by Mary Daheim
“Yes, they grow so fast.” I racked my brain for something, anything that might get Kelsey to open up. “Have you gone through the Bronsky house?”
She shook her head again. “Dylan did this morning. He was supposed to do it…I forget when, but he didn’t then. It’s up to him.” She shrugged. “Dylan thinks it needs work, but that’s okay. We probably won’t move in until fall.” She frowned. “Oh, gee, that means Aidan will have to go to school here. I never thought of that.”
My Pepsi and her iced tea arrived. “We have two grade schools here, one private, one public,” I explained. “I assume you’re raising Aidan Catholic?”
“What?” She looked startled, her thin hands gripping the tall glass. I sensed that she’d drifted to some far-off place, perhaps the school he’d been attending in San Francisco. “Catholic?”
“Yes.”
“Dylan says children should choose for themselves,” Kelsey replied. “Aidan was baptized because my father insisted on it, but I don’t go to church anymore. What good does it do? It didn’t do much for my father, did it?”
“I can’t judge that,” I replied, beginning to feel not just frustrated but annoyed. “Nobody can. It wasn’t religion that got your father killed, it was politics.”
“It was both,” Kelsey insisted, showing a bit of animation. “I hate religion and politics. They only cause trouble and pain and wars and death.”
I didn’t know what to say. Kelsey didn’t appear capable of rational thought. Nor could she seem to focus for very long. ADD, maybe or, as Vida would say, an excuse for people who lacked the self-discipline to concentrate on any one thing for more than thirty seconds.
I changed the subject. “Before our meal arrives, I’ll show you what I brought along.”
Kelsey frowned. “Something that belonged to my father?”
“Well,” I said, opening my handbag, “not exactly. It’s some photographs of him taken when he visited Alpine.”
“Oh.” She looked away, exhibiting no interest whatsoever.
I hesitated, my fingers touching the envelope in which I’d put the pictures. “You don’t want to see them?”
“No. I remember what he looked like. I’ve got photos at home somewhere.” She stared at the black-and-white glossy of Wally and Beaver Cleaver. “I wish Graham were here. It’d make me feel better.”
“You should’ve told me you wanted him to join us,” I said. “He’s more than welcome.” That wasn’t part of my plan, of course, but I realized now that Kelsey might have been more forthcoming in her brother’s company.
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”
“Understand what?” I said, letting go of the envelope containing Tom’s pictures and zipping up my handbag.
“I feel better when he’s with me,” Kelsey murmured. “I miss him.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “I miss my brother, too.”
“Maybe soon,” she said, so low that I barely caught her words.
“Right.” I was flummoxed. I’d dealt with plenty of airheads in my time, but Kelsey was in the extreme. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, at least not in any clinical sense. Maybe she had built up so many barriers to protect herself that no one could get through to her. No one, it seemed, except Dylan. Admittedly, I’ve got my own thick walls, so I understood—to a degree. But Kelsey seemed utterly beyond reach.
Our orders arrived before I could speak again. Even after Royce had left us, I couldn’t figure out what to say. Finally, I made a desperate lunge.
“Kelsey,” I said, leaning even closer, “I almost became your stepmother. You must know that. We met at your father’s funeral in San Francisco. Do you recall that?”
“The funeral?” She nodded. “It was in that huge church with all the white marble. I thought it was ugly.”
“Do you remember my son, Adam?”
Her whole body tensed. “He was one of the priests you brought along.”
Kelsey made me sound like some sort of traveling bereavement circus. Fighting for control of my temper, I fixed my gaze on her face, which seemed frozen. “Have you no curiosity about me or your half brother? Haven’t you ever wondered why your father was going to marry me?”
“I know why,” she replied, tight-lipped. “Dylan told me. He wanted your newspaper.”
“That’s a lie,” I declared. “We loved each other. Your father was my son’s father. Surely you know that.”
“Another lie.” She relaxed slightly and tasted her soup. “This isn’t very good.”
It was hopeless. I’d lost my appetite. Kelsey was a mess, impossible for me to deal with, maybe the pathetic victim of her mother’s heredity. I tossed my napkin on the table and slid out of the booth. “Good luck,” I said. “Good-bye.”
