by Mary Daheim
“I don’t blame you. Any response from Will would’ve been rude.”
“You’re right.” Roseanna uttered a truncated laugh. “I said good morning to him one day on Front Street and he growled back, ‘What’s good about it? Morning’s a good time to commit suicide.’ I’ll let you go, Emma. Buddy wants to play some chess.”
I wondered if that was a euphemism for something more erotic. “Have fun,” I said, and hung up.
Milo had put aside the magazine. “What was that all about?”
“Will Pace’s ticket was one-way,” I replied. “You already wondered if it might be. You were right.”
Milo heaved a big sigh. “Yeah, I did. I’m not surprised. But why?” My husband didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m calling Fred Engelman at the motel.”
I watched Milo as the phone apparently rang several times. “The sonuvabitch isn’t picking up.” He shoved it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll head over there right now and find out what’s going on. And no, you can’t come with me. Stay put.”
I stood up. “No. This could be a story for the paper. I’m coming with you. If you won’t let me get in the Yukon, I’ll take my own car.”
The sheriff was already putting on his jacket. He started to say something, then stopped. “Okay. I’m armed. Let’s do it.”
Milo usually carried a smaller weapon than the King Cobra Magnum he had in his hip holster. A Ruger was attached above his right ankle. Fortunately, I didn’t have to be armed for my job, though there were times when I wished I had a baseball bat to drive off nasty readers who wanted to run me out of town.
The rain had definitely turned to snow, though it wasn’t coming down very hard. The drive to the motel would take less than five minutes.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me ride along,” I said as we pulled onto Fir Street.
“It beats leaving you alone. I can keep you from getting into trouble.”
“It’s my job, you big jerk.”
Milo turned left onto Old Service Road, which ran alongside the cemetery. It had literally been a service road until it was paved a few years ago. The previous dirt road had been merely called the Service Road, but the trio of doddering county commissioners had added “Old” to the name. I’d assumed that was because they were all…old. But I didn’t mention that in my news coverage.
We had reached the Alpine Falls Motel, a cluster of small, rather depressing units on Front Street. Limited parking was available by each room, with the door to the office somewhere in the middle. Obviously, planning hadn’t been Will Pace’s strong suit. Nor was the motel anywhere close to Alpine Falls.
Milo barely had room to park the Yukon. “I don’t know what Engelman drives, but there’s a light on in the office. Try not to hurt yourself getting out of the vehicle. I have a feeling that Pace isn’t much good at groundskeeping.”
My husband was right. The first thing I spotted on the mangy grass was an empty bottle of cheap wine. That seemed to set the tone for the motel.
“The damned place is locked,” Milo said, then pounded on the door in a way that suggested a sledgehammer.
I couldn’t hear any sound from inside, but less than a minute passed before Fred Engelman opened up. “Sheriff?” His tone was wary. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing as far as you’re concerned, Fred,” Milo assured him as we entered the small but surprisingly tidy office. “Go ahead, sit down. This won’t take long.”
Fred backtracked to the front desk. “You’re here about that poor woman who was killed, right? I don’t know anything about her. Will didn’t talk about…what happened.”
“No,” Milo replied. “I want to know when Pace is coming back to town. We haven’t finished our interviews with him.”
“Gosh.” Fred grimaced. “He didn’t really give me a date. Will knew I wasn’t working steady.”
“Did you see him just before he took off?”
“You mean like when he left the motel?”
“Right.”
Fred frowned, stroking his short, graying beard. I noticed his hairline had receded a bit farther since I’d last seen him. “No. He had an early flight to California and then was going to go on from there to Mexico. I think he took off in the middle of the night because he told me to show up here around five-thirty the first day. Some guests check out real early, like before six.”
“Did he pay you in advance?”
“Will set it up so I could get paid by the day,” Fred replied. “What I do is I have Janie stop by to take the payments to the bank and bring me back fifty bucks in cash for every day I work here. It’s a pretty good deal. I mean, it’s easier than working as a logger.”
“It is,” Milo agreed. “Okay, Fred, that’s all I need. But if you hear from Will, let us know, okay?”
“Sure,” Fred agreed, looking relieved. “I suppose you like to keep up with folks from around here who might get into trouble in some of those foreign countries. Those foreigners can be real dangerous.”
Milo didn’t comment. But I knew he was thinking that Will Pace might be more dangerous than the foreigners.
* * *
—
“How,” Milo asked when we were back in the Yukon, “did you keep from asking any questions? Are you sick?”
I put on my most innocent face. “You were on the job. As it turned out, there was no story for the paper. We don’t speculate in print.”
“So on Monday,” Milo said as we pulled out of the parking lot, “you or Laskey will pay a call on Fred?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” I replied with a straight face. “It is the weekend, after all.”
The sheriff didn’t comment.
* * *
—
By Sunday morning the snow had stopped, though the temperature was holding just below freezing. Milo offered to drive me to St. Mildred’s, but after checking Fir Street, he thought my snow tires would keep me safe. I left Milo at home reading the Sunday Seattle Times.
