by Mary Daheim
“Yes,” I replied, growing impatient for Ben to get to the meat of his story. “He was a former Kiwanis president and chaired the roadside litter cleanup for Rotary. Elmer also belonged to the Chamber of Commerce.”
“Okay, then we can assume Elmer wasn’t home on the evenings that Gloria overheard the conversations between Polly Nystrom and her son, Carter.”
“Conversations?” I stared at Ben. “A plot to kill Elmer?”
“No, no.” Ben laughed again, though not with his usual gusto. “Polly and Carter talked like lovers.”
“Oh, ick!” I shrieked. “What kind of aberration is that?”
Ben looked bemused. “I guess you’re still a little naïve, Sluggly. There isn’t much I haven’t heard since I became a priest. People are damned odd. Inventive, too. They can think of more ways to sin than the old prophets ever dreamed of.”
I shook my head. “It still sounds gross.”
“Don’t get me wrong—Gloria never suggested that there was anything more than talk,” Ben explained. “In fact, she figured that Carter was either in the bathroom or his bedroom while his mother was in the other bedroom. He always called her Polly, not Mama or Mom or whatever. He’d say things like ‘How’s my best sweetheart tonight?’ and ‘Don’t ever be jealous—you’re the only girl in the world for me’ and ‘Is my true love looking as pretty as ever in the frilly pink bed jacket her devoted Carter gave her?’”
“Ick times ten,” I said, making a face. “Do sons talk to their mothers like that?”
Ben shrugged. “I didn’t. Our mother would’ve whacked me with her infamous wooden cooking spoon. But maybe some do utter endearments that sound a little off. Still, this stuff seems too far out to not exhibit some kind of obsession or kink.”
“Was Gloria shocked?” I inquired.
“No.” Ben smiled. “She’s eighteen. Kids these days are pretty worldly. She just thought it was really weird. Mrs. Della Croce didn’t think there was anything sexual, just this St. Valentine card stuff, ballad lyrics kind of thing. It was harder for Gloria to hear Polly, but apparently she’d simper and egg him on.”
“It’s peculiar,” I said.
Ben drained his drink. “Of course it may have nothing to do with Elmer’s murder.”
“Maybe not.” On the other hand, it might have everything to do with it. “Has Gloria written about this for her English class?”
“No. She sounds pretty smart. She decided that while it might have been unusual behavior—I’m using Kelly’s interpretation of what her mother said—it wasn’t really something that helped her mature. But it worried Mrs. Della Croce, who was more shocked than her daughter. Mother frets over daughter’s moral corruption—or something like that. The Della Croces might try going to Mass more often instead of fussing about what the next-door neighbors are doing.”
“Except,” I said softly, “that the neighbors—or one of them—got murdered.”
“I leave the sleuthing to you,” Ben responded. “My report may be worthless.”
“Maybe,” I allowed. “I suppose I should tell Vida. Even if Milo wasn’t sick, he’d consider Gloria’s eavesdropping as salacious gossip, not evidence.”
“Do what you will,” Ben said with a shrug. “I know you won’t put it on the local grapevine.”
That was true, even if I told Vida. She could, when necessary, keep things under her bizarre collection of hats. With my thoughts turning to both the sheriff and my House & Home editor, I told Ben about my concerns for them. He shrugged off Milo’s health problems.
“There’s nothing you can do about that,” my brother said. “Milo may have to change his lifestyle. Or it might be a virus.”
“Let’s hope so,” I said, still fretting.
“Vida’s another matter,” Ben remarked. He’d refilled our glasses with Pepsi and fresh ice. Neither of us wanted any more liquor. “I’m a little surprised,” he went on. “I thought she enjoyed her independence.”
“So did I. But Vida’s a very private person. Ernest has been gone for almost thirty years. The three daughters left home to get married not too long after that. Only Amy still lives in Alpine. Vida’s in her seventies. I hope she never retires. I can’t imagine the Advocate without her.”
“Or Alpine,” Ben remarked. He grinned at me. “The Advocate’s a bigamist. You both seem married to it.”
