by Mary Daheim
“The sheriff has a girlfriend?” Carla shook me by the arm. “Emma, I thought you and Milo Dodge were—”
“We weren’t,” I cut in tersely. “Milo and I are friends, period. Honoria seems quite charming.” It was, I thought, unfortunately true. Swiftly, I changed the subject, trying to draw Doc Dewey into a conversation about Art Fremstad’s suicide. But Doc had suddenly become very busy. He didn’t have time for chitchat. I nursed my beer and sat back to listen to Carla exchange gossip with Ginny about the latest Alpine romances. Since most of the people involved were young enough to be my children—though I was awfully glad they weren’t—I didn’t pay much attention. Instead, I studied the growing crowd, watching an animated Janet Driggers use lots of hand gestures to describe something to Charlene Vickers. Patti Marsh and Jack Blackwell were snuggling near the pool table. The Wickstroms and the Ridleys were still trying to find some vacant boxes to use for seats. Milo Dodge was demonstrating concern for Honoria Whitman’s comfort. I sighed. If it had been me instead of Honoria, I could have been sitting on a six-inch spike and Milo wouldn’t have noticed.
Another dozen people had entered the tavern in the past half hour. Jack Blackwell had abandoned Patti Marsh to help Doc behind the bar. I had no idea who the regular bartender was, but the owner was an old curmudgeon who lived way up on Icicle Creek not far from the ranger station. I debated about ordering another beer, but before I could get Doc’s attention Dani Marsh came in with Reid Hampton and Matt Tabor. A hush fell over the gathering, then scattered applause broke out. Dani bobbed a curtsy and flashed her beautiful smile. Across the room, her mother curled her lip. I couldn’t see Cody Graff from my angle on the bar stool, but I suddenly felt uneasy. If the axe incident had been unintentional, would Cody apologize to Dani and her coworkers? Or had he done so already? Somehow, I doubted it.
And I was right. While Dani Marsh and Reid Hampton moved straight for the bar, Matt Tabor angled over to Cody and Marje’s table. I twisted around for a better view. The crowd had quieted down. There probably wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t know about that axe.
Carla was nudging me in the ribs. “Emma—are you going to write up what Cody did at the stadium? How close did that axe come to Dani?”
“Within inches,” I replied soberly. “He was just damned lucky he missed all three of them. And me, for that matter. It flew within a couple of feet of my head.”
Carla’s dark eyes grew very wide. “Wow! I didn’t know that! Everybody’s been talking about what a close call Dani had! I wonder what Marje Blatt thinks. Hey,” she went on, giving me another jab, “I’ve got a headline for you—CODY GRAFF AND MOVIE STAR EX-WIFE: WAS IT REALLY AN AXECIDENT?” Carla let loose with her high-pitched giggle.
I didn’t bother to tell Carla that headline writing wasn’t her strong suit. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure what was. Carla was deficient in a lot of areas, except for enthusiasm.
The conversation between Matt Tabor and Cody Graff was getting heated. Cody had gotten to his feet, despite Marje’s efforts to restrain him. By now, all of the customers were staring, and except for the blur of background music over the tavern’s antiquated sound system, silence dominated the room like an unwanted guest.
Cody was unsteady on his feet. Matt braced himself against the table with his knees. “You ever pull a stunt like that again and I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!” roared Matt in his trained movie voice.
“Go screw yourself!” shouted Cody, though the words weren’t quite as distinct as he’d intended. He lunged across the table, but Matt Tabor was too quick for him. Matt’s fist struck Cody square on the jaw, sending him slumping against the wall. The apple box beneath him crashed to one side. Marje and several others screamed. Milo Dodge was on his feet, wrestling his way around Honoria’s wheelchair.
Matt backed off, while Cody wallowed around on the floor. Marje, having made sure her beloved was still alive, sprang at Matt. “Listen, you two-bit Hollywood jerk, we don’t need your type around this town! Why don’t you take yourself and that hotshot movie star tramp of yours back to California where you belong?”
Milo had a hand on Matt’s arm, but his words were directed at Marje. “Sit down, Marje. Or better yet, take Cody home. I think he’s had enough already. In a lot of ways.”
Marje shot Milo an outraged look. “He’s had two crummy beers! Big deal! If he were really drunk, would Doc serve him again? Hey, Sheriff, is this Loggerama or what?”
