by Mary Daheim
“I guess.” The question didn't seem to hold much interest for Laura.
“So Friday, Ursula was supposed to come to your house with a … loan?” I felt as if I were playing a word game, Fill in the Gaps.
Laura nodded once. “Buzzy talked to her, and she promised to give us some money. She was coming over around seven. But she never did.”
“So you and Buzzy were waiting for her?” It seemed like a logical supposition.
Laura nodded again, then brushed crumbs off her jacket. The sandwich was almost gone. “We waited and waited. Like I said, she never came.”
That figured. Ursula couldn't come because she was dead. But I didn't make the obvious statement to Laura. “What time did Buzzy come by to wait for Ursula?” I inquired, hoping to sound casual.
Laura scowled. “It was after seven-thirty. I was getting mad, because he was late. He's always late. It wouldn't be right to keep his sister waiting, not when we were asking for money.” Laura paused to gobble a few chips. “So then we waited together. But Ursula never showed up. I figured Buzzy had made her mad, too. I told him so. That's when he left. But he forgot his keys, so he had to come back. The sheriff came then and told us Ursula had drowned. Buzzy went off without saying another word.”
In the brief silence that followed, the rain pummeled the kitchen window. Canopies notwithstanding, the weather wasn't conducive to a picnic.
“Did you talk to Ursula Friday?” I asked, offering the bag of chips to Laura.
Taking the bag, she shook her head emphatically. “No. Why would I do that?”
“Well … to arrange the time.” I knew my smile was artificial. “To see when it was convenient for all of you to get together.”
“Buzzy talked to her.” The gray eyes struck me as slightly furtive. “Didn't I say that?”
“Yes.” Once more I hesitated. “Did you see much of Ursula after she moved to Alpine?”
Licking a piece of potato chip off her lip, Laura considered. “Twice. She had us and Betsy and Jake to dinner. Another time I ran into her at—”
A pounding at my front door interrupted Laura and startled us both. I rose, calling out that I was coming. Buzzy O'Toole stood on the porch, looking distressed.
“Emma?” he said, as if he were surprised to find me living in my own house. “Is Laura here? Or is it Mike?”
“It's Laura,” I informed Buzzy, stepping aside to let him in. “She had a flat.”
“I know.” He nodded in a jerky fashion. His faded denim jacket was damp from the rain and his blue jeans had a hole in the knee. In Buzzy's case, I didn't think it was a fashion statement. “I saw the Fury in front of your house. That's why I stopped.”
We were standing in the middle of the living room.
Laura remained in the kitchen, though I knew she could hear every word we said.
“Won't you join us?” I asked Buzzy. The polite request sounded fatuous in my ears.
Buzzy looked terrified. “No. No, thanks. I just wanted to make sure that… there hadn't been another … accident.”
I was puzzled. “Another accident?”
Again, that jerky nod: “Yeah, like Ursula. This family' sjinxed.”
There was no point in urging Buzzy to stay or in arguing about his family's run of bad luck. I started walking him to the door when Laura's voice called out from behind us.
“He's got a spare. Tell him I need it.”
I didn't say anything. It was annoying to be put in the middle of a domestic squabble.
Buzzy stopped but he didn't turn around. “Tell her it won't fit the Fury. It's for the VW van.”
I still didn't say anything.
“Tell him to get one from Cal's and bring it back here.” Laura's tone was surprisingly strong.
Another brief silence ensued, as if some invisible translator was relaying the messages between estranged husband and wife.
“Tell her she wouldn't know what to do with it if I did. Tell her she shouldn't be driving the Fury anyway. Tell her she shouldn't be driving at all, because she's too damned dumb to—”
“Shut up, Buzzy!” Laura's voice had acquired a rasp, like radio static. “You don't drive so good, either! What about the other night, when you said you were late because you couldn't start your stupid van?”
Now Buzzy did turn around. I stepped out of the way, seeking safety behind the sofa. “It was the carburetor, you moron! I can drive just fine—but I'm not a mechanic!”