“It’s different,” I said in a serious voice. “To Vida, the Advocate and Alpine are one and the same. For me, they’re separate entities. I love the paper and my work, but the town…well, I still feel a bit like an outsider. That comes from not being born here.”
Before Ben could say anything, the phone rang. I practically fell all over myself reaching for the receiver on the end table. Instead of saying “Hello,” I barked “Yes?” and steeled myself for the worst.
“Emma?”
“Yes.” I tempered my tone but still must have sounded impatient. “Who’s this?”
“Scott,” my reporter replied. “Are you okay?”
“Oh!” I fell back against the sofa. “Yes. I was expecting a call about Milo. He’s in the hospital again.”
“No kidding,” Scott said in surprise. “I mean…well, you know what I mean. What happened?”
Briefly, I explained the circumstances. After Scott had made the appropriate commiserating comments, I asked why he’d phoned.
“I met up with Coach Ridley after work,” Scott said. “I tried to call you when I got home around seven, but you didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message because Tammy and I had to go grocery shopping.”
I scribbled Scott’s name on a notepad to show Ben who had called. He nodded and got up to wander around the living room. “And?” I prompted Scott.
“Brad Nordby and Brianna Phelps had been dating off and on for a year,” Scott said. “But they broke up just after Thanksgiving. Then she found out she was pregnant. The Reverend Phelps insists that his daughter and Brad get married ASAP. The Nordbys are dead set against it because Brad has a chance at a track scholarship to Seattle Pacific University.”
“A Methodist school,” I remarked. “Not good for the minister’s son-in-law to show up with a pregnant bride in tow. When’s the baby due?”
“Uh…I don’t know.”
Men. “Late spring, early summer,” I guessed out loud. “But it’s still a problem for Phelps’s image around here. Did Ridley say anything about Elmer giving Brad fatherly advice?”
“A little. Just that Elmer seemed to take it upon himself to lecture kids on safety and taking care of their vehicles. Coach thought that he’d probably chewed out Brad about Brianna and how he should do the right thing. Like ‘Be a man and marry the girl.’”
“That’s not much of a motive for murder,” I said.
“Coach told me Brad had quite a temper.”
Quick tempers can lead to violence, but it’s usually spontaneous. Brad would have been more likely to throttle Elmer during a lecture on good behavior. I couldn’t see him biding his time and hiding out in a henhouse at seven in the morning.
“I guess,” I said to Scott, but also for Ben’s benefit, “we can rule out Brad Nordby as a suspect. Rip Ridley didn’t think that Elmer and Brad had more than words, right?”
“Coach had some words of his own for Brad,” Scott replied. “He’s threatening him with suspension from the track team. That’d mean goodbye scholarship.”
“I’d say Brad’s in a pickle. Thanks, Scott. You’ve done well.”
“Glad to help,” my reporter said, sounding pleased. “I’ve been thinking. How about an editorial promoting vehicle safety in SkyCo and offering an annual award in Elmer’s name? He was really hard-nosed on the subject. Elmer didn’t lecture only teenagers. According to Coach, he came down hard—well, as hard as it went with Elmer—on everybody.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “We’ll have to figure out how a winner would qualify. Maybe AAA or the state safety council can help. But we should check with Polly and Ca
rter first. We can do that after the funeral.”
Assuming, I thought sadly, that the wife and the son would care about Elmer’s memory.
Jack Mullins finally called a little after ten. There was no real news on Milo. He was feeling better, but despite his protests, Dr. Sung was holding firm on keeping the sheriff overnight. Jack was going back on patrol, waiting for the inevitable accident along the Highway 2 corridor.
Ben went back to the rectory a few minutes after I’d hung up. I tried not to think about my brother being on the road to Michigan in less than twenty-four hours. I also tried not to think about Milo or Vida. I failed miserably and spent a restless night.
The next morning Vida was dressed in her funeral garb, which included a broad-brimmed black hat with precariously dangling jet poodles. “You’re not coming?” she said, noticing my emerald-green sweater and dark green slacks.