Matt was trying to shake loose of Milo, but the sheriff was holding fast. “Then you’d better drive, Marje. And keep Cody under control, okay?” He shook a warning finger at her, then pulled Matt Tabor back to a safe distance.
“Watch it, Badge Man,” said Matt in a surly tone, as Milo finally let go. “I’m under contract to Gemini Productions. You want to get your butt sued?”
“My butt’s covered, buster,” retorted Milo, wheeling around to lope back to Honoria. He stopped short as he realized that war had broken out on yet another front at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Jack Blackwell was refusing to serve Reid Hampton.
“This is the bastard that cut down my trees! To hell with him!” He hurled the bar towel onto the floor and spit into the nut dish. “He owes me eighty grand! He’s outta here, or else I am!”
Reid Hampton, who was wearing a snakeskin vest and an array of Indian jewelry, threw his fawn-colored felt hat across the bar. “Don’t be a jackass, Blackwell! We’ve got an iron-clad contract and you know it!”
“And you’ve got iron-clad pants!” roared Blackwell. “Just show me where it says in that freaking contract that you got any right to saw up my valuable timber.”
From three stools down, I watched Dani Marsh watch Hampton and Blackwell. She looked vaguely alarmed, but not exactly upset. More to my surprise, she had made no move to console Matt Tabor, who was drinking thirstily from a mug poured by Doc Dewey. It was only when Patti Marsh charged up to the bar that Dani shrank back.
“Look here, Doc,” yelled Patti in her hoarse voice as she elbowed Reid Hampton out of the way, “have you got a right to serve or not serve whoever you want in this dump or not?” Before Doc could answer, she pointed a painted fingernail at her daughter. “Let’s start with her. She doesn’t have a right to mix with decent people like the rest of us! How about dumping her out in the gutter where she belongs?”
Doc’s mouth set in a rigid line, the type of expression he used on patients who wouldn’t take their medicine. “Button it up, Patti. You don’t know your backside from a hole in the ground.”
“Yes, she does,” said Janet Driggers, who had come up to the bar to get a new pitcher and some snacks. “It’s the one on the left, obviously.”
Doc broke into a grin, and Patti whirled around, her anger diverted. But Janet was so outrageously blunt that only the most mean-minded Alpiner could be annoyed by her. Patti started to say something, then saw that Reid Hampton was heading back to his table. “Hey, you!” shouted Patti. “Come here! I want a word with you, Mr. so-called-movie producer-director-whatever-the-hell-you-are!”
But Reid Hampton ignored her. Patti started after him, but Milo again resorted to his strong-arm technique. “Come on, Patti, sit down, go eat some of that popcorn with the Driggers. Let’s not turn Loggerama into a war zone. I had more peaceful evenings in Nam.”
Patti glared at Milo, then realized that his hand was on her waist and gave him a coquettish look. “Hey, sheriff,” she cooed in a sudden shift of gears, “did anybody ever tell you you got terrific eyes? Soulful, or something like that.”
Milo didn’t flush this time, but he steered Patti away from the bar and into the care of a bemused Al and Janet Driggers. If Al was at a loss, his wife wasn’t: “Sit down, Patti. Tell us if it’s true about you and Jack doing it on the donkey engine up at Carroll Creek.”
Cody was back on his box, looking like a floppy doll. Marje fussed over him, checking his bruised chin and offering him a fresh beer. Dani Marsh had finally joined Matt Tabor at the
other end of the bar. Reid Hampton was allowing Doc Dewey to pour him a beer while a fuming Jack Blackwell served Milo. Patti had settled in with Al and Janet Driggers. I had to wonder why Patti and Dani had been driving around in Matt Tabor’s fancy car Thursday night. How had they not managed to gouge out each other’s eyes? I gave myself a shake, feeling as if I’d been involved in an old-fashioned Hollywood Western barroom brawl.
Back at the sheriff’s table, Honoria looked composed, her head moving on her graceful neck as her serene gray eyes surveyed the aftermath of the mayhem. She caught me looking at her and gave me a conspiratorial smile. Drat, I thought, I might get to like this woman.
“This is fun,” exclaimed Carla to Ginny. “We should come here more often. It’s a lot more exciting than the Venison Inn.”
“So is gang warfare,” I remarked, wondering how much longer I could hold out.
