by Mary Daheim
But not just yet. The family with the baby and the toddler were unloading their luggage from an SUV with Idaho plates. No one else had pulled into the parking lot. I went back to the office just as Minnie was handing two keys to a middle-aged couple wearing matching golf outfits including jackets and caps with Eagle Vines Golf Club embroidered into the fabric.
Minnie dispatched them politely and efficiently. I approached the counter while she tucked in a few strands of graying brown hair and took a deep breath. “I’ll bet you’re not here to spend the night,” she said. “How are you, Emma?”
“I’ve been better,” I replied. “The last few days have been a pain. For you, too.”
She nodded. “What’s this world coming to? And why here?” Minnie’s plump hand took in what might have been the motel, the town, or anything else she considered her personal sphere. “Oh, we’ve had the usual problems associated with this business, but never a murder or even a serious assault. And now it turns out this fellow wasn’t who he said he was. I heard that on the news this afternoon.”
“Yes,” I said, silently cursing Spencer Fleetwood for his predictable victory over the Advocate. “Nobody knows who he really is. Was. Tell me, Minnie,” I went on, quickly because I knew that more guests would be showing up momentarily, “was there anything—anything at all—that was different about this guy?”
Minnie leaned on the counter and fingered her dimpled chin. “Not really. A typical Californian—that’s what I told Sheriff Dodge. Good-looking, well-dressed, smooth, self-confident.” She shrugged. “You look back, you’d like to think you noticed something that’d help figure out why he was shot. But nothing. Just another visitor from California.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I don’t suppose there was anything about his car or his room that wasn’t quite right?”
“I don’t pay much attention to cars,” Minnie said. “Mel does, but he didn’t mention anything unusual. Dwight Gould checked it out, but he didn’t seem to find any of what you’d call clues.”
“Any visitors?”
Minnie tapped a finger against her cheek. “I’m not sure. Unless someone asked me for this man’s room number, I wouldn’t see who went to his unit so close to the end of the building.”
A pretty woman wearing huge sunglasses and a sky blue halter dress entered the office. I knew that was my cue to leave, but I had one more question. “He got here Thursday, right? Who made up his room Friday?”
“I did,” Minnie replied after giving the new arrival a welcoming smile. “Our summer help isn’t in full swing yet.”
“Nothing odd about the room?” I asked, moving aside so that the woman in the halter dress could take my place at the counter.
Minnie was placing a registration card in front of her guest. “No. Nothing untoward—if you know what I mean.”
I assumed she meant no sign of an unusual sexual romp, drugs, or booze. I nodded absently while the pretty woman began filling out the form.
Minnie took a couple of steps closer to where I was standing. “There was one little thing—really little, that I just thought of now.” She nodded discreetly at the woman, who had taken a small notebook out of her purse while she delved inside for what I assumed was her driver’s license. “We keep those little tablets in each room,” Minnie said softly. “Mr…. Whoever had used his up. There wasn’t any paper in the wastebasket. I don’t suppose it means anything, but it was kind of strange, especially since I noticed he hadn’t used any of the new notepaper the day he was killed.” She turned away from me. “Oh, you’re a fellow Washingtonian, Ms. Pierce. Aren’t our licenses the darnedest things to try to read when they’re still in your wallet? The DMV ought to make the serial numbers bigger. I’ll have to take this out. I’m so sorry.”
This time I took my cue and left. My usual spot in front of the Advocate building was still vacant, so I pulled in and walked down the street to the Venison Inn. The dining area was beginning to fill up, but I saw no sign of Milo. I looked into the bar. He wasn’t there, either. I went back and stood near the entrance. It was almost five-thirty.
Sunny Rhodes, wife of the inn’s bartender, Oren, greeted me. “Do you want a booth?” she asked with the bright smile that had long ago prompted her nickname.
“I’m waiting for the sheriff,” I said. “Maybe I should get a booth.”
