by Mary Daheim
“Us?” Milo gave me a crooked grin. “Jeez, Emma, when did I slap a badge on your chest?”
“Let’s leave my chest out of this,” I snapped, recalling his comment at Mugs Ahoy. “Don’t you want me to help? It seems you could use a little assistance.” To strengthen my case, I told him about my visits to the ski lodge and Patti Marsh’s house. Milo didn’t look terribly impressed, but at least he seemed mildly interested.
“Dani insists there’s no motive to kill Cody,” I pointed out. “On the face of it, she’s right. But I think Cody knew something about somebody. I don’t mean he was a blackmailer, but I’ll bet he had some knowledge that was dangerous. And it can’t be a coincidence that he was killed right after Dani and the rest of the movie people came to town.”
Milo’s expression was skeptical. “I don’t see it that way. The only one of those people that Cody knew was Dani. I’ve got another angle on the timing—it was Loggerama, and emotions were running high, they always do. Whatever it was that spurred the killer into action was probably triggered by all the excitement.”
I suppose I haven’t experienced enough of small-town life yet to go gaga over a three-day celebration of tree-chopping. Still, I had to allow for the differences in background. Loggerama definitely changed the ebb and flow of Alpine’s life. It wasn’t every day that we had an erection, as our mayor would put it, in the middle of Front Street. At least I hoped not.
“I don’t know, Milo …” I began, but he was crushing his empty beer can in his hands and shaking his head at me.
“Look at all the tourists and locals who got themselves banged up over the weekend,” he said with uncharacteristic heat. “Look at the hordes of people who crowded into town. Look at Cody himself, throwing that axe at Dani and her friends. I wasn’t there, you were, but now that Cody’s been killed, I’ll bet my boots he did it on purpose.”
“If he did, it was a dumb stunt,” I said. “Even if he’d actually hurt one of them, there were several hundred witnesses.”
“And he could claim it was an accident.” Milo was still wringing the beer can. I gathered he wanted a new one.
“He hated Dani,” I remarked, heading into the kitchen. “He said some awful things about her the day she came to town. Oddly enough, Dani doesn’t seem to hate Cody. Or else she hides it better. I have to keep telling myself she is an actress.” I returned to the living room and gave Milo his fresh beer.
He took a deep swig, feet now flat on the floor, arms resting on his knees. “Hell, Emma, this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Somewhere between the refrigerator and Milo’s outstretched hand, I’d had a thought: “Milo, if somebody brought that Haloperidol to the Icicle Creek Tavern, what was it in?” I noted the sheriff’s blank look and clarified my question. “If it was a syrup, it had to come in some kind of container. A bottle, a vial, a ten-gallon jug. Did your deputies go through the tavern’s trash?”
“Hell, no,” replied Milo, faintly belligerent. “By the time we got the autopsy report, everything had been hauled away. Shoot, Emma, whoever brought the stuff—assuming somebody did—could have walked right out the door with the bottles or whatever. It took two days before we realized Cody had been poisoned.”
Milo was right. “I suppose the risk was minimal,” I allowed, now back in the easy chair, with my legs tucked under me. “Your forensics guy must have found something in the Zimmer. Who else has been driving it besides Matt Tabor and Patti Marsh?”
“Patti’s hair, Dani’s hair, Hampton’s hair, lots of stuff,” said Milo with another sigh. “You’d think they’d all gone bald in that car.”
They hadn’t, of course. But Cody Graff might have lost more than his hair in the Zimmer. In the elegant, handcrafted, meticulously detailed setting of the custom-built automobile, he very likely had lost his life.
Chapter Ten
“MARJE IS NOT a liar.” Vida was emphatic. She tipped the straw hat over one eye and gave me a cold stare. “She may be confused, but she wouldn’t lie. In fact, I find it hard to believe she admitted passing out purloined pills to Cody. She certainly never told me he was on medication.”
“They were samples,” I reminded her. “I had a friend in Portland who was a nurse. She was always handing out free samples. What else can they do with them?”
