by Mary Daheim
By morning, the snow had turned to rain. We both slept in, though Milo was up before eight-thirty. When I staggered into the kitchen at nine-fifteen, he’d finished breakfast.
“Any news on Patti?” I asked, fumbling with a coffee mug.
He shook his head. “De Groote’s on highway patrol this morning. I asked her to check out the motel if she had a chance. Why don’t you give Consi a call later on when you’re actually awake?”
“I am awake,” I declared.
“Then why did you just pour coffee on your bathrobe?”
“Oh!” I grabbed a dishtowel and dabbed at my sleeve. “I can call her. But wouldn’t it be better if you talked to her? You’re her boss.”
Milo sighed. “So I am. Maybe I will, but not until later. Consi may not get down to Monroe until she’s almost ready to come off duty at five.”
I decided to let go of the subject and sat down at the table. That was when I realized I hadn’t gotten anything to eat. Maybe Milo was right and I really wasn’t fully awake. But I was hungry. Cereal was probably a safe choice. If I cooked something, I might set my bathrobe on fire. It was that kind of morning.
I settled for Cheerios. They should be safe. I hoped that Patti was.
After I got dressed and felt fully conscious, I looked outside where the rain was still falling. All I could see was slush and gray skies. I’d planned to grocery shop, but realized my Honda was still parked at the office.
Milo had gone to the den that had been added beyond the kitchen when we remodeled the cabin the previous year. It was, in effect, his home office. I found him studying some notes he’d made on Rachel’s murder. It was supposed to be my office, too, but I rarely used it. There was only one chair, so I perched on the edge of the desk.
“We’ll have to get my car today,” I announced, “or we may run out of food. I haven’t done any grocery shopping all week.”
“We can do that,” he said in a rather distracted manner.
“Okay. It’s really slushy out there now.” I peered at the notes. “Rachel?”
“Yeah.” He leaned back in the chair. “Why the hell did she come here? Have you heard of anybody besides Jason Campbell who knew she even existed?”
I shook my head. “I suppose she was looking for her roots. There has to be some connection. Alpine isn’t exactly a tourist destination, especially this time of year.”
“I’d like to nail Blackwell, but damnit, I believe what he told me about never having heard of her. The only other dink I can come up with is Will Pace. Maybe she went to the motel because he’s her father, and then he did her in. I’m kind of leaning toward that idea. It’d explain why Pace left town in such a hurry. But extraditing him from Mexico is a pain in the ass. We’d have to find him first, and that means bringing in the feds. If Pace is really on the run, he could be in Brazil by now.”
I nodded in a vague way. “He claimed to have come here from Alaska, but hadn’t he lived for a time in California?”
“So we heard,” Milo agreed, “but his background was always vague.”
“Did you ever do any research on him?”
“No. He had all his legal stuff in order. It was up to the county commissioners to check out his background. That was back when we had those three old coots who never did much of anything.”
I made a face. “I never thought to have my reporter—I think that was still Scott Chamoud—do any investigating about his background. I thought we should interview Pace, but he turned us down. He said he was too busy getting the motel up and running. That made sense at the time.”
“It was probably true,” Milo allowed. “I do remember that he hired somebody from out of town to build the motel. A lot of folks resented that, but nothing came of it.”
I left Milo to his tasks. Part of my Saturday was usually devoted to minor housekeeping chores, and by two o’clock I was finished. After lunch Milo had gone through his fishing tackle in the hope of the river dropping enough so he could go steelhead fishing Sunday morning. The sun had come out and the slush had finally disappeared. He told me we could get the Honda so I could grocery shop.
The phone rang just as we were putting on our jackets. Vida’s voice was so irate it almost sent me reeling across the living room. “I only got home just now,” she announced. “Not only did it take Dr. Sung until past the noon hour to sign the discharge papers, but Ted couldn’t pick me up right away because Amy was in the shower and somehow she flooded part of their bathroom. Really, there are times when I don’t think I raised my daughters properly. Whatever became of common sense?”