Most of the parishioners had braved the cold weather. I saw Buddy and Roseanna Bayard, several Bourgettes, Jack and Nina Mullins, Marisa Foxx, and all seven of the Bronskys. Father Kelly announced before the homily that there would be no coffee and doughnuts after the liturgy. The bad weather had somehow affected the coffeemaker, but an electrician was due to show up early Monday morning. I almost expected Ed to stand up and ask Father Den if he’d ordered the doughnuts anyway.
Milo was watching the NFL pregame show. The Seattle Seahawks would play for the NFC championship against the Carolina Panthers with a one o’clock kickoff at Qwest Field in Seattle.
“Can you imagine what those tickets cost?” Milo almost bellowed as I was hanging up my jacket. “But they’ll fill the place and half of those sixty-seven thousand suckers will be too sauced by the end of the game to know who won. I’d hate to be working security for a game like that.”
I came behind his chair, put one hand on his shoulder, and felt his forehead. “You don’t seem to be running a fever. Why should you care what the suckers pay to see a big game?”
He hit the mute button. “Why don’t you sit on my lap while I tell you?”
“I’m not sitting on your lap,” I declared. “In fact, I’m going to call Vida to see how she’s getting along. I was afraid she might have overdone it yesterday.”
“She probably did,” Milo agreed. “Are you going to gab on the phone in here or take it somewhere else so I can hear the pregame bullshit?”
I’d moved across the room to the end table. “She may’ve gone to church. Her Presbyterians start at ten like we do, but go on much longer.”
“So do these so-called pro football experts,” Milo grumbled. “They speculate almost as much as you do.”
“Jerk,” I said under my breath as Vida’s phone rang—and kept on ringing. I hung up be
fore I got her long-winded message to leave every bit of my information, including the last time I had heartburn.
I went into the kitchen to pour a mug of coffee. Back on the sofa, I went through the Sunday paper. As usual, Milo had read only the first section, with local, national, and international news, and the sports section. He had no interest in the rest of the paper, which was devoted to arts and entertainment, articles about the Seattle area, business, technology, and a couple of others that even I never leafed through. But I did read the obituaries to see if I knew anyone who had died. Sometimes I did. It was a reminder that we are all mortal.
Apparently bored with the pregame commentary, Milo informed me he was going outside to check for possible damage the recent snowfall might have caused. I hadn’t noticed any in the front of our log cabin, but that didn’t mean there might not be some out back, where our yard sloped upward on the face of Tonga Ridge.
When Milo returned twenty minutes later, he reported that there had been a few branches blown down, but nothing serious. He’d put them in the wood box to use as fireplace kindling.
A little after eleven-thirty, I figured Vida should be home from church. I was about to call her when she called me.
“Honestly,” she began in obvious dismay, “the service was overly long today. We had a visiting minister and he talked forever! But I did have an opportunity to chat with Jean Campbell. She was very concerned about Jason’s visit to Alpine. He called on them and ended up staying overnight at their house. But Jean still can’t understand why he bothered to come up here in the first place. She wonders if perhaps they cared more for each other than she realized.”
As she paused for breath and Milo glared at me for hampering Jim Nantz’s assessment of the two NFC teams, I moved into the kitchen. I suggested to Vida that it was natural for Jason to be curious about his girlfriend. “And imagine yourself in Jean’s place. Wouldn’t you be concerned if one of your relatives was involved?” I asked in an artless tone.
“My family members—foolish as some of them may be—don’t get mixed up with murder victims,” Vida huffed. “Jean felt it was in poor taste to travel all the way to Alpine to get information about the victim. She also told me that some of our fellow Presbyterians had been asking her why he’d do such a thing. Jason’s visit struck them as curious, even prurient. I’m surprised that she didn’t add ‘suspicious.’ ”
I was a bit surprised as well, knowing how Vida and her congregation thrived on gossip. “It isn’t as if Jason lives here,” I pointed out. “He went back to California and may not visit here again for years. Frankly, Jean’s attitude about him coming to Alpine may’ve hurt his feelings.”
“Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “Jean and Lloyd had visited Jason when they were in California a few years ago. They tried to coax him into moving up here, but for some strange reason, he preferred the Bay Area. I can’t think why. She even had a nice girl picked out for him, one of my Gustavson relations, Dana. But Jean hasn’t been feeling well lately. You probably never knew that she went through the change rather late and had a miserable time. When she told me that she was feeling poorly, I asked her—tactfully, of course—if she was otherwise in good health. After all, I’d been in the hospital. But she dismissed the question, reminding me that we’re all getting older. Of course we are! But she’s not nearly as old as I am.” The words were spoken with a sense of pride.
“It isn’t as if the Campbells are immune to a murder investigation,” I said. “One of the suspects in a homicide was living with them years ago.”
“True,” Vida agreed. “But the young woman was innocent. Oh, I must go! Amy is calling on my other line.”
I returned to the living room. Milo was getting up from the easy chair and had muted the TV. “Let’s eat lunch. The game doesn’t come on until one. I’m tired of listening to so-called experts speculating.”
We were just finishing our meal when Milo’s cell rang. “Now what?” he muttered. He answered with his usual “Dodge here” and then listened with a growing expression of dismay. “Okay, Consi. We’ll have to extend the APB for Blackwell. Let me know when you find out what airline he’s on. I’ll be at home for the rest of the day. Thanks.”
