by Mary Daheim
“Nobody would advertise it if they were being blackmailed,” I pointed out.
Scott had just returned from the rest of his morning rounds. He approached my cubbyhole and raised a hand. “Is this a private meeting?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “Come in. Take the other chair.”
He sat down. “I remembered something while I was at the courthouse just now. A couple of weeks ago, the police log had a call to the Nystrom house about a prowler. One of the hens went missing, but Jack Mullins figured it was probably a cougar, coming down from the mountains to get some dinner.”
“Makes sense,” I remarked. “I vaguely remember the incident.”
“But,” Scott went on with a significant glance at both Vida and me, “cougars don’t drink milk out of cartons. Two days before Christmas, they reported that their Blue Sky delivery had been swiped.”
“A missed delivery, perhaps,” Vida suggested.
“Not according to Norm Carlson,” Scott said. “He swears he made the delivery himself. Jack figured that in the pre-Christmas rush, Norm might have skipped a house or two on his route that Monday. That’s why the incident was never reported in the log, but Jack reminded me when I stopped by the sheriff’s office just now after I got finished at the courthouse.”
“Pranks,” Vida said. “Why?”
“Harassment,” I added. “Like sending Elmer’s obit to us before he was dead. It seems to be a pattern. Is there anything else in the log—or Jack’s memory—before the missing milk?”
Scott shook his head. “Not unless you go back a year or more. There was a trespassing report, either hunters or fishermen going through the Nystrom property. But those get reported all the time. Most people don’t bother to call the sheriff unless the situation gets nasty.”
“True,” Vida said. “It’s difficult, especially for fishermen, when the creeks and the river rise and there’s no bank to walk along. And often, the trespasser knows the owner and there’s no bother. Unless, of course, the two have a long-standing feud.”
Feuds weren’t uncommon in Alpine. They were part of small-town life, sometimes reaching down through generations and started a hundred years ago by So-and-So letting his cows wander into Such-and-Such’s pasture or Mrs. A and Mrs. B getting into it over a misplayed pinochle hand.
“Okay,” I said, “so who’d have a grudge against Elmer and the other Nystroms?”
“Somebody got their car repair screwed up?” Scott offered.
“Possible, but unlikely,” I said.
“Bree Kendall,” Vida announced with a wag of her finger. “Disenchanted employees often resort to mean-minded tricks.”
“Or the would-be employees who were never hired in the first place,” I said. “Jeanne Hendrix and Anna Maria Della Croce.”
“What?” said Scott, looking puzzled.
Vida explained about the two applicants who hadn’t been considered. “I still haven’t been able to run Jeanne Hendrix down,” she added. “I wonder if she’s out of town for the holidays.”
“Her husband teaches at the college,” I pointed out. “He had to start classes Monday for the winter quarter.”
“Well…” Vida frowned. “Perhaps she’s visiting her family and he came back ahead of her.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s not forget Jessica Wesley. She quit after one day.”
Scott grimaced. “I know Jess from seeing her at the drugstore. She seems an unlikely killer.”
I agreed. “But we can’t rule anybody out.” I gazed at my handsome reporter. “Maybe you could talk to Jessica. Her parents can’t seem to get her to open up about why she quit.”
“Where is she?”
“Job hunting? Or she may be back at Parker’s,” I said. “I don’t think Garth and Tara want her sitting around watching daytime TV while she postpones her college education.”
“I’ll wander by,” Scott promised.
Vida nodded encouragement. “By all means. You realize,” she went on, addressing us both, “that we can’t eliminate anyone who’s been harmed by Polly’s naughty tongue. And don’t remind me that Polly should have been the victim instead of Elmer. Not everyone is rational. For example, the person may have believed that Elmer should have controlled his wife and not allowed her to spread vicious rumors.”
“That would seem to include the entire Episcopal congregation and a few others,” I pointed out.
“Nonetheless,” Vida said, her jaw firmly squared.
I shook my head. “For Elmer being such a wonderful guy, it seems as if about a hundred potential suspects are lurking out there.”
Vida leaned forward. “What does that tell us?”