“It went down the drain?” I said.
“That’s not amusing,” Vida declared. “I wanted Ted to take me to Nordby Brothers to look at cars, but he had to get home to Amy. She’s afraid to stay alone. Imagine!”
I actually could. “I’m going grocery shopping,” I told her, noting the impatient expression on Milo’s face as he stood by the door to the garage. “Why don’t I pick you up and you can go with me? There must be things you need from the Grocery Basket. Then we can go to the car dealership.”
“That’s very generous of you, Emma. Yes, just honk when you get here. I would have asked Buck, but this weekend he’s entertaining one of his Air Force chums, Alex, who has been visiting his children in Everett. I believe he retired to Florida. Can you imagine a winter with nothing but sun and alligators?”
I had to admit that I couldn’t, but said I’d see her in about five minutes.
I explained her problem to Milo. “I think that Amy and Ted feel she shouldn’t drive anymore, but this is the first accident of any kind she’s ever had. You know that. I’m sure something distracted or upset her, but she’s not letting on what it was.”
Milo backed out of the garage and onto Fir Street. “Maybe the wreck caused her to lose her memory about it. Shock can do that.”
“True.” We went down Fourth Street and turned right onto Front, which wasn’t all that busy on a Saturday afternoon. I could see my Honda sitting like a forlorn orphan at a family party. There were no cars parked on either side. Milo pulled into the parking space on the driver’s side and told me he’d stay to see if the engine started right away.
It did. I gave him a thumbs-up sign, then waited for him to pull out after a gray pickup carrying a load of firewood went by. Vida lived on Tyee between Sixth and Seventh Streets. The Nordby Brothers dealership was just down the hill. I pulled up in front of the modest but well-maintained Craftsman house and honked. Vida appeared like a genie from a magic lamp. I noticed that she took the five steps rather slowly and placed a gloved hand on the wrought-iron rail. I thought of asking if she needed help getting into the car but decided against it. I was sure that Vida’s pride was intact, even if three of her ribs had been broken.
“Such a silly predicament,” she declared after settling into the passenger seat and adjusting her taupe turban. Apparently she saw me staring at the turban’s bronze-and-rhinestone star. “I’m wearing this to cover my hair. I must call the salon Monday and ask Stella for a shampoo-and-set appointment. My hair is a disaster.”
Like the hair’s owner, it had a mind of its own. My chestnut mop did too, so I sympathized. I also asked if she wanted me to wait to make certain she could get a rental car. But she had called ahead and been assured that the Nordby boys—as she called them, despite Skunk and Trout being older than I am—had a very nice secondhand Buick Skylark waiting for her.
“Did you end up with another roommate before you were able to leave?”
“No, thank goodness, but I heard they were admitting more patients. Actually, I was dressed and waiting at the nurses’ station. Astrid Overholt told me that Mrs. Wa-wa-wa’s husband was very distraught. I suppose he is, poor man, though he never came to see her after she was put in with me. Maybe he couldn’t bear it.”
I allowed that could be the r
eason. We had arrived at the dealership. I saw a green and silver Buick parked near the entrance. “There’s your ride,” I said, stopping as close as I could get to the dealership’s double doors. “Should I wait to make sure everything’s in order?”
Vida had already opened the car door. “It better be,” she said with a gleam in her eyes. “If not, I’ll make a fuss.”
I wished her good luck, watched her enter the building, and waited just long enough to make sure that Trout and Skunk Nordby weren’t taking flight.
The Grocery Basket was busy. Shoppers were obviously restocking their shelves after being housebound by the snow. After running up a bill of over $120, I arrived home to find Milo pacing in the living room with the cellphone in his hand.
“Right, right,” he was saying to whoever was on the other end. “You can’t reason with Roy. He’s convinced his mama is still alive after damned near twenty years.”
