by Mary Daheim
“Well.” Vida nodded several times. “You see? You did pay attention. Do you think Dylan is the father?”
“No, he’s not.” I shook my head in dismay. “I can’t believe how much of what Tom told me has been pushed way back in my brain. The boyfriend he mentioned was named Thor, who wasn’t suitable husband or father material. He was a musician, maybe—or some other kind of creative type earning a subsistence income. I’m not sure if she met him in San Francisco or somewhere else.” I shook my head in frustration. “I simply don’t remember.”
Curtis hung up the phone. “Wow! Ever hear about the man who talks to bears?”
Vida and I both stared at him. “No,” I said. “Who is he?”
Curtis indicated the phone. “I talked to Doe Jameson at the sheriff’s office. She’s part Native American, I guess, and into all this forest lore. This guy’s called the Bear Whisperer, though he talks to other animals, too. He saw the cubs not far from where he lives and wants to raise them. He’s done it before with deer and even birds.”
Vida had yanked off her glasses. “Who is this person?” she demanded. “I’ve never heard of him. Are you sure he exists?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s real,” Curtis asserted. “He lives someplace in the woods and hardly ever comes to town. You know—some kind of crazy hermit or recluse. His name’s Craig Laurentis.”
THIRTEEN
VIDA’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN; I WAS STUNNED. “CRAIG Laurentis is an artist,” I said. “I own one of his paintings. He’s actually quite brilliant.”
“Really?” Curtis looked skeptical. “He sounds like a wacko to me.”
“He’s eccentric,” I said. “An aging hippie, who isn’t fond of civilization as we know it. Did you see him?”
Curtis shook his head. “I guess that’s the thing with this guy. He likes hanging out more with animals than with people.”
“It’d be wonderful if we could get a picture of him,” I said, “but I doubt that Craig would let us. He prefers to keep to himself. I respect that. His talent earns him the right to be as antisocial and nonconformist as he pleases.”
Vida had put her glasses back on. “We should mention his name in the paper, though,” she pointed out. “That’s assuming Craig gets permission to nurture the cubs.”
“That may take a day or so to work through,” I said. “I’ll write the cutline to say that Craig has offered to care for them. I doubt that he ever reads the Advocate, so he shouldn’t be upset.”
Curtis looked puzzled. “You care if he’s upset?”
“Yes.” My expression was defiant. “I do care. Not only do I get great pleasure from his painting but he helped me once when I had an accident on a trail near Icicle Creek.”
Curtis shrugged. “Takes all kinds, as they say.” He sauntered off to the back shop.
Vida gestured at her computer screen. “Shall we go on with the Internet whatever-you-call-it?”
“Not just now,” I said. “I have to write that cutline, and I should check with Kip to make sure the front page will be okay now that we have the cub picture.”
My House & Home editor seemed disappointed. “I might experiment trying to get on the Internet after I finish my own cutline. The Anderson wedding wasn’t dropped off until this afternoon. Why do people wait so long? They were married in mid-May, and not in Alpine but at the San Diego Zoo. Why on earth would they do such a thing? There’s a hippopotamus in the background.” She peered more closely at the photo. “Or is that the bride’s mother?” I left Vida to figure it out for herself.
An hour later we were officially at deadline. As far as the nuts and bolts of the paper were concerned, everything was ready to go. But I was uneasy. Our coverage of the murder investigation was too sketchy. It also had required great delicacy and far too many allegedlys and possiblys. The victim was just a name. I wouldn’t mention any details of the buyout offer because it was a moot point. I’d written that “Volos apparently had impersonated an owner of a large western newspaper chain.” I didn’t even say that the name the victim allegedly had used was Dylan Platte. As for Dylan and Kelsey’s proposed move to Alpine, that was a separate story, if and when they put down earnest money on the Bronsky manse. I’d wrestled with how to handle the connection but decided that including the Plattes in the homicide story might suggest that I was fingering them as suspects.
Having turned over the rest of the publishing task to Kip, I left the office at ten after five. I was heading for my car when someone called my name from half a block away.