Luckily, Ginny wasn’t as taken with the Icicle Creek Tavern’s floor show. “Frankly, I’ve got a headache from all this noise. Why don’t we grab a pizza and then head home?”
Carla’s face fell, but she rebounded quickly. “Double cheese, pepperoni, mushrooms, anchovies, and onions? Okay, we can eat it at my place. Want to get a video or catch the end of the Miss Alpine pageant? Emma?”
I shook my head. “Count me out. I’ve got a whole weekend to cram into half of tomorrow. Don’t forget the parade and the banquet and the fireworks.” Fortunately, my presence was required only at the banquet. Carla would cover the parade; Ed had volunteered to take pictures of the fireworks.
Carla finished her wine, and Ginny took a last sip of beer. My schooner had been empty for a long time. I asked Doc for our tab and insisted on treating my employees.
“Quite a night, eh, girlies?” asked Doc with a shake of his head. He was looking extremely tired, and I couldn’t say that I blamed him. “I wonder when the loggers will start trying to kill each other?”
“I thought they signed a truce for Loggerama,” I said with a grin. “When do you get done with your shift?”
He looked above the bar at the old clock featuring the Hamm’s beer bear. “Ten minutes,” he said with a grateful expression. “This seems like the longest two hours of my life. It wears me down, girlie. I’d rather do surgery. Dr. Starr should be along any minute.” His lined face became unwontedly grim.
I led the way to the door, but halfway across the room I paused to greet the Driggers and the Vickers. Patti Marsh had returned to her table where she sat alone, sending malevolent glances in her daughter’s direction. After an exchange of pleasantries, I began to pick my way through the tables again. I saw Cody and Marje leaving just ahead of us, about a minute after Curtis Graff had come into the tavern. The brothers ignored each other. Or, more likely, Cody was too bleary-eyed to recognize Curtis. Marje had her fiancé by the arm, propping him up. Milo had been right: Cody Graff hadn’t needed a third beer. He looked as if he could barely make it to the parking lot.
It was fortunate that Marje Blatt was going to do the driving. At least Cody would get home alive and in one piece.
I couldn’t guess that I was only half right.
I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in until nine-fifteen on Sunday morning. Mass at St. Mildred’s was at ten, and I could shower, dress, grab a cup of coffee, and get to church in under three-quarters of an hour. I was just about to struggle out of bed when the phone rang. Shielding my eyes against the bright morning sun, I groped for the receiver. It was Milo Dodge.
“Emma,” he said, sounding tense. “I’ve got some bad news.”
My brain wasn’t quite on track yet. “What?”
Outside, I could hear the blare of trumpets. The high school band was assembling just a block and a half away, practicing for the big parade.
“There’s been an accident,” said Milo, with the sound of male voices in the background. “Durwood Parker ran over Cody Graff last night. Cody’s dead and Durwood’s back in jail.”
I fell back on the bed, one hand on my head. Sunday wasn’t going to be a day of rest, either. Except, of course, for Cody Graff.
Chapter Seven
CODY GRAFF HAD been struck down out on Mill Street, just west of the turnoff for Burl Creek Road. A weeping Durwood had turned himself in shortly after six A.M. He knew he wasn’t supposed to drive, he told Milo, but he figured that if he took just a little spin on a quiet Sunday morning, nobody would be out on the road.
“We’ll have to charge him with vehicular manslaughter,” Milo told me after I got to the sheriff’s office two blocks up from The Advocate on Front Street. I’d gone straight from mass, which Father Fitzgerald had cut short due to Loggerama.
“You know the prayers,” he’d announced from the pulpit, so it’s at home ye’ll be saying them.” His parishioners were grateful, since the little wooden church was already unmercifully hot. We were also spared Father Fitz’s meandering sermon of the week, which frequently came out of a time warp and often featured The Hun and The Red Menace.
“Poor Durwood,” I sighed. “How’s his wife doing?”
Milo shrugged. “Dot’s pretty upset. She said she knew this would happen some day. I told her to get a good lawyer, somebody from Seattle maybe.”
“Can’t you release him on his own recognizance?”
Milo sat down heavily in his imitation leather chair. “It’s Sunday. He can’t post bail until tomorrow. What can I do?” He gave a helpless lift of his shoulders.
A silence fell between us. I was the first to break it, suddenly aware that we seemed to have forgotten about the dead man. “What on earth was Cody Graff doing out by Burl Creek Road at six in the morning? The last time I saw him, he looked as if he’d sleep for a week.”
