The Alpine Xanadu Read Free Page B

letter to Mavis on my laptop. “Glad you liked the vase,” I typed. “Sorry about Ray. Hope His Royal Grumpiness is improving.” I stopped to munch on a carrot stick and think of a tactful way to tell Mavis she was off base. But my mind was blank. After three false starts, I headed to the funeral. Scandinavians and other northern Europeans have historically dominated Skykomish County, so there’d be a big turnout. The Lutheransalso ran the retirement and nursing home in the same block between Cedar and Cascade Streets. Seating would be at a premium. Vida would no doubt manage to get up front, but if the service ran long, I preferred to make a quick escape and go back to the office.
    My concession to funeral attire was forest-green slacks and a matching sweater. My new Donna Karan winter jacket was black, and Francine Wells of Francine’s Fine Apparel had told me it was a real steal at her post-holiday sale. Noting that the price was still three hundred bucks, I asked her if I could steal it. She said no, but she said it nicely.
    Parking was already scarce, though I found a spot not far from the lot’s entrance. It was still raining, the clouds so low that I couldn’t see more than fifty feet up the side of Mount Baldy. Avoiding the puddles that had accumulated, I entered the church, which was already two-thirds full. I couldn’t spot Vida, so I sat in the third row from the back.
    That was a mistake. I hadn’t taken into account the Wailers’ arrival five minutes later. They sat down in the last row almost directly behind me. The trio of black-clad women never missed a funeral—unless it was at St. Mildred’s or Trinity Episcopal. In acts of Christian charity for the sake of their mourners, Father Dennis Kelly and the Very Reverend Regis Bartleby had banned the Wailers. They wailed, keened, groaned, and moaned at what apparently constituted the saddest moments of any service. Most Alpiners were able to ignore them. I didn’t know how to do that, still finding them disruptive.
    But I was stuck. At least I’d managed to edge over to the far end of the pew. Meanwhile, I focused on the Rafferty family members who obviously weren’t going to sit in the more private mourning area. I’d come mainly for Delia’s daughter, Beth, who was the daytime SkyCo 911 operator. When Beth’s brother, Tim, had been killed, we’d formed a tentative friendship. Beth was accompanied by a man I didn’t recognize, but I assumed he was Keith Jacobson,the recently hired Nyquist Construction foreman. I’d heard they’d been dating since November. I was glad for Beth. An early marriage had ended badly. She needed someone in her life after losing her brother and now her mother.
    Tim’s widow, Tiffany, was another matter. She’d been pregnant at the time and so self-absorbed with her unborn child that I’d lost sympathy for her. She walked down the aisle between her parents, Wayne and Cookie Eriks. Cookie was rather vapid. Wayne wasn’t one of my favorite people. He’d made a pass at me once and had problems with the word “no.” Milo had fingered him as the prime suspect in his son-in-law’s murder, but I’d never gotten the sheriff to admit if he’d collared Wayne on the basis of evidence—and there was some—or because the lecher had hit on me.
    I was so fixated on Wayne that at first I didn’t notice the tall, saturnine man who was following the Eriks family. It was Jack Blackwell, who sat down with the rest of Delia’s kinfolk. I was puzzled, unaware of a connection between Black Jack and the Rafferty or Eriks clan.
    My rubbernecking allowed me to catch Vida moving into the second row. I hadn’t seen her come in. Maybe she’d entered through a rear door—or had descended from the ceiling like a prophet in the Bible.
    Pastor Nielsen conducted a dignified service. I drifted, only being jerked back into attention when the Wailers wailed or otherwise made some ungodly noise. Near what I hoped was the ceremony’s