Scott turned sideways to stare at her. “Darned if I know. What?”
“That we’re wrong about all of our theories,” Vida said earnestly. “There’s something about the Nystrom family that we don’t know.” She frowned, removed her glasses, and began rubbing frantically at her eyes. “Ooooh! Why don’t we know? Why don’t I know?”
The eye-grinding gesture was a sure sign that Vida was agitated. And if there was one thing that agitated my House & Home editor, it was not being in the know.
A few minutes later, after Scott and Vida had left my office, I sat deep in thought and realized I’d flunked my visit to Anna Maria Della Croce. There’d been no hint of why she might have called Father Kelly. Of course it could have been a spiritual matter, but Anna Maria didn’t act like she possessed a tormented soul. Missing Mass seemed to bother her only in regard to how it may have affected her daughter. Or maybe she’d simply said that as a face-saving gesture for my benefit, since I went to church regularly and had two priests in the family.
It was possible that whatever had caused Anna Maria to consult Father Den had nothing to do with the Nystroms. Yet he had told me not to mention his name. I translated that not only as discretion on his part but as a way to help me in pursuing the homicide story. If Anna Maria was struggling with her spiritual life, Kelly would have told me to butt out. Yet he hadn’t done that. Like my brother, Ben, Dennis Kelly was a commonsense type of priest.
I’d have to give Anna Maria another try. But I didn’t know how.
With the problem still licking away at the back of my brain like a deer with a salt block, I dialed the sheriff’s number a few minutes before noon. He answered on the third ring.
“Shall I bring lunch in?” I asked. “Or will you change your mind again and decide to eat out?”
“In,” he said. “I don’t want half the town asking me how I feel, goddamn it. The usual, but get me a big Coke.”
“So I’m lunch and dinner,” I said. “I’m flattered.”
“You I can tolerate.” He paused. “You haven’t asked me how I feel. Don’t.”
“I won’t,” I replied. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
As I walked into the Burger Barn at five to twelve, I was surprised—but pleased—to see Scott sitting in a booth with Jessica Wesley. I avoided them, not wanting to interrupt what might be a fruitful conversation. If any man in Alpine could get a female to reveal her darkest secrets, I figured it was Scott.
“Wait till Tamara hears this,” a voice behind me murmured.
I turned around in the take-out order line. It was Leo, wearing his off-center grin.
“It’s strictly business,” I said. “I made him do it.”
“Better than the Devil,” Leo responded. “I hear the sheriff got sprung from the hospital.”
“I’m getting his lunch for him,” I said, moving up a place in line. “He’s not ready for public viewing.”
Leo put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Boss Lady, why don’t you ever spoil me like that?”
“You’re healthy, thank God,” I said. “Stay that way.”
“I guess I’d better,” Leo murmured. “It’s job security. Look who’s taking the orders.”
I looked. Ed Bronsky was behind the service counter, which fronted the open kitchen.
“Good grief!
” I shrank down behind the large woman ahead of me, two places shy of Ed. He was wearing a white paper hat with the Burger Barn logo, a white apron, and a red-and-white-striped shirt, de rigueur for the restaurant’s employees. “I’m embarrassed,” I whispered to Leo. “For Ed. For me.”
“And I have the poor bastard’s job,” Leo remarked ruefully. “Do you think he’s seen us? We could check at the Venison Inn to find out if they’d do takeout.”
“They don’t,” I replied, “unless they’d make an exception for the sheriff.”
But it was too late. The large woman had dropped her cell phone, and when she bent down to pick it up, Ed spotted us.
“We’ve blown our cover,” Leo murmured. “Hi, Ed.”
Ed nodded and waited on the woman, who had retrieved her cell before moving up to the counter.
“Have you got that?” the woman asked after Ed finished his jottings on the take-out ticket.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ed replied. “One double mushroom burger, one salad with blue cheese dressing, one chocolate shake, and one giant lady to go.”
“What?” the woman yelped. “What did you say?”
Ed looked frazzled. In fact, he was sweating. “One giant fries to go.”
