The Alpine Quilt (7 page)

“Right. Didn’t Buddy ever take pictures of her when you visited?”

“No,” Roseanna said. “She didn’t want him to. She was camera-shy, she told him.”

I considered my options. “Charlene Vickers brought in some photos from the BCTC party,” I said. “We can crop one of them and run a head shot.”

“Fine.” Roseanna sounded as if she didn’t care if we ran a picture of Gen’s rear end. “Oh—how’s Annie Jeanne?” she asked suddenly. “I heard she made herself sick over Gen’s death.”

“I called the hospital this morning,” I replied, my hand on the brass doorknob. “Doc Dewey was in surgery, and Dr. Sung was seeing patients at the clinic. The nurse told me that Annie Jeanne was stable but still very upset. Ben planned to see her this afternoon. I’m going to call again when I get back to the office.”

“Poor lady,” Roseanna said with a shake of her head. “Annie Jeanne’s so high-strung. If she stays another day at the hospital, I’ll go see her tomorrow.”

“I should, too,” I said. “In fact, I’ll drop in after work.”

“It’s funny,” Roseanna remarked as we stood on the porch, “I feel much sorrier for Annie Jeanne being sick than I do for Gen being dead. That’s not right, is it?”

I couldn’t answer that question. “It sounds as if Gen led a very private life,” I said in a vague voice.

“Private?” Roseanna narrowed her eyes, though she didn’t look at me but out into the rain that was falling on a slant. “More than private. It’s almost as if she’d led a secret life. Maybe it’s just as well that we don’t know what she did all those years on the other side of the mountains. We might not like it if we knew the truth.”

SEVEN

T
he truth.
What every journalist wants to know. Roseanna had certainly piqued my interest in her mother-in-law’s background, so much so that I’d forgotten to apologize for yanking our darkroom business away from Buddy.

The only problem was that if the Bayards didn’t know what Gen had been up to for the last twenty-odd years, nobody else would either. Not even Vida. My House & Home editor’s grapevine didn’t grow as far as Spokane. I decided that I might as well let Gen rest in peace.
If
I could.

Instead of phoning the hospital when I returned to the office, I called Ben. I caught him just as he was about to meet with a parishioner whose troubles apparently came out of a bottle. I knew better than to ask who.

“Annie Jeanne’s coming along okay,” Ben informed me. “Doc’s keeping her another day to make sure she doesn’t go to pieces again.”

“Thank goodness Alpine’s hospital isn’t like its big-city counterparts,” I said. “Here they don’t throw you out twenty-four hours after you’ve had brain surgery or broken every bone in your body.”

“My, my,” Ben said lightly, “do I hear you trumpeting the praises of small-town life?”

“There are
some
advantages,” I said, sounding defensive. “Did Doc mention anything about . . . food poisoning?”

“If he did, it was said in confidence,” Ben replied.

“He’s not a parishioner,” I pointed out. “You wouldn’t break the seal of the confessional by telling
your very own sister.
”

“Hey, Sluggly, a confidence is a confidence. Ask Doc yourself. Gotta go, gotta tell a certain unidentified person that falling down drunk can make for a hard climb on the stairway to heaven. See you at dinner.”

I took Ben’s advice and called Doc at the clinic. He and his partner, Elvis Sung, were both seeing patients, according to the receptionist, Marje Blatt. The raw November weather was doing its dirty work, especially among the elderly. Bronchitis was rampant, along with colds that came attached with flulike symptoms.

Vida had just returned from making her rounds. The satin toque looked very wet and very wrinkled. She removed the hat and gave it a good shake. “Whatever was I thinking of this morning?” she muttered. “I should have worn my new sou’wester. I bought it at the Tacoma Mall. Such a busy place! You can hardly move without bumping into someone.”

I was leaning in the doorway to my office. “You didn’t happen to stop by the clinic today for a visit with your niece, Marje Blatt, did you?”

“What?” Vida set the battered toque on top of the radiator. “Well, as a matter of fact, I did. It would have been most thoughtless of me not to check in to see who’d been ill in my absence. I do send so many get-well cards, you know.”

“And?” I coaxed.

“Marje was a clam,” Vida declared with an expression of disapproval. “My niece knows better than to keep things from me. On the other hand,” she added grudgingly, “Marje may not be aware of exactly what caused Annie Jeanne’s severe reaction. Receptionists aren’t always as well informed as nurses.”

“It couldn’t have been allergies,” I pointed out. “Annie Jeanne did the cooking.”

“True.” Vida looked at the clock before sitting at her desk. “It’s almost four. I assume you haven’t had any word on the autopsy from Milo?”

Ginny had no messages for me from the sheriff. It was too soon to nag. There still was an hour to go before deadline.

“I’ll call him before five,” I said. But surely this time, Milo wouldn’t forget our pub date. Or would he? “Are you certain you don’t want to write the obituary part about Gen?” I asked Vida.