I stayed in the kitchen to unload the groceries. Myrtle Everson had been only sixty-two when she disappeared. The last thing I heard Milo say was to tell Roy that we’d gone out of town for the weekend and wouldn’t be back until Monday. Then he apparently rang off. Just as I emptied the first grocery bag, my husband entered the kitchen.
“Damn!” he exclaimed, still looking irked. “Why can’t Roy give up on his mama? Now he claims the bucket’s gone. He told Jamison the old lady came back to get it. His goofy wife, Bebe, probably used it for something and forgot where she put it. Is it too early for me to start drinking?”
I glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove. “It’s four-fifty. Just take your time pouring the booze for both of us.”
Milo’s expression changed to what looked like concern. “Are you okay?”
I smiled. “Yes, but I’ve been busy. I think we both need to crash. You make the drinks while I put away the rest of the groceries.”
I saw my husband’s broad shoulders slump. “Why did you marry me?” He came over to where I was standing by the counter and hooked his right arm around my neck. “Mulehide refused to hear anything about my job.”
“So you’ve told me. But your job is a big news source for my job. It’s too bad I can’t include Roy’s latest theory about poor Myrtle.” I frowned. “Maybe I should use it. After I took over the Advocate we never ran any of his wacky theories about her still being alive.” I eased out of Milo’s embrace. “Do you remember how Marius Vandeventer handled the story? Myrtle’s disappearance must have been reported to your office.”
“It was,” Milo agreed, opening the door to the liquor cabinet. “I’m sure it was in the paper because it would’ve been in the log.”
“I should check it out on Monday,” I said. “There was probably a follow-up. Maybe more than one.”
Milo set two glasses on the counter. “You want to start a new search for the old girl?”
“No, but it’s a human-interest feature. The only problem is that I don’t know what kind of effect the coverage would have on Roy. He’s already been hospitalized at least once when he got himself into a tizzy. Do you remember what year Myrtle disappeared?”
“Not offhand,” Milo replied, handing me my Canadian Club as we went into the living room. “It was in August, because that’s when the wild blackberries would have been ripe for picking.”
“Kip will know,” I said as I sat down on the sofa. “He was in high school back then, and he and some of his classmates formed a search party for Myrtle. No luck, of course.”
Milo leaned back in his easy chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. “I had my deputies do some searching, too. Back then there were more places around here where the wild berries could grow. The last big timber harvest was in the late seventies, before the environmentalists moved in with their propaganda. That’s when the smaller mills were forced to close.”
I recognized the hint of bitterness in my husband’s voice. His father had been a logger, but he’d been injured in the woods and forced to take a desk job. Neither Milo nor his older brother, Clint, had wanted to follow in his footsteps. Logging, my husband had once told me, is brutal work.
I agreed. “When I moved here,” I said, “Alpine was still pretty bleak. I wondered for a while if I’d made the right decision. Then the community college started up and things began to change.”
Milo chuckled. “Now you’re stuck here with me. Say, are you trying to starve us to death? I don’t see anything on the stove.”
“Dinner will be simple fare,” I said in a formal voice. “Rib-eye steak, mashed potatoes, and fresh broccoli. No, I don’t know where the Grocery Basket gets fresh vegetables this time of year, but they do. Yes, I’ll return to the kitchen in about ten minutes. It’s only ten after five.”
“It seems later.” Milo picked up the TV sports listing for the day. “Guess I’ll see who’s beating the crap out of who on ESPN.”
“You do that,” I said, getting off the sofa and making a detour to kiss the top of his head.
I was putting the peeled potatoes in a pot of water when a phone rang. I paused to hear whether it would keep ringing, but Milo answered. “What kind of bug does Engelman have up his ass now?” he asked in an irritated voice.
Curiosity overcame me. I plunked the last of the potatoes into the pot and returned to the living room. The college basketball game on TV had been muted.
