The Alpine Pursuit (23 page)

“I think not,” Vida sniffed. “I’ve always found costume parties silly. People put on such outlandish clothes just to attract attention.”

Janet was probably trying as hard as I was to keep a straight face. Vida was wearing a black-and-white fur hat that looked like a dead skunk.

“By the way,” Al said, attempting to mumble like Marlon Brando, “thank you, Emma, for giving me the Berenger information.” He paused to clear his throat. When he resumed speaking, he sounded like himself, which was a good thing, because I could barely understand his Brandoesque impression. “Unfortunately, none of the people we’ve contacted were related. Tomorrow, I’ll try to find out more about Mrs. Berenger, but her maiden name of Blair is so common. I don’t expect to have any luck.”

“Start with the University of Wisconsin,” I suggested. “Hans and Julia met there.”

Al nodded solemnly. “I shall. That’s a good idea.”

It turned out to be both a better—and a worse—idea than I could ever have imagined.

FIFTEEN

Al and Janet Driggers left us just as our food arrived. Vida was full of smiles for Terri Bourgette, who had brought what looked like a pint of Thousand Island dressing.

“Why,” I asked my House & Home editor, “didn’t we have a story this week about the celebrity doings here? Leo knew about it because the Bourgettes took out an ad. Scott knew, too.”

“Too many other things on our minds,” Vida said, slathering a hot roll with butter. “Really, the last few days have been most eventful.”

“That’s no excuse,” I declared. “We could have squeezed an inch or two in somewhere.”

“Only if we’d deleted Thyra’s ghastly photo,” Vida responded.

“The Rasmussens bought that space,” I pointed out. “In fact, I’ll bet poor Mary Jane Bourgette ends up paying the bill, even though she would never have wanted to run the picture in the first place.”

“That reminds me,” Vida said, and looked faintly embarrassed. “I took a message for you while you were at lunch. Goodness, I’m at fault as much as the next one when it comes to oversights. Nat Cardenas has called an emergency meeting of the Board of Trustees for Saturday night. Seven-thirty, the conference room in the RUB. Mary Jane’s a member, which is what spurred my recollection.”

“Yes.” I put my steak knife down. “But calling a meeting on a Saturday night? That’s odd. Maybe they’re in a hurry to fill Hans’s position. I’d better attend instead of sending Scott.”

“It’s not open to the public,” Vida said. “Curious, isn’t it?”

“I don’t recall a closed meeting of the trustees before now,” I said. “I wonder if it’s legal? They’re a state institution.”

“Perhaps you could challenge them. The press should never be shut out of important meetings.”

And Vida should always be allowed to know what was going on, press or not. “I’ll call Marisa Foxx tomorrow and find out,” I said.

Vida speared two shrimp at once. “Isn’t her law partner, Jonathan Sibley, a trustee? Surely he’d know whether it was legal.”

“That doesn’t mean he’d challenge Nat,” I said. “Jonathan also represents the college.”

Vida sighed. “It’s all curious, isn’t it?”

I had to agree.

We left the diner a little after seven, just as Lucy and Desi arrived along with Buddy Holly and a couple of Elvises. I’d been tempted to stay, but I didn’t want to sit alone. I wished I’d had the nerve to call Milo and tell him I’d dress up like Grace Kelly if he’d come as Gary Cooper from
High Noon
. Tom would have done it. Milo would think I was nuts.

Instead, I went home and moped. Requiring company for my misery, I called Ben in Tuba City.

“You are a world champion pain in the ass,” declared my brother. “Do you realize how much I spent on that dinner we had at Ristorante Camponeschi on the Piazza Farnese? As a missionary priest I took a vow of poverty, not stupidity. I guess I wasted my lira. I might as well have thrown it in the Trevi Fountain.”

“I’m not moping about Tom,” I retorted. “I mean, not in the usual way I mope about him. I just said that if he were here, he’d have gone with—”

“Stop. I heard you the first time. Furthermore, you look about as much like Grace Kelly as I look like George Clooney. What were you going to wear? Or did you plan to steal a vintage dress off of Thyra Rasmussen’s corpse?”

“Ben!” I cried. “Sometimes I wonder why you became a priest. You seem a little short on compassion, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask,” he shot back in his crackling voice. “And I’ve got plenty of compassion for those who really need it. You need a kick in the butt. If it’s not Tom you’re moping about it, what is it?”

I tried to rein in my temper. “I take it you’ve seen this week’s edition of the
Advocate
?”

“I read it on-line this morning, right after I said Mass,” Ben replied. “Sounds like you’ve got another big mess up there. Can’t those people find something better to do than murder each other?”

“It’s winter,” I snapped. “They’re bored.”

“Are you sure Vida didn’t strangle Thyra?”

