by Mary Daheim
“We’re more diverse nowadays,” Scott pointed out. “Granted, Scandinavians still dominate the population, but look at the college—several ethnic groups are represented.”
Vida gazed at Scott over the top of her large glasses. “A half-dozen faculty members who aren’t Caucasian? Yes. But don’t count the students. How many of them vote?”
The argument was pointless. I could write five miles worth of editorials and still not win over the tightfisted people who did go to the polls in Skykomish County. “Let’s skip the health care concerns,” I said. “This whole country doesn’t have adequate medical coverage. We can’t solve it at the local level if we expect the public to pay for it. As for the safety award, maybe the Nordby brothers can be conned into putting up some money for it. Certainly it’d be good public relations for them.”
“I could ask Skunk and Trout,” Scott offered.
“Let Leo do that,” I said. “I’ll write him a note.”
Vida was putting her coat back on, though she had abandoned the troublesome hat and replaced it with a blue beret from her desk drawer. “Speaking of health care, I’m off to the hospital.”
“Who’s sick now?” Scott asked.
Vida paused at the newsroom door. “I’m not visiting any patients. I’m going to see Bree Kendall.” With a swish of her swing coat, she was gone.
Back in my cubbyhole, I read the Pikes’ letter to the editor. There weren’t any more typos or incorrect grammar than in most of the missives we received. At least the contents had been typed and were fairly brief. I put the complaint in my pending file along with the three other letters we’d received since the last edition had gone to press. Two, as usual, were about the potholes in the streets and roads, and the other was from the local vet, Jim Medved, in his annual appeal to people who had received pets for Christmas. He wanted the new owners to have their animals neutered. It was not only a sensible suggestion but also good for Jim’s business.
Ginny buzzed me from the front office. “When’s Leo coming back?” she asked.
“Ah…I’m not sure,” I said. “He had a Chamber of Commerce luncheon, and then he was going to make some of his rounds. Why?”
“There’s a Mr. Bellman to see him about an ad,” Ginny said. “Do you want to talk to him?”
I didn’t know anyone named Bellman, but I wasn’t about to pass up revenue. “Sure. Send him my way. Thanks, Ginny.”
A moment later, the newcomer walked through the newsroom. He wasn’t exactly a stranger. I immediately recognized Freddy the Alleged Accountant in his well-tailored suit.
“We almost met,” he said as he strolled into my office. “I’m Frederick Bellman, CPA, from Mill Creek.”
I shook his hand. “Have a seat. I’m a little embarrassed,” I admitted. “Sitting with Alicia and Christy felt a little like being caught in a buzz saw.”
“Oh, it’s very like that,” he said, settling into one of my visitor’s chairs. “They’re rather unpleasant people. I call them the Evil Twins. They despise me because I won’t let Carter give them big bonuses or huge raises every six months. They don’t understand that’s part of my job.” He shrugged. “You’d think that pair would realize what an outlay of money it took for Carter to set up his practice.”
I nodded. “Student loans to pay off as well, I assume.”
Freddy shrugged again but didn’t comment on my remark. Instead, he asked how many accountants worked in the county.
“Only two, really,” I replied, “and one’s about to retire, I’m told. Many of the local businesses keep their own books.”
“Bad idea these days,” Freddy declared. “It’s very difficult for a layperson to keep up with all the changes in tax laws. I’m located in Mill Creek, but I have clients in Monroe, Sultan, Snohomish, and Marysville. I thought maybe I should run an ad in your paper. I might pick up a few more accounts around here.”
I said I thought that was a good idea and apologized for my ad manager’s absence. “We have a section on pages four and five for professional services standing ads that run every week,” I went on. “But you might want to start with a one-or two-time ad that’s larger and has more prominent placement. I have a rate schedule in my desk.” I hoped I had one and also hoped it wasn’t out of date. “Here,” I said, finding a schedule that Leo had put together at the end of the previous August. “And let me show how the professional ads look.” I also handed him a copy of the most recent Advocate and opened it to pages four and five.
