The Alpine Quilt (12 page)

Fishing. Sometimes better than sex.
I understood.

Awkwardly, Milo patted my shoulder. “Great dinner. Thanks.”

He put on his jacket, kissed the top of my head, and opened the door. I went out on the porch to see him off.

“Hey,” I called when he was halfway to his car, “was it as good for you as it was for me?”

He stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. “Yeah, I think it was. But can you make balloon animals?”

An hour later, I remembered the unanswered phone call. Suddenly I was anxious to check the message. It could have been Adam or Ben. It might even have been Vida.

The caller was none of the above. It was another hang-up. The caller ID informed me that the number had been dialed from a pay phone.

It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, over two hours away from my bedtime. I phoned Ben to see how he and Annie Jeanne were doing.

Fine, he said. Doc Dewey had provided Annie Jeanne with some sleeping pills. “She went to her room about twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t heard a peep out of her. I imagine she’ll sleep like a rock. This has been pretty exhausting as well as traumatic for her.”

“It hasn’t been easy on you, either,” I said.

“Hell, this is nothing,” he replied. “Except for all the damned phone calls, including the cranks.”

“The usual anti-Catholic witchcraft and idolatry stuff?”

“That, and a couple of cradle Catholics who left the church and wanted to tell me how justified they feel about it,” Ben said dryly. “I tell them that’s fine, they’ll be back for their funerals.”

I smiled into the receiver. “I like your style, Stench. By the way, I had Milo over to dinner.”

“Does that mean you’ll be coming to confession Saturday?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” I said. “I’m going now. Good night.”

The phone rang as soon as I put the receiver down on the end table. Thinking it was Ben delivering another smart crack, I answered with a breezy “Yeah?”

It wasn’t Ben.

“Is this Emma Lord?” the hushed male voice inquired.

“Yes, it is,” I said, regaining formality. “Who is this?”

“My name’s Tony Knuler. I have to meet with you right away. It’s urgent. How do I get to your house?”

I didn’t know anyone named Tony Knuler, and I certainly wasn’t letting a stranger come to my house at ten o’clock at night. On the other hand, it wasn’t the first time that a stranger had contacted me with a news tip.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s late. Why do you need to see me so soon?”

There was a long pause. “You own the newspaper, right?”

“Yes.”

“I really need to talk to you now.”

“Then talk.”

The next pause was so lengthy that I wondered if he’d hung up. While I waited impatiently, I turned his name over in my brain.
Tony Knuler.
I’d heard it somewhere, and recently, too. But I couldn’t place it. I hear so many names every day. Most of them are familiar, but some are not. They’re contacts with state and government agencies, college students, tourists, out-of-town journalists checking background.

“How early can I meet you tomorrow?” the mystery man finally asked, his voice still hushed.

“I’m usually in the office around eight,” I replied.

“I don’t want to come to the office.”

I was getting exasperated. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

“No, not over the phone.” Tony Knuler was beginning to sound panicky. “Can I come to your house before you go to work? Say, around seven?”

“No, you can’t.”

Another long, long pause. “What about breakfast at a restaurant?” he finally asked.

Now it was my turn to hesitate. “Okay,” I said. “The Venison Inn, seven-thirty.” I wasn’t going to get up early to meet this bozo. At least I wouldn’t have to make breakfast at home.

“That’s right near the newspaper office, isn’t it?”

“Yes, just a block away.”

“What about that diner near the bridge into town?”

The Bourgette boys’ fifties-style diner just off Alpine Way served breakfast. “Fine,” I said. “How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll bring a copy of the
Advocate,
” Tony Knuler said.

“So will I,” I responded, “so that you know me.”

“Don’t bother,” he replied. “I already know you.”

He hung up.

ELEVEN

Sleep eluded me that night. Trying to remember where I’d heard Tony Knuler’s name was driving me nuts. By midnight, I turned on the bedside lamp, picked up a book on the Plantagenets, and attempted to read myself to sleep.

It wasn’t working. The Plantagenets, especially Henry II and his consort, Eleanor of Acquitaine, were fascinating. I thought about the movie
The Lion in Winter,
with Peter O’Toole and Katharine Hepburn as the royal couple. In a very small role, Anthony Hopkins had played the king’s quavering son and heir.

