The Alpine Recluse Part 23

"Right."

"A hermit with a cell phone?"

"Why not? He's also a businessman."

"Jesus."

"He's trying to earn a living," I contended. "Not that he's in it for the money. Donna says his prices are far under market value, considering his talent."

"Good for him." There was, however, a note of resignation in Milo's voice. "We've been looking for him, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. The guy's elusive as h.e.l.l, like all those other hermits. He doesn't want to be found."

"But you could get his cell number."

"And then what? Call and say, 'Hi, Nature Boy Artist, this is the sheriff. How about a sit-down at my office?' Gimme a break."

"You're smarter than that," I said.

"He won't come," Milo replied doggedly, "and we won't be able to find him. Even," he added grudgingly, "if you're right."

"Then you'll have to set a trap," I said.

"Oh, there's a good idea," the sheriff said sarcastically. "Ever hear of entrapment?"

"Not like that," I argued. "Something to do with his art. Maybe we can talk Donna into doing it once you have his cell number. He's underpricing his work. She could play on his vanity, tell him that he has to come in to discuss prices with her, because money talks. She could say how he'll never be recognized as a serious or important artist unless he triples his market value."

"Think Donna could handle that?" Milo sounded skeptical.

"She's a surprisingly astute businesswoman," I replied.

"It sounds more like a job for you."

"Well-I'd do it if I had to," I allowed. "But he knows Donna-in an Internet kind of way. He must trust her."

"That'd break the trust," Milo pointed out.

"Maybe not. It would depend on how it was handled."

Milo still didn't sound convinced. "Why couldn't they discuss that stuff on the phone or the Internet, like they always do?"

"Because she'd want to show him things," I said a bit vaguely. "Catalogs from other artists. Comparative prices. Comments from art buyers. Whatever. It has to be visual. Donna could do this. She knows how to handle patrons. I can vouch for that. And she certainly has a knack for dealing with other artists and craftsmen. Besides, it's in her interest. She gets a hefty commission. I'm guessing, but I think I've heard that gallery owners receive anywhere from thirty to fifty percent of the sales."

"This all sounds pretty wacky to me," Milo said glumly. "I'll bet you fifty bucks that even if you can pull this off, it won't help solve the homicide."

"You're on," I said, although I didn't blame the sheriff for being dubious. "You make the call to the bank. I'll take care of Donna."

"I still think it's dumb."

I didn't argue. But as I hung up the phone, I smiled.

DONNA WAS ABOUT to close up shop when I arrived at exactly six o'clock.

"You decided you had to have the Laurentis now?" she asked with a smile of surprise.

I offered her a regretful expression. "I'm sorry to keep disappointing you, but unless I win the lottery, it'll have to wait until next month. Actually, I'm doing some weekend work. I want to write an article about Craig Laurentis. I checked him out on the Internet, and it's obvious that many of his paintings have been done in Skykomish County."

"I believe that's true," Donna said, though her smile had been replaced by a slight frown. "I have to say that I doubt he'd be open to publicity. He's an intensely private person."

"I realize that," I said. "I understand creative types. Many reveal themselves only in their art or writing or whatever it is that they create. But from what I can tell-and from what you told me-Craig is undervaluing his work to the point that he's practically giving it away. That discredits his talent. It almost equates him with people who sell their paintings at shopping malls."

"Please! You're talking about one step beyond paint-by-numbers," Donna declared fervently. "Craig's very close to being a genius when it comes to his genre."

"I know," I agreed. "That's why it's so unfair to him. Not to mention," I added, "that it also cheats gallery owners."

A spark glittered in Donna's eyes. I had the feeling she'd give up her day care business in a wink if she could improve art sales profits. For all I knew, some of her other artists were also lowballing their work.

"It's true," she admitted. "I could sell a Laurentis like Sky Autumn for two thousand dollars. Still, I doubt that he'd talk to you."

"But he'd probably agree to meet with you," I pointed out.

