by Mary Daheim
Marilynn, like everybody else in town, knew that Milo and I were a duo. “If you want,” she said, sounding faintly frazzled as she gathered up a chart. “But it might be another hour. Kelly Amundson?” Marilynn had raised her voice as she smiled at the couple with the two-year-old.
I sat down next to Ginny and Rick. “The city should fill those holes,” I said, wishing that the Erlandsons would make their big announcement so that we could speak of more important things, like babies.
“I really don't think it's broken,” Ginny asserted. “But Rick fusses over me like a mother hen.” She gave her husband a fond smile.
“It's always better to be sure,” I said somewhat vaguely, for Milo was coming out of the examining-room area. He saw me and made a face.
“What's wrong with youT the sheriff demanded. There was a large diagonal bandage above his right eye.
“Nothing,” I said hastily. “I heard you got hurt and came over to see if I could take you home. With me,” I added in a whisper.
“Oh, hell! Why not? This is a bunch of bullshit.” The sheriff led the way out of the hospital, oblivious to the stares of the older couple and the Erlandsons.
If Milo had given in without a struggle, he was also giving up—at least for the night. “No damned reporter's questions about those bums up on Sawyer, no dingbat ideas about what happened to Ursula, no running commentary on the frigging picnic. Give me a stiff shot of Scotch and let me zone out. We can jabber like a pair of jays in the morning.”
I met all of Milo's not unreasonable requests, as well as one he hadn't mentioned. The Scotch restored him, if briefly. Lying in his arms while he slept deeply, I felt secure and almost happy. Milo might be damaged goods in many ways, but he was safe. I, too, slept.
We both woke up grumpy. Less than six hours of sleep hadn't revitalized either of us. Milo had hoped to take some time off after the three-day weekend, but couldn't because of the arrests on Mount Sawyer—and Ursula's mysterious demise. I had a paper to put out, and a ticklish lead story. We didn't really discuss any of those things over breakfast. Once we put on our professional faces, we would deal with the harsh realities of our jobs.
The rain had dwindled to a drizzle by morning. Since Milo's Cherokee Chief was still parked on Front Street, I drove him to work. He could see me around ten, after filling out all the paperwork necessitated by the bust on the mountain. There'd be a transfer of prisoners involved, since Skykomish County didn't have adequate facilities, especially in the case of juveniles. While Vida might glibly talk of juvenile hall, the only holding area we had in Alpine for young people was a bleak room in the courthouse basement. Over the years it had been used more as a drop-off point for parents who wanted to party all weekend. They dumped their kids, and let the county pay for them from Friday night until Monday morning when Mom and Dad arrived with world-class hangovers. The sheriff had mixed emotions about the practice, but figured in the long run that the children were better off under county supervision than they would be if left alone.
None of our photos from the weekend would be back from Buddy Bayard's studio until noon, so I concentrated on writing the story about the fight between Luce and Bill Daley. I kept it short, not wanting to offend or humiliate either man. As usual, Vida would handle basic picnic coverage.
I had also assigned myself the task of doing the article about Polly's vase. It would be the second lead. I was mulling over the angle to take when Vida came into my office.
“I still haven't seen that thing,” she said, shaking her head at my offer to sit down. “Now I hear that half the state is showing up. I drove by there this morning on my way to work and there were people standing out on the stairs. Really, Emma, don't you think it's a humbug?”
I uttered a deep sigh. “I don't know. I mean, I can't see anything unusual. But then Polly thinks I'm sort of a heathen.”
“Polly!” Vida waved her hands in dismissal. “The woman's addled. She always has been wanting. She simply gets worse with age. I'm certainly not going to stand in line to see that vase. All of her crockery is cracked. I know, years ago I covered your Legion of Mary meetings at her house. Honestly! The dishes she used to serve that funny striped ice cream! All chipped and none too clean, if you ask me. She'd better ask God to send her a dishwasher.”
Vida stomped out, but before I could write a lead, Leo wandered in. He looked as tired as I felt, and I wondered how he'd spent his weekend. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him around town. “Where do you want to run this?” he asked, setting a full-page layout in front of me.