Freddy appeared to be a quick study. “Two columns by four inches the first time,” he said. “Do you think you should run a photo of me?”
“Yes. People like to know what other people look like, especially if you have a picture of yourself that oozes trust.”
He chuckled. “Oh, indeed I do. Trust and accuracy. I’ll send it to your ad man. Walsh, right?”
“Very good. Thank you.” I paused. Freddy was looking at Elmer’s obituary.
“So that’s what Carter’s dad looked like,” Freddy remarked. “Nothing like Carter. Too bad about the way he died. Has the killer been caught?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but our sheriff is very capable.”
“It was probably somebody on drugs,” Freddy said. He’d crossed his legs and was adjusting the sharp crease in his pants. I got the impression he wasn’t in a hurry to get back to Mill Creek. “That’s often the case these days. Random and crazy.”
As long as Freddy wasn’t going away, I figured I might as well pump him. “Why did Carter hire Christy and Alicia if they’re such a pair of harpies?”
“Oh, they’d both had some experience and were highly qualified,” Freddy replied. “They’d gone to school together, but I don’t think they were ever friends. Of course they tone it down when Carter and the patients are around. I guess they wanted a change of lifestyle. Neither of them were city girls. Christy’s from eastern Washington, around Yakima, I think, and Alicia grew up in Redmond. She didn’t like that suburban scene, but she didn’t want to be a city dweller, either.”
“What about Bree Kendall?” I inquired.
Freddy grinned at me. “Bree. She’s not just another pretty face.”
“How do you mean?”
He uncrossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the low ceiling. “Bree’s interesting. Her parents were so far out, they were practically in another universe. Bree was brought up in a commune in Oregon and ran away when she was sixteen. She hasn’t seen her mother and father since she left fifteen years ago. I gather they don’t miss her, and she certainly doesn’t miss them. You know how it is—children rebel. Bree wants order and tradition and stability in her life.” He lowered his gaze and looked me right in the eye. “I’d like to give her that now that Carter’s dumped her.”
“Is that why she quit?” I asked, surprised.
“You bet.” Freddy smiled again. He had very even white teeth in a long, lean face. “She wasted two years of her life on him. But here I am, ready and willing to let her cry on my shoulder. In fact, I’m taking her to dinner tonight at that French restaurant out on the highway.” His gaze still held mine. “You find my candor astonishing?”
“Not as much as your audacity,” I said. “Carter’s your client. I find it odd that you’d be telling me about this in the same conversation that includes the word trust.”
“Trust me on this,” Freddy said, leaning closer to my desk. “Carter doesn’t care if I make a move on Bree. As for being candid with you, I grew up in a small town—Darrington, to be exact, which is another old logging enclave much like Alpine. I know that by tomorrow morning at least fifty people will be talking about that ‘tall young man who was wining and dining Bree Kendall at Le Gourmand.’ And since you own the newspaper, one of those people doing the talking—or should I say listening?—will be you.”
He had a point. “Fair enough,” I conceded. “If Carter’s not going to be brokenhearted, I assume somebody else is the object of his affections.”
“Definitely,” Freddy asserted. “Though he does play the field.”
“The field’s not very big in Alpine,” I pointed out.
“Carter still has ties to Seattle,” Freddy said in an offhand manner. “He spends at least two weekends a month there.” At last the unexpectedly garrulous CPA stood up. “I should let you get back to work. Maybe I’ll go to the local Starbucks and get caught up on work over a cup of elegant Sulawesi. Are there any sights worth seeing around here?”
For somebody raised in Darrington, I couldn’t think that Alpine would have anything he hadn’t experienced in his hometown. “No,” I said, though I was tempted to mention that Vida was our most historical landmark. “Drop in before five. Leo should be here then.”
“We’ll see.” He saluted me and left.
Twenty minutes later, Leo and Vida returned together. “We’re a couple,” Leo announced. “The Duchess can’t resist me.”
“You smell like a smudge pot,” Vida declared. “I’m so glad Buck doesn’t smoke. At least not in my presence, though I believe he has the occasional cigar when he gets together with his air force cronies.”