“That’s not what you said!” the woman shouted. “Do you think I’m fat? You’re fatter!”
Ed kept his eyes down. “Maybe so.”
The woman leaned both fists on the counter. “I want an apology. I want my meal for free.”
Leo stepped around me and went up to the irate woman. “Please,” he said in an unusually mild tone, “allow me, madam.” He removed a twenty from his worn leather wallet. “I’m a fan of Rubenesque beauties. By any chance, have you done plus-size modeling? You look familiar.”
The woman seemed taken aback. “No. I’ve never seen you before. I live in Leavenworth. I’m on my way to Seattle.” She eyed Leo warily. “What’s this ‘Ruben’ thing? A sandwich?”
“Peter Paul Rubens was a famous Flemish painter in the seventeenth century,” Leo explained, his voice still mellow as an autumn morning. “His specialty was gorgeous women with flawless, bountiful flesh.” He handed the twenty to Ed. “Will this cover the order?”
“Uh…” Ed stared at the ticket. “Yeah, yeah, that’s good. Thanks.” My former ad manager couldn’t look my current ad manager in the eye.
The woman stepped away, still watching Leo with a curious expression.
“Now,” Leo said to Ed, “we’re both broke.” He opened his wallet, revealing a single dollar bill. “Emma will have to pay for my lunch.”
“Not to mention the sheriff’s,” I said with a sly little smile. “Go ahead, Leo, order yours. Then I’ll do mine and Milo’s.”
Leo made short work of his request and stepped aside in the opposite direction from the large woman. I forced Ed to look at me.
“When did you start here?” I asked.
“Today,” Ed replied, finally making eye contact. “It’s a job.”
“One of your kids should be doing this,” I declared. “For heaven’s sake, get them off their butts and out hustling.”
“You’d better order, Emma,” Ed muttered. “There’s still a lineup.”
I complied, then went over to stand by Leo. “That was really good of you,” I said. “Are you actually broke? Payday’s not until tomorrow.”
“I can go to the cash machine,” Leo replied. “I may have almost thirty dollars in my savings account.”
I didn’t know if Leo was kidding. On the off chance that he wasn’t, I didn’t press him further. Instead, I stood there like an idiot and felt guilty for not being able to pay my staff higher wages. I wanted to, but the postal rates had risen—again—in June. We mailed the Advocate to several subscribers out of the area, including a batch of retirees in California and Arizona. What little extra money I’d put aside, I’d had to spend at the post office. For all I knew, Ed was making more at the Burger Barn than he would’ve earned in his old job with the Advocate.
Milo was at his desk, looking a trifle thinner and slightly pale. Or maybe it was my imagination. But I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to ask how he felt.
“Sustenance,” I said, unwrapping his order and placing it in front of him. “Real food, courtesy of your humble servant.”
“You were never humble,” Milo said.
I ignored his comment. “Well,” I said, taking my hamburger dip from its packaging, “have you solved the Nystrom case since you came back to work?”
“Funny Emma.” Milo bit into his cheeseburger with jaws that would have done credit to a killer shark.
“Do you want to know what I’ve found out while you were malingering?”
The sheriff looked pained. “Go ahead. I could use a laugh.”
“Funny Milo.” But I recapped the pertinent information Vida and I had gathered in the last couple of days—except, of course, for Anna Maria’s phone call to Dennis Kelly. I did, however, mention that I thought something was bothering Mrs. Della Croce besides not being hired by Carter Nystrom.
Milo had finished his cheeseburger by the time I concluded my recitation. “The only thing I can get my hands around,” he said, “is what Scott and Jack remembered about the Nystrom calls here. It’s possible—I repeat, possible—that somebody had it in for the family. Not to mention that weird death notice you got in the mail.”
“Anything new on that?” I inquired, noticing that my fries had gone cold while I talked.
“We got the lab report back from Everett this morning,” Milo answered. “No fingerprints. Obit typed on a computer, probably a PC, envelope addressed the same way, font was Times Roman, which is the default type-face on Microsoft Word—as you probably know.”
