Vic all arrived at the same time. For starters, I told my reporter-photographer to take a couple of outside shots first. It was dark, it was raining, but if he used color, the darkened church and the amber lights in the rectory might create a little visual drama.
I stood on the rectory steps while Scott worked, peering out from under the hood of his black peacoat. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t turn around when a beat-up SUV pulled into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle as belonging to Dwight Gould. An ardent hunter and fisherman, the longtime deputy had a reputation for driving on any kind of surface short of straight up.
“Why me?” he called as he stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Why do I have to leave my easy chair and a good Monday night football game to take a picture? You already got a photographer here.”
“Ask Dodge,” I called back. Dwight also had a reputation for griping.
Scott finished his exterior work. “Is this a story or just an obit?” he asked as we went inside.
“It’s a front-page story,” I replied. “ ‘Native Alpiner Comes Home to Die’—or something like that.”
“Poor Buddy,” Scott murmured as I beckoned him into the empty parlor. “This has been a bad week for him.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Now I feel guilty about taking our business away from him.”
“You had to,” Scott reasoned.
He looked around the room. Ben had added a couple of Hopi kachina dolls and a framed Navajo petroglyph from one of the canyons near Tuba City. Coupled with Dennis Kelly’s Swahili masks and headdresses, the parlor was a far cry from Father Fitz’s romanticized paintings of the Madonna and the saints. After seven years, Father Den had left his mark on Alpine in more ways than one. As the first African-American clergyman in town, he’d been every bit as much of a pioneer as the early miners, loggers, and railway workers. Over the next few months, I hoped Ben would put his own stamp on Alpine.
“Is this room worth shooting?” Scott asked.
“No,” I replied, studying the petroglyph, which depicted two figures playing long, slim horns. “I just want us to keep out of the way until they remove Gen’s body.”
Ben poked his head into the parlor. “Where’d you go, Sluggly? Oh, hi, Scott.” My brother grinned at the younger man. “I thought Emma was raiding the poor box.”
Scott, who had met Ben only once before, didn’t seem to know what to make of a priest who wasn’t in a movie or on a TV show.
“Hi . . . Father,” Scott said in a deferential tone. “I’m sorry for what happened here. It must be awful for you.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s life. Death, that is. I’m more concerned about Annie Jeanne Dupré. She was a real wreck when they hauled her out of here. I’m going to the hospital later to see her.”
Rolling the gurney that carried Gen’s covered body, Del and Vic went past the parlor door. I made the sign of the cross and said a short, silent prayer.
“See ya,” Del called.
His jaunty farewell unsettled me. It seemed I ran into Del Amundson only at disaster scenes. He was a remarkably cheerful man, somehow wearing death and suffering as comfortably as his EMT uniform.
Milo and Dwight came along a few seconds later. The sheriff was still exasperated. “We’re going to have to treat the dining room and kitchen like a crime scene until we get the autopsy report. That could take a couple of days.” He grimaced at Ben. “Sorry. Maybe you can move in with Emma. Gotta run. I’ve got freaking paperwork to do tonight.”
Ben rubbed at his forehead. “Damn.”
“Hey, Stench,” I said, calling Ben by my girlhood nickname for him, “it’s no problem if you bunk with me. I’ve already started cleaning out Adam’s room.”
Scott looked aghast.
“Stench?”
he said under his breath.
I didn’t enlighten my reporter. Maybe he’d think it was some kind of Catholic term, like
eminence.
Ben grinned at me. “I’m not
I stood on the rectory steps while Scott worked, peering out from under the hood of his black peacoat. He was concentrating so hard that he didn’t turn around when a beat-up SUV pulled into the parking lot. I recognized the vehicle as belonging to Dwight Gould. An ardent hunter and fisherman, the longtime deputy had a reputation for driving on any kind of surface short of straight up.
“Why me?” he called as he stepped down from the driver’s seat. “Why do I have to leave my easy chair and a good Monday night football game to take a picture? You already got a photographer here.”
“Ask Dodge,” I called back. Dwight also had a reputation for griping.
Scott finished his exterior work. “Is this a story or just an obit?” he asked as we went inside.
“It’s a front-page story,” I replied. “ ‘Native Alpiner Comes Home to Die’—or something like that.”
“Poor Buddy,” Scott murmured as I beckoned him into the empty parlor. “This has been a bad week for him.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Now I feel guilty about taking our business away from him.”
“You had to,” Scott reasoned.
He looked around the room. Ben had added a couple of Hopi kachina dolls and a framed Navajo petroglyph from one of the canyons near Tuba City. Coupled with Dennis Kelly’s Swahili masks and headdresses, the parlor was a far cry from Father Fitz’s romanticized paintings of the Madonna and the saints. After seven years, Father Den had left his mark on Alpine in more ways than one. As the first African-American clergyman in town, he’d been every bit as much of a pioneer as the early miners, loggers, and railway workers. Over the next few months, I hoped Ben would put his own stamp on Alpine.
“Is this room worth shooting?” Scott asked.
“No,” I replied, studying the petroglyph, which depicted two figures playing long, slim horns. “I just want us to keep out of the way until they remove Gen’s body.”
Ben poked his head into the parlor. “Where’d you go, Sluggly? Oh, hi, Scott.” My brother grinned at the younger man. “I thought Emma was raiding the poor box.”
Scott, who had met Ben only once before, didn’t seem to know what to make of a priest who wasn’t in a movie or on a TV show.
“Hi . . . Father,” Scott said in a deferential tone. “I’m sorry for what happened here. It must be awful for you.”
Ben shrugged. “It’s life. Death, that is. I’m more concerned about Annie Jeanne Dupré. She was a real wreck when they hauled her out of here. I’m going to the hospital later to see her.”
Rolling the gurney that carried Gen’s covered body, Del and Vic went past the parlor door. I made the sign of the cross and said a short, silent prayer.
“See ya,” Del called.
His jaunty farewell unsettled me. It seemed I ran into Del Amundson only at disaster scenes. He was a remarkably cheerful man, somehow wearing death and suffering as comfortably as his EMT uniform.
Milo and Dwight came along a few seconds later. The sheriff was still exasperated. “We’re going to have to treat the dining room and kitchen like a crime scene until we get the autopsy report. That could take a couple of days.” He grimaced at Ben. “Sorry. Maybe you can move in with Emma. Gotta run. I’ve got freaking paperwork to do tonight.”
Ben rubbed at his forehead. “Damn.”
“Hey, Stench,” I said, calling Ben by my girlhood nickname for him, “it’s no problem if you bunk with me. I’ve already started cleaning out Adam’s room.”
Scott looked aghast.
“Stench?”
he said under his breath.
I didn’t enlighten my reporter. Maybe he’d think it was some kind of Catholic term, like
eminence.
Ben grinned at me. “I’m not
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