“You sure aren't!” Laura screeched. “If you were, the gas station might not have gone broke! You aren't much of anything, if you ask me! You don't even have the guts to stick around and support your family!”
Buzzy advanced on Laura, but she held her ground. “I gave you most of my paycheck! What did you spend it on—tabloids? Why don't you stop reading about Princess Di and find a job? Why is it always meV
“I got kids to raise, that's why!” Laura's pointed chin jutted. “Like you ever stayed home with them, even when you could? I'm stuck there in that dump of a house while you go off drinking beer with your friends and working on your crummy cars! You're a joke, Buzzy!”
Buzzy lunged at Laura, his hands around her throat. She retaliated with feet and fists and ear-rending shrieks. I stood frozen, wondering what to do. Never in my life had I witnessed such a sight.
The O'Tooles were grappling and pounding and yelling in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Buzzy finally got a good grip on Laura's windpipe, stifling her cries. Her knees began to buckle; her face was very red. I thought about the Colt .45, thought again, and picked up my copy of The American Heritage Dictionary, third edition. With all my might, I brought it down on Buzzy's head.
The blow stunned him just enough to relax his hold on Laura. Staggering and gasping, she slipped out from under his hands. He whirled on me while Laura collapsed into a kitchen chair.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, his gaunt features contorted.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted right back. “This is my house! How dare you come in here and act like you escaped from the zoo?”
Panting, Buzzy seemed to be trying to get himself under control. “We don't have a zoo,” he mumbled, then pulled a red-and-white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his high forehead. “Sorry. But Laura ticks me off.”
“Jeez!” I threw up my hands.
Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, Buzzy turned to look at his wife. She was leaning against the chair, still gasping, still red in the face. “FU go get your damned spare,” he bellowed. “But I won't put it on!”
Laura made a small, scornful gesture with one hand. Buzzy squared his narrow shoulders and stomped out of the house. I retrieved my dictionary and set it back down on the desk.
If the pen is mightier than the sword, maybe a book is more persuasive than a gun.
But I doubt it.
Cal Vickers showed up twenty minutes later with his tow truck. He told me that he wasn't sure he had a spare to fit the Fury. With the picnic in full swing at Old Mill Park, there was a lull in business, so Cal had left the station in the care of his assistants and driven up to my house. It was no big deal, he said. The O'Tooles had had their share of hard luck. He didn't mind doing them a good turn. What were friends for, after all? I praised Cal for his generosity, but knew darned well that he must feel a twinge of guilt for helping put Buzzy out of business.
Meanwhile I had coped with Laura. She wasn't really hurt, though she might have some bruises on her throat in a few hours. I couldn't help but ask if Buzzy often got violent. But Laura didn't want to talk about it. She spent the remainder of the time under my roof drinking coffee and staring at the refrigerator door. I felt pretty helpless, and a little hopeless, too.
After Cal and Laura left, I decided to go to the picnic. The rain had let up to an intermittent drizzle. Since the Labor Day affair was potluck, I stopped at the Grocery Basket to buy a package of hot dogs and buns. Jake O'Toole was up front, doing som
ething with the safe.
I was tempted to say something about Buzzy and Laura, but didn't know how to begin. It was Jake who brought up family matters, though it wasn't his brother he referred to but his sister.
“Ursula's funeral is Wednesday at St. James Cathedral,” he said as I pulled out an empty grocery cart from the queue by the main entrance. “I guess you won't be able to have it in the paper beforehand.”
“What a surprise,” I said, though the irony was lost on Jake. It seemed that The Advocate was missing out on several news fronts in the past few days.
“Betsy and I'll go,” Jake said, his face looking drawn. “I don't know about Buzzy and Laura.” There was a question in his voice. He'd brought up the subject of the other O'Tooles. It was no good pretending that their problems weren't any of my business. Laura and Buzzy had brought them right into my living room.