It was a formal portrait of Ursula Randall, with her name, dates of birth and death, and the inscription, BELOVED WIFE OF THE LATE WHEATON ALBERT RANDALL, M.D., CHERISHED FIANCEE OF WARREN WILLIS WELLS, ADMIRED AND RESPECTED BY ALL WHO KNEW HER. REST IN PEACE.
It was not uncommon for families to pay for the privilege of running a memorial for their dear departed ones. However, a full page was a first during my tenure on The Advocate. I stared at the portrait, which showed Ursula from the waist up, seated in a Victorian brocade chair, and wearing an artfully draped off-the-shoulder evening gown.
“Who brought this in?” I asked.
“Wells. First thing this morning.” Leo didn't sit down, but paused to light a cigarette. “He was waiting for me at the door.”
“This is overkill. Excuse the expression.” I gave Leo a wry look.
He merely shrugged. “It helps pay the bills.”
“Well, yes,” I said, trying to sound as impersonal as Leo. “But it really is too much. If Fuzzy Baugh dropped dead tomorrow, I wouldn't run a full page of him, mayor or not.”
Leo was beginning to look peeved. “Do you want me to pull a Bronsky and discourage advertising? Come on, Emma, this is revenue. It doesn't reflect your editorial stand on dead people, for chrissake.”
“Okay, okay,” I said hastily. “We'll run it. But you can take all the heat. And there will be heat. A lot of people will resent the fact that Ursula gets this kind of space. She may have been a native, but she defected years ago and only returned within the last couple of months. Then she rubbed quite a few folks the wrong way after she got back. Furthermore,” I added, tapping at the layout, “there's no mention of her first husband, and even if his family's not around anymore, people in Index and Alpine will remember. And what about her brothers? Warren should have included Jake and Buzzy.”
Leo puffed on his cigarette. “I asked him about that. He didn't take well to the suggestion. I gather there's some bad feeling involved.”
“Maybe so.” I gazed again at Ursula's portrait. Her smile seemed enigmatic, her manner, complacent. “I wonder why they're at odds with Warren.”
“Money,” Leo said, taking the layout from me. “Isn't it always money?”
“Often, yes.” I was inclined to interrogate Leo again about his standoffish attitude, but thought better of it. “We'll run the thing on page nine, across from Vida's House & Home section.”
Leo gave a single nod, and left in a cloud of smoke. I resumed tackling the article on Polly's vase. Miraculous vision or maudlin misconception? I typed, then deleted the words. They were too harsh. Is seeing believing? Too flippant. Could the face in the vase be Jesus? Too irreverent.
Maybe I was trying too hard to be clever. A simple, straightforward lead would serve me—and our readers— better. Polly Patricelli thinks she has a miracle in an old cracked vase, and people from all over western Washington and British Columbia agree with her. That was better, if less colorful. I typed away, sticking to the facts, remaining the observer. By the time I finished the story, it was going on ten, and Ginny was delivering the mail. She limped, but said that her ankle was neither broken nor sprained.
“It was just a bad turn,” she reported. “Dr. Flake didn't even put an Ace bandage on it.”
I expressed my relief, waiting for Ginny to make a more exciting, if not unexpected, announcement. But she didn't. Sighing, I began opening the mail.
Carla turned in
her interview with a University of Washington forestry professor, which she'd done Friday after arriving in Seattle, and which allowed her to charge the paper for mileage. At twenty-six cents a mile for a total of a hundred and seventy miles round-trip, I was out over forty-four dollars. It wasn't worth it. The forestry prof had hemmed and hawed, and Carla's conclusion was that old-growth timber was … really old. I insisted that she call him and try to get some kind of opinion or insight. My reporter started to argue, but must have seen the fire in my eyes. While I no longer was inclined to strangle her, I was still miffed over her breezy message about Milo.
I was getting ready to head for the sheriff's office when Murray Felton called. “Early bird and all that,” he declared. “Do I have news for you!”
“Such as?” I tried not to sound too skeptical.
“Such as your logger buddy sued Wheaton Randall for a million bucks. How's that for openers?”
