Part 18 (1/2)

I nodded. ”I'd better be going. By the way, you haven't had any more thoughts about Tim and Tiffany, have you?”

She shook her head. ”Frankly, I try not to think about them.”

”I don't blame you.”

”Tiffany's lucky she didn't lose the baby,” Donna said. ”That happened to me when Art was killed. Of course, I was only six weeks along, but his death triggered the miscarriage. Or so I've always felt.”

I hadn't known that. ”I'm sorry,” I said, realizing that Donna and Tiffany had more in common than I realized. Both had been widowed young, and their husbands had died violently. ”Tiffany seems to be holding up pretty well, all things considered.”

”Maybe she's tougher than she looks.” Donna's expression was enigmatic. ”Let me know if you want the painting. The best time to call me at home is early afternoon. Most of my charges take naps then.”

I thanked her and said we'd be in touch.

But I could hardly take my eyes off of Sky Autumn. In my mind, it followed me out of the Alpine Building. It seemed to speak to me.

It would take me some time to find out what the painting was trying to say.

THIRTEEN.

I JUST HAD time to go home and change into something that didn't reek of perspiration. By the time I got to the ski lodge it was ten after six. Beth Rafferty hadn't arrived yet, but the hostess who had replaced Heather Bardeen Bavich showed me to a corner table.

The Norse G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses who stood guard over the dining room looked blessedly cool. As I waited, I kept thinking about Sky Autumn. I could hardly do much else, given that the ski lodge's decor is forest and streams and waterfalls. Maybe the painting was meant for me. Or, possibly having lost a lover, I wanted to replace him with a live-in extravagance that didn't require care and coddling. It would be better, I supposed, than changing my hair color as many women seem to do when they break up with the man in their lives.

Beth appeared, looking tired and hot. Her blond hair clung damply to her fair skin.

”I should've changed,” she said, allowing the hostess to seat her. ”But then I'd have been late. It was awfully nice of you to invite me.”

I shrugged. ”I felt remiss about not talking to you this morning.”

Beth smiled grimly. ”Better to talk where liquor's available. Unlike you Catholics, the Lutherans don't allow alcohol on church premises.”

”I've never understood that,” I admitted. ”Jesus's first miracle was changing water into wine at his mother's urging. I a.s.sume Mary wanted to see the good times roll. It was a wedding, probably family, and she didn't want the host to look cheap. It was a small town; think how people would carp and criticize.” A small town like Alpine-where even now Beth and I were attracting covert glances. Sister of murder victim dining with newspaper editor. What can it mean?

Beth looked pensive. ”Goodness, I never thought about the Bible story that way. In fact, I guess I've never thought about it much at all.”

I smiled. ”Father Kelly is very bright, but that's part of the problem. His sermons tend to be intellectual exercises. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was a Jesuit. In any event, sometimes I drift during his homilies. That's when I mull over the readings.”

”Our parents never took us to church,” Beth said. ”At least, not very often. Christmas and Easter, sometimes. We'd go to whichever church had the best choir.”

”That probably wasn't St. Mildred's,” I replied dryly. ”We've never attracted very good singers, and only recently have we had an organist who can play well.”

Our waitress, Becky Erdahl, came to take our orders. Beth requested a gin and tonic; I asked for a margarita. Scandinavian restaurant or not, it was summer, and a margarita sounded cool.

”I'm so sorry about your brother,” Becky said in a low voice. ”He was here for dinner just last week.”

Beth looked surprised. ”He was? I didn't think Tim and Tiff ate out that often.”

Becky is the daughter of Ione Erdahl, who owns the local children's store and had been the unfortunate victim of Alfred Cobb's crash landing in her lap at the library. ”Tiff wasn't with Tim,” Becky said. ”He came with his father-in-law.”

Beth looked puzzled. ”With Wayne Eriks?”

”Yes, Tiff's dad.” Becky suddenly seemed uncomfortable. ”I'd better get your drink orders in. The bar is beginning to get busy.” She hurried away.

I waited for Beth to say something, but she was studying the specials on the menu. ”Were Tim and Wayne close?” I finally asked in what I hoped was a casual voice.

Beth put the menu aside. ”No,” she said frankly. ”They never bonded, not even after all the years that Tim and Tiff were together. I suppose it was because Wayne was old-fas.h.i.+oned and didn't believe in couples living together without a marriage license.” She laughed scornfully. ”I couldn't wait to get married-and after six months, I wished I had. I was too young, so was my ex. We'd have been better off living together to find out we couldn't really stand each other.”

”So you find it odd that Tim and Wayne had dinner together?”

”Oh . . .” Beth's gaze roamed around the dining room's beamed ceiling. ”I guess not. Maybe Wayne decided it was time to give Tim some fatherly advice about raising kids.”

Her face seemed to shut down. I decided to change the subject. ”How is your mother?” I inquired.

”Pitiful,” Beth answered. ”She used to be so s.p.u.n.ky. She's tiny, you know, but she had to be tough to stand up to Dad. He could give her a bad time when he'd had a few too many.” She shook her head. ”That's the flip side of putting pottery bowls on your head, I guess.”

”That's true,” I agreed. ”Drinking isn't funny when people overdo it.”

”The Irish, you know,” she said with an ironic expression.

”It's a cliche, of course.” Tom Cavanaugh hadn't been a big drinker. ”Tim wasn't a big boozer, was he?”

Beth frowned. By coincidence, our own c.o.c.ktails arrived. Beth waited to answer until Becky was out of earshot. ”He drank more than he should have. Being in the bartending business causes that, I think.” She tapped her gla.s.s. ”I keep to one drink, just enough to take off the edge.”

I raised my gla.s.s. ”To Tim.”

”Tim,” Beth echoed, a hint of tears in the single syllable. We tapped gla.s.ses. ”He wasn't an alcoholic. Don't get me wrong. Maybe I overreact because our dad went on the occasional bender.”

”Sometimes alcoholism is hereditary,” I remarked. ”That is,” I added hastily, ”I'm not saying your father was . . .”

Beth waved a hand. ”I know what you mean. But Dad only drank on paydays. Unfortunately.”

”How's Tiffany? She seemed to be making it through the funeral.”

”Oh, yes.” Beth sighed. ”Maybe it hasn't hit her yet. That's just as well.”

”She's very wrapped up in the baby,” I noted.

Beth sipped her drink. ”Isn't she, though? I've never had children, so I don't know how you're supposed to act.”

”Everyone is different.” I'd not only been sick as a dog, but frantic. If Ben hadn't insisted I join him down on the Mississippi Delta, I don't know what I would have done. Except, of course, that I'd have done whatever it took. I supposed that Tiffany would do the same. ”I hope she hadn't bought a lot of expensive baby things.”

”A few,” Beth said. ”She was waiting for the showers. I think she'd gotten a crib and a stroller and some newborn clothes. Luckily she stored them at her parents' house.”

”That was lucky,” I agreed. ”How come?”

Beth shrugged. ”I guess she didn't have room until she put the nursery together. Tiff's not terribly organized. Of course, she has plenty of time.”