The Alpine Legacy (18 page)

“Aunt Crystal had goals,” Thad continued, “which she was determined to reach. She had her own approach,
particularly through her newsletter,
Crystal Clear.
Critics and naysayers couldn't deter her. She marched to her own drummer, but the route she took always followed her social conscience.”

“Conscience indeed.” Vida sniffed. “Twaddle.”

As Thad Eriks further lauded his aunt, I tried to turn a deaf ear. Neither his words nor the Reverend Poole's homage had moved me in the slightest. Vida was right. Thad was spouting meaningless drivel. As for the minister, I couldn't fault him. He didn't know Crystal Bird from Larry Bird. His intentions were good, his faith apparently genuine. But I felt no compassion for Crystal. I still hated her. It would have been much better if I'd felt nothing at all. I was beginning to hate myself.

My gaze wandered about the church, which was unadorned, except for a plain cross on the altar, a stained-glass window depicting the Good Shepherd, and an American flag. The Wailers had remained mercifully silent during Thad's eulogy, which was beginning to wind down. Two rows in front of me, I saw the Eriks clan. Only Melody seemed moved by her brother's words. The rest sat as stone-faced as Al Driggers, who stood discreetly off to one side, waiting to tend to his duties as funeral director.

Thad finished and joined the rest of the family. A final prayer was offered by Pastor Poole. Then the organ played another hymn and the service was concluded except for a few last bleats and shrieks from the Wailers.

Crystal had been cremated, and a solemn Al Driggers now moved to the urn and held it up in front of him, like a priest offering the wine at Mass. No one looked at him. With Mel Eriks in the lead, the family all but bolted out of their pews. The rest of us weren't far behind.

We didn't get far. Aaron Conley had stopped by the pew where Dean Ramsey was patiently waiting for Paula
to help Victor with his crutches. Aaron lunged toward Victor; the sheriff grabbed him from behind.

But Milo couldn't stop his prisoner from shouting: “You and your precious, pretentious talent! There's no truth, no life, no guts in what you do, you big phony! You ruined Crystal! By God, I'll bet you killed her!”

The last words were uttered as Milo dragged Aaron down the aisle. The remaining mourners froze momentarily in shocked silence. Then, as if pushed by a giant hand, everyone moved forward practically at a gallop.

At the door, I turned to look over my shoulder. Al Driggers had also disappeared. The church was deserted; the urn again sat on the altar.

It was a sad reminder that everyone had left except Crystal. She wasn't going anywhere. She was already gone.

“Amazing,” Vida declared after we were outside. “I wouldn't have thought that a musician like Aaron would be so articulate.”

“Or so angry,” I said as the rest of us began to file out of the church. “Aaron must deeply resent Victor. I wonder if it's because they're both in the music business, or if it's more personal.”

“The latter,” Vida responded as we paused at the edge of the parking lot. “I can't imagine a rock musician or whatever they call themselves these days would care about a symphony-orchestra player. But it would appear that they both cared about Crystal.”

“Or about her money,” I put in. “Victor may have advised Crystal to cut Aaron off.”

“If so,” Vida noted, tucking her plaid scarf inside the collar of her tweed coat, “he failed. As far as we know, Crystal was still helping Aaron financially.”

“True,” I admitted. “But not anymore.”

“Yes,” Vida said, looking up at the gray clouds that
hung so low they obscured the trees on the face of Mount Baldy. “Aaron is on his own.” Her gaze shifted to Dean Ramsey, who was getting into a county vehicle which no doubt belonged to the extension agent's office. “They're all cut off. It makes you wonder, doesn't it?”

It did, of course. “Don't you find it odd that no one took the urn from Al Driggers?”

Vida touched her upper lip with her gloved hand. “Perhaps there was some confusion about the arrangements. Still,” she went on in a musing tone, “it is rather strange.”

“I thought so,” I remarked, but didn't elaborate. It had grown colder, and my black raincoat might have been appropriate for a funeral, but not for subfreezing weather.

Vida and I had come in our separate cars. Reluctantly, I steered the Jag in the direction of the Erikses' house. I would have preferred going back to work to get a jump start on next week's edition of
The Advocate
, but felt duty-bound to attend the family reception.

Since the Wailers never show up for postfuneral events, and Milo had escorted his charge back to the county jail, the reception attendees were small in number.

