The Alpine Legacy Page 5

  Sitting on the sofa with the .45 in my lap, I glanced up at the mantel, where the first few pieces of my Nativity set stood by the small wooden stable. In my concern over the meeting with Crystal, I'd forgotten to put out a figure for this sixth day of Advent. Anger, resentment, and growing hatred gnawed at the soul. Advent's gift of grace is ignored when the mind is focused on kicking butt. Setting the gun on the end table, I went to the coat closet where I kept the Holy Family. An angel was due next. Carefully, I removed the tissue and gazed at her graceful wings, white robe, and blonde hair.

  She reminded me of Crystal.

  I hung her from the roof of the stable and sat back down on the sofa with the Colt .45 by my side. My stomach felt queasy and my nerves were on edge. Even my soul seemed to hurt.

  The spirit of Advent still eluded me.

  Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I planned to Christmas-shop on Saturday. Another five inches of snow had fallen during the night, but a westerly wind from the Puget Sound basin was dispersing the heavy gray clouds, and the sun was trying to peek through.

  The gold tinsel wrapped around the lampposts in the mall parking lot and the jolly Santa cutout at the entrance didn't do much to put me in a holiday mood. Inside the mall, which contains only about twenty stores, I perceived that the other customers looked glum, if determined. Cranky children tried to escape their parents' protective grasp. Tight-lipped couples kept their eyes straight ahead, as if they'd never seen each other before in their lives. Even the elves in the window at Barton's Bootery looked as if they were about to threaten a walkout and join the Teamsters.

  Nor did I find much to cheer me inside the stores. The sweater I chose for Ben at Alpine Menswear was sold out in his size; the tennis shoes at Tonga Sport that Adam would have liked cost almost twice as much as I wanted to spend; the blouse I thought would suit Vida at Sky Separates bore a lipstick smudge from a careless customer. Frustrated, I decided to move on to the Front Street shops.

  Approaching the sheriff's office, I saw Father Dennis Kelly's Honda parked out front in one of the official-county-business slots. Milo's new red Grand Cherokee was also there, which was unusual for a Saturday. Wondering if the church or the rectory had been broken into, I pulled in across the street.

  Neither Father Den nor the sheriff was anywhere in sight. Ron Bjornson, who had been hired the previous July as a sort of jack-of-all-trades, was at the phones behind the curving counter. Deputy Dustin Fong looked up from his computer and gave me a strained smile.

  “You heard?” he said in his soft, pleasant voice.

  I frowned. “Heard what?”

  Warily, Dustin glanced over his shoulder at the door that led to Milo's office. “Maybe I'd better let Sheriff Dodge tell you about it. He's still with Father Kelly.”

  “Has something happened to Father Den?” I asked in alarm.

  Dustin shook his head. He is a young, earnest Asian-American whose city background hadn't prepared him for small-town prejudices. In the two years since he'd been hired, Dustin had slowly managed to adjust. So had most of the local residents, though occasionally some ignorant old duffer would refer to him as “that Chinaman.”

  “No,” Dustin replied in his cautious manner, “Father Kelly's fine. That is…well, can you wait a few minutes?”

  “Of course.” I nodded to Ron Bjornson, who had just gotten off the telephone, then turned back to Dustin. “Can you at least tell me if the church was broken into or vandalized?”

  Dustin shook his head. “No, it doesn't have anything to do with the church.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Honest, it shouldn't be long. Sheriff Dodge and Father Kelly have been in there at least twenty minutes.”

  I glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was almost noon. With a smile for Dustin, I sat down in one of the half-dozen chairs that were lined up against the wall across from the counter. Having nothing better to do, I wondered about Milo's call to Crystal Bird.

  Ever since hearing his voice on Crystal's phone, I'd purposely put the idea of a social call out of my mind. Certainly Milo wasn't friendly with Crystal. If he had been, I would've gotten some sort of hint in his attitude toward her. It was more likely that in his slow, deliberate manner, he'd finally gotten angry about her allusion to our affair. That made sense, and it was easy to believe.