“She was tempted,” I admitted. “Maybe the recent deaths are why I feel glum. Oh, hell, Ben, I’m not glum so much as frustrated. Within four days, I see a college prof shot before my very eyes, then an old lady croaks in the middle of our newsroom. How much horror can one person take without being affected?”

There was a pause. “I see tragedy every day. We all do. Here it’s a sense of hopelessness, poverty, disaffection, survival, loss of identity, conflict between the old ways and the modern world. It’s a baby born with a serious heart defect, a husband beating his wife and his kids, young people leaving the reservation and ending up homeless on the streets of Phoenix or Flagstaff, an old man dying alone and not being found for two weeks. I feel like the little boy trying to put his finger in the dike. But I keep going because if I can plug up one hole, I’m doing something worthwhile. I’m asked if I feel good because I’m carrying out God’s plan for me. Hell, I don’t think God has a plan for me or anybody else. And how do I know that the thing I’m doing
is
the right thing? It may seem like it is, but in the long run, maybe it’s not. I can help reconcile an unhappy couple and feel as if I’ve accomplished something that pleases God. But two years later, when the wife stabs the husband with a hunting knife, I realize it would’ve been better if I’d let them split up in the first place. Life’s tough, Emma. It’s supposed to be. You do what you believe is right at the time. You can’t do a damned thing about what happens outside of your control. You suck it up and keep going.”

“Gosh,” I said in wonder. “You sound worse off than I do.”

“No.” Ben was emphatic. “No worse, no better. I just want to put things in perspective for you. Death—even violent death—isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Death is part of life. It’s the end of suffering.” To my surprise, Ben chuckled. “You’re not as upset over that Berenger guy and the old lady dying as you are about not being able to find out who committed murder. You’re a writer. Every story has to have a beginning, a middle, and an end. You’re frustrated because you’re mired in the middle. But not all stories have an end. Maybe this is one of those that don’t.”

“Hunh,” I said. “I called for compassion and got common sense instead.”

“Often, it’s the same.”

“How true.” I smiled into the receiver. “I’ll hang up now and stop bothering you.”

“You don’t bother me,” Ben responded. “You piss me off, but you don’t bother me. Have you talked to Adam lately?”

“Not this week,” I said. “He was going to Fairbanks for some meetings.”

“I’ll e-mail him over the weekend,” Ben said. “Hey, I didn’t mean to deliver a homily.”

“You didn’t,” I replied. “You were giving your kid sister good advice.”

“Really? All homilies should do that. It’s what I try to do here. Short and sweet. Well, maybe not sweet. Say,” he said, “speaking of church stuff, does Cardenas ever attend Mass?”

“Not that I know of, unless he goes to the Saturday five o’clock,” I said. “I almost always go on Sunday. Why do you ask?”

“You told me once he was raised Catholic,” Ben said. “I was just curious. What about his wife?”

“She’s a WASP, through and through,” I replied. “There was a ‘Scene’ item Vida did at Christmas about Justine donating flowers for Trinity Episcopal. But I don’t know if Mrs. C. actually attends services there.”

“How about Rita Patricelli?” Ben inquired.

“She’s a C&E type,” I said, referring to Catholics who only go to Mass at Christmas and Easter. “What is this, a poll of churchgoing Alpiners?”

“Not really,” Ben replied. “A greater percentage of small-town residents attend church than big-city dwellers do. It’s not a question of faith but of having something to do, somewhere to go, some place to socialize. Often it’s a matter of conformity. Not to mention that you’re a little short up there when it comes to minorities. As far as religion goes, it’s a Christian community. Lutherans on top, Catholics on the bottom, and everybody else in the middle.”

“That’s true,” I agreed. We don’t have any Muslims and only a couple of Jews. I’m not sure what religion our small Asian population follows, except Dustin Fong, who’s a Methodist. Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro shows up once in a while at St. Mildred’s with her husband, Ryan, but I don’t think she’s ripe for conversion. In fact, I don’t think she ever really practiced Judaism, much to her parents’ sorrow.”

“Why don’t you call her?”

“What?” I frowned. “You want me to start converting Carla?”

“Of course not,” Ben said. “But she advises the student newspaper, doesn’t she? I remember some of the tales you used to tell when you worked on
The Mitre
at Blanchet and
The Daily
at the UDUB. Maybe Carla’s got the lowdown on somebody at the college.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” I mused aloud. “Except Carla is such a scatterbrain, I don’t know if I could rely on anything she told me.”

“I’m just trying to make you feel less frustrated,” Ben asserted. “Give it a shot. It’s better than griping to me.”

“I will,” I said. “I think I’ll do it now.”