“Clearly,” Leo said, “you’ve never smelled an actual smudge pot. Being from southern California, I know what they really smell like. I’m more of an ashtray guy.”
“Disgusting, whatever it is,” Vida remarked, removing her black hat and rearranging several stray hairpins. “Bree Kendall is not forthcoming. She refused to have tea with me on her break.”
“What was your ruse?” I asked, coming over to Vida’s desk.
“You should’ve offered her a cigarette,” Leo said, shrugging off his barn jacket. “I’ve seen her smoking outside Carter’s office.”
Vida made a face. “Ugh.” She looked away from Leo and sat down. “I told a tiny fib and said I’d left my gloves in the waiting room when I was there last night inquiring after the sheriff. Without even looking anywhere or asking anyone, Bree insisted no gloves had been found. I then tried to strike up a friendly conversation with her—how did she like her new job, was it harder or easier than her previous employment, did she find Alpine a delightful town, and so on. She kept cutting me off, even though there were only two people in the waiting room and none came in while I was there. Indeed, she was quite abrupt.” Vida paused for breath.
“You haven’t broken your own record yet,” Leo said, tapping his watch. “You only had another eighteen seconds to go without breathing.”
“Oh, hush, Leo!” Vida exclaimed. “Finally, I asked her why she hadn’t attended the funeral. She got angry—imagine!—and said it was none of my business. Then she got up and stalked away. I waited—where she couldn’t see me, of course, around the corner by the restrooms. After about five minutes she came back, so I apologized all over myself and invited her for a cup of tea. She refused in a most ungracious manner. At that point I gave up.” Vida put her chin on her fists and shook her head. “I cannot accept failure. Obviously, that young woman is unbalanced. There can’t be any other explanation.”
I tensed, waiting for Leo to offer his own acerbic suggestion. But he was reading the note I’d left him about Freddy Bellman. “Is this guy serious?” he asked.
I hated to admit I’d gotten more out of Freddy than Vida had managed to extract from Bree. “I think so,” I said. “Since he has Carter for a client, he’s looking to pick up a few more around here. He’s also looking to…” I winced as I glanced at Vida. “He’s romantically interested in Bree, who, he says, was dumped by Carter, which is why she quit.” I spoke rapidly and avoided another look in my House & Home editor’s direction.
“What?” she exploded. “This Bellman person was here? While I was gone?”
I felt like apologizing for such thoughtlessness on Freddy’s part and for my own role in encouraging him to speak. “Freddy and Bree are having dinner tonight at Le Gourmand.”
Vida’s big bosom heaved with exasperation. “To think I wasted my time trying to talk to that silly little twit! Well, now!” She paused, obviously thinking through this revelation. “That certainly explains why Bree quit her job. It could also explain her dreadful manners and wretched disposition. A temporary state, perhaps.” She paused again. “It may even explain,” she said with an all-knowing gleam in her eye, “why we received the premature obituary for Elmer Nystrom.”
Chapter Seventeen
BEFORE VIDA COULD explain what she meant about the original obituary, Scott returned to the newsroom and Ginny arrived with a delivery for me from Posies Unlimited.
“There’s a card,” Ginny said, as excited as if the flowers had been intended for her. She set the cardboard container down on Vida’s desk.
I carefully unwrapped the bright green paper. A lavish medley of yellow roses and lilies nestled among assorted greenery in a round glass vase. I opened the card.
“Feeling sorry for myself—see you sooner rather than later?”
“Ah!” Leo exclaimed after I’d read the card aloud. “Mr. AP knows how to treat a lady.”
I was smiling broadly. Rolf had never sent me flowers before. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had sent me flowers. Adam remembered his dear old mother with cans of smoked or kippered Alaskan salmon. Ben sent Mass cards for my special intentions.
“I’ll put the bouquet by the coffeemaker,” I said, “so everybody can see it.”
“I’ll add more water,” Ginny volunteered, dashing off to the restroom just as Kip came in from the back shop.