Incredibly, Kelsey registered surprise. “How do I get back to the lodge?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I retorted. Maybe she expected a Cinderella coach with four white horses and a clutch of foot-men. I hurried up to Terri Bourgette, who was at the register. “How much? I’m leaving, but I’m also paying.”
Terri looked startled. “You just got your meal. Are you sick?”
“Yes—at heart.” I glanced back toward where Kelsey and I’d been seated. There was no sign of her. She hadn’t cared enough to try to follow me. “That’s Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte,” I told Terri. “She’s either crazy or so far into denial that there’s no way of reaching her. I can’t stand another minute in her company.”
Terri sadly shook her head. “That’s terrible,” she said. “You must be really upset. You’re not the type to give up easily.”
“This is different.” I tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Sorry. It wasn’t the food that put me off. I just couldn’t eat.” I told Terri what we’d ordered. It came to just under twenty dollars, so I gave her two tens and a five for Royce’s tip. “Next time, I’ll come here with a more congenial companion. Maybe one who isn’t nuts.”
By the time I got back to the office, the latest edition of the Advocate had hit the streets. It always gave me a sense of satisfaction to see people putting their quarters into the newspaper boxes and checking out the front page. The home deliveries were made later, though only by about an hour in the summer because our carriers weren’t in school.
I immediately called the hospital to check on Leo and see if he could have visitors. Debbie Murchison answered. “Mr. Walsh has been moved out of the ICU. In fact,” she went on, “Mrs. Runkel was here a few minutes ago to see him. She’s gone now. She took Mrs. Hinshaw home. That was very nice of her.”
“Mrs. Runkel has a deep sense of family obligation,” I said, wondering if Ella’s ears were being seared by Vida’s scolding. “Maybe I’ll stop by to see Leo in a few minutes. Is he able to eat lunch?”
“I think so,” Debbie replied. “The trays were delivered about five minutes ago. I haven’t had a chance to check.”
It wasn’t yet twelve-thirty, so I decided to walk the four blocks to the hospital. Leo was on the second floor. As I got out of the elevator, I steeled myself, not knowing what to expect.
It could’ve been worse, I suppose, but the IVs and the oxygen mask were enough to unsettle me. Leo was propped up in bed with his eyes closed. The lunch tray sat on a table next to the bed. Since the steel lids were still on all of the items, I gathered that he hadn’t tried to eat anything yet.
“Leo?” I said softly, approaching the bed.
He stirred slightly and mumbled something I couldn’t catch. His usual leathery skin was pale, and somehow he looked as if he’d already lost weight. I had a sudden urge to cry but stiffened my spine once more and pulled the single visitor’s chair closer to the bed. As I sat down, I wondered if Vida had actually spoken to him. If anyone could get a response out of a semiconscious patient, it’d be her.
I sat quietly for five minutes, saying a couple of prayers and wondering if Leo would sense my presence and wake up. Suddenly I was hungry,
having skipped both breakfast and lunch. I lifted the lid off one of the smaller bowls: tapioca pudding, lumpy and unappetizing. I continued to sit and stare around the room. The other bed was empty. Disinfectant hung on the air, along with the odor of food that probably smelled better than it tasted.
Five minutes passed. Leo was still breathing, but otherwise he showed no sign of life. I supposed I couldn’t expect much more. Feeling useless, I got up and went out to see Debbie at the nurses’ station.
“I’d like to leave a note for Doc Dewey and Dr. Weinberg,” I said.
“Dr. Weinberg was leaving for Portland today,” Debbie informed me. “His son lives there. I can give Doc a note, though.”
“Oh…I’ll tell him myself,” I said. “By the way, Leo’s asleep and hasn’t touched his lunch.”
Debbie seemed unmoved by my report. “That’s fine. Trays are delivered whether the patients want them or not. Mr. Walsh needs to rest. I’ll check on him shortly.”
I felt as if I were being dismissed. But as I was about to walk away, she smiled at me. “I know this sounds stupid, but I can’t get over the fact that I actually saw the man who was murdered at the motel. And now Mr. Walsh gets shot.” The smile had disappeared. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I feel spooked. I wonder what happened to his wife.”