∗ ∗ ∗

But Carla and Ryan had gone to Celebrity Night, according to their baby-sitter, who sounded faintly frantic.

“They promised not to be late,” Debbie Gustavson said in a testy voice. “They’d better not be. I’m getting a cold and I have a social studies test tomorrow. Omar won’t go to sleep and I can’t study.”

Omar was the Talliaferros’ four-year-old son. Suddenly I heard a terrible crash in the background. Debbie let out a yelp. The phone let out a squawk. Apparently, she’d dropped the receiver, but we were still connected. I could hear her shouting at Omar, who was either laughing or crying.

Apparently, the noise he was making was caused by pleasure, not pain. Debbie was scolding him. After a noisy interlude, Debbie came back on the line.

“Omar pulled over his bookcase,” she said in an angry voice. “It’s a wonder he didn’t kill himself.” She sneezed twice, then began to cough. And cough and cough.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

More coughing, then several gasps. “Yeah . . . sort of. But I quit. I’m never going to sit this little brat again! I’m going to call the diner and tell Mr. and Mrs. Talliaferro to come home right now! I’m sick!”

“Wait, Debbie,” I urged. “If you’re really sick, I’ll relieve you. Can you hold on for about fifteen minutes?”

“It’ll take me that long to find Omar,” she replied in a miserable voice. “I don’t know where he is.”

“I’ll be there,” I said, and after I hung up the phone I wondered if I’d lost my mind.

I hadn’t yet undressed, so I got into the Honda and drove the short distance to the house Carla and Ryan had recently bought a mile from the college in Ptarmigan Tract. When Debbie came to the door, her nose and eyes were running and she looked as if she had a fever. Omar, however, was in fine fettle. He was standing on the dining room table, beating a metal wastebasket with a cooking spoon.
A Roger in the making,
I thought, and stepped aside as Debbie bolted through the front door and called out a muffled thank-you.

The house was a shambles, but that probably wasn’t all Omar’s fault. Carla had never been much for cleaning, and her desk at work had always been only slightly less cluttered than mine.

Upon seeing me, Omar stopped banging the spoon and stared with suspicious dark eyes. The only time I’d seen him in the past six months was during the holidays. He had Carla’s dark coloring but his father’s husky build.

“Are you a kidnapper?” Omar asked, backing away toward the edge of the table.

“I wouldn’t dream of kidnapping you,” I said. “Don’t move or you’ll fall.”

Omar moved and fell. Luckily, the floor had plush new carpeting. The kid started to cry, but he sounded as if he was faking it. I tried to sit him up, but he punched me in the face.

“No! Go away! I don’t like you!” Omar got up on his own and crawled under the table. “You can’t catch me. Ha-ha.”

“I don’t want to catch you,” I said. “Stay there. I’m going to sit down.”

Which I did, on the Talliaferros’ leather couch in the living room. I could see Omar watching me, but at least he was quiet. For the moment. It was almost nine-thirty. I wondered how late Carla and Ryan would stay out on a work night.

“I’m hungry.” Omar kicked at one of the table legs. “I want cookies.”

“Go get them,” I replied.

“You get ’em,” he retorted, kicking harder.

If Adam had ever said the same thing to me, I would have grabbed him by the feet of his footie-paws and given him the bum’s rush into bed. But Omar wasn’t Adam. The Talliaferro scion was obviously undisciplined.

I ignored the kid.

“I want cookies!” he cried

I picked up a copy of
People Magazine
.

Omar began to scream at the top of his lungs. I admired Gwyneth Paltrow’s evening gown.

My ears were ringing from Omar’s nonstop howling when Carla and Ryan came through the front door with Scott and Tamara behind them.

“Emma!” Carla exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Is Omar okay?”

“Ask him,” I shouted over the kid’s screams.

“Sweetheart!” Carla raced into the dining room and got down on her knees. “What’s wrong, little love? Tell Mommy.”

Ryan was looking bewildered. Scott and Tamara seemed embarrassed. While Omar demanded cookies, I explained my presence to the others. By the time I’d finished, Carla had brought the cookies from the kitchen and given them to her son, who decided he didn’t want them after all. He crawled out from under the table, took one look at me, and said, “She’s mean. Make her go away.” Sticking his tongue out at me, he marched off to his bedroom.

Ryan thanked me for relieving Debbie Gustavson. “It’s a good thing you could come,” he said, removing his cowboy hat. “Baby-sitters are really hard to find these days.”

No kidding. “The fact is,” I confessed, “I wanted to talk to Carla.”

“Maybe we should go,” Scott put in. He didn’t evoke Montgomery Clift’s troubled mystique, but he could give any handsome actor a run for his money.

“No,” I said. “Since Tamara’s here, I’d like to talk to her, too. Do you mind?”