Paula had brought Victor with her. “Despite what Doc Dewey said initially, he really can't drive,” she explained as we selected cookies provided by the Upper Crust Bakery and accepted coffee from Luana Eriks.

“Where's he staying?” I asked.

Paula made a face. “With me. He couldn't be on his own at Crystal's, and he despises hotels and motels. It seems he's spent too much time in them while traveling with various orchestras. Anyway, what could I do? It seemed like a last favor for Crystal.”

We had moved away from the dining-room table to a spot by the fireplace. Vida was across the way, in a head-to-head conversation with Melody Eriks. Pastor Poole
and Father Den were in the far corner, perhaps engaging in an ecumenical discussion. I'd always been struck by the contrast between the two men in both style and appearance. The white offspring of a Nebraska farmer and the black son of a career army man had bonded long before Crystal's attacks on the clergy. Yet they found common ground, even when poles apart. Each understood compromise, and out of willingness to give and take, a friendship had been formed. I thought of Crystal's apparent inability to bend an inch and how much grief her intransigence had caused, perhaps even her untimely death.

I must have frowned. Certainly I'd lost the thread of conversation, and Paula had to prod me. “Are you there, Emma? Knock, knock.” She made a pounding gesture with her fist.

“What? Oh!” I laughed in embarrassment. “Sorry. I was mulling over the differences in temperament between people. I'd meant to say that Victor leaves tomorrow,” I noted, recalling Janet Driggers's words at the travel agency.

Paula shook her head. The masses of red hair had been tamed in deference to the solemn occasion and tucked under a silver turban that Vida no doubt envied. “Doc Dewey insisted Victor shouldn't travel—especially by plane—for another week. Unfortunately, I'm stuck with him.”

“Is he a problem patient?”

“You bet. Very demanding, very unappreciative.” Paula eyed Victor, who was sitting in an easy chair with his fiberglass-encased leg propped up on a footstool. “He was quick to inform me that my pathetic little house in Startup is not the Ansonia in New York City. Which, I gather, is where he's headed eventually. Like so many
artists, he calls it his spiritual home. About now, I wish it was a ten-story walk-up.”

I glanced at Victor, who was being waited on by Thad Eriks. “Maybe I should pay Victor a condolence call.”

“For what?” Paula retorted. “His broken leg? His rotten disposition? His supposed sense of loss?”

Paula's tone was caustic, but I couldn't blame her. She had become an unwilling nursemaid to a stranger. House-guests of any kind could be bad enough. But maybe I had lived alone too long. Maybe Paula had, too.

Thad had just delivered a plate of cookies and a cup of tea to Victor when I sidled up next to the easy chair. “I'm Emma Lord,” I said in my brightest voice. “I was visiting a friend in the hospital when you were there.”

Victor's granite-gray eyes narrowed. “Whose friend?” His accent was barely noticeable, his voice a basso profundo.

I explained about Carla and my connection with her through the newspaper. Victor was clearly bored.

“Babies,” he said. “There are too many babies. The world cannot hold them all. We are already overcrowded, like pilchards in a tin.”

“Have you ever seen Saskatchewan?” I shot back, and immediately felt silly.

Victor, however, ignored my implication. “Only Vancouver, Toronto, Winnipeg, and Montreal have adequate musical talent,” he replied. “In all of North America, there are no more than six outstanding orchestras.”

I was an opera, not a symphony, devotee. “Which is the best?” I asked, deciding to appear humble.

Victor frowned. Seated, he appeared to be a big man, with broad shoulders and a large head. What was left of his dark hair continued into a neat beard and mustache, all sprinkled with white. His eyebrows were thick, his nose almost delicate. Had the gray eyes not been so cold
and penetrating, Victor Dimitroff would have looked almost benign.

“Best?” he echoed, clearly thinking my question idiotic. “Best conductor? Best strings? Best woodwinds? Define your terms.”

I tried not to look as stupid as I felt. “In general.”

Victor spewed peanut-butter cookie crumbs all over his lap. “You should refer to interpretation, performance. Which composer? Beethoven? Bruckner? Sibelius? Rimsky-Korsakov?”

“Such fine points,” I murmured, trying to save face. “As a mere listener, I don't understand. Though,” I added, “I suppose I can see why a rock musician such as Aaron Conley would resent other musical forms.”