“His wife?” I echoed. “You mean the bogus Mr. Roth’s wife?”
Debbie nodded. “Mrs. Runkel said you met her in your office. I only saw her once, from a distance. Is she still in town?”
“I don’t think she ever existed,” I said. “That is, there was no Ginger or Josh Roth. That’s all in today’s Advocate. The dead man’s body was never claimed by anyone. His real name was Maxim Volos.”
Debbie’s round face looked puzzled. “I don’t get it. If this Ginger came to see you and I met Josh, what’s that all about? I mean, the dark-haired woman I saw may not have been the man’s real wife, but she must have known him well enough to be sorry he’d gotten killed.”
“She may have left town before—” I stopped. “Did you say a dark-haired woman? I didn’t realize you’d seen her.”
“From my apartment,” Debbie replied. “I looked outside after I got home that day and saw him getting into a car with this woman. I assumed she must be the wife—or the pretend Ginger.”
“You’re sure she was dark?”
Debbie’s laugh was soft. “Definitely. She had wonderful curly black hair. Of course I didn’t see her face.”
“Interesting,” I murmured. “My Ginger was blond.”
Debbie’s hazel eyes widened. “Two pretend wives? No wonder he got killed!”
“I think maybe only one,” I said. “I also think maybe I’ve been an idiot.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” I said, seeing that three of the patients’ rooms had their call lights on. “You’ve got some folks who need help and I have to get to work. I’ll explain if and when I figure it all out. Give Leo my love.”
I hurried away from the hospital, convinced that Debbie Murchison had seen Sophia Cavanaugh with the dead man. Going down Third Street, I crossed at the corner and headed along Front to the sheriff’s office. Milo had just returned from lunch and was standing behind the counter talking to Dwight Gould.
“Care to hear one of my wacky ideas?” I asked.
“Sure don’t,” the sheriff replied. “I’m on my way to check out those bear cubs.”
Exercising my tattered self-restraint, I decided it was best to humor Milo. “Where are the cubs now?” I inquired, leaning against the counter.
“Up by one of the old mine shafts,” Milo replied. “That Laurentis guy is trying to coax them to wherever the hell he lives. This puts me in a bind because it’s illegal to feed wildlife. Still, the cubs need help.”
“Curtis should get another picture,” I remarked. “Is it okay if he meets you up there?”
“I don’t give a damn, but Laurentis may not like it,” Milo replied. “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion these cubs aren’t the first bears he’s taken on. If that’s the case, he’s asking for trouble, not just for himself but for everybody else, and even the bears. There’s an old saying, ‘A fed bear’s a dead bear.’”
“They’re damned unpredictable,” Dwight Gould put in. “Damned near so as humans. That’s the problem. Bears get used to being fed, go looking for a meal from some stranger, scare the hell out of whoever, and get themselves shot. Just like this mama bear. I blame Gus Lindquist for panicking. Crazy fool. He should’ve known better.”
I understood the problem. “Do you know where Laurentis lives?” I asked.
Milo shook his head; Dwight snorted. “He’s not handing out calling cards,” the deputy said. “Still, it’s got to be around that mine shaft somewhere. I’ll bet he’s got a gun, too.”
Lori Cobb entered the office, apparently returning from her lunch hour. Milo nodded at her. “I’m outta here. I should be back in an hour or so.” He came through the swinging gate in the counter and walked right by me.
“Hey!” I called, following him to the double doors. “You’re going to hear my wacky idea if I have to get in the Grand Cherokee and go with you.”
With an impatient sigh, Milo stopped, one hand on the door. “Make it quick. What is it?”
“I think Sophia Cavanaugh was somehow involved with Maxim Volos.” As concisely as I could manage, I told the sheriff what Debbie Murchison had said.
Milo frowned. “She’s sure it was Sophia?”
“No,” I admitted. “She doesn’t even know her, but it was a woman with lots of curly black hair. Who else could it be, at least as far as this case is concerned? It makes sense. I have a feeling Sophia may also have been the blond Ginger who came to see me.”
Milo looked skeptical. “You couldn’t tell they were the same person?”