Anthony Hopkins. Anthony Knuler. Tony Knuler. He was the guy who’d stolen the phone book from the Alpine Falls Motel. What the heck did he want with me?

I was too tired to figure it out. At last, I went to sleep, and dreamed not of strangers, but of Vida, wearing a cloche hat pulled down over her eyes and receding into a misty November morning.

There was fog when I woke up at seven. Dawn had barely broken with a murky gray light in the east. The dampness seeped through the evergreens in my backyard and settled just above the ground. I plugged in the coffeemaker, got dressed, and put on my makeup. Staring into space until I got my first jolt of caffeine, I sat down at the kitchen table and drank my coffee. Five minutes later, I was backing out of the driveway, with headlights on. The short trip to the diner took longer than usual, due to slow-moving traffic on fogbound Alpine Way.

The diner was busy. Many of the customers were workmen, though few these days were loggers. Blue jeans and plaid flannel were the costume du jour, accessorized with heavy shoes and tool belts. Terri Bourgette, one of Mary Jane and Dick’s daughters, greeted me at the front desk.

“I’m meeting someone I don’t know,” I told her. “Has a man carrying a copy of the
Advocate
come in?”

“Not yet,” Terri replied, flashing me her big, friendly smile. “Do you want to wait here or be seated?”

“I need coffee,” I said. “I’ll sit. Send him my way when he gets here.”

Terri led me to a booth that was festooned with stills from
I Love Lucy
TV shows and glossy photos of Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh. At home, I skimp on breakfast, usually having toast and coffee with maybe a rasher of bacon or a scrambled egg. But the odors coming from the kitchen—as well as the stack of pancakes being served to an elderly couple across the aisle—accelerated my appetite. As soon as the waitress had finished, I waved at her. Suddenly, I was starving.

After ordering the pancakes with ham, an egg over easy, and coffee, I looked at my watch: It was seven thirty-five. Tony Knuler was late. He might know me, but he might not know exactly how to find the diner. I thanked the waitress as she filled my coffee mug and kept my eye on the restaurant’s front.

A young man I didn’t recognize came in alone a couple of minutes later. But he didn’t have a copy of the
Advocate
as far as I could tell, and judging from his suit and tie, I figured him for a salesman. Terri seated the new arrival at the chrome counter.

By seven forty-five, I was squirming a bit on the bright red plastic seat cover. A minute later, my order arrived—but still no Tony Knuler.

His tardiness didn’t spoil my appetite. I ate as if I were related to the Bronsky family, but still watched the diner’s front. It wasn’t quite eight o’clock when I finished my meal. Sated, but becoming annoyed, I decided to give the Mystery Man another five minutes.

He never showed.

“Did you get stood up?” Terri asked as I paid my bill.

“I guess so,” I replied, adding a tip and signing the receipt for my Visa card. “I’m not heartbroken. I have no idea who this guy is.”

Terri’s pretty face showed interest. “Really? Should I keep an eye out for him in case he comes in?”

I nodded. “Tell him to call me at the office. Thanks.”

“He’s got your number?” Terri inquired as I started to turn away.

I looked back over my shoulder. “Oh, yes. He’s got my number.”

Maybe, I wondered, in more ways than one.

Just to make sure, I lingered for a few minutes in the parking lot, watching for a man with a copy of the
Advocate.
There were new arrivals, but I recognized all of them: Skunk and Trout Nordby from the GM dealership, Shawna Beresford-Hall and Clea Bhuj of the college faculty, and County Commissioner Leonard Hollenberg with his wife, Violet. I gave up and drove away.

By the time I arrived at the office, the staff was in place, and most of the Upper Crust’s coffee cake was gone. I didn’t care; I was full of pancakes.

There was, however, a frosty air in the newsroom. Vida and Leo were obviously annoyed with each other. My ad manager was purposely blowing smoke in my House & Home editor’s direction, while she was speaking much louder than usual on the telephone and rattling papers at the same time. Scott sat low in his chair, hiding behind his computer.