“I'm not surprised,” I said as Carla ambled into the office. “Luce mentioned having sued somebody last night while we were at a meeting. Did he win?”
“The suit's still pending,” Murray replied. “Now how do you suppose an out-of-work logger paid a high-priced lawyer to file said suit?”
“I did wonder about that,” I admitted, indicating that Carla should sit. “Do you know?”
“I've got a good guess. At least four of the unhappy patients don't have the proverbial pot to etcetera. What I figure is that somebody who really had a hard-on for Wheaton backed this crippled quartet. In other words, Lovely Lady Lord, somebody was out to get him.”
I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Carla. “The old conspiracy theory, huh? Murray, I expect better of you.”
I saw Carla give a little jump. She immediately began to scribble something on a spare piece of paper.
“Hey—rebuke me not,” Murray retorted. “This stuff happens, at least in the Big City. Doctors make big bucks, they spend said bucks on many things, sometimes property. Wheaton and Ursula Randall bought and sold houses the way you and I change our underwear. You do change your undies, don't you, sweetheart?”
“Knock it off, Murray,” I snapped, glancing down at Carla's note, which read, Is this the guy? I wrote back, Yes, but forget him.
“So now we're looking at a slightly different motive— maybe,” Murray said. “Somebody who wanted to get both Randalls, one way or another. I'm still digging. What's going on at your end?”
Carla had now written Why? and underlined it three times. I waved a hand, trying to tell her to wait. “Not much here, Murray. I'm going to see the sheriff as soon as I get off the phone. The only new development is that Ursula's missing shoe was found at a party site on Mount Sawyer. But that may not mean much.”
“I'll be in touch. Talk to you tonight or first thing tomorrow.” Murray rang off.
I took a deep breath. “Carla, he's a real jerk. You wouldn't be able to stand him for five minutes. But he's trying to be helpful with this possible homicide. I think.”
Carla, however, wasn't convinced that I had her best interests at heart. “You probably have different standards. I mean, Milo Dodge isn't exactly a Nineties kind of guy.”
“That depends on what century you're talking about,” I said with a straight face. “Now I must dash. Trust me, Carla—you can do a lot better than Murray Felton. He's already losing his hair.” Halfway to the door, I remembered to tell Carla about the imminent appointment of the new community-college dean. “Call Olympia and get the details. I think his name is Talliaferro.”
“How do you spell it?” Carla called after me.
“Ask Olympia,” I shouted, and was gone.
Milo's mood had improved only marginally since breakfast. “I can't give you much,” he announced, looking as if he were trying to hide behind his NRA coffee mug.
“You've got Ursula's other shoe now,” I pointed out. “Doesn't that mean something?”
Milo put the mug down on his littered desk and sighed heavily. “That's the problem. I don't know what it means. We're still trying to build a case.”
“What kind of case?” I asked, feeling puzzled.
“Against one of these morons up on Sawyer.” Milo pushed some papers around, flicking one of them into the wastebasket. “You can't print this, but half the crew we hauled in were high on dope or alcohol or both. They've been growing marijuana up there, and one guy had an assault weapon and some grenades. I can't believe we didn't know what was going on.”
I frowned at Milo. “You mean I can't print that you're dumb? When did I ever do that?”
“Very funny,” Milo said, but he didn't crack a smile. “I'm not talking about the guns and the grass and the grenades. That's a matter of record. I mean the part about the possibility of them being involved with Ursula. Let's say that somehow she ended up sitting by the river in her fancy clothes. One or two or twelve of these crackheads decides to mug her, only to discover too late that she hasn't brought a purse. They get pissed off, and leave Ursula to drown. End of story.”
I looked askance at Milo. “They also leave Ursula's egg-sized diamond on her finger but take one of her shoes?”
Milo shrugged. “They're dopers, drunks. You expect them to be rational?”
“It doesn't make sense.”
“Of course it doesn't.” Milo seemed less tense. Maybe talking through his so-called case had improved his spirits. One of the benefits of our newfound intimacy was that he was more inclined to candor about his job. “The problem is nailing the right perps,” Milo went on. “Somebody has to give somebody up. It'll happen, but it'll take time.”
