by Mary Daheim
“Why didn’t the killer off Will Pace instead of some poor woman from California? That asshole is impossible to interrogate. I should nail him for impeding a homicide investigation.”
“Why don’t you?” I asked innocently.
“Because I don’t want him hanging out in our jail,” Milo replied. He paused as he hung his hat on the peg by the door. “I could threaten him with it, though. Maybe I will if he doesn’t cooperate.”
I decided not to ask any more questions until he settled in with a Scotch in hand. Instead, I went into the kitchen and continued getting dinner under way. A big rib-eye steak should improve my husband’s mood. I’d boil the potatoes and the asparagus. Since Milo hadn’t followed me, I assumed he was changing out of his uniform.
When he showed up a few minutes later in jeans and a plaid Pendleton shirt, I asked if he was officially off duty.
“Yeah,” he replied, getting out the glasses and the booze. “De Groote’s on the desk tonight. Hell of a way for her to break into the new job. She’ll let me know if we hear anything about the vic from the Oakland cops. Fong and Heppner had just about finished going over the Kia when I left.”
“I should stop by and introduce myself,” I said as Milo handed me my Canadian Club and 7-Up on the rocks. “It’s too bad she wasn’t here for our open house.”
“Consi had some family thing over New Year’s. Her parents live in Parkland. I think that’s a suburb of Tacoma.”
We headed into the living room to assume our usual places—Milo in the easy chair and me on the sofa next to the end table. “Has Consi ever worked a homicide case?”
My husband shook his head. “Only dealing with women and kids who’d been traumatized by someone close to them getting whacked. This should be a real test for her, especially since the vic is female. I’m going to have to keep my eye on her.”
“Of course.” I felt a flicker of unwonted jealousy. I trusted Milo completely. Just as long as he kept only an eye on her.
* * *
—
After dinner, Dustin Fong called to let the sheriff know the background information from Oakland wouldn’t come through until morning. Milo grumbled about why it would take that long to come up with the basics. That meant I couldn’t give Kip a name for the murdered woman. I called to tell him he didn’t have to stand by the phone to post anything online until morning.
Thursday brought more rain and a sharp wind blowing down through the Skykomish River valley. I made a mental note to listen to Vida’s radio program. It had always been broadcast on Tuesdays at seven o’clock, but the time had been changed as of the first of the year. It was her decision, rather than that of KSKY’s owner, Spencer Fleetwood. Vida had been appointed chairman of her Presbyterian church’s outreach program and they met on Tuesdays. If anybody could reach out to all of Skykomish County, it was my semiretired House & Home editor. She’d been doing it for almost sixty years.
The first thing on my to-do list was to tell Mitch to find out what was going on in the homicide investigation. It wasn’t that the veteran reporter needed encouragement; rather, it was because of the rift between him and the sheriff. Despite being my husband, Milo retained an annoying habit of playing things close to his chest.
When the mail arrived a little before ten, Alison wasn’t quite as chipper as usual. I asked her if something was wrong.
“No Boyd sightings,” she replied, placing the stack of what was mostly junk on my desk. “Maybe he changed his mind about moving to Pines Villa. I should get so lucky, right?”
“Give him time,” I said. “You said his belongings hadn’t arrived yet. Boyd’s probably still at the ski lodge.”
Alison considered my words. “I suppose. But most newcomers move in to Pines Villa the first of the month. All his stuff is coming from Wenatchee. That’s only a few hours away. Stevens Pass has hardly been closed at all so far this winter.”
I leaned back in my chair and smiled. “Relax, Alison. Do you want Milo to bust you for stalking Boyd Lanier?”
She ran a hand through her blond hair, which had grown quite long since the last cut at Stella’s Styling Salon. “You think I’m pushing it. But how many really good-looking, eligible dudes in my peer group live here?”
