Mary Daheim - The Alpine Christmas

Oscar set aside his pipe and pouch, reached for my notepad, and picked up a ballpoint pen. His handwriting was large and overblown, like the man himself: Someone is trying to kill my grandsons wife. Help us.

I blinked at the message, then stared at Oscar. He motioned for me not to speak out loud. Who? I scribbled.

Dont know, he scribbled in reply.

With a sigh I leaned back in my swivel chair. It would do me no good to urge Oscar or any other Nyquist to go to the sheriff. Rapidly, I considered the previous problems the family had encountered. All of them were petty, probably pranks. Young people in Alpine didnt have enough to do, especially in the winter. My initial reaction was to dismiss Oscars fears as part of a persecution complex.

Except that we already had two dead young women. Was it possible Bridget Nyquist might become number three?

By Mary Daheim
Published by The Random House Publishing Group:

THE ALPINE ADVOCATE
THE ALPINE BETRAYAL
THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS
THE ALPINE DECOY
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
THE ALPINE FURY
THE ALPINE GAMBLE
THE ALPINE HERO
THE ALPINE ICON
THE ALPINE JOURNEY
THE ALPINE KINDRED
THE ALPINE LEGACY
THE ALPINE MENACE
THE ALPINE NEMESIS
THE ALPINE OBITUARY
THE ALPINE PURSUIT

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A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright 1993 by Mary Daheim

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States of America by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90512

eISBN: 978-0-307-76011-1

www.ballantinebooks.com

v3.1

F ATHER F ITZ HAD lost it. That didnt come as a surprise to those of us who were his regular parishioners, but it knocked the socks off my brother, Ben. Luckily, Ben has enough poise as a person and experience as a priest that he didnt fall off the altar.

On holy days of obligation, Father Kiernan Fitzgerald always managed to keep mass under forty minutes. Since December 8 commemorates the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin, I attended the eight oclock service on my way to work at The Alpine Advocate. Ben was concelebrating the liturgy while on vacation from his job as pastor to the Navajos in Tuba City, Arizona.

It is always with a sense of pride that I watch Ben say mass. Like me, he is dark and brown-eyed; he has the same round face (but more nose), and an extra six inches of height. He is not handsome and I am not beautiful, yetas our late parents used to saywe make a very presentable pair. When we try. Certainly Ben looks most impressive in the vestments that some of his female parishioners made for him, complete with Navajo symbols of sun, earth, and sky.

The fifty parishioners and one hundred schoolchildren from St. Mildreds sat huddled together in winter coats and heavy-duty footgear. At the left of the altar, two purple candles burned in an Advent wreath fashioned from fir, cedar, and pine. The remaining candles, one pink and the other purple, would be lighted on the last two Sundays before Christmas.

Outside, three feet of snow covered the ground. As usual, winter had arrived early in Alpine. At over two thousand feet above sea level, we were not only in the mountains, we were part of them. I turned my attention to Father Fitz as he stood to give the final blessing.

I have some announcements, he said in his low, mellifluous voice with its trace of County Cork. Father Fitzs legs might be crippled by arthritis, his hearing may be poor, but there is nothing wrong with the way he speaks. Last weeks Christmas bazaar brought in $1,185.37. Half well be giving to the school, the other half to the families of unemployed loggers. God bless you for your generosity and hard work. He paused, peering at his notes through thick trifocals. The school Nativity pageant, Elvis Meets the Three Wise Men, will take place Thursday, December 17th, in the school hall at seven P.M . He gave the principal, Mrs. Monica Vancich, a glance of disapproval. Mrs. Vancich smiled serenely, then tweaked the white shirt collar of Joey Bronsky, a notorious fidgeter and my ad managers son. Joey snapped to.

Father Fitz continued: Finally, we ask you all to pray for the repose of the souls of the thousands of brave Americans who died in yesterdays attack on Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. Monstrous cruel it was, and our president will be needing your prayers as well. May Almighty God keep Mr. Roosevelt. Father Fitz turned to his breviary. The Lord be with you.

And also with you. The congregations response was a little wobbly. I caught Bens eye. He was staring stonily ahead, his face tight. It was a sure sign that he was trying not to laugh.

Father Fitz bestowed the last blessing and dismissed us. Annie Jeanne Dupr pumped away at the old organ as the congregation launched into an off-key rendition of Immaculate Mary. Father Fitz and Ben left the altar, the schoolchildren began to file out in a disorderly fashion, and little clutches of worshippers buzzed in the aisles, presumably about Father Fitzs unfortunate lapse. I edged off to a side altar where the statue of St. Joseph seemed to wear a bemused air. I was waiting for Ben and didnt want to get caught up in controversy just yet. I faced enough of that every day in my job as editor and publisher of The Advocate.

It wasnt unusual for our officially retired pastor to operate in a time warp. His sermons often reflected an era of bootleg liquor, creeping Communism, or family life lived only by Andy Hardy. This, however, was the first time hed enlisted his parishioners prayers for a event long past.

Except for Mrs. Patricelli, who was lighting enough votive candles to bake a ham, the church had grown empty. I could feel the cold come through the stained glass windows and hear the wind stir in the belfry. It was going on nine in the morning and very gloomy outside. The heavy gray clouds had been hanging over Alpine since early November. We might glimpse the sun before May, but we wouldnt see the ground. Only seven miles from the summit of Stevens Pass in the Cascade Mountains, the four thousand residents of Alpine knew winter far better than most Pacific Northwesterners. Eighty miles away in Seattle, I suspected it was fifty degrees with a seventy percent chance of rain.

Ben came from the sacristy just as Mrs. Patricelli ran out of matches. On her way out, she beamed at my brother, a gap-toothed, maternal smile, befitting the mother of nine and grandmother of eighteen. Maybe they were the reason for all the candles. The last Id heard, her oldest was president of a bank in Yakima and her youngest was doing time for embezzling. Not, I guessed, from his brothers bank.

Ben had planned on taking himself to breakfast at the Venison Eat Inn and Take Out after mass. Id better skip the ride downtown, he said in his crackling voice that could keep even the sleepiest parishioner awake during a sermon. Father Fitz is pretty shaky and the housekeeper is upset.