by Mary Daheim
“Your reporter just pulled up,” he said. “He can talk to me in my office. I have a report to fill out. You might as well come along to figure out what you want to put online.”
“Who was in the ambulance?” I asked as he reversed the Yukon.
“Sofia Nelson,” he replied. “She’s got two black eyes and a bunch of other injuries. Mickey O’Neill beat the crap out of her.”
I let out something between a sigh and a groan. “I assume you’ve arrested him.”
Milo shook his head. “I can’t. Sofia grabbed a butcher knife and stabbed him through the chest. Mickey’s dead.”
Chapter 26
As we headed down Disappointment Avenue, I asked Milo if Sofia would be charged.
“Hell, no,” Milo replied. “It was self-defense. She’s so banged up that she may need surgery. I doubt Sofia even knew where she was putting the knife into him. She’s going to have two shiners along with her other injuries. She probably couldn’t see very well.”
“Poor girl,” I murmured. “I suppose the house is destroyed.”
“The roof may have caved in by now. I don’t know how long they’ve been holed up in there. Maybe since the stolen car went in the river after it ran out of gas. Mickey didn’t want to be seen, so they bummed a ride from somebody who dropped them at the turnoff to Alpine. It was dark by then, so I’m guessing they took a route up to the house where they wouldn’t be noticed. Blatt and Jamison couldn’t find them in the house, so maybe he’d hauled Sofia outside and hid in all that overgrowth. He told her if she tried to ask anyone for help, he’d kill her on the spot.”
I shuddered, remembering the spot I’d seen in Mitch’s photo of the house. Maybe it was Sofia, trying to get help. Mickey had threatened to do that to his previous girlfriend, which was what had sent him to prison in the first place. Alison had taken Vonnie Mertz under her wing and she eventually recovered.
“How did the fire start?”
“Mickey tried to get the old wood-burning stove started,” Milo replied. “He put in too much fuel and the flames touched off the kitchen curtains. You can imagine how rotted everything was inside that dump.”
Unfortunately, I could. It had been deteriorating when I’d been inside six years ago after the O’Neills were massacred by the Hartquists. But despite my antipathy for the Nelsons, I felt sorry for Sofia. I’d never really gotten to know her. In fact, I couldn’t remember ever having spoken to Sofia. She was related to the family only by marriage. Maybe I shouldn’t paint her with the same brush that I’d used on the rest of the Nelsons.
“You mean they went all that time without eating?” I asked.
“No idea,” Milo replied. “I figure Mickey went to the house before he grabbed Sofia. He may have had food on hand, but stuff you wouldn’t need to cook on the stove. Mickey never struck me as a gourmet kind of guy.”
We pulled into our garage. I made up my mind that I’d go to see Sofia in the morning. But I wouldn’t mention that to my husband. I had a feeling he wouldn’t approve.
We dropped the subject after we went inside our log cabin. Milo needed to unwind, and eat. I needed to cook.
After dinner we watched the Gonzaga Bulldogs beat the University of San Francisco on the Dons’ home court. Milo asked me how a squirty little school in Spokane could field a nationally ranked team. I told him it was because they were a Catholic university. He told me I was nuts. I told him the Pope rooted for the Zags. Milo shook his head and wandered off to the bedroom.
The snow had stopped during the night, but it hadn’t started to melt yet. Having worked late, Milo was in no rush to get to headquarters, so it was no problem for him to drive me to work first, since my Honda was still parked outside of the office.
Most of my staff was on hand when I arrived. Only Kip hadn’t yet shown up, but it was pub day and he’d be working into the night. Naturally, they pelted me with questions. Even Mitch wondered if anything else had happened after he left the O’Neill house, which had been shortly before Milo and I did. I told him I didn’t think so or the sheriff would have heard about it. I poured a mug of coffee before retreating into my cubbyhole. I still felt emotionally and physically drained.
Five minutes later, a grim-looking Spencer Fleetwood all but charged through my door. “How,” he demanded, “could I have missed the big news last night? But I did. Rosalie wanted to see a movie that was playing in Monroe. My fill-in at the station never heard the sirens. Help me out here. I need to at least include the basics in the hour-turn break at nine, then do a big follow-up in prime time this evening.”
I wasn’t sufficiently awake to give him a hard time. Keeping my account brief, I filled Spence in. “Obviously, I don’t know the condition of the Nelson daughter-in-law yet. Feel free to scoop me if you find out before I do.”
“Call now and I’ll give up scooping you,” Spence said. “You can post it online before I do the hour-turn.”