Victor's frown deepened. “He doesn't begin to understand music. He is part of a fad, and personally unsuccessful. What will endure of his sort of music? Fifty, even ten years from now, who will recall what so-called song sold the most copies?”

The statement was certainly grounds for an argument, but I declined to take part. “Did you know Aaron before you visited Crystal?”

“We had met.” Victor bit off the words. “In Portland, some time ago. Crystal used poor judgment when it came to love, though it's understandable. As the product of a small town, she married too young the first time.”

Victor finally had a point. I was growing tired of standing next to the easy chair, however. Gingerly, I placed one knee on the footstool. “I'm sorry about your accident. How did it happen?”

Now it was Victor's turn to look discomfited. “Why do you ask? Is this an interview for your little newspaper?”

I reined in my temper, which was always ignited by any slights to
The Advocate.
“It's my job. I'm covering the story. In this week's issue we wrote about the main facts,
along with a background piece on Crystal's life and the official obituary. Next week we'll follow up with some of the details.”

“The details of my life are private,” Victor declared, scowling at me from under those thick eyebrows. “Why does my misfortune make news except in your traffic-accident reports?”

The truth was, I had no good reason to interrogate Victor. But he had given me an idea. “That's the point,” I said. “We're not just interested in your accident and any connection with Crystal, but we plan on doing a winter driving article. With so many newcomers in the area, not to mention the skiers, we thought it would be helpful to tell drivers how to avoid mishaps. Naturally, we need a few examples.” Naturally, I'd had no such story in my head. Now that it was there, I'd pawn it off on Scott.

Victor was still scowling. “To show me off as a bad example?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn't even use your name.” I resurrected the bright smile with which I'd begun the conversation. “We'll talk about when to put on chains, front-wheel drive, studded tires, black ice, compact snow, fresh snow—”

As I'd hoped, the litany obviously bored Victor. “Yes, yes,” he interrupted. “But this is of no importance. If you must persist in interviewing me, then speak of my work, my compositions. Your callow young reporter didn't bother to probe. Now I shall explain what I'm trying to do with my music.”

My knee accidentally slid forward, knocking against Victor's cast. He let out a yip and I hastily withdrew from the footstool. “Sorry,” I gulped. “Are you all right?”

Judging from Victor's fierce expression, I might as well have set off a dozen sticks of TNT under his leg. “Of
course not! I am in pain. I suffer. Mightily.” He leaned forward, grasping the cast.

“To get back to the accident itself,” I began, keeping my distance from the footstool. “Did you—”

“Enough!” he bellowed, causing some of the Erikses to turn and stare. “What of my oratorio?”

The fish was fighting on my line, and I was about to lose him. “Please, Mr. Dimitroff, could we get this minor matter out of the way so we can concentrate on your wonderful music?”

Incredibly, the ploy worked. Victor uttered a huge sigh and leaned back in the chair. “Very well. It won't take long. My accident was of a simple nature. The car I'd rented had studded tires, but no chains. I am not used to driving in snow. Indeed, until recent years, I have not been used to driving at all. No one of intelligence has a car in New York or other large cities.”

“That's so.” I nodded with what I hoped was encouragement.

“The car was a standard-model medium-sized sedan, a Ford, I think.” He paused, perhaps trying to recall the model. “In any event, I lost control and it skidded off the highway.” Victor struck his right fist into his left palm. “Kablow! The car hits a rock, a log, who knows? It is impossible to tell with so much snow. And I am in terrible pain, in delirium. I know immediately that my leg is badly injured. Fortunately, someone with a cell phone stops and calls for help. I think I pass out at least once. The next thing I know, I am being removed from the car and put in an ambulance. Is that what you want to know?”

“Exactly,” I replied, though it wasn't the truth. “Were you wearing a seat belt?”

Victor looked embarrassed. “No. That was a mistake on my part. You may use my carelessness as your bad example.”

“A reminder,” I said, now smiling in sympathy. “Seat belts are mandatory in this state, but it's amazing how many people forget to put them on.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I forgot. That was very stupid.”

“We all forget things sometimes,” I remarked. “I'm sorry to have bothered you with all this when you must be in pain. Physical, as well as emotional. You must feel Crystal's loss deeply.”