Donna remained doubtful. "I think he'd insist on using the Internet. Besides, I don't have a phone number for him."

"That can be arranged," I said cryptically. "Anyway, I wouldn't have to conduct a face-to-face interview." Like h.e.l.l, I wouldn't. But Donna didn't need to know that yet. "I could give you some questions, and you could describe him as a person. The story has to have some personal touches."

"Well . . . I can see that." Donna's eyes roamed around the gallery. Maybe she was trying to calculate how much she could b.u.mp up the prices on her other artwork. "When should I call Craig?"

"I'll have the number Monday," I replied. Milo might need reminding. In any event, he wouldn't try to get hold of the bank manager in Monroe until after the weekend. "Thanks, Donna. I really appreciate your help. And I hope it benefits you, too."

Donna, however, still looked uncertain.

THE OLD SONG claims that Sat.u.r.day night is the loneliest night of the week. Certainly this Sat.u.r.day in August was just that for me. I spent the evening watching the Mariners, and even though they won, my spirits didn't lift much. Maybe I should have asked Milo to join me. But the truth was that I was afraid I might seek consolation in his arms, which wouldn't have been fair to either of us-or to Rolf.

At least Father Kelly showed Christian mercy by keeping his homily short Sunday morning. St. Mildred's is a small wooden church with poor ventilation. Indeed, it had been built when winters were colder and longer. The architectural premise-I a.s.sumed there had been one-was to keep the heat inside the church and the fresh air out where it belonged. I suspected everyone was perspiring. Certainly Ed Bronsky looked like a greased pig. I felt like one.

But there was no escaping Ed and Shirley and their brood after Ma.s.s. The entire clan confronted me at the bottom of the church steps.

"I need help," Ed declared, wiping his brow with a soiled napkin from McDonald's. "This bond issue deal for the Mr. Pig theme park is darned complicated. Can you write some kind of think piece on the editorial page about it?"

That meant the thinking would all have to be done by me. "Ed," I replied, trying to remain calm if not cool, "that's not something I know much about, either. You need to talk to a lawyer." I pointed toward Marisa Foxx, who was heading toward her dark green Saab in the parking lot. "Marisa can steer you in the right direction. She's the parish attorney, after all."

Ed shuddered. "You know what attorneys charge. Hundreds of dollars an hour just to sit and think about stuff. Gosh, Emma, you've had to research bond issues and referendums and all that legal gibberish for your election editorials. You must know quite a bit."

Flattery-if that's what it was-would get Ed nowhere, especially on an overly warm August morning. I shook my head. Can't. Won't. Would prefer going to guillotine than help Ed with his stupid bond issue.

"This is something so special for the two of you," I said, glancing at Shirley. "For the whole family, in fact. Now that your kids are older, they should join in with the project. After all, some day the Mr. Pig theme park will be part of their heritage."

Shirley nudged Ed. "Emma's right, honey. You're building something for the ages."

Ed scratched a mosquito bite on his bald spot. "When you put it like that . . ." He turned to his children, who were looking as if they wanted to be someplace else. "Joey," he said to his teenage son, "you're a computer whiz. See what you can find out on the Internet." His gaze shifted to Molly, who was attending Skykomish Community College. "Aren't you signed up for political science this fall?"

"Economics, Dad," Molly replied.

Ed shrugged. "Same thing. Sort of. Anyway, somebody at the college must teach political science. Talk to whoever it is."

Even Ed could sense the lack of enthusiasm on all five of his children's plump faces. "Hey, hey, you guys-don't worry. I'll do my share. I'll take a meeting with the mayor. Fuzzy must know how to work this."

"Don't forget the county commissioners," Shirley put in.

Ed looked as if he'd like to, but nodded. "I already talked to them. You know what happened at the last meeting. They don't get it. Progress stopped for them around 1975."