“I haven’t any idea where Blackwell has gone, either,” my husband said. “All I know is that he left town. He could be anywhere. Why is Fred looking for him?…If he won’t tell you, that’s on him….Right. It’s not our problem, Sam. Take it easy. Sorry you have the desk tonight, but Gould should be back, maybe even tomorrow.” He rang off.
“Let me see,” I said, fingering my chin. “Fred can’t find Blackwell. But after selling the poached timber to somebody in Forks, why wouldn’t he want to avoid Jack?”
“How do I know?” Milo replied. “I hope Jack didn’t find Patti and do some more damage to her. She’s using an alias, but if her car was still parked out in front of the motel, he’d recognize it. Damn!”
“Maybe Fred poached some more trees,” I suggested. “He may want to do business with Jack.”
“Fred should’ve been arrested for doing that, but the timber was on federal government property,” Milo said in a musing voice. “I suppose at that level, they have to go through a bunch of damned channels. Maybe Fred should have followed the trees to Forks over on the Olympic Peninsula to avoid the law.”
I thought about Fred’s wife, Janie. She was, as Vida once described her, “a twittering ninny.” No help there. I considered calling Janie, but decided that was a bad idea. Or was it? Maybe it was a job for Vida.
Chapter 22
I called Vida after dinner to check on her status. She informed me that she was feeling fine and had made a casserole for the Hibberts.
“I just talked to Ted,” she went on, “and he told me that Amy only picked at her meal, but he’d enjoyed it very much. She still feels puny. Ted especially liked the sardines I’d added.”
Even just imagining what it would have tasted like, I almost felt as if my own stomach was about to rebel. “Amy should perk up by tomorrow.” I changed the subject to the Engelmans and asked Vida why Fred would be trying to find Blackwell.
“Well now,” she said in a musing tone, “something to do with timber, I suppose. They have nothing else in common. Isn’t Fred taking over Will Pace’s duties at the motel? Of course, Will probably won’t be gone very long. I don’t recall him ever leaving town until now. Curious, really.”
“Maybe Will doesn’t like snow. It cuts down on visitors to Alpine.”
“The skiers should make up for that,” Vida pointed out. “If they can get here, of course. I think that…Oh! There’s someone at the door. It’s Buck. I must let him in. Take care, Emma.” She hung up without giving me a chance to talk to her about visiting with Janie Engelm
an.
The phone rang in my hand before I could put it down. Buddy Bayard’s voice was at the other end. “Hey, Emma, I wanted to let you know I took some pretty darned good snow photos the last few days. You may want to use one of them in the paper this week.”
“I will,” I said. “Bring them in Monday morning. Mitch hasn’t done anything spectacular except for a shot of Front Street.”
“I used both color and black and white,” Buddy replied. “Say, what’s the deal with Will Pace taking off? Did having a murder at his motel scare him all the way to Mexico?”
“Maybe,” I ventured. “Though he strikes me as a bit on the callous side. But I suppose even Will needs to take a break once in a while.”
“I think it’s a first for him,” Buddy said. “Roseanna wondered if he was fleeing the country.”
“I doubt it. He must make a decent living off of the motel.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does. It’s a no-frills kind of place. Cuts down on overhead. See you Monday.” Buddy rang off.
Milo looked up from the Sports Illustrated he’d been reading. “Are you going to gab on the phone all night?”
“I hope not,” I replied—just as the blasted thing rang again. This time it was Roseanna Bayard.
“Buddy forgot to tell you about Will Pace’s ticket,” she said with a reprimand in her voice. “It was one-way. I saw it.”
I glanced at Milo. “You mean Will doesn’t intend to come back?”
“So it seems,” Roseanna replied. “Maybe he killed that poor woman.”
“Anything’s possible,” I allowed. “Will’s a jerk, but I assume he didn’t even know her. The only reason I can think of for him fleeing the country is tax evasion.”
“Well…” Roseanna hesitated. “Now I wish I’d ask him about the ticket. But I can’t stand the guy, so I kept quiet.”