The Alpine Recluse Part 21

"What's with the eggs?" I inquired while Vida turned the car's air-conditioning on full blast.

"Delia's family did have chickens during World War Two," Vida explained. "That part made sense. For all I know, there was some relative named Tim who was killed in combat. Or in Idaho. Perhaps Delia named her son for him. Whatever I thought she wanted to tell me apparently was a figment of my imagination. We wasted our time, and I lost my hat. Oh, well."

"Maybe Delia liked having company," I said.

"I doubt that she remembers we were even there," Vida retorted.

"But she'll remember your hat."

Vida sniffed. "Indeed. A pity there's no longer a brain operating under it."

I didn't know why, but I wondered if-for once-Vida could be wrong.

FIFTEEN.

I KNEW VIDA'S criticism of Delia Rafferty was born of frustration, not a lack of kindness. Knowing how keenly she felt about unraveling the mystery that was Tim and Tiffany, I couldn't blame her. After I left Vida's house, I drove to Icicle Creek. I wanted to find out if Milo had spoken with Wayne Eriks.

The Grand Cherokee was in the driveway, but the house was closed up. Maybe Milo was at the Erikses' home, grilling the man I'd suddenly decided was my favorite suspect. I went to the door and rang the bell anyway. I'd rung it a second time when Milo appeared.

"I was in the bas.e.m.e.nt," he said. "What's up?"

I asked if he'd seen Wayne.

"He wasn't home," Milo replied as I stepped inside. "At least, that's what Cookie told me, although his truck was parked outside. Come on downstairs. It's cooler there."

The bas.e.m.e.nt was also tidier than the living room. Upstairs, empty pizza and TV dinner boxes usually littered the sofa, chairs, and carpet. I hadn't seen the surface of the dining room table in years, and I avoided the kitchen at all costs. It was as if once his ex-wife had walked out, he'd never bothered to keep house. Yet in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he kept his fis.h.i.+ng and hunting gear in perfect order. Even his tool area was organized, including a large plastic file container that held back issues of his favorite outdoor articles.

"Do you think Cookie was lying?" I asked as Milo rolled an office chair in my direction.

"Probably." The sheriff leaned against his worktable. "So maybe you're right. Something's going on with Wayne." His hazel eyes narrowed. "I wish I knew what the h.e.l.l was going on in your head about this Eriks and Rafferty bunch. You don't know them that well. What's the deal?"

I wanted to level with Milo. But I couldn't. At least, not about Beth. She could lose her job for not logging a 911 call. I decided, however, to tell him about Wayne.

Milo laughed. "The SOB made a pa.s.s at you? Jeez, Emma, weren't you kind of flattered?"

"Are you out of your mind?" I all but shouted. "He's married, he's just lost his son-in-law, he's gross!"

Milo was still laughing, though he apologized. "Sorry. But haven't I told you it's risky to go around sleuthing on your own? h.e.l.l," he continued, growing serious, "you've almost gotten yourself killed a couple of times. Maybe you should keep your investigating to the telephone."

"I usually do just fine," I declared, shooting Milo a few daggers from narrowed eyes.

He shrugged. "You're okay for an amateur. Want a beer? Or did you get your fill with Wayne?"

His words provoked a small smile. "I guess it is kind of funny," I said. "Wayne, I mean. A little groping might be considered an improvement over the phone calls and letters I get calling me everything from a moron to a wh.o.r.e."

"At least the jerk knew when to stop," Milo remarked. "We get some of them who don't. The word no isn't in their dictionary."

"But you will talk to him again?"

The sheriff nodded. "Especially if he's avoiding me. Maybe he thought you'd carried out your threat to rat on him. Who knows? I can always start by asking him a few more questions about his sighting of Old Nick. Did his description mesh with yours?"

"Yes-but it was getting dark when I saw Old Nick. Neither Wayne nor I could describe features or details. 'Ragged old guy with a beard' is vague. Do you think he's still around town?"