She had a point. Alison had turned twenty-three in the fall. But she was driven to find a marriageable man in Alpine. Maybe that’s because her parents’ marriage had failed when she was about six. I, on the other hand, had never thought about getting married at all. At Alison’s age, I had to make a living to support my son, Adam. I couldn’t marry his father because Tom Cavanaugh already had a wife. My youthful folly hadn’t given me much spare time for a social life. When Tom was finally widowed, we planned to marry. But instead he ended up getting killed. I was in my forties then and had resigned myself to being a single woman. But Milo had changed my mind—and my life.
Mitch didn’t come back from his morning rounds until almost ten. “The sheriff didn’t get the victim’s ID until about ten minutes ago. Since I had to wait, I went over to the courthouse and introduced myself to the new county extension agent. Lanier seems eager to start the job. I told him I’d give him until Monday to do a full interview.”
I refrained from grimacing. The story was Mitch’s, of course, but I regretted suggesting to Alison that she might give it a try. Since my reporter was touchy about turf, I had to let him take on Lanier. Our receptionist would be disappointed, but she was resourceful. Where there was a girl like Alison, there was a way.
“Okay,” I said. “Now tell me about the murder victim.”
Mitch looked faintly dismayed. “The sheriff hasn’t called you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Get serious, Laskey. When Milo has a homicide to deal with, he forgets I’m his wife. You have to know more than I do, which is that the woman is dead.”
My reporter checked his notes. “Really, I don’t. Will Pace isn’t the type to get chummy with his guests, which is just as well, considering that a lot of them use the motel for illicit rendezvous. All he told me was that she didn’t say much, just wanted a room and maybe for more than one night. If she went somewhere to eat dinner, Will didn’t know about it. Of course, Dewey’s preliminary autopsy report will show if she did.”
“Right.” I paused, trying to think if I knew of anyone named Douglas in SkyCo. I didn’t think I did. “Was there a mention of a wedding ring?”
Mitch shook his head. “Pace thought not. No jewelry that he could see unless she had studs in her ears. He said her hair was shoulder-length. Or sort of like that. Will does his best to ignore guests.”
“I can see why,” I said. “They usually want their privacy.”
Mitch went off to post his news on our website. I resisted the temptation of calling Milo, though maybe he’d be free for lunch. I glanced into the news office, wondering if Vida would come in to tell us what or whom she’d be featuring on her program. But by eleven-thirty, there was no sign of her. Shortly before noon, I wandered down to the sheriff’s office. The Yukon was parked in its place, so I assumed Milo was in.
Jack Mullins was behind the front desk and the sheriff’s door was closed. “You can’t be missing the big guy already,” Jack said, grinning. “Or are you two still in your newlywed stage?”
“Give me a break,” I replied. “We’ve already had two ceremonies, and after knowing each other for almost seventeen years, we’re lucky we’re still on speaking terms. In fact, we aren’t in the mornings. Who’s he got in there? A suspect, I hope.”
“Deputy De Groote,” Jack replied, looking puckish as he ran a hand through his untamable red hair. “You jealous?”
“I haven’t even met her. Don’t tell me he’s assigning her to the case.”
Jack shook his shaggy head. “Your old man’s going to have to handle this one himself. Information on our vic is hard to come by. From what we can get o
ut of Oakland, we can’t even find out if she had a job.”
“She had to have a reason to come to Alpine,” I pointed out. “I understand she might’ve intended to stay for more than just overnight.”
Jack’s major flaw—besides his wacky red hair—was that he was lazy. But he was also the sharpest of Milo’s deputies, which kept him employed. “If she has any relatives or friends in Oakland, they may know why she came here. But we won’t hear from them until they realize she doesn’t seem to be coming home.”
I agreed. “You’ve lived here all your life, Jack. Do you recall any Douglases who ever lived here?”
The deputy considered the question. “No. That doesn’t mean there weren’t, though. As a kid, I wasn’t aware of people I didn’t actually know. You know how it is—you see people, have a vague idea of who they are, but don’t know them by name. Working on this job, we get acquainted with damned near everybody, and usually for all the wrong reasons.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said, but looked beyond Jack to see Milo’s door open.