“Your brother and his wife don't seem to be getting along,” I said frankly. “They just made a scene at my place.” Seeing Jake's dismayed expression, I held up a hand. “Don't worry, I won't put it in the paper.” Briefly I summarized what had led up to the row. “Maybe,” I concluded as Jake anxiously rubbed his forehead, “they'll be able to call a truce for the funeral. Of course, I don't know if fighting like that is typical, or if it's something new.”
“They've always fought,” Jake said, trying to keep a smile in place for passing customers. “It's not like Betsy and me—with us, it's kind of a … game. But the physical stuff with Buzzy and Laura is new. I don't like it.”
“Nobody does.” My eyes ran along the expanse of the front end, where all six checkout stands were busy. Despite the rain, there were still tourists in town, their carts loaded with foodstuffs suitable for camping, picnicking, and snacking. “Did Buzzy work today?”
Jake shook his head. “I gave him today off. He'd put in six straight, seven to five. I thought he could use the overtime.”
“They seem hard up,” I remarked, hoping to sound more sympathetic than curious.
“Yeah, well …” Jake paused to answer a charcoal-briquette query from a young couple. “Buzzy's making decent money now,” he went on after the young couple headed for Aisle A-2. “The trouble is, they got so far into a hole after the gas station folded. They're still playing catch-up. And Laura's no money manager. Betsy's tried to help her, but Laura either can't or won't get the hang of it. Friday was payday, so Betsy went over there to see if she could lend a hand paying bills. But Buzzy hadn't shown up with the money. Betsy got tired of waiting and left.”
“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “I gather Buzzy didn't get to the house until seven-thirty.”
Jake regarded me with mild interest. “Is that right? Betsy didn't get home until around eight-thirty. She must have stopped someplace.”
The small awkward silence was broken by a request for Jake's approval of an out-of-town check. I trundled my cart down Aisle F-2, in search of hot dogs and buns. Ten minutes later I was making my way through the drizzle to one of the picnic tables in Old Mill Park.
A three-piece jazz ensemble was playing, a sack race was under way, and a mime acted out something that looked like scalping a small child, but hopefully wasn't. The air smelled of wood smoke, barbecue, and damp earth. Some teenagers were climbing the bronze statue of Carl Clemans, Alpine's founder, and posing for pictures. According to the schedule Vida had posted in the paper, the official program wouldn't start until three. It wasn't quite two, so maybe I could eat and run.
By chance, the table I had chosen was also hosting Monica and Verb Vancich, Ronnie Wenzler-Greene, Greer Fairfax, and a pale blond man who I assumed was her husband, Grant. The Vancich children were playing under the wooden benches, bumping into the legs of anyone foolish enough to sit down, such as me.
Ronnie was the first to notice my arrival. “Are you covering the event?” she asked. “I'm giving a brief talk about education.”
I said I was merely another carefree picnicker. Vida would cover the story, but it would be mainly a photo essay.
Ronnie was disappointed. “You really should include more text. What I have to say is rather important.”
“Really?” I tried to look intrigued. “Then you should have mentioned it when I interviewed you Monday.”
The parochial-school principal's fair skin flushed slightly. “I did, in a way. But I intend to make my points more forcefully today. Better quotes, you see. For you.”
Aware that Ronnie was trying to pacify me, I smiled. “Then Vida will use them, I'm sure.” Pulling my legs away from one of the rampaging Vancich children, I turned to Greer, who was on my left. “I don't believe we've officially met. I'm Emma Lord.”
Greer nodded solemnly. “I gathered as much. You support the loggers, it seems.”
“I've tried to be fair,” I said. “My main concern is for people.”
“People can't live in a world that they rape,” Greer declared as two boys about nine and eleven came up and started pulling on the sleeve of her poplin jacket. “We have to address environmental concerns first, or there'll be nothing left to support life as we know it.” She turned to the importunate boys, who were demanding food, while I pondered her last statement. Maybe life as we know it wasn't quite as good as Greer thought. At least not in Alpine, judging from the number of battered pickups, aging beaters, and rusting vans.
“The veggie burgers will be ready in a few minutes,” Greer crossly informed the boys, then poked the man who I assumed was her mate. “Grant, take them for a run around the park. They need to expend some energy before they eat.”