Milo considered the question in his usual deliberate manner. "Hard to say. It's not typical. They come to get what they need, they take off. They don't like civilization. They don't like people. And in this hot weather, they're bound to be cooler in the forest."

"Good point," I said. "So why is Old Nick wearing a bunch of ragged clothes in ninety-degree heat?"

"Who knows? He's like the Arabs, thinking that clothes keep out the heat." Milo turned to the near wall where his fis.h.i.+ng poles were lined up on racks. He took one down and fondled it like a baby. "See this? I treated myself. Top of the line, for salmon and steelhead. I got it through a catalog from the NRA. Graphite, cork handle, terrific action in this spinning rod."

"Nice. Now if you could only catch some fish . . ."

Or a killer.

THE DAY WAS slipping out of my hands. Everywhere I turned, everybody I spoke with, every lead I tried to follow eluded me as craftily as a ten-pound steelhead would defy Milo's expertise-and expensive new fis.h.i.+ng rod.

I felt glum. My weekend was ruined, my investigative reporting skills were a shambles, and I'd probably wrecked the best chance for romance that I'd had in years. How could I make it up to Rolf? Did he want me to try? Did he really care? I felt like writing myself a "Dear Moron" letter.

If Milo could treat himself, so could I. Although I'd started to head for home from his house, I took a detour off the Icicle Creek Road and went back to Front Street. Parking was no problem. It was too hot to shop, except at the air-conditioned Alpine Mall. I had no problem finding a s.p.a.ce right in front of Donna Wickstrom's art gallery.

Donna was talking to a young couple I didn't recognize. They were admiring one of the spectacular vases by the gla.s.smaker from Colorado.

"If she has to have it," the young man said to Donna, "then let's do it. Her birthday's next Thursday."

The young woman leaned over and kissed the young man. "I love you, Derek."

"You'd better," he said with a smile. "Are you sure which one you want?"

She grimaced. "That's the problem. I can't make up my mind between the two of them. One is perfect for the entry hall; the other would look wonderful in the guest bathroom." She paused. "We do have a wedding anniversary coming up in September."

"Oh, why not?" The husband hugged the wife, but spoke over her shoulder to Donna. "Can you s.h.i.+p it? We're off to British Columbia for a few days to visit friends in Osoyoos."

I had drifted over to Sky Autumn. The painting was every bit as glorious as I'd remembered. I stared at it the entire time that it took for the young couple to give Donna their billing and s.h.i.+pping information. Five minutes later, they walked out of the store, arm in arm.

"Mercer Island people," Donna noted, referring to the Seattle suburb in the middle of Lake Was.h.i.+ngton. "Aren't they all rich?"

"Not all," I replied. "But quite a few of them are. It's prime property, if you don't mind having to take the floating bridge to get there."

"Anton will be really pleased," Donna said. "I know he'll send me a couple of other pieces. Vases, I hope, though he does some beautiful bowls and pitchers."

"Thank G.o.d for tourists," I murmured. "It's too bad we don't have more rich people in Alpine. Tell me, has Ed Bronsky-or s.h.i.+rley-ever bought art from you?"

Donna held her head. "s.h.i.+rley's been in several times, but she's never bought anything. She looks and looks, but always says she can't make up her mind. She wants cherubs-and I haven't got any unless I order prints from a catalog. Ed told her they'd go with the Italian decor of their so-called villa. In fact, s.h.i.+rley was in last week. She says Ed is thinking of having his portrait painted. She wanted me to recommend an artist. I stalled her. I can't think of anyone who would want Ed sitting for them."

"Sitting or squatting?"

Donna laughed. "You choose." Suddenly, she s.h.i.+fted into her gallery-owner mode. "Are you still tempted by the Laurentis?"

"I'm hooked," I admitted. "I want it. Can I pay for it on the installment plan? Five hundred dollars is a bit of a stretch for my overextended credit cards."