Vida wasn’t appeased. She was, however, disturbed. It appeared that her own arguments had created misgivings. “There’s something very wrong here,” she pointed out. “I had lunch with Marje yesterday. She hadn’t talked to Billy yet. She was upset, mostly about Cody, and the fact that she couldn’t believe anyone would have a reason to kill him. Marje actually got quite inarticulate—most unlike her. But she never once mentioned that he was taking that Haloperidol. And even though Cody had a bad temper and could be mean as cat dirt, she didn’t complain about him being moody. Now why did she suddenly give her cousin all this blather?”
If Vida didn’t know, I couldn’t even guess. We were in the news office, waiting for the paper to come back from Monroe. Vida was at her desk, and I had borrowed Ed’s chair.
“I suppose,” I ventured, “because Billy is a deputy sheriff and Marje felt she had to be candid with him. Let’s face it, Vida, we’re not out of the Dark Ages yet when it comes to attitudes on mental problems. Would Marje want to go around town telling everybody that her fiancé was taking tranquilizers because he couldn’t control his moods?”
Vida shook her head so hard that she had to hold onto her hat. “I’m not talking about telling everybody. I’m talking about telling me. Marje and I are very close. Her mother, Mary Lou, is a pinhead.”
Ed lumbered into the office just then, with Curtis Graff in tow. I hid my surprise and gave Curtis a pleasant smile. He was leaving in a few hours for the San Juans, and wanted to clip Cody’s obituary. Did we have copies of the newspaper yet?
We didn’t, but I told Curtis he could wait for Kip MacDuff who ought to be getting in from Monroe very soon. Curtis sat down at Carta’s desk, I vacated Ed’s chair, and Vida fixed our visitor with a shrewd gaze.
“Curtis,” she began without any bothersome preamble, “who do you think killed your brother? Or do you think he may have accidentally killed himself?”
Curtis did not return Vida’s gaze. “I haven’t had anything to do with Cody for five years. Don’t ask me how he died. I just wish I hadn’t been around when it happened.”
“But you were,” Vida noted, never one to let a squirming fish off the hook. “Didn’t you talk to Cody before he died?”
“I sure didn’t,” said Curtis with fervor. He was now looking at Vida, matching stare for stare. “Why would I want to talk to that jerk?”
Ed looked up from his clip art and I gave a little jump from my place by the coffeepot, but Vida was unmoved. “I never did know what you and Cody had your falling-out over,” she said, implying that someone had been remiss by not telling her. “But it must have been a pip. What was it, Curtis—a girl?”
Curtis stood up abruptly, glaring at Vida. Then he uttered a lame little laugh, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah—you could say that. A girl.” He made a half-hearted effort to kick Carla’s desk. “I’m heading out. I don’t want to miss the Anacortes ferry. I’ll pick up those papers when I get back to Alpine in a couple of days.” He moved swiftly to the door and let it swing shut with a loud bang.
Vida was bristling. “Well! I was right. The Graff boys did have a real set-to. Now I wonder why?”
We all did. But at the time, we couldn’t begin to understand what had caused the rift. And we certainly didn’t see the connection with Cody’s death. Given the circumstances, we couldn’t blame ourselves.
When I got home that evening, there was a call from Adam on my machine. He had a few more items for Curtis Graff to bring back to Alaska. His fleece-lined denim jacket. His navy blue ribbed knit sweater. His leather driving gloves. His ten-speed bike. And, if I had time to go shopping, could I throw in some crew socks, a half-dozen boxer shor
ts, a pair of Nikes, and olive green Dockers with one-inch belt loops? Oh—and a seven-eights of an inch woven black belt?
Grimly, I dialed the cannery’s dormitory. But Adam wasn’t there. He had a couple of days off and was on an overnight rock climbing expedition. My son had neglected to tell me about that, obviously being too caught up in the size of his belt—which was considerably larger than the size of his brain.
Or so I decided as I banged down the phone. It rang under my hand, and I answered in a vexed voice.
“Emma, you sound as if some outraged reader put a bomb under your desk,” said Tom Cavanaugh, in that easy, resonant voice that always made me tingle. “What’s wrong?”
I was about to say “My son,” then realized that would get us off on the wrong foot. “We had another homicide. I don’t suppose it was in the San Francisco papers.”