  From my side of the counter, it sounded as if Ron was taking information about a fender bender on Highway 187 near the Icicle Creek Bridge. Two men, one of whom I recognized as Ellsworth Overholt, presented Dustin with a noisy dispute about a cow that couldn't read a NO TRESPASSING sign. I scribbled some notes on both incidents. Scott Chamoud would get the details when he checked the log Monday morning.

  At last, Milo and Father Den appeared. They both looked so grave that my heart skipped a beat.

  “Emma!” Milo said in surprise. “You got my message?”

  I stood up. “No. What's happened?”

  “Come on in.” The sheriff gestured toward his open door, then shook hands with Dennis Kelly. “Thanks, Father. We'll be in touch.”

  My pastor and I exchanged anxious smiles as we passed through the swinging door of the counter, going our separate ways. Then I was in Milo's office, which smelled of cigarettes and bad coffee.

  “I left three messages this morning,” Milo said, easing his lanky form into a swivel armchair. “You must've taken off early.”

  “Before ten,” I said in a taut voice. “Spare me the conversation. What's going on?”

  He picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights and shook one out onto the desk. “Where were you last night?”

  I didn't like the sharp edge in his usually laconic voice. “I was … You know where I was. I answered the phone when you called Crystal Bird.”

  “That was a few minutes before eight,” he said, still in that same official tone. “What did you do after you handed the phone to Crystal?”

  “I left. Immediately. I was back home by eight-twenty.” Little warning bells were going off in my head. “Has something happened to Crystal?” Given the questions and Milo's attitude, it seemed a logical assumption.

  “What happened while you were there?” The sheriff's hazel eyes were very steady as he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

  “We talked,” I replied, feeling the tension build inside me. “Paula Rubens had arranged a meeting between us. It was set for seven-thirty. I might have been five minutes late. The road into Crystal's cabin is tricky, especially in snow.”

  “What did you talk about?” Milo appeared to have forgotten how to blink.

  “Her attitude toward me,” I replied. “Why she was so vicious. What we could do to make things better.”

  “Did you quarrel?”

  “No. We argued, but only briefly.”

  “Then what?”

  “We compromised.”

  “What kind of a mood was she in?”

  “Acerbic, which I assume is standard.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Look, Milo, you tell me what this is all about or I won't answer another damned question.” For emphasis, I slammed my hand down on the desk.

  Leaning back in his chair, Milo kept his eyes on my face. “Dennis Kelly called on Crystal this morning. He felt that one of the religious leaders should explain the local churches' position on the shelter and what was being done. Father Den knocked, but no one came to the door, though her sport utility vehicle was parked outside. He went around to what he assumed was the back door. As you know, it leads off the deck.” Milo, who is not given to lengthy speeches, paused for breath. “He found Crystal in the hot tub. Her wrists had been slashed and she was dead.”

  UNTIL AN AUTOPSY had been performed, Doc Dewey, who also serves as the country coroner, was ruling Crystal's death a suicide. “You're sure Crystal didn't seem upset?” Milo persisted after I'd recovered from the shock of his news.

  I summoned up the nerve to glare at him. “You should know. You talked to her after I left. How come, Milo?”

  Milo gave a sharp shake of hi
s head. “That doesn't matter.”

  “The hell it doesn't,” I shouted, then lowered my voice. “You had a conversation. How did she sound to you?”

  Grimacing, Milo finally looked off toward the opposite wall and his array of NRA posters. “Like she usually does. We didn't talk long.”

  My eyes narrowed. “It was a business call?”

  The grimace turned into a snarl. “You don't ask me questions, goddamn it. In fact, if you don't have any more information about Crystal, take a hike.”

  I practically jumped out of the chair. “The only thing I know is that you're a jerk and Crystal was a mean-minded bitch.”

  “Nice thing to say about the dead,” Milo growled.

  “Being dead doesn't improve her,” I retorted, then managed to trip over my handbag and fall sideways back into the chair. Several four-letter words spurted from my lips.