"Well . . ." Donna looked pained. "Craig doesn't like credit sales of any kind. He wants cash-certified checks, I should say."

I frowned. "I understand about creative types," I said. "Unless they have a day job, they get paid very irregularly. Not to mention the matter of taxes. I a.s.sume some artists don't declare sales on their IRS returns."

"I wouldn't know," Donna said, looking innocent. "Craig Laurentis is the only artist I've dealt with who insists on cash. I mail it to a PO box in Monroe."

"How about this?" I ventured. "I write you a check for two-fifty now and the rest next month? Would you be willing to hold the painting for me until then?"

Donna nodded slowly. "Yes, I could do that. I'll wrap it and put it in the back. I should point out that in my opinion-and I'm really not an expert-Craig's works are undervalued. I've tried to get him to raise his prices, but he refuses. He thinks art belongs to the world."

"That's very idealistic," I said. "Does he have another job?"

"No." Donna shrugged. "He doesn't seem interested in money or material things. I don't believe he's ever married."

"He sounds like someone with a busted vocation," I remarked. "Maybe he should have gone into the clergy. Is he Catholic?"

"I've no idea," Donna replied. "What do you mean?"

"My brother, Ben, has a theory that many Catholics in today's secular world ignore their religious calling," I explained. "They often end up making bad marriages or not marrying at all. Sometimes they live a very ascetic life, even if they don't always attend church. He also thinks that happens with Protestants. That is, some of them may become ministers and marry and have families, but others ignore the call. Am I making sense?"

"I guess," Donna replied, though she looked puzzled. "Really, I wouldn't know about Craig's beliefs. He never talks about anything but art, and none of it has a religious theme."

"That depends on how you define religious," I said. "I think Sky Autumn is quite spiritual."

Donna looked at the painting. "Well . . . yes. The forces of nature, water and earth. Very . . . visceral. I can see that." Suddenly, she looked distressed. "I guess I have a love-hate relations.h.i.+p with Craig's art. At least with the river scenes." She stopped and turned to me. "You understand."

It took me a few seconds to realize what she meant. The murdered body of her first husband, Art Fremstad, had been found by a river. Ironically, his killer eventually had been murdered, too. "Yes, of course."

Donna looked away. "It's been thirteen years. I was lucky to find Steve. I hope Tiffany gets lucky, too."

"Yes," I said again. But I also hoped Tiffany was as blameless as Donna.

AT HOME, AN e-mail from Adam awaited me.

"I heard from Toni again," he wrote. "She said she talked to you about Alaska. She thought it all sounded too complicated. Cannery work doesn't appeal to her. She thinks it must smell bad. She'd like to do what she's doing now-some kind of office work, but not in law enforcement. She looked up the state's 2000 census and learned that the male-female split is fifty-two to forty-eight percent, but she can't figure out how many of the men are eligible. All I can say is thank G.o.d I'm not one of them. Toni's driving me nuts. Patience and compa.s.sion are great virtues, but I've got people up here with REAL problems, like survival. About now, I'm one of them . . . Love and prayers, Adam the Nonmatchmaker."

I smiled at the laptop's screen. Religious vows or not, Adam was still Adam. Like his mother, he had little patience with people who couldn't get a grip on real life. I replied to him, saying that Toni's quest was for a husband. Her vision was no wider than that, and it probably wasn't the worst goal she could have, but it was the only one that seemed to matter. Meanwhile, I added, his dim-witted mother had managed to blight her own romantic prospects with Mr. Fisher. When it comes to romance, even bright people behave stupidly. I ought to know; I'd just done it.

I tried to put personal and professional problems aside for a few moments. Instead, I gazed at Monet's water lilies and decided that I still liked it. It would look nice in my bedroom. I tried to visualize Sky Autumn in its place above the sofa. Artistically, Laurentis was no Monet. Yet he had captured the river scene so vividly that my heart and soul overruled my taste and intellect. I grew curious about the artist. He must be a native. His affinity for the area's elements seemed inherent, rather than acquired.