“No, we have too many of our own,” said Tom. “Who got killed?”
I explained, as briefly as possible. The account gave me time to catch my breath and regain my temper. It also allowed me to recover from the surprise of hearing Tom’s voice. Even though I’d spoken with him as recently as early June, I had the feeling that he could call me every day and I’d still get a little breathless. Sap, I chided myself, and concluded my recitation with Milo’s frustration over the complexities of the case.
“Dodge is a good man,” said Tom, “but he’s not much for subtleties. I agree with you, I don’t think this Loggerama business is what set the killer off. Assuming there is a killer. Your theory about Dani Marsh’s return makes more sense. Given that, though, it would work better if Dani, not Cody, had been the victim.”
“Well, she wasn’t,” I said. “Cody was a bit of a drip, but he wasn’t worth murdering. If you know what I mean,” I added hastily, aware that I sounded crass.
“Right.” Tom spoke absently. “Did you get my letter?”
I bit my lip. “Yes. I was going to answer it … tonight. I just got home. We’ve been so busy with Loggerama and then Cody’s death …”
“And you didn’t know how to fob me off.” Tom chuckled. “Emma, I’m going to do something for Adam, and that’s that. But it would be better if we agreed on what it would be.”
“Okay,” I said. “Pay for his tuition to the University of Alaska. Throw in room and board.” I smirked into the phone, figuring I’d hoisted Tom on his own petard.
I was wrong. “Fine, when does he have to register? Are they on a quarter or a semester system? Has he declared a major?”
I was virtually speechless. “Tom—”
He trampled my protest. “I don’t know much about the state university system up there, but he ought to make sure his courses are transferable to the lower forty-eight. How many credits does he have from Hawaii?”
Tom had to stop asking me questions I couldn’t answer. Adam’s transcripts looked like Egyptian hieroglyphics. “Adam has saved up to go to school. That’s why he’s working in Ketchikan. I think he needs the responsibility of earning most of his own money. But you could give him the price of an airline ticket to Fairbanks.”
Tom was silent for a moment. “Stanford would be closer.”
“To who? You?” The words tumbled out unbidden.
“Emma.” Tom was a patient man, but he sounded faintly exasperated. “To both of us, if you put it like that. But I was only thinking in terms of Stanford because of its reputation. What does Adam want to do with his life?”
I laughed. “Adam has planned his life only as far as his next party. Give me a break, Tom, do your kids know what they’re doing?”
“My other kids?” Tom with the needle was a new experience for me. “Graham still likes taking cinema at USC, but he doesn’t know if he wants to be a director, a cinematographer, or sell Milk Duds at the Tenplex in Beverly Center. Kelsey says she’s not going back to Mills. She wants to see Europe and meet Alberto Tomba on the ski slopes.” He paused, but not long enough to let me interrupt. “Okay, airline tickets it is. I’ll send enough so Adam can come home for the holidays.”
I was about to ask how his mentally unstable wife, Sandra, was doing when he turned away from the phone. “Terrific,” I heard him say. “I always said green was your color.”
A woman’s voice answered in the background. Sandra’s voice. She sounded almost normal, which meant she wasn’t cackling like a chicken or howling like a loon. I glanced at my watch—it was almost six-thirty. I guessed that they were going out to dinner. Together. I put my hand to my head and fought down a terrible urge to cry.
“Thanks, Chuck,” Tom said into the phone. “I’ll get back to you in a few days. Good-bye.”
Chuck. Chuck who? Chuck what? I felt my mouth twist into a bitter little smile. I should have chucked my emotions out the window a long time ago. Unfortunately, feelings aren’t as easy to dump as old clothes.
But, I thought, getting up off the sofa and moving briskly into the kitchen, I’d just saved the price of an airline ticket.
I tried out Tom’s theory on Vida. She didn’t discount the idea. “Tommy’s no dope,” she said. “So where does it lead us? Back to Dani and Cody five years ago?”
“Maybe.” We were driving in my Jag out to the Burl Creek Road. It was a muggy Thursday morning, and we wanted to have a look at the spot where Durwood had mistakenly thought he’d run down Cody Graff. “Vida, what do you remember about Cody and Dani?”
