The Alpine Quilt by Mary Daheim

even if it meant stretching the truth. “She’s not daffy. She’s merely excitable. It’s because of her musical talent; it’s artistic temperament.” Vic was a Lutheran who wouldn’t know the difference, probably never having had to endure Annie Jeanne’s boxing-glove punishment of the organ. “Besides,” I added, “her oldest and dearest friend died right before her eyes. That must have been horrible.” I suppressed a shudder; I ought to know.
    “Yeah,” Vic responded, “I guess I should cut her some slack. Where are those two nuns?”
    Sister Mary Joan and Sister Clare shared a small condo across the street. The convent had burned down years ago, and was never rebuilt because of the scarcity of vocations. “For all I know, they’re at the movies,” I said after filling him in on their place of residence.
    Vic cocked an eyebrow. “The Whistling Marmot’s showing
Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
”
    “So?”
    “I didn’t know nuns went to movies, let alone ones with violence and raw—” He stopped and looked beyond me. “Ah. Here comes the long arm of the law.”
    I turned to see Milo loping through the open door. He nodded abruptly at Vic and me before going into the parlor. My curiosity got the better of me, but first I dialed Scott’s number. He’d recently moved in permanently with his fiancée, Tamara Rostova, who taught at the community college. Scott answered on the third ring. I asked him to grab his camera and come to St. Mildred’s.
    When I started to move into the parlor, I was forced to backtrack. Vic, Del, and Doc Dewey were putting a subdued Annie Jeanne on a gurney. After they tucked her in, Doc gave me one of his kindly smiles. Like his father before him, he was of the old school. He even made house calls. I gave them plenty of room as the medics wheeled Annie Jeanne away. Doc was right at her side, holding an IV bag aloft. The firefighters also trooped toward the exit.
    “We’ll be back in ten minutes,” Del called over his shoulder to Ben, who had joined me in the hallway.
    “No rush,” Milo said from the parlor doorway. He was dressed in his civvies—blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. “Okay,” he said, after the others had left, “Gen Bayard’s in the dining room?”
    Ben nodded. “They’d just finished eating. Or at least that’s what I got out of Annie Jeanne. She was pretty damned incoherent.”
    I lagged a bit behind my brother and the sheriff. I’d seen too many dead people in my time, but I hadn’t yet grown the callous shell that protected other journalists.
    A third firefighter was standing by, but he excused himself when he saw the sheriff. Milo bent down by the body, which was lying next to an overturned chair. I couldn’t see Gen’s face, only the tinted blond hair. She lay in an awkward position, as if she had died in agony. There was nothing gruesome about the sight, but the smell made me feel slightly nauseous—a combination of roasted meat, something very sweet, and sickness. Moving closer to Ben, I swallowed hard.
    Milo stood up. “Her color’s really bad. Doc thinks it was a heart attack?”
    “That’s his offhand guess,” Ben replied. “He wants a good look before he signs off on the death certificate.”
    The sheriff got down on his knees, taking a close look at Gen’s face. “Doc’s cautious,” Milo said slowly, “so he’ll check with Buddy to see if his mother had a history of heart trouble.”
    Ben slapped at his forehead. “I haven’t called them yet. I’ll do that now.” He left the dining room.
    I wandered into the kitchen. Milo followed me.
    “What’re you looking for?” he asked, hands jammed into his pockets.
    I hadn’t realized I was looking for anything. “Who knows? I’m a professional snoop, remember?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe I just want to see if Annie Jeanne has been keeping my brother well nourished.”
    “He looks fine,” Milo remarked. “It’s good to see him. He’s a solid guy for a