  “Serves you right,” muttered the sheriff. Then, perhaps thinking of lawsuits against the county, he asked if I was okay.

  “Yeah, fine, swell,” I said, standing up and wresting the handbag's strap from where it had gotten caught under one of the chair legs. “Let me know what happens next.”

  “Aren't you being kind of half-assed?” Milo called out as I reached his door.

  “You told me to take a hike. That's what I'm doing.” Without turning around, I yanked the door open and tromped through the outer office.

  I was being half-assed, of course. But our deadline wasn't until Tuesday afternoon, and I refused to give Milo satisfaction. Besides, I had another source. Getting into the Jag, I headed up Fourth Street, turned on Cedar, and pulled into St. Mildred's empty parking lot.

  By coincidence, the woman I had helped seek shelter was now working for Father Den. Della Lucci was reeducating herself at Skykomish Community College and living in the rectory with her four children. In a bygone era, two maybe even three priests would have served the county's Catholic parishioners. But the shortage of vocations meant that we were lucky to have a single priest in residence. There was sufficient room left over for the Luccis.

  “I don't know where Father is,” Della informed me in her wispy voice. She was a plump, docile woman in her forties who had finally left her abusive husband a couple of years earlier. Nunzio Lucci, or Luce, as he was known, had taken up with a woman he'd met at Mugs Ahoy and moved to Arlington. The Luccis had never divorced, and despite Luce's abusive nature and rotten disposition, he and Della had agreed to sell their small frame house by Burl Creek and split the profits.

  I smiled reassuringly at Della. She was one of those poor creatures who always seemed to need reassurance. Whatever self-confidence she had as a young woman must have been peeled away by Luce's constant bullying.

  “I know Father Den went out earlier,” I said. “Would you mind if I wait?”

  “Oh, no, Ms. Lord,” Della said, wide-eyed, and deferring to me as she always did to those she considered her social betters. Which, I realized, was just about anyone who didn't walk on all fours. “Come into the parlor. Would you like some coffee?”

  I declined, but followed Della inside. The parlor had been refurbished since Father Fitzgerald's tenure as pastor. In those days, it had been a dark little corner, full of mohair furniture and sentimental holy pictures. Now the drapes were open and the furnishings more modern, if utilitarian. All but one painting of the Scared Heart of Jesus had been replaced by brightly colored African wall hangings.

  For Dennis Kelly was a black man in a white community, and like Dustin Fong and other minorities who had managed to wedge their way into Alpine, he had found resistance, suspicion, and even hostility. But Den had courage as well as charity, and had won over his parishioners, as well as many of the town's more broad-minded Protestants.

  I reflected on his fortitude while I waited. Della had gone off to supervise her two younger children, who had put on snowsuits and were going outside to build a fort.

  Father Den arrived about ten minutes later, looking strained, but not surprised to see me. “Dodge must have told you about Crystal,” he said, sitting down across from me. “That was pretty ghastly.”

  “For you,” I remarked.

  “For her.” His brown eyes conveyed the merest hint of reproach. “I didn't know her, but she must have been a troubled soul.”

  “Tell me about what you found,” I said. “I didn't beg Milo for the details. He was in a foul mood.”

  Father Den sighed and crossed his legs. “Dodge told me not to talk about any of this. But I suppose he meant idle gossip.”

  I saw the glint in Den's eyes. “This isn't idle gossip,” I said with a straight face. “This is my job.”

  Den nodded once. “Then it's okay. Besides,” he added, “you're a member of my flock. Dodge isn't.” He smiled a bit slyly before starting his recital. “Crystal was floating in the hot tub facedown. At first, I thought she might have passed out. I grabbed her by the ankle and somehow managed to get her up onto the deck. That's when I saw the cuts on her wrists. Of course I knew right away she was dead. I gave her the Sacrament of the Sick, though I've no idea how long she'd been gone.”