My eyes probably looked huge. “Blackwell’s left the area?”
Milo rubbed his forehead. “So it seems. His car was parked in a lot adjacent to Sea-Tac. Where the hell would he go? And why?”
“Patti may be with him,” I said. “Maybe she wanted to see her daughter in L.A. Dani had to cancel her Christmas trip here, as you may recall.”
“Yeah, I know that.” He sighed. “Hell, maybe they went to Mexico to party with Will Pace. This whole mess just keeps getting crazier and crazier. Consi’s going to find out what airline Blackwell was on. That shouldn’t take too long.”
Milo’s deputy didn’t report back until after the football game had started. He muted the TV and I watched his face go from stoic to aggravated. “How the hell could Blackwell’s car be at the airport but he wasn’t listed as a passenger on any of the damned planes?” He paused to wait for an answer. “Right, Consi, I don’t get it, either. Maybe he stowed away in the baggage compartment. Or Patti smuggled him aboard. Did you give airport security her name, too?” Another pause. “Okay, the good news is Jack’s not here in Alpine. If you find out anything else, let me know. I’m not going anywhere.” He rang off.
“Maybe,” I said, “Jack and Patti flew wherever they were going on a magic carpet.”
Milo glared at me. “You’re no help.” He turned the TV sound back on.
I shut up.
Chapter 23
Except for the Seahawks’ victory, which put the team in the Super Bowl, the rest of Sunday was quiet. Deputy De Groote reported back that she couldn’t find any confirmation of Blackwell and Patti taking a flight out of Sea-Tac. Milo and I wondered if they’d parked there but had been forced to stay in a nearby motel because of Patti’s shaky health.
Monday brought heavy rain with temperatures teetering on forty degrees when I arrived at the office. I can deal with rain, having grown up in Seattle, but melting snow in our mountains could cause flooding in the Skykomish River. The first thing I did when I got to the office was to check in with Kip. We’d have to keep in touch with the weather service so we could post warnings on our website.
Mitch was already standing by the coffee urn, waiting for it to finish perking. “Sorry I missed work Friday,” he said by way of greeting. “But the visit with Troy was really worth it. He seemed in good spirits, and that made Brenda feel much better. She started weaving again yesterday.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I replied. “My son, Adam, is being transferred to Michigan’s Northern Peninsula. Have you ever been to Gaylord?”
Mitch shook his head. “No reason to go there. My beat was Detroit. Who’s in charge of the pastries?”
So much for my son’s news. I poured my own coffee and retreated to my cubbyhole. After everyone was assembled, I made my assignments for the special issue. Vida hadn’t yet arrived, but she might be catching up with Maud Dodd at the retirement home. I was convinced that even some people who hadn’t yet become golden-agers read Vida’s column with Maud’s ramblings. Of course, at least half of the town was probably related to the oldsters.
Around nine-thirty, Alison brought me an obituary. “A Mrs. Overby from Leavenworth brought this in just now. She’s the daughter of the deceased and on her way to comfort her father. He’s very distraught.”
“Understandable,” I said, and lowered my voice. “Have you hatched a plan to visit Troy?”
Alison’s eyes sparked. “I’m working on it.”
“Good for you. Mitch told me he was in good spirits. But you really should talk to him first before you take on his son.”
“You think?” Alison made a face. “He might tell me it’s a bad idea.”
“Well�
�” I paused. “You know how touchy Mitch is.”
“I’ll figure out something,” Alison said. “I’m fairly resourceful.”
“So you are.” I grinned at her. “Go get ’em, Lindahl.”
She grinned back. “I intend to.” With a flip of her blond hair she returned to the front office through the newsroom.
I opened the business-letter-sized envelope and stared at the deceased’s name: Julia Anne Roberts Danforth. She had been eighty-one years old, born in Nooksack, Washington, moved with her family later to Bellingham, where she attended Western Washington College, taught elementary school in Blaine, then quit to raise her two daughters. She and her husband had retired first to Long Beach, Washington, but later moved to Baring on the Stevens Pass Highway to be closer to her elder daughter’s family. The survivors, including the two daughters, their spouses, and the grandchildren were listed by name. So, of course, was her husband, Waldo Danforth, also of Baring. Services were pending.
Suddenly I wondered if that was why Vida had wrecked her car.
* * *
—
Mitch returned from his rounds around ten-thirty. “Not much news from the sheriff’s office except for weather-related problems on the road,” he informed me. “What’s going on now with your Nelson neighbors?”
“You mean LaVerne and little Chloe?”
My reporter nodded. “LaVerne came into headquarters while I was there. She wanted to see the sheriff, but he was out. She’s in a flap because she doesn’t know where Sofia is.”
“Milo doesn’t know, either,” I said. “Sofia and Mickey O’Neill have gone to ground.”
Mitch fingered his chin. “So the prison authorities haven’t tracked down O’Neill?”
I shook my head. “Obviously not, or they’d have notified the sheriff. You may recall the car Mickey stole was found downstream in the river.”
“You think they may be in Alpine?”