“He’ll smoke,” Sunny reminded me. “I wish he wouldn’t, especially when he sits by the sign in the dining room that says ‘No Smoking.’ It’s a poor example. I thought he might quit after that siege he had in the hospital a while back.”
“That was his gallbladder,” I said.
“I know,” Sunny replied, “but I hoped it would give him a scare about keeping a healthy lifestyle. Oren says Dodge almost never orders anything but steak when he comes here.”
“Well,” I said, looking out of the corner of my eye, “here he comes again. We’ll sit in the bar to ease your conscience.”
Sunny’s big smile was lost on Milo, who glowered at her. Obviously, they’d had some previous run-ins. “We’ll be in the bar,” he declared and led the way.
“Damned do-gooder,” the sheriff grumbled after we’d arrived at a table for four and he’d lowered his long-limbed frame into one of the captain’s chairs while I sat on the banquette. “She’d be better off watching where she parks that car of hers when she’s peddling Avon stuff. I’d guess she pays at least three hundred bucks in fines every year. Can’t she read a loading zone sign when she sees it?”
“Sunny is loading,” I pointed out. “Or unloading, as the case may be. She’s usually delivering her orders.”
Milo snorted as he signaled Oren to bring what he knew was our usual request—bourbon for me, Scotch for the sheriff.
“Speaking of a different kind of case,” I said, “is there anything I should know about the phony Dylan Platte’s homicide?”
“You mean that Curtis either hasn’t asked about or isn’t telling you?” Milo leaned back in his chair. “I doubt it. Not,” he added, “that I think your new guy can walk and chew gum at the same time. At least Scott and Carla were better-looking.”
“Not only do I wish I still had Scott on the staff,” I admitted, “but I even yearn sometimes for Carla, typos and all.”
“She’s cute, even if she has put on some weight,” Milo noted. “Still teaching journalism at the college?”
“Alas, she is,” I said. “I almost think Curtis could have had her for a teacher. Her last story for the Advocate was about her replacement. She spelled Scott’s name S-c-o-o-t.”
“I’m going to let Jack or one of the other deputies handle Curtis from now on,” Milo said. “I don’t need any more aggravation on the job.”
“I’ve decided to yank Curtis from the story,” I confessed. “He can do some sidebars, but he isn’t ready for a big assignment. I should never have given it to him.”
Milo waited for Oren to deliver our drinks. “How are you two doing?” he asked in his friendliest bartender’s manner. “Sounds like you’ve both got a big job on your hands with this murder at the motel.”
“We’re working on it,” Milo responded in his laconic manner.
Oren nodded. “I bet I know that guy who got shot. He came in here Thursday night and ordered a Mind Eraser. Who else but a Californian would ask for that? His girlfriend wanted one of those energy drinks, you know, Red Bull and vodka. Crazy, huh?”
“Girlfriend?” I said, surprised.
Oren nodded. “A real knockout. Could’ve been a movie star. Beautiful, blond, and with a figure that—” He stopped, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. Not supposed to make cracks like that these days according to the little woman.”
“You’re not supposed to call your wife ‘the little woman,’ either,” I pointed out, although I frankly didn’t give a rip if he called Sunny his ball and chain. “Tell us more. I’m sure the sheriff would like to hear about your conversation with the victim.”
The sheriff, however, w
as lighting a cigarette and exhibiting his usual laid-back attitude when listening to a witness. No rush, in Milo’s opinion. Sooner or later, you’d hear what you wanted to know. Just let people talk.
But the bar was getting busy. Oren had an assistant, a petite brunette named Julie, who was working her way through Skykomish Community College after her ill-fated teenage marriage had ended in divorce. She was pleasant, but not very efficient.
“I’ll be back,” Oren said, looking anxious. “You want menus?”
The sheriff told him we did. Oren hurried away.
“Why do we need menus?” I asked. “We always know what we’re going to order.”