  I refrained from commenting that Crystal would have scoffed at Father Den's administration of what used to be called the Last Rites. While the sacrament was sometimes given to individuals who weren't terminally ill, the new name struck me as ironic, especially in a case like Crystal's. I suppose the mutation was intended to give hope; it seemed to me that it was meant to avoid the suggestion of death. Crystal, of course, wouldn't have cared if Den had poured a bucket of tar over her head.

  “Milo told me you went there to talk to her about the clergy's position on the shelter,” I said.

  Father Den nodded. He's about my age, a pleasant-looking man whose dark hair is beginning to show signs of male-pattern baldness. “After I saw the special edition of Crystal Clear the other day where she berated you over not berating me, I thought about it and prayed on it. Then I decided to extend a hand. I'd have preferred a left hook,” he added in his wry manner, “but the Holy Spirit told me it was a bad idea.”

  “What were you going to tell her?” I asked, relaxing a little for the first time since I'd gotten out of bed. Father Den has that kind of effect on me. He is always the calm place in the eye of the storm.

  “Oh—you know, that we're trying to sign a lease for the old Alpine Hotel, but the Californians who bought it a while back are involved in some kind of litigation.” He paused and smiled. “Californians usually are, aren't they? Anyway, all I could tell her was the truth, which I assume she already knew but ignored in her crusade for the shelter.”

  The Californians were actually very nice people who had planned to renovate the old hotel on Front Street. They had run out of money early in the project, but hadn't yet decided whether to sell or lease the property. Like the former Doukas home, the hotel required extensive repairs, but it had been rewired and replumbed, which were big-ticket items. It was also much larger than the house on First Hill.

  “What did you do after you hauled Crystal out of the hot tub?” I asked.

  Father Den grimaced. “I went inside—the back door wasn't locked—to find the phone. I looked all over the place, but it turned out the portable was right there on the deck. I hadn't seen it.”

  “No wonder. It must have been an awful shock,” I commiserated.

  “Exactly.” Father Den cleared his throat. “I called for help, and then I stayed out there on the deck with the body and prayed. Milo showed up about fifteen minutes later, along with some of the other emergency people.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?”

  Den grinned. “This sounds like an interview.”

  “It is.” I grinned back. “Remember, it's my job.”

  “You're not taking notes.”

  “I don't need to so far. These kinds of facts stick.” At some point, I would get out my notebook and a pen. Unlike Vida, who absorbs and retains information like a sponge, I had trouble remembering details. “As I was s
aying, signs of a struggle?”

  “Nothing. The snow around the deck had pretty much filled up whatever tracks had been made earlier,” Den said, his high forehead creasing. “Dodge found a straight-edged razor at the bottom of the hot tub. Or so he told me after we got back to his office. I assume he passed that on to you, too.”

  “He did not,” I retorted. “He acted as if I were the one who slashed Crystal's wrists.”

  Den was silent for a few moments. “I wish I'd known Crystal,” he finally said.

  “You mean so you could figure her for a suicide?”

  He shook his head. “No. So I could have found out why she was so troubled.” Den put up a hand. “Don't think I feel I might have helped her. I've no illusions about that. But sometimes in learning what makes people tick, down the road you can help someone like them.”

  “She didn't strike me as the suicidal type,” I put in. “Too arrogant, too sure of herself.”

  “Emma.” My pastor gave a sad little shake of his head. “You know better. You're letting your personal resentment get in the way. The arrogant, the overconfident are often masking all sorts of fears and disappointments. I should have thought that Crystal was a perfect candidate for self-destruction. It's not for me to judge, but she may have been killing her soul for a very long time. Killing the body is the final step in denying God.”

  I considered Den's words. No doubt he was right, but I had trouble accepting his assessment—not on a spiritual or even a rational level, but as a practical approach to people like Crystal Bird.

  Thus, when confronted with the ethereal, I chose to deal with the mundane. “The razor was in the pool? That may mean no fingerprints.”

  Den's smile conveyed what I took as pity. “You don't believe it was self-inflicted?”