It was Marisa Foxx. “A quick question,” she said, hurrying to join me. “Is it true that you told Ed Bronsky I’d be glad to handle a lawsuit for him on a pro bono basis?”
“Good Lord, no!” I uttered an abbreviated laugh. “He asked me if I thought you were a good attorney. I told him of course—or words to that effect. But I’d never suggest that you’d take on his case, especially pro bono.”
Marisa’s expression was wry. “I thought not. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“I can’t believe Ed knows what pro bono means,” I said.
Marisa smiled slightly. “He knows what it means, all right, but he called it pro bueno. I guess he thought it was Spanish, not Latin. He told me once after Mass that he’d served as an altar boy. You’d think he might have remembered some Latin from the old days.”
“He’s lucky he remembers English,” I responded. “Oh, I shouldn’t be so hard on him, but Ed can be a trial. Say,” I went on impulsively, “have you got time for a drink?”
“Well…yes,” Marisa answered, obviously surprised by the invitation. The fact was, I’d been meaning to get to know her better ever since she’d moved to Alpine not too long after I arrived. Our relationship had been strictly professional, although we occasionally chatted briefly before or after Sunday Mass. We had a good deal in common, though, both being single career women and not having much in the way of social lives.
“Venison Inn?” I said, pointing just down the street to the restaurant’s entrance.
The wry expression returned. “Where else?”
I laughed. “We could go to the liquor store, buy a cheap fifth of something, and drink under the statue of Carl Clemans in Old Mill Park.”
“That would end up in Vida’s ‘Scene,’” Marisa said.
“Not while I’m editor,” I retorted as we headed down the street.
We made casual chitchat until we were seated in the bar and had given our orders to an effusive Oren Rhodes.
“Is he always like that?” Marisa inquired after Oren returned to the bar. “I don’t come here very often.”
“I think he saves the flattery for women of a certain age,” I replied. “Maybe that’s what they taught in bartending school thirty years ago.”
“That sounds about right,” Marisa remarked, her shrewd gaze moving around the rapidly filling room. Her voice was low and rather soft but well-modulated, probably a valuable asset in trials. “So. What kind of off-the-clock legal advice do you need?”
I was surprised and faintly offended. “I don’t. Is that something you’re used to being asked for?”
“Of course.” She looked amused. “Just like doctors get cornered by people with symptoms whenever they’re out of the office or the clinic or wherever.” Before I could respond, she waved a slim hand. “Sorry. I’m not used to life as a social animal.”
“I can understand that,” I said. “Alpine isn’t really suited for single professional women. So why do you stay?”
Marisa shrugged. “I grew up in a small town. Omak, on the other side of the Cascades, in what is quaintly called high desert country.” She smiled. “But you know all that. It’s about the same size as Alpine, but even farther away from a big city. My parents moved to Arizona a few years ago. Then my father died and Mom had to go into a nursing home, so I found a place for her in Everett. I’ve thought about moving there to be closer, but her health is very fragile. My practice is fairly good because there are so few lawyers in A
lpine, and property is much cheaper here. So I stay.” She shrugged again. “Maybe that’s a mistake.”
“I can’t offer any advice on that,” I said and waited for Oren to set down Marisa’s vodka martini and my bourbon and water. Briefly, I wondered if Vida was nursing her Tom Collins cocktail at the ski lodge with Sophia Cavanaugh.
“Anything else, lovely ladies?” Oren inquired, bending down a bit, maybe assuming that we were both deaf. “Dinner menus?”
I shook my head. “Can’t. It’s Tuesday, Vida’s night to howl.”
The bartender straightened up, and his beaming face turned serious. “You don’t have to tell me that. This place is really dead when her show is on the radio.” He gazed around the bar and fingered his chin. “Do you suppose Vida’d like to do her broadcast from here? What do they call it? A remote?”
“Probably not,” I said, “but,” I went on, feeling impish, “you could ask her the next time she comes into the restaurant.”