“Positive,” she replied, peering at her own phone messages.

“Then I need your input on her early background,” I said.

She looked at me. “Didn’t you get that from Roseanna?”

“Roseanna wasn’t born yet,” I said dryly. “Furthermore, she wasn’t at all close to Gen.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Vida said, and pursed her lips.

“Parents’ names, schooling, marriage? Come on, Vida, help me out.”

Vida whipped off her glasses and began pummeling her eyes. “Ooooh . . . very well.” She sighed heavily, put her glasses back on, and stared into space. “Parents, Marie Curtis Ferrer and Paul Ferrer. He worked as a sawyer in the mills. I believe Paul was originally from Wisconsin, and Marie was born in Snohomish. Children, Peter and Genevieve. Peter, the elder of the two, died in his early twenties when his fishing boat capsized off of Ketchikan. Gen became pregnant when she was a senior in high school and married Andre—known as Andy—Bayard right after she graduated.”

“I know that part,” I put in.

Vida turned in my direction. “Then that’s it. The rest is Buddy’s birth, Andy’s drunkenness, violent quarrels between husband and wife, and finally divorce. Andy died years ago in a tragic highway accident. He drank.”

“Is he buried here?” I asked.

“What difference does it make?” Vida demanded. “You don’t put that sort of thing in an obituary.”

“I know,” I agreed. “This is straight news, page one. But I was thinking about where Gen might be buried.”

“In a ditch, for all I care,” Vida said, picking up the telephone receiver, and with ruthless fingers, she punched in numbers.

I wrote the story, wondering if I still might have to insert a new lead. But when I called Milo at ten to five, he assured me he hadn’t heard anything from Everett, and that he’d checked as recently as half an hour earlier.

“They knock off at five,” he said, “or pretty close to it. I figure we’ll get the results sometime before noon tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I said, disappointed. “But if you do hear anything in the next hour or so, call me at home or on my cell.”

Milo promised that he would. As a precautionary measure, I told Kip to answer the phone if it rang. The sheriff might absentmindedly call the newspaper, forgetting that I wasn’t still at work.

Ben wasn’t due for dinner until after six. I’d planned on swinging by the Grocery Basket to pick up some lamb chops and fresh broccoli. I had everything else I needed at home.

But the hospital wasn’t out of my way. I stopped there first and took the elevator to the second floor. The buxom, gray-haired nurse on duty was one of the Bergstroms. She informed me that Ms. Dupré couldn’t receive visitors.

“Nerves, if you ask me,” Olga Bergstrom huffed. “One of those excitable types. The kind of old maid who keeps medical coverage high. Every time they get a stomachache or a stuffy nose, it’s off to see the doctor. I’ve no time for it.”

I assumed a humble yet quizzical attitude. “You mean you don’t think there was a medical cause for Annie Jeanne’s collapse?”

“She ate something that didn’t agree with her. Spoiled milk, I wouldn’t wonder. You’d be surprised by how many people come into emergency, swearing they’ve been poisoned. Doctor—well, both doctors, really—humor them, especially if they’re of a certain age. Mark my words, often as not, it’s something they had in the refrigerator that they couldn’t bear to throw out. Afraid to spend an extra dollar—they’d rather have their stomachs pumped.”

“Goodness,” I said in professed dismay, “perhaps I ought to run an article in the paper warning people to keep track of due dates on their perishable products.”

“An excellent idea,” Olga asserted with a sharp nod of her head. Unlike so many medical practitioners, she wore starched whites, white stockings, a cap with a double stripe, and a pin that indicated she’d trained at Deaconess Hospital in Spokane. Old Doc Dewey had insisted on proper attire, and his son carried on the tradition. I thought it wise. Call me fussy, but I prefer being able to tell the difference between a nurse and a barmaid at Mugs Ahoy.

“I can’t discuss the case, of course,” Olga continued, keeping one eye on the monitors at the nurses’ station, “but a word to the wise is never wasted. Shelf dates, expiration dates, anything that a person has had on hand for over a year, particularly if it’s been opened.”

That qualified my food stores for condemnation by the health department. I should have felt doomed.

“We’ll put that in the
Advocate,
” I promised. It was a House & Home item, and actually not the worst idea I’d heard. Vida might even have a syndicated column on the subject in her files. “I understand Annie Jeanne is recovering, though.”

“Certainly,” Olga replied. “She should be up and doing by Thursday.” The nurse’s keen blue eyes scrutinized me. “That’s right—she’s the housekeeper at the Catholic church. Your brother is no doubt anxious for her to get back to work. I’ve heard that priests can be quite demanding.”

“Ben’s not used to having a housekeeper,” I said. “I don’t recall Father Kelly being a slave driver.”

Olga’s lips exhibited a faint twitch of amusement. “Strange you should say that, since he’s black. But I’m talking in general, from what people say about priests. You might be surprised at the things I’ve heard, especially lately.”