“Yes. I don’t like it. Too tight.”
“Mailed in Alpine, obviously. Educated person wrote it—no mistakes and put together like the real thing. Not to mention that whoever sent it knew the Nystroms fairly well. They had all the facts right.”
“Not many people do know them,” I pointed out, “even if they have lived here for years. Anybody could find out that information if they wanted to. It’s easy these days with the Internet and all the standard sources. What about DNA from licking the envelope or the stamp?”
Milo shook his head. “The sender was very careful.”
“Wait,” I said suddenly. “Stamps, not stamp. There were four—a cat commemorative and four smaller stamps with a bird on them.”
Milo looked vaguely amused. “The sender’s secret message is that the cat is going to eat the birds?”
I was disdainful of the sheriff’s reaction. “Hardly. I’ll explain.” But first I offered him the last of my cold fries. He accepted. I was glad to see that his appetite was hearty. “I don’t know why I forgot about those stamps,” I said. “I guess it was the envelope’s contents that took all my attention. Whoever sent that obit to the paper doesn’t use the mail much. The postage rates went up six months ago. I ran out of the old stamps by the Fourth of July.”
As I’d anticipated, Milo was looking skeptical. “So?”
“So this person either is cat-crazy or didn’t send out Christmas cards,” I said. “Unless Grace Grundle is the perp, we’ve got some kind of loner.”
“I didn’t send out Christmas cards,” Milo responded.
“You are a loner,” I shot back, “but I’ll bet you don’t have any of the old-rate stamps left.”
“I don’t have any stamps, period,” said Milo, finishing off the fries. “I mail everything at county expense. It’s one of my perks.”
“Maybe our perk has perps. I mean—”
Milo held up a big hand. “I know what you mean. You’re getting rattled by sticking to this subject. Move on.” He lit a cigarette.
I gave up. Frankly, I wasn’t entirely sure what I was getting at—or even if I did, what did it mean? There were plenty of loners in Skykomish County. Isolated small towns such as Alpine either attracted or created them.
“I don’t kn
ow the next move,” I admitted.
“Then have a cigarette,” he said, holding out the pack of Marlboro Lights.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I smoked my last one on New Year’s Eve.”
“It’s a whole new year,” Milo said, still proffering the pack. “You can quit again next December thirty-first.”
I shook my head. “You know I haven’t smoked regularly in ages.” I waited until he pocketed the cigarettes. “Look. Do you agree that whoever sent that obit is the same person who killed Elmer?”
“It’s possible,” Milo allowed.
“And the other pranks? The stolen chicken and milk?”
The sheriff shrugged. “That’s guessing. I’m not convinced they weren’t coincidences. It seems to me that Polly’s called us several times over the years with reports that weren’t worth a damn.”
“Then we should check the log for the past year or two, right?”
Milo started to look annoyed but pressed the intercom button. “Jack? Oh—Dwight. When you get a free minute, Dwight, flip back through last year’s log and see how many calls we got from the Nystroms. Thanks.” Through a haze of cigarette smoke, the sheriff gazed at me. “Satisfied?”
“It can’t hurt.” I stood up. “I’m going away now.”
“You got the steak for tonight? T-bone?”
“I’ve got steak in the freezer, but it isn’t T-bone,” I replied. “I’ll stop at the Grocery Basket on the way home.”
“I’ll be there around six,” Milo said. “I need to go home and change. I’m wearing the same clothes I wore to the hospital.”
“Put on your tux,” I retorted. “At the price of T-bone, this should be formal.”
“I’ve never worn a tux in my life,” Milo declared with a certain amount of pride.
“Neither have I. See you at six.” I exited the sheriff’s office.
“Jeanne Hendrix is working for an orthodontist in Everett,” Vida announced when I came into the newsroom. “According to my niece, Marje Blatt, she started the first of the year.”
“So Marje has finally proved useful,” I remarked.
“Indeed.” Vida paused, scowling at her computer screen. “Now what did I do? My piece on the Bartons going to Samoa for a week has disappeared. Fortunately, it was short. They don’t leave until the end of the month.”