“I just might,” Oren replied. “You never know.”
“So,” I said to Marisa after Oren had again gone on his way, “you went to law school at the UW. I take it you didn’t want to stay in Seattle?”
“I was fine while I went through the U,” Marisa said. “Focused on my studies, lived on campus in one of the dorms until my final year, and then I moved to a boardinghouse nearby. But the big city kind of frightened me. I worked for the state in Olympia for several years, and that wasn’t too bad. Then I decided to go into private practice, and the opportunity came up here in Alpine. I took it. And I haven’t budged in all these years, despite a couple of tempting offers.”
“In bigger cities?”
She nodded. “One in Seattle, but the firm was too big. I’d have felt lost. The other was in San Francisco, and it was a much smaller firm. I was tempted because it was fairly prestigious. But when I found out I’d be replacing a lawyer who’d been murdered, I didn’t feel right about it. That was three or four years ago, and I suppose I’m not really sorry I said no. ‘Kill all the lawyers’ suddenly seemed like more than a mere quote from Shakespeare. Silly, huh?”
“Maybe not,” I allowed. “Walking in a dead lawyer’s shoes might not be comfortable. Did an outraged client do the dastardly deed?”
Marisa shook her head as she swallowed a sip of martini. “The last I heard, the case was never solved.”
“I hope the sheriff has better luck with our current homicide,” I remarked.
“Dodge seems very competent,” Marisa said without expression. No doubt she knew that Milo and I had an off-and-on-again affair.
“He is,” I agreed, “though he tends to go by the book. Still, that’s important these days. I imagine that lawyers, especially prosecutors, prefer law enforcement types who are sticklers for going about their jobs the right way.”
“Oh, certainly,” Marisa said. “Not that I do any serious criminal law. DUIs, speeding tickets, a rare burglary or assault. Even some of those are often frivolous from a defense attorney’s viewpoint. Myra Sundvold’s husband, Dave, insists that I represent her every time she’s charged with kleptomania. The last case I had to take to court involved her stealing a three-pack of boxer shorts from the men’s store in the mall. Dave said she had no reason to take them because he wears briefs and she wears bloomers. The prosecuting attorney, Rosemary Bourgette, suggested that Myra might have a lover. That’s when the fur began to fly. But you know more about crime in Alpine than I do since you have to publish the offenders’ names.”
I admitted that naming names in the paper was always very touchy in a small town. “They can’t sue because the police log is a matter of record,” I pointed out. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t harass me by phone, mail, or even in person. Not to mention their irate friends and relatives. Sometimes I feel very unpopular.”
“I understand,” Marisa said. “I’ve had some ugly reactions—even threats—when I win a judgment for one local against another. What makes it worse is that sometimes the two sides are related to each other. Talk about family feuds!”
We spent the rest of our drinking time discussing the various perils of our professions. It was almost six-fifteen when we left the Venison Inn. “We should do this another time,” I said just before we parted company on the sidewalk.
“I’d like that.” Marisa smiled. “We should have done it a long time ago.”
“I know. But life—or maybe I should say the rut we get in—often seems hard to change. Next time we’ll do dinner, but not at a time that interferes with Vida’s program.”
“Right.” Marisa’s smile seemed genuine, though she immediately sobered. “You know something? Talking about that job offer in San Francisco made me think that I should follow up and find out whatever happened to that lawyer I was supposed to replace. I completely lost interest after a couple of months went by. Now I’d like to find out if they ever solved the case.”
“And if the lawyer they hired instead of you turned out to be a dud?”
She laughed, a sort of low little chuckle. “Oh, they probably got some eager beaver from Stanford or Cal who’s now making big money. Most of that practice was probate, and frankly, I’d find it very limiting. I’d have gone stale in six months.”
After we made another vow to get together, she headed for her office in the Alpine Building, across the street from the Advocate. I considered checking with Kip but knew that if he’d had any problems he would’ve called me on my cell phone. With only a glance at the front door to our modest digs, I got in my car and went home to my equally modest log house.