“Good morning,” I said to all. “Sorry I’m late. I had a breakfast meeting.”

Vida was all but shouting into the phone. “Now, now, Darla, you know perfectly well that I’ve never seen your underwear.”

Leo looked at me and shook his head. “Rough start,” he murmured.

Vida hooted with laughter. “Really, Darla, if it’s genuine Belgian lace, I wouldn’t sell it at any price, especially not on eBay.”

I signaled for Leo to step into my office, but didn’t ask him to close the door. We couldn’t possibly be overheard with Vida’s trumpetlike conversation.

“What’s up?” I inquired.

“The Duchess’s dander,” Leo replied with a droll expression. “I dared to criticize her program last night. Did you hear it?”

“Oh, yes. I’m afraid so.”

“What’s with her lately?” Leo asked. “She’s been acting strange for the last week or so.”

I admitted I didn’t know. “I wonder if I should ask her daughter Amy or Buck Bardeen. Frankly, it’s getting to the point where she’s disruptive in terms of the paper.”

“Spence isn’t happy with her, either,” Leo confided in a low tone. “He called you first thing this morning, and when he found out you weren’t here, he had Ginny transfer him to my line. Naturally, I couldn’t say much—don’t know much, for that matter—with Vida sitting ten feet away.”

“What did Spence tell you?”

Leo stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray I kept on the desk for him, for Milo, and for a few other local puffers. “The station got a bunch of calls right after the program went off the air. Two of the complaints were from Hispanics at the college who resented the Edna Mae service station bit, one was from another librarian who thought the item made her co-workers sound bad, and the rest wanted to know why Vida didn’t talk about the local news—like Gen croaking at the rectory.” He gestured in the direction of the newsroom. “She’s been on the phone ever since she and I got into it. I think Vida’s avoiding incoming calls. Ginny’s already handed her about a half-dozen messages.”

I had no solution to the problem. As long as Vida wouldn’t confide in me, I was at a loss.

She was out most of the day, returning just after three o’clock. I had spent the morning on the phone talking to state and federal agencies about a proposal to create a new wilderness area just north of Highway 2 between Sultan and Alpine. The legislation, which covered 106,000 acres of forest and mountains, was called the Wild Sky Wilderness bill and was being studied by Congress. Because a wilderness area is the most stringent of all designations, Alpiners were divided between the environmentalists and those who had commercial interests. So far, I’d been siding with the former. Civilization was creeping ever farther along the Highway 2 corridor. I didn’t like that.

Milo had no new developments regarding our local crimes. I told him about Tony Knuler, but he merely chuckled. “Publicity shy, huh? I’ll bet he’s some kind of promoter who came to town with big ideas. It happens.”

That was true. Alpine had had its share of new arrivals who thought they’d found a place to make a buck. Some had succeeded; others had barely gotten a foot in the door. And in one case, a California developer had ended up dead.

Ben informed me that Annie Jeanne thought she might get out of bed by the afternoon. He was still getting the occasional crank call, but, as I’d expected, seemed unruffled.

When Vida finally showed up that afternoon, she dismissed the messages that Ginny had piled up for her. “I’ll tend to them tomorrow. We really should be leaving soon if we want to avoid that dreadful rush-hour traffic into Seattle.”

“I thought we’d head out around a quarter after four,” I said, checking my watch, which informed me it was ten after three. “It shouldn’t take more than two hours to get from here to downtown.”

“Ha!” Vida exclaimed. “You obviously haven’t been to the city lately! I can tell you what it’s like in Tacoma, and Seattle is much larger.”

We compromised, setting our departure time at four o’clock. I hated to admit it, but I was buying time to see if Tony Knuler would try to contact me and apologize.

He didn’t. I had to wonder if, since he’d left the Alpine Falls Motel, he might have checked in somewhere else in town. Just before it was time to go, I reluctantly dialed Will Pace’s number and asked what he knew about his recent guest.

“That creep?” Will wasn’t exactly a gracious host. “He steals my property and you want to know about him? Well, I’m telling you—he’s scum.”

As far as I was concerned, Will might as well put up a sign on his reader board saying,
WELCOME
,
SCUM
. Between his attitude and the motel’s no-frills policy, that was the type of guest he might expect.