Greer made their sons sound like a pair of dogs. But Grant dutifully rose and led the boys away. They went with reluctance, whining until out of earshot. Their mother was still talking, now about the need to spare old-growth timber. I tuned her out, having heard every possible argument from both sides of the logging dilemma. My mind wandered to the Vanciches, who seemed lost in their own little world at the end of the table. When Greer finally ran out of steam, I asked if anyone had seen Father Den.
The question caught Monica's attention. “He left right after Mass yesterday,” she said.
I recalled not getting an answer Sunday morning when I knocked at the rectory. “That's right—he was going to visit his mother in Tacoma.”
Ronnie sniffed. “He claims she's ill.”
I stared at the principal. “Isn't she?”
Ronnie shrugged, then her gaze locked with Monica's. “He says so.” The two women laughed softly.
Cringing as one of the Vancich kids whacked me in the shin, I tried to think of something that would rescue the conversation, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. I needn't have worried. Vida was approaching with Roger dawdling behind her.
“Well! There you are!” she exclaimed, though I wasn't sure whether my House & Home editor referred to me or the entire group. “Anyone for coleslaw?” Vida pointed to a wicker hamper which she carried over one arm.
“Is it low-fat?” Greer inquired.
Vida fixed Greer with her owlish look. “Of course there's no fat. I don't make my coleslaw with meat.”
As far as I knew, Vida didn't make coleslaw at all. I suspected that she'd bought it. Which, I reflected, was a blessing. Escaping from the bench and the bruising by the Vancich children, I informed Vida that I was going to find a barbecue pit and cook my hot dogs. Would she care to join me?
Vida gave Roger a dubious look. “Are you hungry, dearest? You just had a big bowl of chili and a pizza.”
Roger studied the wet ground. Since I'd last seen him, he'd grown, both vertically and horizontally. His light brown hair was much longer than I remembered, though his manner was as truculent as ever.
“Where are the other kids?” he asked, straining to look around the milling crowd.
Vida bent down to peek under the table. “Too young,” she murmured, espying the Vancich duo. “Well, now …” It was her turn to scan the picnickers. “Ah!” she cried as Grant Fairfax returned with his two panting
sons. “Here are some nice boys, just about your age.”
Roger curled his lip. Vida, however, persevered. “Now run along with these fine fellows and play some games. The three-legged race is set for two-thirty.”
I shuddered for whoever got stuck with Roger in a three-legged race. It would have been more appropriate if they'd held a two-headed contest. Roger would win hands down—or heads up, so to speak. Thus my uncharitable train of thought ran on, whimsically and nastily.
“How,” Vida demanded after Roger and the Fairfax boys had formed a wary alliance and gone off, “did you end up with that dreadful crew?”
We were making our way to the nearest barbecue pit. “It was the first table I saw. By the time I got close enough to see who was there, I couldn't turn around and leave.”
The jazz trio had been replaced on the bandstand by a barbershop quartet. I recognized Norm Carlson and Ellsworth Overholt, but not the other two. As I unwrapped my hot dogs, I brought Vida up to speed on my latest bits and pieces of information, including the ruckus between Laura and Buzzy O'Toole.
She was only mildly surprised. “Frustration, failure, a sense of hopelessness, all the besetting sins of a town under economic siege. By the way, the newly appointed dean of students for the college is going to speak today.”
“What newly appointed dean?” I asked sharply. “Carla hasn't written a word about him. Or her.”
“Now, now,” Vida soothed. “It's not Carla's fault this time. I understand it won't be officially announced until this coming week. His name is Ryan Talliaferro, from Spokane Falls Community College.”
“So how do you know?” I asked.
Vida shrugged. “A little bird told me. Do you remember Faith Lambrecht?”
I did, vaguely. Her husband had been the pastor at Vida's church years ago.
“I called to tell her about the outrages committed by our younger set,” Vida continued, her eyes, as ever, skipping from group to group around the park. “She lives in Spokane, and her podiatrist's neighbor's son is married to Ryan Talliaferro's sister.”