however, could still see four feet up on the staircase landing. Maybe the Cederberg kids were breaking some of their parents’ rules. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. I’ve never been one to squash natural curiosity. It was, after all, one of the reasons I’d gone into journalism.
But as I left the Cederberg house, I knew I didn’t have any answers.
I drove by John Engstrom Park on my way home. Under the pristine white blanket of snow, the half block of trees and shrubs took on a magical aura. Unlike Old Mill Park on the other side of town with its picnic tables and bandstand and tennis court and life-sized statue of Carl Clemans, this small oasis is not just a monument to the Alpine Mill’s beloved superintendent, but a microcosm of local flora. The park was built among existing evergreens, and the other plantings are native growth, from trilliums to wild ginger. Only the pond and the plaque are artificial, but they are artfully integrated. There is no purpose to the place, except to provide a memorial to John Engstrom and a haven in the middle of commercial and residential structures. City dwellers might scoff at the need for such a refuge whenthe town itself is surrounded by nature’s grandeur. But I find the park quaint, charming, and a reminder that sometimes our vision is limited. We cannot see the forest for the trees. And often, we cannot see the mountains for the rooftops.
It was after nine o’clock by the time I got home. At least an inch of snow had fallen. I called Vida. She was watching TV with Roger.
“Giraffes,” she said, “on PBS. I thought Roger needed something educational. He’s all tuckered out from our Big Day.”
I recounted my so-called interview with the Cederbergs, including Reba’s claim that Linda was in a custody battle. Vida pounced on that tasty tidbit.
“My niece, Stacey, works for the Doukas firm,” she said. “I’ll see what she knows. She’s been very lax lately about keeping me informed.”
I had forgotten about Stacey. Indeed, I required a family tree to keep track of Vida’s relatives. “The Cederbergs think some outsider killed Linda,” I noted. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “Anything is possible,” Vida allowed. “I would like to believe that, naturally. Do you?”
I gave a truncated laugh. “How would I know, Vida? My experience with murder in Alpine is somewhat limited, but the victim usually knows the killer.”
Vida refused to comment. Instead, she returned to Andy’s close call at John Engstrom Park. “I don’t like that. If it wasn’t Durwood Parker, who could it be?”
I repeated the earlier theory of teenagers, lost in the fog. “They don’t take weather factors into account,” I said, recalling some of Adam’s vehicular disasters. Fortunately, they had all occurred before I bought the Jag.
“Perhaps.” Vida sounded noncommittal. I suspectedshe was still considering the possibility that the Bank of Alpine’s employees were all potential victims. “I’m not going to use it in ‘Scene.’ It’s too morbid. I’m also cutting out Darla Puckett’s tidbit on JoAnne Petersen scurrying around Safeway to buy crackers and cheese spread. I certainly wouldn’t embarrass Ginny by running Heather Bardeen’s report of Rick Erlandson and Denise Petersen necking at the Whistling Marmot. Besides, we shouldn’t have anything frivolous in this issue that involves the Petersens or the bank. Just because Leo has a filthy mouth doesn’t mean we should lower the rest of our standards.”
I quite agreed with Vida, though it always amused me when she delivered a lecture as if I were the green reporter and she the veteran publisher. “Andy thought a mention of the careless driver might elicit a witness,” I said.
Vida snorted. “In that fog? If anyone had been there, Andy would have noticed. It’s best to leave it out. I have more than enough this week, what with all the items
But as I left the Cederberg house, I knew I didn’t have any answers.
I drove by John Engstrom Park on my way home. Under the pristine white blanket of snow, the half block of trees and shrubs took on a magical aura. Unlike Old Mill Park on the other side of town with its picnic tables and bandstand and tennis court and life-sized statue of Carl Clemans, this small oasis is not just a monument to the Alpine Mill’s beloved superintendent, but a microcosm of local flora. The park was built among existing evergreens, and the other plantings are native growth, from trilliums to wild ginger. Only the pond and the plaque are artificial, but they are artfully integrated. There is no purpose to the place, except to provide a memorial to John Engstrom and a haven in the middle of commercial and residential structures. City dwellers might scoff at the need for such a refuge whenthe town itself is surrounded by nature’s grandeur. But I find the park quaint, charming, and a reminder that sometimes our vision is limited. We cannot see the forest for the trees. And often, we cannot see the mountains for the rooftops.
It was after nine o’clock by the time I got home. At least an inch of snow had fallen. I called Vida. She was watching TV with Roger.
“Giraffes,” she said, “on PBS. I thought Roger needed something educational. He’s all tuckered out from our Big Day.”
I recounted my so-called interview with the Cederbergs, including Reba’s claim that Linda was in a custody battle. Vida pounced on that tasty tidbit.
“My niece, Stacey, works for the Doukas firm,” she said. “I’ll see what she knows. She’s been very lax lately about keeping me informed.”
I had forgotten about Stacey. Indeed, I required a family tree to keep track of Vida’s relatives. “The Cederbergs think some outsider killed Linda,” I noted. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. “Anything is possible,” Vida allowed. “I would like to believe that, naturally. Do you?”
I gave a truncated laugh. “How would I know, Vida? My experience with murder in Alpine is somewhat limited, but the victim usually knows the killer.”
Vida refused to comment. Instead, she returned to Andy’s close call at John Engstrom Park. “I don’t like that. If it wasn’t Durwood Parker, who could it be?”
I repeated the earlier theory of teenagers, lost in the fog. “They don’t take weather factors into account,” I said, recalling some of Adam’s vehicular disasters. Fortunately, they had all occurred before I bought the Jag.
“Perhaps.” Vida sounded noncommittal. I suspectedshe was still considering the possibility that the Bank of Alpine’s employees were all potential victims. “I’m not going to use it in ‘Scene.’ It’s too morbid. I’m also cutting out Darla Puckett’s tidbit on JoAnne Petersen scurrying around Safeway to buy crackers and cheese spread. I certainly wouldn’t embarrass Ginny by running Heather Bardeen’s report of Rick Erlandson and Denise Petersen necking at the Whistling Marmot. Besides, we shouldn’t have anything frivolous in this issue that involves the Petersens or the bank. Just because Leo has a filthy mouth doesn’t mean we should lower the rest of our standards.”
I quite agreed with Vida, though it always amused me when she delivered a lecture as if I were the green reporter and she the veteran publisher. “Andy thought a mention of the careless driver might elicit a witness,” I said.
Vida snorted. “In that fog? If anyone had been there, Andy would have noticed. It’s best to leave it out. I have more than enough this week, what with all the items
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