“It makes Oren feel like he’s earning his tip.” Milo tapped ash into one of the inn’s new glass ashtrays, which had replaced the old black plastic variety. “So how are you going to grill him about the knockout blonde?”
“She sounds like Ginger Roth,” I said. “I’ve had a feeling there was a connection all along between the Roths and the homicide.”
Milo groaned softly. “Oh, God, please, not women’s intuition!”
I made a face at him. “It’s not that. I’m always wary of coincidences that aren’t.”
“Whatever that means,” Milo muttered as Oren appeared with our drinks and menus. “Hey,” the sheriff said, “what time was this Eraser guy here Thursday?”
Oren thought for a moment. “Seven, seven-thirty. The blonde came in a few minutes later.”
“How long did they stay?”
“An hour or so,” Oren replied, adjusting his bar apron over his paunch. “They had a couple of those screwy drinks, and then I think they went into the dining room and had dinner. Ask Sunny. She’s been working for the past week or so filling in for Tracie, who’s on vacation.”
“How’d they act?”
“Friendly,” Oren said, “but not all over each other. They just talked, kind of serious, now that I think about it.”
“Hear any of what they were saying?”
“Not really.”
“Think.”
Oren cracked his knuckles, a habit that irked me no matter who the cracker might be. “Uh…no, I honestly didn’t catch anything. They’d clam up when I came along.” He nodded toward a small, round, and currently empty table in the far corner. “I suppose maybe they didn’t want to be overheard.”
Milo nodded once. “Thanks, Oren,” he said, handing his unread menu back. “I’ll have the T-bone medium well done, with the salad and blue cheese and a baked potato, but not with any of that goop that comes in the little cups.”
The bartender looked at me. “Emma?”
“The same, only rare, with all the goop for the potato.”
Oren took both menus and went off to the bar.
“Business, not pleasure,” I said.
“Sounds like it.” Milo puffed on his cigarette. “They’re going to change the state laws about smoking, you know.”
“Yes,” I said, “late this year. No smoking in any eating or drinking establishment.”
“Freaking Nazis,” Milo muttered. “If anybody expects me to enforce that rule, they can think again or meet me out back by the Dumpster. Don’t these morons have anything better to do? It’s not like there aren’t any real crimes in this country. And don’t tell me that these motherjumpers who come up with this crap aren’t snorting coke or puffing on some funny stuff and being so self-righteous I could puke.”
“You done?” I asked sweetly.
“Hey,” Milo said sharply, “aren’t you a journalist? Aren’t you supposed to get all wound up over people’s rights being trampled? How come all of you dinks suddenly shut the hell up when it comes to smoking?”
“How come you don’t read my editorials?” I retorted. “I already wrote one a couple of months ago saying that even if I weren’t a smoker—usually—I felt this new law was a serious infringement and only more chipping away at personal freedoms. You missed that?”
The sheriff looked faintly sheepish. “Must’ve. Write another one.”
“I might.” We’d gone off the rails. “About the dead man and the blonde,” I said. “If she posed as Ginger Roth, a real or imaginary person, where was she holed up while—let’s call him Josh for now—was at the Tall Timber?”
“Maybe she wasn’t staying around here,” Milo suggested. “Maybe she’s from somewhere nearby.”
Maybe she’s been here all along, I thought. But I didn’t say so out loud. It seemed like a preposterous idea. Nobody in Alpine resembled the beautiful young woman who’d called on me.
“Are you going to talk to Sunny on the way out?” I asked.
“Might as well,” Milo said without enthusiasm.
“What’s Graham Cavanaugh like?”
“The son?” Milo frowned. “Long ponytail, goatee, harp tattoo on his left hand, probably the artsy type.”
“He’s supposed to have a good head for business,” I said. “His wife is a writer. Was she with him?”
The sheriff shook his head. “I guess she stayed behind at the ski lodge. I’ll talk to her and Kelsey tomorrow.”
“Let me know what they have to say.”