To cut to the chase, candor might be my best ally. “I’m asking because he was supposed to meet me for breakfast this morning. He didn’t show. Have you any idea where I could find him?”

“Hell, no.” Will paused, and when he spoke again, his gravelly voice was suspicious. “What do you mean? Why did he want to have breakfast with you?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I was hoping you might enlighten me. Did you speak to him much when he stayed at the motel?”

“I don’t get chummy with the clientele,” Will retorted. “If you do, the next thing they’re asking for is special treatment.”

Like heat and electricity.
“I understand he was from California,” I said.

“Yeah. So what?” Will shot back. “I’m from Riverside.”

“Look,” I responded, growing short on patience as well as time, “just tell me what you know about him. I’m sure you’re busy and I am, too.”

“Yeah, well, it is about time for guests to start arriving,” Will mumbled. “I repeat, I didn’t talk to him, even though he asked a bunch of questions.”

“Like what?”

“Hell, I don’t remember. Just about Alpine and stuff like that. Hey, a car’s pulling up, gotta go.”

“What kind of car did Knuler drive?”

“Huh? Oh, a beat-up Jap car. A Nissan, I think.” Will hung up.

The car’s make and year and license plate should be in the guest registry. So should Tony Knuler’s home address. My natural curiosity was getting the better of me.

But I could do nothing more about my Mystery Man that afternoon. It was almost time to leave for Seattle. At four o’clock sharp, Vida appeared in my doorway, wearing a sealskin derby and her black swing coat over a black dress, which featured sprays of bright orange poppies.

For the first twenty minutes of the drive, Vida chattered away, mostly about her three daughters and their families. Beth’s feet were healing; Amy worried too much, especially about Roger; Meg was auditing a history course at Western Washington University in Bellingham.

We were passing by Sultan’s old cemetery next to the river when she finally stopped for breath.

I couldn’t stand it another minute. “Vida,” I said firmly, “what happened between you and Genevieve Bayard? I’ve never known you to be so callous or disinterested about what appears to be a murder.”

Vida stiffened in the passenger seat. “Really!” She sniffed a couple of times. “I certainly didn’t mourn Thyra Rasmussen’s passing.”

“Thyra wasn’t murdered,” I pointed out. “There was no mystery to her death. We were present when she died. She was just days short of being a hundred.” I didn’t add that a horrendous quarrel between Vida and Thyra might have precipitated the old girl’s passing.

For a few moments, as we passed quiet farm country outside of Sultan, Vida remained silent. We were on the outskirts of Monroe when she spoke again.

“I don’t like to speak of my relationship with Genevieve,” she finally said in a flat voice. “It was most unpleasant.”

“It was also twenty years ago,” I noted. “More than that, wasn’t it? It couldn’t have been too awful. In fact, I’ve never heard one person in Alpine refer to it.”

“Perhaps not,” Vida murmured. “It wasn’t something you’d broadcast.”

I tried another angle. “Did it affect your daughters?”

Vida seemed to be withdrawing emotionally and physically, pulling farther away from me in her seat. “They never knew.”

Something very personal, I conjectured, something that would not get talked about, that no one else would ever know—except Vida and Gen. Yet there had been a time when the Runkels—or at least the Blatts—had been close to Genevieve. Otherwise, Vida’s mother would never have made Gen a quilt. Somehow, Gen must have betrayed the bond of friendship.

We were on the interstate that passed through the Eastside suburbs—Redmond, Kirkland, Bellevue. I planned to take the I-90 floating bridge, which would lead me into downtown, close to the Columbia Tower or the Bank of America Building or whatever the locals called the skyscraper these days. Not having lived in the city for so long, I couldn’t keep up with all the takeovers and real estate deals that had transpired in my absence.

Neither Vida nor I had spoken for several minutes. We were getting into heavy traffic as we approached the bridge. The digital clock on the dashboard informed me it was five o’clock, the middle of rush hour. We were moving at a crawl by the time we took the Seattle exit from I-405.

“We have plenty of time, even in this mess,” I said, breaking our long silence. “Do you want to get something to eat before we go to the memorial?”