“Nice,” he said, stroking the reddish goatee he’d grown in the last year. “Who got the flowers?”
“I did,” I replied with a smile.
“Good for you.” Kip, however, wasn’t one to ask cheeky questions. Announcing that he was off to Sky.com to buy something I wouldn’t understand if he told me, our computer genius left.
Finally, I asked Vida what she’d meant about the obit.
“I didn’t have an opportunity to speak with Carter’s assistants at the funeral reception,” she said, “and since I’d seen you sitting with them, I assumed you’d already quizzed them. But I did have a brief conversation with Carter, who mentioned that Alicia had had a difficult week, having attended two funerals. That’s when I discovered that she was related to the Wascos and had sent us the lost obituary on her grandfather, Jan. It occurred to me later that perhaps she mailed it from Carter’s office.”
“She did,” I put in. “Christy mentioned it during our short but not so sweet chat.”
“I thought so,” Vida said while both Scott and Leo listened in. “The younger generation takes advantage.” She glanced at Scott. “Not you or Kip or Ginny. You have higher standards, thank goodness. But I’ve heard so many complaints in recent years about younger employees helping themselves to petty cash, pilfering goods, taking home supplies—and, of course, using the employer’s stamps as if they were their own. Carter probably bought oodles of stamps at a time—all those invoices. So he may still have had the outdated postage on hand.”
“I see what you’re getting at,” I said, wishing it wasn’t taking so long for Vida to arrive at her point. “Alicia put her grandfather’s obit into the office mail, and…?”
“Someone removed it, took out the grandfather’s obit, and replaced it with the bogus write-up for Elmer.” Vida looked around at all three of us. “The obvious suspect is Bree.”
“How come?” Leo asked.
“Her last day on the job,” Vida explained. “Rejection from Carter. Backbiting from Alicia and Christy. Wanting to get back at all the people she’d worked with for two years. Wasted years, in her opinion. Choosing Elmer as the subject of an obituary would embarrass Carter—if we’d run it. It was very childish, but people often act that way.”
“As I recall,” I said, “the obit and the envelope appeared to be typed on the same machine or word processor. But that’d be the case if both Alicia and Bree used office equipment.”
“Of course,” Vida agreed. “Bree would know the sa
lient facts about Elmer’s life, not only by working for Carter but also having been linked romantically with him.”
Scott was shaking his head. “Dumb. Really dumb. Can Bree get arrested for pulling a stunt like that?”
“Malicious mischief,” Leo responded. “In her case, it’d probably mean a fine and a long lecture but no jail time.” He looked at me. “Are we pressing charges?”
“No,” I replied. “It’s not worth the trouble. Speaking of which, Bree’s nasty little piece of revenge could cause some problems for her. If she really sent that obit—and I agree with your theory, Vida—Milo may take a more serious look at her as a murder suspect.”
Scott grimaced. “Wouldn’t it be pretty stupid to announce your victim’s death before it happened?”
I thought so, too. “But we’re talking about Milo. By the book and all that.”
Vida frowned. “That’s so. However, I believe Milo would be taking a wasteful detour. Bree wasn’t in love with Elmer.”
Leo nodded. “Bree couldn’t mistake Elmer for Carter in the henhouse. Except for their height, they didn’t look at all alike. Carter’s got a bigger frame, lighter hair, and Elmer—well, Elmer didn’t have much hair left.”
“We’re back to the same old thing,” I said. “Who would want to kill Elmer? And why?”
Scott grimaced. “Revenge?”
I stared at him. “For what?”
My reporter looked slightly embarrassed. “I saw a TV show a while back where an auto mechanic was murdered because he’d screwed up a brake job and the customer’s wife and kids got killed when the car crashed into a building.” He paused. “Or maybe a family died when the car ran into their house. Anyway, the victims’ father—or husband—beat the auto mechanic to death with a tire iron. Or was it a wrench?” Scott’s dark complexion turned even darker. “I was watching the show with Tammy and wasn’t really focused on the plot.”