The mail I removed from my box by the side of Fir Street was all junk, with the usual couple of promos for credit cards. No phone calls awaited me. Except for a batch of advertising messages, there were no new e-mails of interest. The refrigerator and freezer were bereft of any tempting items. I took out a frozen chicken and noodle casserole and a handful of little peeled carrots. The casserole went into the oven. I might take shortcuts in food preparation, but with some muddled rationalization that I wasn’t completely lazy, I rarely microwaved frozen entrées. Then, despite already having downed a preprandial drink, I poured a half-inch of bourbon over ice and added some water. Now I was set to enjoy my evening’s big event, listening to Vida chat her head off from her gossipy cupboard.
The casserole wasn’t done by the time the usual sound effects of creaking hinges announced that Vida was opening her cupboard. She immediately launched into her usual “Good evening to all my dear friends and neighbors in Alpine and the surrounding area of Skykomish County. As ever, I take my hat off to each and every one of you for…”
The rest of the salute varied from week to week. This time her apparent theme—not that she always had one—was the Fourth of July or, as Vida insisted on calling it, Independence Day, and her hat was doffed to everyone who appreciated the American way of life, especially those who had the good sense to live within the range of her trumpetlike voice.
She continued her holiday theme by talking about more of the descendants of the early town settlers and the mill workers. Ruby and Louie Siegel had moved to Sultan and raised three sons; one of the mill owner Carl Clemans’s three daughters had married her fellow Alpiner Payson Peterson and settled in Snohomish; the former logging camp cook Webster Patterson and his wife, Clara June, had two sons, one of whom had become a doctor and the other a Jesuit priest. And so on, names from the distant past that still seemed to resonate across the river valley from Mount Baldy to Tonga Ridge.
During the commercial break, I took my casserole out of the oven and began to eat. The substitute for the ailing Maud Dodd was Vida’s nephew, the SkyCo deputy sheriff Bill Blatt. As was her custom, she called him “Billy,” despite the fact that he was now in his mid-thirties and probably would’ve preferred just plain Bill. The interview was about observing a countywide restriction against setting off fireworks except in Old Mill Park or on the high school football field. The law was aimed not only at preventing careless people
from blowing off their fingers but also preventing forest fires. There were always several arrests and fines for those who ignored the ordinance. The previous year our resident UFO spotter, Averill Fairbanks, insisted that his teenage grandson had launched several mortars in the backyard to prevent a half-dozen hostile spaceships from landing on top of First Baptist Church across the street. Milo didn’t buy the argument, and the Fairbanks family had to shell out—so to speak—two hundred bucks in fines.
My mind wandered during the interview. Bill Blatt was reiterating much of what we were running in the Advocate, as we’d been doing for the last few years since the ordinances had gone into effect. I had finished my meal by the time Vida closed her cupboard—more creaking hinges followed by Spencer Fleetwood’s recorded message to return next week when “Vida Runkel is back at this same time on KSKY with all the news that isn’t fit to print.”
I shut off the radio and tidied up the kitchen. Feeling at loose ends, I turned on the TV to catch the Mariners playing the Texas Rangers at home in Safeco Field. My brain, however, wasn’t focused on the game. Vida probably would call me as soon as she got home to tell me about her chat with Sophia Cavanaugh. Remembering Adam’s request, I started to dial Father Den’s number at the rectory but stopped on the third digit. Tuesday was our pastor’s night for conducting a class on St. Matthew’s gospel. I’d phone him in the morning.
Ten minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. Vida, I thought and hurried to let her in. But she wasn’t my visitor. Graham Cavanaugh stood on the small front porch, smiling pleasantly.
“I decided it was time to talk,” he said. “Do you mind if I come in?”
“No,” I said, stepping aside. “I’m not very busy.”
I offered him the armchair by the hearth and asked if he’d care for something to drink.
Graham shook his head. “I’m good,” he replied, surveying my living room with its exposed logs and rafters. “So this is the little log cabin in the woods.”