The Alpine Pursuit (22 page)

“The letter was handwritten?”

“No, it was typed. But you know how sometimes you type a letter, but you address the envelope by hand.”

“Yes, I do that myself.” The truth was, I wasn’t clever at printing envelopes on the computer. The addresses often came out upside-down or sideways. “Did you see an envelope?”

“No,” Tamara admitted. “I wasn’t there long enough to see much of anything except those words on the letter itself. He more or less threw me out.”

Leo strutted past my door displaying a mock-up of a full-page ad for Nordby Brothers’ GM March Madness sale. I nodded approval. “What did Clea think when you told her about the letter?” I said into the phone.

“She seemed shocked,” Tamara replied. “Or pretended to be.”

“Why do you say that?”

Tamara hesitated. “I don’t like to gossip, but you’re Scott’s boss and he thinks you’re wonderful. So I suppose it’s all right to pass this on.”

“Scott’s wonderful, too,” I remarked.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Tamara sighed in a dreamy sort of way. “Do you think I’m too old for him?”

“I don’t know how old you are,” I said. “Not yet sixty, I trust.”

Tamara laughed merrily. “Oh, Ms. Lord! No, I’m five years older than Scott. I’ll be thirty-four in August.”

“That’s not much of a difference,” I said. “And please call me Emma.” We’d gotten off the track. “What were you going to say about Clea?”

“I don’t think she liked Hans,” Tamara said, the laughter gone. “It’s nothing she ever mentioned, but it was her attitude. He could be very critical of how she ran the Humanities Division. Generally, he was a critical sort of person. But efficient. He did his job very well. Still, he wasn’t one to hand out compliments—just criticism. ‘Constructive criticism,’ he would have called it. But it riled Clea, among others.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “I thought Clea insisted that Hans take a part in the play.”

“She did,” Tamara responded. “But I think she had kind of a mean motive for that. I was supposed to be the café owner and cook. Then Clea insisted that Destiny change the role for a man and that Hans should take the part. Destiny wasn’t happy about it, but Clea’s her division head, so she caved.”

“I didn’t realize you were in the original cast,” I remarked.

“I never got that far,” Tamara said with a little laugh. “I never even saw the script.”

“You mentioned a ‘mean motive’ on Clea’s part. Was she being mean to you or to Hans?”

“To Hans,” Tamara replied. “I think she wanted him to make a fool of himself. You know, he was the greasy-spoon cook, and he didn’t have very many lines. It was a far cry from his usual pompous, aloof self. I figure Clea thought she’d bring him down a peg, and in front of an audience, especially students.”

Kip was standing in the door with what looked like software in his hand. I held up two fingers, indicating I’d be off the phone in a couple of minutes.

“That’s an interesting theory,” I noted. “Clea sounds like a bit of a conniver.”

“She’s clever,” Tamara said. “I’m very careful around her. I think she likes to stir up trouble. It amuses her somehow.”

“Some people are like that,” I agreed. “Thanks for talking to me. One of these days when I get organized, I’ll invite you and Scott over for dinner.”

“Sounds terrific,” Tamara enthused.

On that convivial note, we hung up. Kip wanted to install the new software in my computer, which meant I had to vacate the desk. I went out into the newsroom, where Vida was using her two-fingered typing method to pound much harder than she needed on the electric typewriter.

“Ah!” She stopped typing and looked up. “You were certainly having a long phone conversation just now. Was it worth your while?”

I sat down next to her desk and related everything that Tamara had told me. I also caught her up on my visit to Harvey’s Hardware and the Chamber of Commerce.

Vida ran a hand through her unmanageable curls. “I’ve been remiss. I can’t believe I haven’t become more involved in this Berenger situation. I’ve let myself become distracted with other things. Is there anything I don’t know?”

“Oh, there’s more,” I assured Vida, and proceeded to fill her in on the driver of the stolen car, his connection to drugs, and anything else I could remember.

“It’s almost five,” she said. “Why don’t you come home with me and I’ll fix a lovely hot meal.”

No, you won’t,
I thought,
at least not a meal that could be termed “lovely.”
“That’s too much work,” I asserted. “Why don’t we go to the diner for dinner?”

“Oh! What a good idea,” Vida declared. “I haven’t been there in some time. How soon do you want to leave?”

I told Vida I had to wait for Kip to show me how to use the new software.