“No,” I said, sounding weary, “I wouldn’t. As a Catholic, I’ve heard it all.”

Olga looked dubious, but was distracted by one of the monitors. “Ah. Elmer Kemp is having some respiratory problems. A smoker, you know. I must go. I’m all alone, it being the dinner hour.”

Olga bustled away.

Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting in the express checkout line at the Grocery Basket when my cell phone rang. Despite a glare from the woman ahead of me, I answered the call. It might be Milo.

It was. “We got the autopsy report,” he said in his typically unhurried manner. “It came in about ten minutes ago. Hang on.” The phone crackled a couple of times as it sometimes does at Alpine’s three-thousand-foot elevation. I tried to refrain from tapping my foot. “Sorry about that. Bill Blatt had a question for me about his overtime. Anyway, as I was saying, we got the ME’s results back from Everett. According to them, Genevieve Bayard died from a—” The phone cut out again.

It was my turn with the checker, Ryan O’Toole, the teenage son of the store’s owners. Ryan gazed at me with questioning hazel eyes after he rang up my seven items. The total was thirty-one dollars and forty-four cents. The express line was cash only. My wallet was short by four dollars. Preparing to beg and scrambling to find my credit card, I heard a mellow voice in the ear that wasn’t glued to the phone.

“May I?” said Spencer Fleetwood, handing me a five-dollar bill.

“Jeez.” I glanced at the half-dozen people behind Spence, gritted my teeth, and took the money. “Thanks,” I murmured. “I owe you.”

By the time I got my change and my bag of groceries, the cell had gone dead. I hurried out into the rain and dialed the sheriff’s number.

“What happened?” Milo said. “I lost you.”

I didn’t take time to explain. He was the sheriff; he could figure it out. “How did Gen die?” I asked, as the rain poured down and I wondered if I could get electrocuted.

“What?” He sounded impatient. “Oh—you lost the connection. Gen was poisoned, an overdose of insulin. It was in the food she ate at the rectory. I’m afraid Annie Jeanne Dupré’s in a bit of trouble.”

My jaw dropped. “No! That’s impossible! It had to be an accident!”

“We still have to investigate,” Milo said reasonably. “I sent Dustin to the hospital to stand guard.”

“You think Annie Jeanne’s going to escape?” I asked in disbelief.

“No, of course not,” he responded on a slightly sour note. “It’s procedure. Besides, if Gen’s death wasn’t accidental, Annie Jeanne could be in danger. She was poisoned, too. And if it was an accident, she might be suicidal. I’ll have Dwight Gould spell Dustin later on.”

“Good grief,” I murmured, realizing that I hadn’t seen any sign of the law at the hospital. “When did Dustin go over there?”

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Milo said. “Got to run. I’m on my way to Buddy and Roseanna’s. Talk to you later.” He clicked off.

As I opened the passenger door, Spence sauntered out of the store. “Emma!” he called.

I was putting the groceries on the floor of my Honda. Maybe I could pretend I didn’t hear him. But his voice carried and he knew it; I swore he could broadcast without a transmitter.

“Just a minute!” I yelled. “Let me get out of the rain!” Rushing around to the driver’s side, I frantically dialed the
Advocate
’s number. The phone rang four times, and I was afraid it would trunk over to the answering system before Kip could pick up.

He answered just as I was plunging into despair. “Hold everything!” I shouted—just as Spence slid into the passenger seat beside me.

“You owe me,” he murmured, looking annoyingly amused.

“Ohhh . . .” But no matter how much I stalled, Spence would have the news before the paper was published. My shoulders slumped. I stopped shouting and briefly relayed the autopsy report to Kip.

“Are you coming to the office?” Kip asked.

“Of course, I’m on my way as soon as I call Ben to tell him I’ll be late getting home. We’re going to need at least three inches, either on page one or in a jump to page two.”

“Got it,” Kip said. “See you.”

I put the key in the ignition. Spence angled his long legs around the grocery bag and leaned back in the seat. “So Mrs. Bayard was poisoned.” He glanced at his high-tech watch that seemed to tell him everything except the odds on the Super Bowl. “I just missed the six-o’clock hour turn. I’ll have to break in with a bulletin.”

“You can start by getting out of my car,” I snapped. “I’m not a taxi.”

“I’ve got my wheels here,” he replied, reaching over to lift a strand of wet hair out of my right eye. “You need a haircut.”

I was beyond annoyance, climbing fast to anger. Fury wasn’t far behind. “Since when did I ask you to be my fashion consultant? Beat it, Fleetwood. I’ve got work to do.”

With feigned sadness, Spence shook his head. “I thought we were media partners. I’m only trying to help your image.”

I turned on the engine just as my cell phone rang again. I shot Spence a dark look as I fumbled around in my purse for the blasted phone.

“I know when I’m not wanted,” he said with a self-pitying sigh. “Besides, I have breaking news to report. Ta-ta.”

Spence got out of the car just as I found the phone and answered.