship motif.

"I can't tell you how bad I feel about upsetting Beth," Becky said in a low voice. "I ruined dinner for both of you. Never mind the bill. It's on the house."

"Nonsense," I declared, opening my handbag and taking out two twenty-dollar bills. "I insist," I said, pressing them into Becky's hand. "You can't blame yourself for Beth's behavior."

Reluctantly, she took the money. "Gee, Emma, that's really nice of you. That's more than enough. Don't you want change?"

I shook my head. The only change I wanted was to see some progress in finding out who killed Tim Rafferty. Still, I'd seen a big change come over Beth, and I wondered how it might help find a solution to her brother's murder.

EVEN THOUGH BECKY had asked me not to talk to her mother, I hadn't promised any such thing. Journalists can't make promises when they're on the trail of a hot story. I ventured out of the house at five to ten Sat.u.r.day morning, heading for kIds cOrNEr. Its quirky lettering, etched on oversize children's blocks, highlighted the owner's first name, Ione.

I parked in front of Francine's Fine Apparel, next door to kIds cOrNEr. Luckily, Ione had just opened the store and had no other customers. I wasn't going to bother with subterfuge.

"I'm out of line," I declared. "But I have to ask you a question."

Ione, who is as dark as her daughter is fair, frowned at me. "What kind of question?"

"You called 911 last week. Why?"

Ione seemed prepared. I guessed that Becky had confessed her indiscreet remark to Beth Rafferty. "I could say it's none of your business, Emma."

"Yes, you could," I replied. "You're not a fanciful person, Ione. If you called 911, it should be a matter of public record. Your call was never logged. Scott Chamoud checks the police log every workday. There was nothing listed for your neighborhood. I want to know why not."