“Software!” Vida exclaimed with a scowl. “Why do they call it that? It’s not at all soft. From what I’ve seen of it, software looks like very small phonograph records. And this Windows business—what is that? I have yet to see a window on anybody’s computer. Do they mean the screen? So why not call it a screen? Then there’s that clicker thing they call a mouse. Does it look like a mouse? Certainly not. It makes no sense whatsoever. Why can’t these computer people speak
English
? They have no respect for the language.”

I didn’t entirely disagree with Vida about the terminology, but I couldn’t waste time with a vocabulary discussion. I had computer problems of my own, trying to comprehend what Kip was telling me about the new software. It took him almost half an hour to make a dent in my nontechnical brain, and even then, I had no confidence in my ability to remember his instructions.

When Vida and I headed for the diner in our separate cars, it was snowing again—soft, wet flakes drifting over the Honda’s hood and windshield before evaporating on contact.

“It’s best to come early,” Vida declared as we slipped into a booth where the wall was decorated with photographs of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis Presley to evoke the 1950s. “Later in the evening, they turn the music up far too loud. All that rock and roll. It’s almost as bad as what the children today think is so wonderful. Whatever happened to Big Bands?”

“The bands got smaller,” I said. “We got bigger. Older, at any rate.”

“You’re too young to remember the Big Band era,” Vida pointed out. “You had your own music. What did they call it when you were a teenager?”

“The Beatles,” I replied. “Bob Dylan. All the protest songs and the folk music and the Rolling Stones and . . . Frankly, I wasn’t really into popular music that much. In high school, I wasn’t part of the ‘in’ group.”

Emma, the Outsider. I’d always been that way. I still was, especially in Alpine, where you had to be born on Skykomish County soil to belong. I liked to think that my exclusion gave perspective to my writing.

“Like
The Outcast
,” Vida murmured, “and here she comes.”

I turned in the booth so I could see Destiny Parsons coming down the aisle. She caught my eye, looked startled—or irritated—and stopped.

“Hello, you two,” she said, then glared at me. “I have to tell you, I didn’t appreciate your prying the other night. I ended up with a couple of sheriff’s deputies making my life miserable. But you probably already know that.”

“I’d heard,” I replied. “Look, I’m sorry. I had no intention of causing problems for you.”

“Yes, you did,” Destiny shot back, angrily loosening the plaid muffler she had wound around her neck. “You’re a snoop.” Her sharp gaze landed on Vida. “You, too. You’re both snoops.”

“It’s our job,” Vida said airily.

“That just gives you an excuse,” Destiny countered. She turned back to me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the one who killed my poor Azbug.”

“I’d never do such a thing,” I said hotly.

“I know you didn’t,” Destiny retorted, though there was no softening of her stance. “It was Hans Berenger who murdered my poor Azbug. Well, he got what he deserved, didn’t he?”

Destiny stomped away, the tails of her muffler flying behind her like battle flags.

“Well now!” Vida exclaimed. “Is Destiny trying to incriminate herself? That dog’s death could be a motive for murder.”

“It could,” I said in a thoughtful tone. “But Destiny isn’t stupid. Why would she say something so mean about Hans if she’d killed him?”

“To throw us off the track,” Vida replied, then gave a little shake of her head. “Besides, how does she know it was Hans who broke the dog’s neck?”

I shrugged. “Beats me. Maybe she’s guessing. She didn’t like him, either.”

“Nobody did, it seems,” Vida remarked. “Except Rita.”

“And even Rita had dumped him,” I pointed out.

“Yes.” Thoughtfully Vida fingered the menu. “Men. Women. Dogs.”

“What?”

One of the younger Bourgette daughters, Teresa, known as Terri, arrived to take our order. Vida asked Terri to greet the Bourgette sons who had started the restaurant and were working in the kitchen. I inquired after the senior Bourgettes, Mary Jane and Dick.

“They’re fine,” Terri replied, “all things considered. Mom will feel better after Grandmother’s funeral tomorrow. She ended up taking over the arrangements. Uncle Harold and Aunt Gladys don’t cope very well in times of crisis.”

“How typical,” Vida declared. “Your poor mother was cut off by Thyra because she married a Catholic, and now Mary Jane is the one who has to take on the family responsibilities. Please send her my condolences.”

I suspected that Vida’s condolences were not for the death of Mary Jane’s mother but for having to perform the tasks that should have been handled by Harold and Gladys.

Terri’s brown eyes twinkled. She undoubtedly knew about the animosity between Vida and her grandmother. Indeed, because of Thyra’s harsh treatment of Mary Jane and the old lady’s refusal to acknowledge the existence of her daughter’s family, Terri probably sided with Vida. “I’ll do that. Mom and the Lutheran pastor in Snohomish have already had three huge arguments.”