I shook my head. “You’re a keen observer. I didn’t know the family at all. Just give me a full report.”
“Of course.” Vida looked surprised that I’d bother to make such a request. “I’m leaving early so I can stop by the hospital and see how Milo’s doing. Or have you called this morning?”
I shook my head again. “I haven’t had time. It’s only five after eight. Sit. I’ve got something to tell you.”
It took me only a couple of minutes to relate the Gloria Della Croce eavesdropping story. Vida made a face but otherwise showed no overt amazement.
“Such silliness,” she declared. “An unnatural attachment, of course. But perhaps harmless. The question is why. Is Polly so deprived of spousal affection from Elmer that she seeks it from their son? Or is Carter unable to commit to a woman in his peer group and thus transfers his romantic notions to his mother? I’m not a great believer in psychiatrists, but I do think a good shake is often in order.”
“I’m not sure that’d work,” I said. “I wonder how long this has been going on.”
“Well…” Vida considered it, tilting her head to one side and fingering her chin. The black hat’s poodles danced in my drafty cubbyhole. “Carter’s been back in Alpine for two years. Anna Maria’s daughter might have heard similar exchanges the previous summer, but being a teenager, she paid no attention. So self-absorbed at that age. But this past summer, she was more grown up.” Vida shrugged. “Who can say?”
Certainly not me. I told Vida to have Scott relate Coach Ridley’s information about the Nordby son, heir, and prospective father. She rushed off to interrogate my reporter while I sought satisfaction in coffee and a sugar doughnut. Then I called the hospital.
Milo had left without permission. Some time around two A.M., according to an indignant Constance Peterson, the night nurse had discovered that the sheriff was no longer in his bed. A search had proved futile. His clothes were gone, too. Dr. Sung had been notified about three A.M. and had attempted to reach Milo by phone. There was no answer.
“You mean he’s missing?” I asked, feeling panic rise.
“No,” Constance snapped. “He’s in his office. We checked again this morning. He arrived there shortly before eight o’clock and refuses to talk to any medical personnel.”
I didn’t know whether to applaud Milo or strangle him, but after finishing my doughnut, I headed for the sheriff’s headquarters.
“Is the ex-patient in?” I asked Lori Cobb upon my arrival.
She grimaced. “Yes, but he’s not seeing anyone this morning.”
I glanced at Dustin Fong, who was standing by the water cooler, looking uneasy. “He’s in seclusion?” I inquired.
Lori avoided my eyes. “Let’s say that what he’s in isn’t a good mood.”
“I suppose not.” I gazed past Lori and Dustin to Milo’s closed door. “I think I’ll try anyway.”
“Good luck,” Lori said.
I knocked. “It’s me, Emma.”
“Go away.” Milo’s voice was muffled.
“Why?”
No answer.
“Come on, Milo. Open up.”
More silence.
I tried the knob. The door was locked. “You’re an idiot!” I shouted.
The idiot didn’t respond. I shrugged and walked back through the reception area. “I flunked. Any news other than the sheriff’s escape from medical treatment?”
“Do you want to see the log?” Lori asked.
“No. I’ll let Scott handle that,” I said. “Assuming, of course, that there’s nothing startling in it.”
Dustin had walked over to where I was standing. “Just the usual,” he said. “A couple of DUIs and a fender bender by the railroad crossing at the bridge over the Sky.”
“Who’s going to the funeral?” I inquired, knowing that Milo usually felt that someone should show up at a service involving a homicide victim. The sheriff might stick to the evidence trail like Ponce de Leon searching for the Fountain of Youth, but he did believe that it was important to observe suspects and witnesses during a time of stress.
Dustin and Lori looked at each other, and both shrugged. “Dodge hasn’t assigned anyone,” Lori said. “That we know of. Maybe he forgot.”
Under the circumstances, that was possible. “Is anybody available?” I asked.
Lori looked at the duty roster. “Dwight and Sam are on patrol. Doe’s providing the police escort for the funeral. I suppose she could do it—except she hates funerals.”