I gave the sheriff my most sardonic look. “As it is, you have a shoe theft. At least as far as Ursula's death is concerned.”
Milo was unperturbed by my sarcasm. “We've already charged some of them with reckless endangerment. That's not because of Ursula, but some of the campers who were—”
I held up a hand. “Hold it. The way I see it, reckless endangerment is the most you could charge them with if they were at fault in Ursula's death.”
“That's true, but—”
“Sheriff, you haven't got jack. Neither do I.” Standing up, I grimaced at Milo. “Now let me get out of here to write my nonstory.”
Milo half rose from the swivel chair. “What are you going to say?”
“I don't know yet. What is there to say? 'Ursula Randall accidentally drowned in the Skykomish River Friday night. Sheriff Milo Dodge is investigating.' What else can I say?”
Milo gave me a crooked little smile and stood up. “Not much. Keep it that way. You want to see a picture of the corpse?”
I cringed. “I do not. Why would I? Ugh!”
But for perverse reasons known only to Milo and God, the sheriff shoved an eight-by-ten glossy across the desk. “This was taken at the scene. There's something about it that bothers me. Can you figure it out?”
Since Milo was asking for help, I steeled myself and gazed at the photograph. It was grainy, dark, and not as gruesome as I'd feared. Ursula was lying facedown in the river, just as Richie Magruder had reportedly found her. She could have been a hiker, pausing for a drink of cool water. I kept staring at the picture, wondering what Milo had meant.
“The main thing that's wrong,” I finally said, “is that she's dead.”
The sheriff wasn't amused. “Keep looking. Of course I could be nuts.”
Then I saw it. “Ursula's got the left shoe on the right foot.” Excitedly I pointed to the glossy photo. “See, the ankle clasp is fastened on the inside.”
“Ah!” Milo took the photo from me and nodded several times. “That means that somebody took off her shoes—or she did, and put one of them back on the wrong foot. Weird.”
I agreed. “Why? Because they were in a hurry? Because somebody came along and they—whoever it was—had to run?”
“Could be.” Now satisfied that he hadn't been nuts, the sheriff tossed the photo onto a filing cabinet. “We'll figure it out. Maybe. By the way, I talked to Buzzy.”<
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“So did I.” We exchanged notes; the accounts meshed. “Ursula was supposed to come by Friday night and give Laura and Buzzy some money. But of course she never showed.” I moved back to Milo's desk. “Do you think Ursula may have asked someone to drive her there but they got sidetracked? She'd been drinking, though not with Buzzy, and maybe she realized she shouldn't be behind the wheel.”
Milo considered. “I hope she'd figure that way. Ursula had her license pulled three months ago for one too many DWIs.”
“No kidding!” I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. “Yet she drove that Lexus around Alpine.”
“Very carefully, I imagine.” Milo gave me a dour look. “So who gave her the lift out to Buzzy's end of town?”
“Whoever left her to drown by the river,” I replied, and made my exit.
The story I wrote about Ursula Randall wasn't much longer than the abbreviated version I'd recited for Milo. Vida was handling the actual obituary, so I added only a brief paragraph of identification and the barest of details about the discovery by Richie Magruder. It was only after I'd hit the send key on my computer that I realized I hadn't filled Milo in on Murray Felton's latest digging. I started to phone the sheriff, but thought better of it: Murray was speculating, a pastime that Milo despised when it came to investigating crime. Again, I thought of telling Vida about our Seattle source, but my House & Home editor wasn't in a receptive mood.
“Honestly!” she fumed, plopping herself down in one of my visitors' chairs. “This Ursula thing is such a mess! I had to stop by Parker's Pharmacy just now, and I saw Billy, heading off in his squad car. He told me along what lines Milo's mind is running. If you ask me, he's been derailed.”
“You mean the theory about the losers up on Mount Sawyer?”
“Exactly. Now I asked Billy if any of our youngsters were involved.” Vida was looking very prim. “As it turns out, none of those who were charged came from Alpine. But of course yoir know that from checking the sheriffs log.”
“Carla did the checking,” I replied as the phone rang. “But you're right—she said there were no locals.” I picked up the receiver and heard Francine Wells at the other end.