The Alpine Christmas by Mary Daheim Page B

we have at home, only smaller. We put homemade stuff on it, like cranberries and popcorn and hard candy.”
    Ben had left for the rectory and Vida had returned to her desk. “What a stupid idea,” she declared, narrowing her eyes at Ed. “I’ve seen your tree. By the day after Christmas, it’s bare. Your children have eaten all the decorations.” The accusing stare she gave Ed indicated that she thought he and his wife had probably helped.
    I didn’t give Ed time to defend himself. “Here,” I said to Ginny and Carla. “I’m writing a check to Harvey’s Hardware and Sporting Goods Store. Go get something decent, and keep it under fifty bucks.”
    Ed stopped removing his heavy overcoat. “Harvey Adcock! I was supposed to see him fifteen minutes ago! Wouldn’t you know it! He wants to double the size of his usual ad next week just because he thinks men like to gettools and sports stuff for Christmas! Why can’t they be happy with a tie? I am.” He plodded out of the office behind Ginny and Carla.
    Vida rolled her eyes. “Honestly,” she breathed. “It isn’t just that people are jackasses, Emma. It’s that there are so many
kinds
of jackasses!”
    “I’m afraid so.” I poured a cup of coffee and sat down in Ed’s chair. “I’ve got to go see Milo and tell him about Carol Neal. Then he can start tracking her down and find out if she’s really missing.” I paused, waiting for Vida to respond. But Vida was doodling on a notepad. “If she’s the same Carol,” I went on, “then she must have known Bridget. Blanchet’s not that big—under a thousand students at the time, I’d guess.” Vida kept doodling. “I should have asked Mrs. Hoffman who Carol’s friends were, assuming she and Bridget weren’t buddies. Maybe Ben can call Bill Crowley. He’s been the chaplain there for almost ten years.”
    At last, Vida looked up. “Who was your best friend in high school, Emma?”
    I blinked. “I had two. Chris Sullivan and Ursula Guy.”
    “When was the last time you saw them?”
    My brow furrowed under bangs that needed a trim. “I had lunch in Seattle with Chris last summer. The Fourth of July weekend. Ursula lives in Houston. I owe her a letter. She sent me a Thanksgiving card and enclosed a note.”
    Vida nodded slowly, while I gazed at her in puzzlement. “You keep up. Even though you live a whole county or half a continent away. Now if you and Tommy”—I made a face as Vida called Tom Cavanaugh by the nickname only she dared to use—“had taken the trouble to get married, I imagine you would have invited these dear high school chums to your wedding. Oh, stop looking like you swallowed a dill pickle! I know it wasn’t your fault you didn’t get married, and he may be Tom to you, but he’s Tommy to me. And he’s a very fine man, not nearly as big a lunkhead as most. But don’t get me started on
that
. What I’m saying is that it’s verystrange Bridget had no friends at her wedding. She’s only twenty-two or twenty-three. At that age, they couldn’t possibly have all moved to Timbuktu. So what is wrong with Bridget Dunne Nyquist?”
    I was taken aback by Vida’s question. “How do I know? More to the point, what’s Bridget’s lack of social expertise got to do with Carol Neal’s dead body? If, that is, the corpse turns out to be Carol?” I saw Vida’s expression of exasperation and grabbed the phone. “That does it! I’m not waiting to go over to Milo’s office; I’m going to call him right now!”
    As I vigorously punched in the sheriff’s number, Vida sat back in her chair, wearing a smug look. “It’s about time. I thought you were going to sit there all day and slurp coffee, just like Ed.”
    I gave Vida a wry glance. At the other end of the line, I was put on hold. Before I could say anything more to Vida, Milo’s laconic voice sounded in my ear. He was mildly interested in the information I’d gleaned from Mrs. Hoffman. One thing that I’ve learned from dealing