The Alpine Legacy by Mary Daheim Page A

“Like she usually does. We didn't talk long.”
    My eyes narrowed. “It was a business call?”
    The grimace turned into a snarl.
“You
don't ask
me
questions, goddamn it. In fact, if you don't have any more information about Crystal, take a hike.”
    I practically jumped out of the chair. “The only thing I know is that you're a jerk and Crystal was a mean-minded bitch.”
    “Nice thing to say about the dead,” Milo growled.
    “Being dead doesn't improve her,” I retorted, then managed to trip over my handbag and fall sideways backinto the chair. Several four-letter words spurted from my lips.
    “Serves you right,” muttered the sheriff. Then, perhaps thinking of lawsuits against the county, he asked if I was okay.
    “Yeah, fine, swell,” I said, standing up and wresting the handbag's strap from where it had gotten caught under one of the chair legs. “Let me know what happens next.”
    “Aren't you being kind of half-assed?” Milo called out as I reached his door.
    “You told me to take a hike. That's what I'm doing.” Without turning around, I yanked the door open and tromped through the outer office.
    I
was
being half-assed, of course. But our deadline wasn't until Tuesday afternoon, and I refused to give Milo satisfaction. Besides, I had another source. Getting into the Jag, I headed up Fourth Street, turned on Cedar, and pulled into St. Mildred's empty parking lot.
    By coincidence, the woman I had helped seek shelter was now working for Father Den. Della Lucci was reeducating herself at Skykomish Community College and living in the rectory with her four children. In a bygone era, two maybe even three priests would have served the county's Catholic parishioners. But the shortage of vocations meant that we were lucky to have a single priest in residence. There was sufficient room left over for the Luccis.
    “I don't know where Father is,” Della informed me in her wispy voice. She was a plump, docile woman in her forties who had finally left her abusive husband a couple of years earlier. Nunzio Lucci, or Luce, as he was known, had taken up with a woman he'd met at Mugs Ahoy and moved to Arlington. The Luccis had never divorced, and despite Luce's abusive nature and rotten disposition, heand Della had agreed to sell their small frame house by Burl Creek and split the profits.
    I smiled reassuringly at Della. She was one of those poor creatures who always seemed to need reassurance. Whatever self-confidence she had as a young woman must have been peeled away by Luce's constant bullying.
    “I know Father Den went out earlier,” I said. “Would you mind if I wait?”
    “Oh, no, Ms. Lord,” Della said, wide-eyed, and deferring to me as she always did to those she considered her social betters. Which, I realized, was just about anyone who didn't walk on all fours. “Come into the parlor. Would you like some coffee?”
    I declined, but followed Della inside. The parlor had been refurbished since Father Fitzgerald's tenure as pastor. In those days, it had been a dark little corner, full of mohair furniture and sentimental holy pictures. Now the drapes were open and the furnishings more modern, if utilitarian. All but one painting of the Scared Heart of Jesus had been replaced by brightly colored African wall hangings.
    For Dennis Kelly was a black man in a white community, and like Dustin Fong and other minorities who had managed to wedge their way into Alpine, he had found resistance, suspicion, and even hostility. But Den had courage as well as charity, and had won over his parishioners, as well as many of the town's more broad-minded Protestants.
    I reflected on his fortitude while I waited. Della had gone off to supervise her two younger children, who had put on snowsuits and were going outside to build a fort.
    Father Den arrived about ten minutes later, looking strained, but not surprised to see me. “Dodge must have told you about Crystal,” he said, sitting down across from me. “That was