“Not at the time,” I said. “I mean, this Ginger was probably wearing a wig, had dark sunglasses, and plenty of makeup. It did strike me that she was overdone, like something out of Hollywood.”
“Woman’s intuition,” the sheriff muttered. “Jeez.”
“Okay, don’t take me seriously,” I snapped, “but I’m not seeing you pull any rabbits out of a hat. You’d rather chase a couple of bears around the side of Tonga Ridge.”
“I’d rather be fishing,” Milo stated. “It’s a nice day. The river’s clear, running almost green down about a half-mile. I’d like to be able to leave an hour early and head out to try my luck with some rainbows, fish until almost dark while the mist rises out of the meadows.”
“Dream on,” I retorted, pushing open the other door. “And don’t let those bears take a bite out of your butt. Not that you couldn’t afford to lose it.”
I walked swiftly along Front Street to the Advocate office. Ginny, still looking suspicious, handed me my phone messages. “Ed went to lunch with Mr. Wenzel,” she explained, “so he may be a little late getting back.”
“Surprise.” I sighed and went into the empty newsroom and on to my desk. The first message was from Grace Grundle with the notation “Re: kittens.” Grace had probably befriended more feline companions to add to her already large menagerie. No doubt she had pictures. Bad ones. I moved on to the next message.
It was from Rolf Fisher. He’d called from the AP office. I assumed he’d heard about Leo. I hesitated before dialing his number. It’d been five days since I’d had to cancel my weekend with him in Seattle. I hadn’t heard a peep from him since. On the other hand, the phone worked both ways. With a resigned sigh, I called him.
“Aren’t you going a little too far with this shooting spree to avoid me?” he asked in his ironic tone. “First strangers, now your employees. Who’s next? The sheriff?”
“Probably,” I replied. “He may be the only person I know who’s a bigger jackass than you are.”
“Hmm. Let me think,” Rolf said in that musing tone that irked me as often as it amused me. “I’m strangling here on swallowed pride and you’re being nasty. It makes a fel
low wonder why he bothers.”
Maybe he was serious. I could never be sure. “Hey, it’s been an awful week. Not only have I temporarily lost an invaluable employee but I seem to be alienating all sorts of people, including my own kin.”
“Surely not your priestly brother or your equally priestly son? How can a good Catholic girl manage that? Or is that part of the guilt thing with you people? I only know about my own Jewish guilt. Which, I suppose, is why I called.”
“It’s these Cavanaughs,” I said, ignoring his comments. “They’re mixed up in all this, and it’s making me crazy.”
“More Catholics. Tsk, tsk. You people should really try to get along.”
“I’m not sure this bunch is Catholic,” I said. “But I’m convinced they’re greedy crooks.”
“So why can’t they also be Catholic?”
“Please. Don’t.” I paused, frantically scratching my head. “If you were here, I’d tell you all about it.” I saw Curtis stroll into the newsroom. “Can I call you back this evening?”
It was Rolf’s turn to pause. “Okay,” he finally replied. “Make it after eight. I won’t be home before that. I’m rekindling an old flame after work.”
“It can’t take much of a flame if you need only a couple of hours,” I shot back.
“That’s pleasantly true. Until then.” He rang off. I felt like wringing his neck. He hadn’t bothered to ask how Leo was getting along. It seemed that Rolf’s sole reason for calling was to needle me.
Vida returned just after Curtis left to try for another shot of the bear cubs. “Such a bother!” she exclaimed, tossing the straw hat onto the top of her filing cabinet. “Ella is the fussiest woman I’ve ever met. ‘Would you please open the drapes just a tad, Vida dear? No, not that much. No, no—too far shut. I need a teensy bit more light.’ ‘My ficus should be watered, poor thing. Lukewarm from the tap. Not too warm and not too much. Oh, goodness, I think you’re drowning it!’ ‘The bed needs changing and I’m so weak. Would you make sure you put on the sheets with the three-hundred-thread-count cotton?’ Now who on earth counts the threads in their sheets? You order them from Sears on sale and pick them up at the catalog office a week later. As for drowning her pitiful-looking plant, I was very close to drowning Ella.”