Free The Alpine Christmas by Mary Daheim Page B

dries up and blows away.
    Oscar, however, was looking dubious. Instead of protesting, however, he set aside his pipe and pouch, reached for my notepad, and picked up a ballpoint pen. Apparently, Oscar was incapable of whispering. His handwriting was large and overblown, like the man himself:
Someone is trying to kill my grandson’s wife. Help us
.
    I blinked at the message, then stared at Oscar. He motioned for me not to speak out loud.
Who?
I scribbled.
    Don’t know
, he scrawled in reply.
    With a sigh, I leaned back in my swivel chair. It would do me no good to urge Oscar or any other Nyquist to go to the sheriff. Rapidly, I considered the previous problems the family had encountered. All of them were petty, probably pranks. Young people in Alpine didn’t have enough to do, especially in the winter. None of the Nyquist complaints would lead me to think that they could be connected with a killer. My initial reaction was to dismiss Oscar’s fears as part of a persecution complex.
    Except that we already had two dead young women. Was it possible that Bridget Nyquist might become number three?
    I found a fresh piece of paper and invited Oscar to come over to my house around six. He mulled over the request,fidgeted with his pipe, then gave a nod of assent. “Okay,” he said out loud. “You promise to help?”
    “Of course.” It felt like an empty vow, but at least I could hear the man out. He was on his feet, heavy shoes tramping on the floor. “What about Travis?” I murmured. “Would he like to come?”
    The bald head gave a sharp shake. “No.” Oscar started for the door. “He needs to rest.” The remark was an afterthought.
    Out in the news office, Vida and Ed were gone, Ginny had returned to the front desk, and Carla was deep in conversation with Travis. She giggled, which Carla often does, a decidedly unmusical sound. Travis was laughing, too. They were head-to-head, and I noticed that Oscar stiffened at the sight of them.
    “Let’s go, boy!” bellowed Oscar, barreling through the newsroom like a tank. Startled, Travis looked up from his tête-à-tête.
    “Sure, Popsy,” he said, appearing to struggle with the crutches. He slipped, caught himself on the desk, then allowed a wide-eyed Carla to brace him. “Thanks, I needed that.” Travis beamed down on Carla, who actually blushed. I was refreshed and at the same time annoyed. Carla’s private life was none of my business, but flirting with married men was dumb. After all, look where it had gotten me.…
    I waited by the window to make sure Oscar and Travis had taken off in a brown Range Rover. Throwing my purple car coat over my shoulders, I turned to Carla. “What’s with the bridegroom? I thought he had a nurse at home.”
    Carla giggled and blushed, blushed and giggled. “Travis Nyquist is just a friendly kind of guy. You know, the type who makes you feel like a
woman
.”
    “So how come you’re acting like an idiot?” The response was more cutting than I’d intended. Immediate remorse set in, and I gave Carla a crooked smile. “Sorry, Carla, butsomeday I’ll tell you the story of my life. It’ll cure you of friendly men who wear wedding rings.”
    Carla sobered suddenly, and her complexion returned to its usual smooth olive hue. “Do you mean Adam’s dad?” If nothing else, Carla was direct.
    With a resigned sigh, I perched on her desk. “Yeah, that’s right.” So far, I’d confided only in Vida about my ill-starred love affair with Tom Cavanaugh. But with Adam due home for Christmas break and no doubt headed back to the Bay Area to visit his father over the holidays, my secret was about to come out. “It wasn’t just a flirtation, though. It was the real McCoy. But that hasn’t made it any easier for the past twenty-plus years.” I lifted my chin, attempting dignity. Carla frowned. “Hey,” I went on, shaking her arm, “I don’t mean to deliver a lecture. I’m overreacting. But Travis reminds me of Adam’s dad—on the