I got my first look at Deputy De Groote. She wasn’t beautiful, but she certainly was attractive. Consuela was tall, slim, and had short, simply styled black hair. She wore no makeup, except for pale pink lip gloss. The way she carried herself was purposeful rather than graceful. She glanced at me, and I smiled.
Jack turned around. “Hey, Consi, meet our stalwart leader’s wife. She’s Laskey’s boss at the Advocate.”
Milo had stayed in his office. I stood up and put out my hand. “I’m glad to see there’s another female on the staff,” I said, noting that her grip was firm and brief.
“I’m glad to be here,” Consi replied with a rather tight smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t had time to look at your newspaper yet. But I will.”
I took that as a promise rather than a threat. Her eyes were very dark, almost jet. “It comes out every Wednesday,” I responded, and felt like an idiot. “Have you found a place to live?”
“Yes. I’ve been staying at the Tall Timber Motel, but I understand there’ll be a vacancy soon at that apartment building by the medical clinic.”
“My ad manager, Leo Walsh, lived there for many years,” I said. “He had no real complaints.”
“That’s good to hear.” Consi’s gaze shifted to the window overlooking Front Street. “Excuse me. I have to go on patrol now.” She nodded at Jack and moved off in her purposeful fashion.
When I turned around, Milo was leaning against the doorjamb of his office. “What are you doing here, little Emma?”
With his back turned to the sheriff, Jack stifled a snicker. I glared at him—and then at my mate. “Stop calling me little! I should file a complaint against you for verbal abuse. You know I’m almost average.”
Milo was unmoved by my protest, while Jack was trying not to laugh out loud. “If you’re here,” my husband said, no longer leaning but checking out the coffeemaker next to the wall, “you can go over to the Burger Barn and bring back my lunch. I’m eating in today. Cheeseburger, fries…”
“I know it by heart,” I snapped. “I can’t afford to pay for your lunch and mine. I only have ten dollars and change with me.”
Milo let out an exaggerated sigh and reached for his wallet. “Here,” he said, coming to the front of the office to hand me a twenty-dollar bill. “Get me a cup of coffee. Ours here was kind of off today.”
I snatched the Andrew Jackson from my husband. “It’s always off. I was hoping your new deputy would be able to improve what you deluded people call coffee. Has she complained about it yet?”
“She doesn’t drink coffee,” Milo replied, looking a bit smug. “She likes tea and brings her own. Some fancy special brand.”
“Then De Groote is even savvier than she looks.” I turned away and collided with the counter, uttering an undignified “Oof!”
Jack seemed to be biting the inside of his cheek, but Milo chuckled. “Serves you right, my ornery little bride.”
I ignored the remark and started to leave the premises. But my aggravating better half called out to me, “Hey, if you want to join me, I’ll give you a ten to go with the twenty.”
I felt like refusing, but I caved. “Include another five with that,” I said. “I prefer my hamburger bun to contain actual meat in it.”
“God, but you’re fussy,” Milo muttered, doling out the money. “The next thing I know, you’ll want an ice cream cone for dessert.”
“Unlike you, I usually don’t eat dessert.” I snatched the fiver out of his big paw and refrained from mentioning the word “pie.” It might give Milo another idea.
There was the usual line for takeout. I nodded to Del Amundson, one of the ambulance drivers, and to Cal Vickers, owner of the local gas station. Del was at the front of the line. After he picked up his order, he stopped to speak to me in an unusually somber tone.
“We got called in about the dead woman at the motel,” he said. “She was sent to the hospital for an autopsy. Terrible thing, really. Nobody seems to know who she was. Has Dodge got any leads?”
“Not so far,” I replied, “but she was from Oakland and he hopes to get more information from there. Her relatives and friends are in for a terrible shock.”
Del nodded. “She was good-looking. That is…considering what had happened to her. I don’t suppose anyone around here claims to know who she was.”