“Not many people enjoy them,” I said. Except for Vida and, of course, the Wailers, a trio of older women who showed up at every funeral and memorial service to shriek and moan and carry on even if they didn’t know the deceased.
“We should tell Doe to do it,” Dustin said. “She’s tough.”
“Except for funerals,” Lori put in, but she didn’t argue with her coworker.
Doe might be tough, but maybe she wasn’t observant. I headed back to the office wondering if I should attend the funeral, too, or at least stop in at the reception. Vida, of course, would absorb every detail like a sponge. But even she—contrary to rumor—couldn’t be in two places at once. Two sets of eyes and two sets of ears were better than one, even when one set belonged to my House & Home editor.
I had walked as far as Parker’s Pharmacy when I heard my name being called. Tara Wesley was hurrying across Front Street, carrying coffee from the Burger Barn.
“I was coming to see you as soon as I delivered this to Garth,” she said, stepping onto the curb. “Have you got a minute?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Your office or mine?”
She nodded toward the drugstore’s entrance. “Mine’s closer.”
“Sure,” I repeated, and opened the door for her.
The Wesleys’ office was only slightly larger than my cubbyhole, but it was even more crammed with cartons, most of which contained pharmaceuticals. Their security was much better, however: The door was padlocked as well as bolted to prevent theft.
“Our coffeemaker broke,” Tara said after she’d delivered her husband’s coffee. “I drink tea. Want some?”
I shook my head but thanked her for the offer.
“Anyway,” Tara went on, “we sell a couple of coffeemaker brands, but I don’t like them.” She made a face. “I shouldn’t admit that. Harvey Adcock carries the kind I like at the hardware store, and we won’t infringe on his exclusivity. Local merchants have to stick together—up to a point.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway,” Tara went on, “I didn’t want to see you about merchandising problems. Jessica finally unloaded about why she didn’t like working for Carter Nystrom.”
“Ah.” I settled back in the folding chair, prepared to listen.
“The two assistants, Alicia and Christy, sniped at each other constantly,” Tara began. “Alicia was particularly annoying because she took it out on Jess, being the new girl in the office. Apparently, Alicia was going through a bad patch—somebody in the family died or was sick or some such thing, and Christy was unsympathetic. Jess thought they were probably very competitive wi
th each other. Then the last straw that day was when Carter’s accountant from Mill Creek, or somewhere in Snohomish County, came to the office for a dinner meeting with Carter after work. He was very rude, and it made Jess nervous. She accidentally spilled a flower vase all over the CPA, and he really chewed her out. She didn’t want to tell us for fear that Garth and I’d be mad at her for not sticking to the job longer. But frankly, I don’t blame her. Bree hadn’t stayed on to train Jess, and the assistants seemed to feel it was beneath them to help her. Naturally, Carter was too busy.”
I nodded. “Did Bree leave her work in good order?”
“Not particularly,” Tara said, “as far as Jess could tell. She told us the charts were so disorganized that she couldn’t find a couple of them for two of their patients that day. I know kids have to learn to work under all kinds of conditions, but enough’s enough. Backbiting creates a very poor atmosphere. I assume Alicia and Christy don’t act like that in front of Carter or the patients.”
“Probably not,” I agreed. “I wonder how the assistants got along with Bree Kendall.”
“Not very well, I’d guess.” Tara poured hot water from a thermos and dipped a used tea bag into her Merck mug. “Jess said both Christy and Alicia made some rude remarks about Bree. Maybe that’s the only thing they could agree on.”
“Not a happy situation.” I was thankful that my staff was usually friendly despite Vida’s complaints about Leo’s smoking and Leo’s ribbing of Vida. It hadn’t been quite so pleasant when Ed was around, and that thought prompted a query for Tara. “Was Ed Bronsky working at the Burger Barn this morning when you went there?”
“Ed?” Tara looked startled. “No. Is he supposed to be?”
That was a loaded question. Ed was always supposed to be working when he was at the Advocate, but the reality had been quite different. “He was there yesterday,” I said. “Frankly, I feel sorry for him.”