Vida leaned back against the leather upholstery, her flower-strewn fedora slipping down almost to the rim of her glasses. “Not much,” she admitted. “That was the year my three daughters insisted I go to Europe. They’d been nagging me to use their father’s insurance money for a long time, and after they were all married and settled down, I finally gave in. I was gone three months, so I missed the wedding.”
I stopped for the arterial onto Alpine Way. Across the street, I could see Old Mill Park with its statue of Carl Clemans, the town’s official founder, and despite the discrepancy in spelling, kin to Samuel Clemens. A family of tourists was going into the museum that housed logging memorabilia. On the tennis courts, a half-dozen people were energetically lobbing balls back and forth across the nets. It was too early in the day for the picnickers to show up with their jugs of Kool-Aid and containers of potato salad and raw hamburger patties. In my mind’s eye, I tried to recreate the original mill, which had stood next to the railroad tracks. Old photographs usually showed it under a lot of snow, with lumber piled high on the loading dock and great puffs of smoke pouring out of slim steel stacks.
“They had a baby shower for Dani at Darlene Adcock’s,” Vida went on. “I didn’t go, but I wrote a little story about it. Darlene said Dani was very excited, thrilled to pieces over every gift she got. Then the baby came—and went.” Vida shook her head, tipping the fedora even farther down on her forehead.
“Patti told me Dani was a rotten mother,” I remarked, following the railroad tracks past the sign advertising the new Safeway.
Vida adjusted her hat. “I don’t think that’s true. I saw Dani a couple of times downtown with little Scarlett—what a terrible name to give a child, no wonder she died, probably of mortification—but Dani was proud as punch. She had the baby all dressed up in the sweetest little things—which is a lot more than I can say for Patti when Dani was a baby. She just threw a bunch of hand-me-downs on her and stuffed her into a stroller.”
“I take it Dani never knew her father?”
“Ray Marsh? No. Patti couldn’t track him down to get any child support, which made her wild. I think he went to California. They often do,” Vida said, as if there were big signs at the Agricultural Inspection Stations on the state line that read WELCOME IRRESPONSIBLE MEN OF THE WEST.
At the little dip in the road, I applied the brake. “It must have been right about here,” I noted. The Burl Creek Road was to our left, the Overholt farm just across the intersection. Vine maple, cottonwoods, and a few firs lined the other side of the road, concealing the train tracks and the river. We pulled over
and got out of the car. “The Zimmer must have been parked where we are, at least according to Cal and Charlene Vickers.”
“Yes,” said Vida, walking slowly around the Jaguar. “I suppose Milo and his deputies scoured this area thoroughly.”
“No doubt.” I watched Vida bend down, her lack of confidence in Milo and his men apparent. “Do you think they missed something?”
Vida shot me a wry look. “Did you ever know a man who didn’t? Remember, Emma, men aren’t like other people. My late husband could never find his hunting shirt, right there in front of him in the closet. It was red plaid. Imagine!”
I joined Vida in her search. Three full days had passed since Milo had decided that Cody Graff had been murdered. Maybe. Careless passersby had already littered the roadside with the usual beer cans, gum wrappers, and Styrofoam cups. Vida clucked at the vandals’ leavings, even as she checked each item to make sure it couldn’t possibly be a clue. She was well off into the brush now, up to her knees in fiddlehead ferns.
“Ah!” she cried, holding up an object that looked like a pen. “See this!” Triumphantly, she charged up through the ferns and presented me with an eyeliner pencil. “It’s almost new, obviously expensive. What do you bet it belongs to Dani Marsh?”
I turned the eyeliner over in my hand. It was a brand I’d seen only in high fashion magazine advertisements. No store in Alpine carried the line, and it would probably be hard to find even in Seattle. “Could be,” I said. “So what?”
Vida was gesturing in the vicinity of my car. “Let’s say the Zimmer was parked the way we are now, heading out of town. The driver’s side is next to the road. Dani has Cody with her, he passes out, maybe dies right there, she panics and pushes him out of the car. The eyeliner rolls out, too, and goes down that little bank. Got it?”