Ed had a point there. "Once you put everything together for them," I said, edging away from the group, "the county commissioners will probably approve the idea. Besides, you have such a gift for selling things." How could I lie so blatantly after I'd just been to church? Ed had been a terrible salesman, frequently convincing merchants that n.o.body read newspaper ads, except maybe for the grocery specials.

"You're darned tootin'," Ed responded, moving his fists as if he were in a sparring match. "I can do that."

"Great," I said with what I hoped pa.s.sed for a genuine smile. "I'd better get out of this sun. It's making me cross-eyed."

I headed not for home, but to the Bourgettes' diner. I'd slept just late enough that I'd had no time to make breakfast, and the idea of turning on the stove-or even the toaster-hadn't appealed to me in my muggy kitchen.

The diner wasn't air-conditioned, but ceiling fans that actually worked were part of its 1950s decor. The restaurant was reasonably cool. But it was also crowded, apparently with the rest of the churchgoing residents. I could tell that they were mostly Protestants because they were wearing their Sunday best, unlike Catholics, who seem to dress as if Saint Vincent de Paul himself had handed out their wardrobes.

Terri Bourgette, who served as hostess for her brothers' enterprise, greeted me with a frazzled smile. "I'm sorry, Emma," she said, "but there's a twenty-five-minute wait, even for the counter. Everybody seems to want to eat breakfast out this Sunday."

"That's okay," I said. "I'll wait. It's cool in here."

I joined the dozen or more patrons who were crammed into the area by the door. The oldsters had managed to find seats on a couple of red vinyl couches. I nodded at some Gustavsons; said h.e.l.lo to my dentist, Dr. Starr, who was with his wife, Carrie; and smiled at a couple of faculty members I recognized from the college. I was trying to find a spare bit of wall so that I could lean when I spotted Beth Rafferty standing at Terri's podium. Beth and Terri were speaking in a serious manner. I couldn't help but watch them. And then I stared. Beth and Terri were both looking at me.

Terri came from around the podium. "Emma?" she called, beckoning with a finger.

I advanced toward Terri, smiling at Beth en route. "What is it?"

Terri lowered her voice. "Beth invited Tiffany to breakfast but she hasn't shown up. Beth's been waiting for half an hour. I couldn't seat her until Tiffany got here. There's a booth for two free now. Would you like to join Beth? She says it'd be okay with her."

"I'd love to," I said, giving Terri and Beth big smiles.

They both thanked me. Terri led us to the section that was decorated with photos of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis in their comic duo heyday. I was suddenly so hungry that I wouldn't have cared if there'd been pictures of Ivan the Terrible and Attila the Hun.

"I appreciate this," I said after Beth and I were seated. "I have no appet.i.te unless the temperature is under seventy-five degrees. Those big fans really help."

Beth glanced up at the ceiling. "Yes," she said in a vague voice. "They move the air around."

An awkward pause ensued. Beth seemed as ill at ease at breakfast in the diner as she'd been at dinner in the ski lodge. Once again, she appeared to be studying the menu, but didn't really appear to focus.

"Is Tiffany feeling ill?" I finally asked.

"I've no idea," Beth replied, putting the menu back behind the chrome napkin holder. "I tried to call her at the Erikses' house, but n.o.body answered. We made the date for ten-thirty. It's twenty after eleven now. I thought about driving over to her parents' house, but I was afraid we'd cross paths and lose our place in line for a table." Beth made a face. "That's typical. Tiff really isn't reliable."

"Or considerate," I noted, and promptly apologized. "Sorry. I realize she's going through a horrible time."

Beth's expression was skeptical. "Is she? Tiff never has been somebody who thinks much about other people. I've been pretty inconsiderate myself, walking out on you at dinner the other night. The least I can do is treat you to breakfast."

"No need," I a.s.serted.

Our waitress was not one of the typical blondes who worked as servers in the Alpine restaurant business, but a rail-thin brunette, possibly another Bourgette. I ordered pancakes, ham, and eggs, my standard fare when I ate breakfast out. Beth took some time to think over her decision, but didn't refer back to the menu.