“I’m sure,” Vida purred, “that your mother probably won. Lutherans can be so pigheaded. Catholics are more cunning.”

I gave Vida the Evil Eye. “Don’t you mean they’re more clever?”

“No,” Vida replied, unrepentant as always. “I believe I’ll have the Audrey Hepburn shrimp Louie. There’s an asterisk by it that says it’s slimming.”

“Got it,” Terri replied, making a note on her order pad.

“But don’t skimp on the Thousand Island dressing, please,” Vida added. “So often with a Louie, you get halfway finished and there’s nothing left to put on the rest of the greens. Oh, I’d like an extra hard-boiled egg or two. The entrée comes with rolls, I see. Would you mind bringing at least three? Rolls make such a nice addition to a salad.”

I requested the Tony Curtis steak sandwich and fries with a side of Janet Leigh green salad.

“Woof, woof,” I said after Terri had left. “What were you saying about dogs?”

“Oh. Dogs.” Vida nodded once. “Yes. Hasn’t it occurred to you that dogs play a large part in this Berenger business? Destiny believes—rightly or wrongly—that Hans killed her pet. Hans wanted to raise dogs on the Krueger property. Jim Medved’s gun killed Hans, and Jim is a veterinarian. And Dodo, of course, was in the play.”

“You have a point,” I remarked, “but I assume you’re not saying you think Dodo killed Hans?”

“Of course not,” Vida said. “What I don’t understand about the dog issue is that Hans didn’t seem to like dogs. Let’s assume Destiny is right—Hans did kill Azbomb or Aspirin or whatever the dog’s name was. Didn’t he also get into a ruckus with Jim Medved over Dodo?”

“That’s true,” I said. “I’d forgotten. I think Hans kicked Dodo at one point during rehearsals.”

Vida put her fists on her hips and gave me a probing look. “Why would someone who treats animals badly be interested in raising them?”

I admitted I was stumped. “We could be misjudging Hans,” I said. “We only have Destiny’s word for it that Hans broke Azbug’s neck. As for Dodo, he’s a big and rather clumsy sheepdog. He may have bumped into Hans and knocked him down or caused some sort of minor injury. Hans may have been in a bad mood and overreacted.”

“It sounds as if Hans was always in a bad mood,” Vida asserted.

At that moment, Al and Janet Driggers came our way. I almost didn’t recognize them. To my astonishment—and Vida’s—Al was wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, and snap-brim leather cap. His usually straight, neat dark hair was tousled, and instead of his customary ramrod stance, he slouched. Even more amazing was Janet, wearing a blond wig and a knockoff of the white dress with the pleated skirt and low neckline that Marilyn Monroe had worn in
The Seven Year Itch
.

“Hey there!” Janet called as they approached our booth. “Anybody know where I can find a hot air vent to stand over?”

“Goodness!” Vida cried. “Aren’t you freezing to death? It’s thirty-two degrees outside!”

“Why do you think I’m looking for some hot air?” Janet asked in a breathy Monroe voice. She grabbed Al by his leather sleeve. “How do you like Marlon Brando here?”

“Very convincing,” I murmured. “Do you always dress like this when you come to the Bourgettes’ diner?”

Janet shook her head. The wig stayed firmly in place. “Don’t you read your own ads? This is Fifties Celebrity Night. It doesn’t start until eight, but we came early to get a good seat. I hear Fuzzy Baugh is dressing up as Jerry Lee Lewis.”

I reached inside my purse to get out the cell phone. “I must call Scott. We’ll want pictures.”

Scott, however, knew about the event. He and Tamara were coming as Montgomery Clift and Elizabeth Taylor in
A Place in the Sun
. Scott was prepared to mix business with pleasure.

Janet had been twirling around, showing off a figure that was not quite up to Marilyn’s standards but sufficiently sexy to cause several male diners to stop in their tracks and lean out of their seats.

“No, Janet,” Vida was saying as I put the phone back into my purse, “I don’t believe we’ll stay for the show. It’ll be noisy—all that rock and roll.”

“That’s the fun of it,” Janet replied. “We’ll dance. Sing. Carry on.” She grimaced. “And listen to Fuzzy play ‘Great Balls of Fire’ on the red piano in the bar. I hear Irene’s doing a riff on Ingrid Bergman in
Anastasia
. You could’ve come as the Grand Duchess, Vida. Except you’re a lot taller than Helen Hayes.”