“How come you’re not going to see them?”
“I’ll have to. I can’t trust Curtis to find out anything crucial.”
Julie brought our salads. Milo requested another drink for each of us. After she’d gone on her way, the sheriff shifted awkwardly in his chair and posed a question for me: “Did Tom talk much about his kids?”
“Some,” I said, thinking back and remembering all sorts of things that had nothing to do with conversation. “There were so many years that Tom and I had no contact, so I knew next to nothing about them as children.” Nor had Tom known anything about Adam’s early years, I thought with too familiar regret. “By the time I…we got back together, Kelsey and Graham were in their late teens. Then he’d talk about their off-and-on-again attempts at college and the phases they were going through with careers and interests.” I paused. “What’s odd now that I think about it is how seldom Tom mentioned any interaction between his kids and their mother, Sandra. Maybe, given all her emotional and mental problems, she didn’t play any kind of traditional mother’s role.”
Milo was rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, an old habit he’d never shed. “She spent some time in nuthouses, didn’t she?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Well, Tom never called them that, but yes, she took the occasional trip to a clinic or hospital. It must’ve been very hard on Graham and Kelsey—and Tom, of course.”
“Right.” Milo almost sounded sympathetic. “He had to bring home the bacon, too. At least he didn’t have to fork it out in child support.”
I knew the sheriff referred to his own situation when his ex-wife, Tricia, had moved to Bellevue and taken their teenage kids with her. Between his work-related duties, which often kept him on the job during weekends, and his kids’ frantic schedules, he hadn’t seen them very often. I also knew that it had been a relief to him, having been spared many adolescent crises.
I had a different slant on Tom’s relationship with his son and daughter. My conscience bothered me because I’d seldom probed too deeply into Sandra’s problems—or those that she must have caused her family. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to hear about her. I suppose I preferred to pretend she didn’t exist.
Our second round of drinks appeared, courtesy of Julie. I mentioned Minnie’s remark about the used-up note tablet at the motel. As I expected, Milo didn’t seem interested. Somehow the conversation drifted away from the homicide investigation. I assumed the sheriff wanted to forget his responsibilities for a while. I didn’t blame him. He was always on duty, even in his nominal leisure time.
He picked up the bill, having offered to buy me drinks and dinner. I didn’t argue. Milo often ate at my house, expecting dessert that wasn’t served in the kitchen. He was almost as often disappointed. Even though we were compatible in bed, I didn’t want to give him false hope about
a permanent future together. I valued Milo’s friendship. I just wished his previous efforts to find a new woman in his life hadn’t all turned out badly.
We caught Sunny Rhodes just as she’d seated Scooter Hutchins and his wife in a booth near the front of the restaurant. Milo asked our hostess about the beautiful blonde and the Californian.
“I certainly remember them,” Sunny said, keeping one eye on the door. “So good-looking. But I didn’t get a chance to talk to them much. We were fairly busy that night.”
The sheriff didn’t press Sunny for further information. The arrival of a party of four, none of whom I recognized, interrupted the brief interview, so we left. Outside, I suddenly remembered that I’d asked Milo to bring a photo of the victim.
“Oh, shit,” the sheriff said. “I forgot. Want to come back to the office and get it?”
The short trek took less than three minutes. At almost seven o’clock, it was still broad daylight, with the sun not yet setting over the Skykomish River valley. A couple of cars and a camper bearing out-of-state license plates cruised along Front Street. In the distance, I heard a train whistle, probably Amtrak’s eastbound Empire Builder running a few minutes behind schedule.
Sam Heppner was alone behind the counter. He greeted us with a wary eye. “Checking up on me, boss?” he asked Milo.
“You’re staying awake,” the sheriff responded, opening the gate in the counter and leading me to his office. “I had copies made of the vic’s phony driver’s license,” he explained, moving papers and files around on his desk. “I figured you might not want to run the postmortem photo in the paper.”