“Beats me.” Milo gazed at the ceiling of his small no-nonsense office. As usual, his desk was cluttered and his in-basket piled high. He was in uniform, because he was due to ride in the parade with a couple of his deputies. “Cody lived in those apartments between Pine and Cedar, across from the medical-dental clinic. How he ended up out at the edge of town at that time of day, I don’t know. Maybe Marje Blatt could tell us.”
“Have you told Curtis?” I asked.
“I don’t know where he is,” replied Milo, taking a roll of mints out of his pocket and offering me one. “We called up to the San Juans to let Cody’s parents know. They’re coming down this afternoon, if they can get on a ferry. You know what traffic is like between the islands and the mainland this time of year on a Sunday.”
I did. Despite the frequent ferry runs, car passengers were often forced to wait in line overnight on summer weekends. “Maybe Curtis is staying in a motel,” I suggested, tasting spearmint on my tongue.
“We’re checking,” said Milo. “Damn, this is a hell of a thing to happen during Loggerama. And I’ve got an election coming up.” He gave a rueful shake of his head.
“It’s not your fault,” I said in what I hoped was an encouraging tone. “Durwood shouldn’t have been driving. And the thought of Cody wandering along on a country road at dawn is pretty bizarre. In fact, it’s just plain inexplicable.” I gazed straight into Milo’s hazel eyes, waiting for him to agree with me.
But Milo’s thoughts were going off in another direction. He stood up. “I’ve got to go get my horse from the Dithers sisters’ farm. Fuzzy Baugh insisted we ride like some Wild West posse, instead of in our squad cars. Jeez!” He made a disparaging gesture with his hand. “I haven’t been on a horse in ten years.”
I wished Milo well and headed for my car. I had no desire to watch the parade, which was scheduled for one o’clock. It was now after eleven-thirty, and I hadn’t had any breakfast. The Venison Inn and the Burger Barn both looked crowded. I stopped by the office to call Vida and asked if she’d like to drive with me down to Index, where we could get some brunch.
“Do you want to eat or have a powwow?” Vida demanded. “What’s this gruesome business with Cody Graff? Marje has been bleating in my ear for the last hour.” Vida didn’t sound too
sympathetic toward her niece.
We agreed that we could eat and discuss Cody’s demise in Index as well as we could in Alpine. Five minutes later, I picked Vida up at her neat white frame cottage on Cascade Street, and we headed for the main highway. The town of Index is located some twenty-five miles down Stevens Pass on the north fork of the Skykomish River. The Bush House Country Inn is old, architecturally interesting, and serves an exceptional buffet brunch. We had to wait fifteen minutes for a table, but at last, with our plates piled high, we seated ourselves and tackled not only our food, but also Cody Graff’s death.
“You’re right,” Vida agreed, buttering a fluffy blueberry muffin. “Durwood’s an old fool, but Cody shouldn’t have been out on that road so early in the morning. Marje says she dropped him off at his apartment right after she took him home from the Icicle Creek Tavern. She took his pickup to her place. So how did he get to the Burl Creek Road?”
“You mean she’s still got Cody’s truck?”
Vida gave a jerky nod. “That’s right. It’s parked in front of her house. Or rather her parents’ house, but then you know what I think of her mother and father. Nincompoops, both of them, even if Ennis is my own brother. But Marje is sensible, all things considered. I just never thought Cody was suitable for her. Still,” she added virtuously, “I kept out of it. Now, I can’t say I’m sorry she won’t be marrying him. It’s a shame he’s dead, but it may save Marje a lot of grief later on.”
How Vida managed to say all this while consuming two link sausages, half a muffin, and a great quantity of scrambled eggs, I’ll never know. But she did. “This is beginning to sound stranger by the minute. I didn’t ask Milo—was Doc Dewey called in to do his medical examiner’s act?”
Vida attacked a small container of marionberry jam. “Doc and Mrs. Dewey headed for Seattle early this morning. Young Doc Dewey was in emergency, setting some fool of a tourist’s broken leg. I suppose he was going to view the body after he got done, but Marje says he’s pretty busy with all the visitors in town. They don’t have enough sense not to keep hurting themselves while they’re trying to have fun. One idiot from Idaho fell out the window of the Tall Timber Inn last night.”