What the h.e.l.l was I talking about?

My mind had gone off on a tangent. In fact, my brain seemed scattered, rambling, disconnected. It was the weather. Unrelenting suns.h.i.+ne has that effect on natives from the Cascades' western slopes. The rivers dwindle, the lakes shrink, the waterfalls dry up. So do our brains. Maybe that was another reason that Sky Autumn beckoned me. Its churning waters ran deep and plentiful. It reminded me of what I was missing during this hot, sometimes humid summer.

That was when I realized I had to learn more about Craig Laurentis. A strange suspicion was growing in my mind.

I checked the Internet. His name came up, but the only information was about his paintings that were for sale in galleries around the Puget Sound basin: Seattle, Tacoma, Bellevue, Everett, Bellingham, and Olympia. I saw several reproductions, all of rugged mountain, lake, and forest scenes. No people, no animals, not even a seascape. He concentrated on the Cascades and the range's surroundings. The prices were from four hundred to nine hundred dollars. I found no biographical information except that Laurentis was an artist who lived in the Puget Sound area and had been painting for almost thirty years.

Donna Wickstrom didn't have a web site. I guessed there were other small galleries that didn't either, but might also feature Laurentis's work. Apparently, he was fairly prolific.

I couldn't locate him anywhere else on the Internet, and a call to directory a.s.sistance proved fruitless. After an hour, I had become obsessed. I felt a pressing need to find out about Craig Laurentis. I telephoned Donna.

"I have a strange question for you," I said. "Remember, I'm a journalist, and therefore a professional snoop. What bank do you send Craig's money to?"

Donna sounded surprised. "Does it matter?"

"It matters to me for some reason I can't explain," I admitted.

"Let me double-check." She went off the line for a few moments. "It's Was.h.i.+ngton Mutual in Monroe, right on Highway 2. Do you have a line of credit there or something?"

Apparently, Donna thought I was trying to figure out a way to pay for the painting all at once.

"No," I replied. "I'm just a snoop. Thanks."

"Of course." Donna still sounded curious.

My next call was to Rick Erlandson, Donna's brother and Ginny's husband-as well as the a.s.sistant manager at the Bank of Alpine. Ginny answered on the fourth ring. She sounded out of breath.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. We're out in the turtle pool. Rick finally got it put together and filled. The boys love it."

"Can Rick come to the phone?" I asked.

It was Ginny's turn to sound surprised. Naturally, she a.s.sumed I must be calling about an Advocate-related matter. "Well . . . yes. I'll take the phone out to him. We won't leave the boys alone in the pool even if it isn't very deep. You never know what might happen."

I could hear the raucous sound of children grow closer as Ginny moved outdoors. She called to her husband, explaining that I wanted to talk to him.

"He'll be right there," Ginny said. "He's all wet."

If Ginny had possessed a sense of humor, I would've made a lame joke. Since she didn't, I merely said that was okay and that I was sorry to interrupt their family fun.

"It's all right," she a.s.sured me. "I was coming inside soon to make lemonade."

Rick finally responded. "This pool's a G.o.dsend," he declared. "I don't know who likes it better-the boys or Ginny and me. The only problem is we all can't get in it at once."

Rick has a sense of humor-though not greatly developed. I chuckled obligingly at his comment. "I won't keep you. Do you know anyone who works at Was.h.i.+ngton Mutual's Monroe branch?"

"Gee . . . not really. I used to. The manager there was Felicia Royce until she quit to have a baby about a year ago. I don't know her replacement very well," he said, sounding apologetic. "But Felicia married one of my college roommates, Jeff Royce. He works at Bank of America. Does that help?"

I told Rick it'd help if he could give me Felicia's phone number. "I'm doing some research," I said. "It's a long story, and I'll explain it to Ginny on Monday."