"I'll have the mushroom omelet," she finally said. "No hash browns, white toast, and just two eggs, please. There's no point in breaking more than you have to. I couldn't eat it all."

The waitress, who had identified herself as Clare, a.s.sured Beth that would be no trouble and that she wouldn't charge her for the three-egg omelet on the menu. After filling our heavy white mugs with coffee, Clare hurried away.

"My plan," Beth said, "was to go from here with Tiff to visit my mother. I suppose it's silly, but I thought if Mom saw Tiff pregnant, she might understand that there's a baby on the way. I don't think Mom realizes that, especially since Tiff's only beginning to show now."

"It can't hurt," I allowed.

Another uncomfortable silence arose. "Beth," I said, leaning forward, "how well did Tim and Tiffany really get along? I have to be frank; I've heard some rumors."

Poor Beth, I thought. She looked so tired. Her usually flawless skin was reddened from the sun, and the dark circles under her eyes made a stark contrast. She seemed to have aged overnight.

"I think," she said slowly, "that Tiff was hard to get along with after she got pregnant. She should've been happy, but I guess all those hormonal changes can alter a woman's personality. These last few months were hard on Tim." Beth turned away, staring at one of the Martin and Lewis photos. Judging from her miserable expression, she found nothing funny in their staged antics.

"Tim always seemed to be the one in charge," I remarked.

"Yes." Beth turned back to me. "He was very protective. My brother was basically a good guy. He had his faults, but there was never a mean streak in him. That was lucky, in a way. I mean . . ." She made an unhappy face. "Our dad drank. I think I told you that. It wasn't all the time, usually paydays, but when he'd come home, he'd be ornery. More than ornery. He-"

Beth stopped as Clare delivered our orders. "Violent?" I said after Clare had left us.

"Yes." Beth sighed heavily. "He'd beat Mom, and sometimes go after Tim and me. That's when Mom would step in. She's tougher than you might think. Or at least she was back then. The next day Dad would be full of remorse, swearing he'd never do it again. He'd even cry. But it was a cycle he couldn't seem to break. The worst of it was, neither Mom or Dad would consider counseling. They were too embarra.s.sed." Beth hadn't even looked at her food and seemed on the verge of tears. "Oh, Emma, why am I telling you all this?"

"Because you've probably kept it all bottled up inside, simmering until you must be ready to boil over," I said, looking sympathetic despite slathering b.u.t.ter on my pancakes and putting salt and pepper on my egg. "Besides, you know I can keep a confidence. It's part of my job."

She sighed again, but this time the sound was more like relief. "Yes. That's true. Anyway, Tim wasn't like some children who grow up with an abusive parent and believe that's how a relationship should be. Or whatever they think. And of course I never let my own anger get out of control, even when I was married and things fell apart."

"You learned that violence doesn't solve problems," I said. "It only creates more. Unfortunately, some victims don't understand that. They think it's acceptable behavior because that's the way they were brought up."

"I know," Beth replied. "How many 911 calls do I get in a week involving domestic violence? Maybe a half-dozen, even in a town like Alpine." She grimaced and shook her head.

Even as I stuffed my face with ham and pancakes I wondered if Beth was thinking about the call from Ione Erdahl that had never been logged. I was trying to figure out how to tactfully approach the subject when my cell phone rang.

"d.a.m.n," I said softly. "I hate it when people answer phones in restaurants. I think I'll let it ring."

But I couldn't. It might be Adam, wrestling with a bear. Or Ben, in a car accident in Milwaukee.

It was the sheriff. "Emma?" he all but shouted, since the reception inside the diner was poor. "That you?"

"Yes." I tried to keep my voice down. "What is it?"

"I'm giving you a heads-up," he said over the buzz and hum of the phone. "We just arrested Wayne Eriks for Tim's homicide."