“Not so far.” I didn’t add that somebody might have known her. “Of course, she could have been followed to Alpine.”
That idea seemed to reassure Del. “That must be it. Maybe she was meeting up with someone she knew. I mean, from Oakland.”
I let Del go on his way. My suggestion was reasonable. But I hadn’t convinced myself that it was right. If Rachel had planned to stay for more than an overnight, she had a reason. She’d come to see someone, and whoever it was might have done her wrong in the worst possible way.
Chapter 5
Milo griped about the size of his burger. “They’re cutting down on the amount of meat they use at the Burger Barn. What’s wrong with these new owners? Do they want to get picketed?”
“You could always arrest them for trying to starve you to death,” I said innocently. “They’re some relation to the Gustavsons, who started the place long before I moved here. Ask Vida. She’s probably related to them. Obviously, you didn’t read the story Mitch did last October when ownership changed hands.”
The sheriff had the grace to look faintly guilty. “I can’t read every word that’s in the paper. Sometimes I have to sort of skim through it.”
It was an old bone of contention between us, so I let it go. Milo certainly could absorb the sports section of The Seattle Times, and not just at home, but while he was on the job. I changed the subject. “Tell me more about the victim. I assume you haven’t gotten the autopsy report back from the Everett lab.”
“Hell, no,” he replied after swallowing a large chunk of burger. “We’ll be lucky if we hear by Monday. Everett’s got too many stiffs of their own.”
“True,” I agreed. “I gather that nobody’s inquired about Rachel?”
Milo shook his head. “Not yet. We’ve gone through all her stuff. Purse, shopping bag, carryall. She didn’t bring a lot of clothes, maybe enough for two, three days. Oh, there was a laundry bag with some underwear in it, probably what she’d worn for the drive up here. It would’ve taken her at least a couple of days.”
I nibbled on a french fry. Talking about the dead Rachel had taken the edge off my appetite. “Somebody must miss her. At least I hope so. Was there anything in her wallet that showed where she worked?”
“If you mean an employee ID card, no,” Milo replied after downing two french fries at once. “Driver’s license, Social Security card, voter registration card, and some business cards, all in the Oakland area. Four of them were for different real estate compa
nies. Oh—I forgot to tell you that she worked for the city of Oakland, but they didn’t say what her job was. I’m guessing she wasn’t the mayor.”
“Probably not,” I said dryly. “The people down there might be making a bigger fuss about what happened to her.”
“That depends. Now that the government change here means Fuzzy Baugh is out of office, how many people would miss him if he croaked?”
“I’ve always kind of liked him. In a way,” I added. “He did lay on the southern charm when he wanted something. Of course, he never really had much to do because the three county commissioners had all the clout.”
Milo grimaced. “I’d rather have Fuzzy on the job than Jack Blackwell running the county. His chummy act doesn’t play well with me.”
“Are you really going to meet with him next week?”
“I suppose I have to. The SOB’s officially my boss.”
That didn’t play well with me, either.
* * *
—
As expected, Milo was late getting home that night. We’d barely finished dinner when it was time for Vida’s Cupboard, as her radio program was called. Spencer Fleetwood did his usual (pre-recorded) introduction along with the sound of a cupboard door being opened. Her guest was Cecelia Doukas, wife of retired attorney Simon, whose family had once owned at least half of Alpine. Cecelia was a nice woman, but her mate had been the first person to call me a whore after I’d arrived in Alpine with a grown son and no husband in my allegedly dark past.
The Doukases had spent Christmas and New Year’s in England, which made for a reasonably interesting interview, even if Vida had already written it up in the paper. At least I paid attention, though Milo nodded off about the same time that Vida broke for a commercial from Harvey’s Hardware.
After I turned off the radio, the lack of sound apparently woke up my husband. “Vida’s done yapping?” he remarked, stretching his long arms.
“Vida’s never done yapping. Next week her guest will be Karl Freeman.”