“You’re a sport,” I declared, picking up the phone. “Let’s hope I get one of the nurses who isn’t a…”
Just then Olga Overholt answered. She was one of the few nurses who was usually pleasant. I posed my question about Sofia.
“I don’t know,” Olga replied. “She’s still in the ICU. I understand her condition is still listed as critical. But that’s probably because Doc Dewey hasn’t yet seen her this morning. Call back after ten, Emma.”
I promised I would. In fact, if the snow was melting, I’d go to the hospital. After posting that the survivor of the fire at the O’Neill house was still in the ICU, I went through my mail and found nothing of interest except a couple of letters asking Vida’s advice. Just before ten o’clock, I saw that the snow on the nearby streets had been cleared enough that I could drive to Alpine Memorial. Maybe I could catch Doc Dewey before he finished rounds and headed to the clinic.
I entered the underground garage and saw his car parked in its usual spot. I took the elevator to the second floor, where I found Doc standing by the reception desk talking to Olga. He saw me, and after finishing his conversation, he met me halfway.
“I’ve been up all night, Emma,” he said. “Between what happened at the O’Neill house last night and all the accident victims we’ve had the last few days, Elvis Sung and I are worn out. I need coffee or I won’t be able to drive home without falling asleep at the wheel. I’m heading for the cafeteria. If you want to ask me any questions, come along.”
Neither of us spoke on the brief ride down. In fact, Doc rested his balding head against the back of the elevator and stared upward. I felt guilty for bothering him, but if I didn’t, somebody else would. There’s always someone around who espies a doctor at apparent ease and has to seek an explanation for whatever symptoms he or she is currently experiencing.
Luckily, only a handful of people were in the cafeteria. They were all employees, judging from their hospital attire. I insisted that he sit down while I collected our coffee. Doc looked almost boyish when he asked me to bring him a glazed doughnut. I guessed that he hadn’t eaten since the previous day.
It took me under five minutes to present Doc with his coffee and doughnut. “This is on me, Doc. You should be on your way home.”
He nodded a faint assent before we settled down to business. “That poor young woman,” he said with a sigh. “She’ll pull through, but she took quite a beating. The Nelsons live near you, right?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I agreed.
Doc shook his head. “Having Milo as their neighbor hasn’t improved their behavior. Anyway, Sofia suffered multiple injuries while she was being held hostage by Mickey O’Neill. She may even require some plastic surgery.” He turned grim. “Mickey was the product of bad blood. That’s not a medical condition, but up here.” He tapped his head. “Maybe it’s just as well he’s dead. Better Mickey than Sofia. She has a child to raise.”
“I think her husba
nd, Luke, gets out of prison sometime this year,” I said.
“But his father, Doyle Nelson, got a longer sentence,” Doc responded. “Different situation.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing. “How’s Vida getting along? I found out she had a fainting spell a few days before the car accident. I asked her what she thought had caused it, but she dismissed it as something to do with the cold weather. I didn’t believe her, but I knew it was useless to argue.” He took another bite of doughnut.
I thought back to what we’d been talking about before Vida collapsed. “She’d been asking if anyone knew who was living in the cabin at Baring. Vida had driven by there recently and had seen smoke coming out of the chimney. Milo had told me that the person living there was named Waldo Danforth. When I told her the name, she passed out.”
Doc frowned thoughtfully. After a few moments he said, “You may know that a Mrs. Danforth passed away while Vida was in the hospital. She was registered as Mary Smith, however, because her family didn’t want her illness publicized in the Advocate. I assume Waldo Danforth was her spouse?”
“Yes,” I told him. “A relative brought in the obituary. But do you know of any reason why his name would cause Vida to faint?”
Doc started to shake his head, but stopped. He gave me a bemused look. “Funny how things you haven’t remembered in years can come back to you. My father knew the Danforth family. They were his patients. And yes, they had a son named Waldo.” He took off his glasses and rubbed at his left eye. “My God, Emma,” he said, blinking at me before he put his glasses back on, “I remember now. When I first started my practice, Vida came to see me for her annual checkup because Dad was away at a conference. She seemed kind of put out about it.” He paused to take a sip of coffee.
“That sounds like Vida,” I remarked with a smile. “She’s never liked change. She thought your father was the greatest doctor on the planet and you were an upstart.”
Doc nodded. “Later Dad told me something about her. When Vida was about twenty, she fell in love with a young man from Sultan. She’d met him at a dance in Skykomish. Apparently they went out together on the sly, or so rumor had it. Dad never paid attention to gossip. But Vida suddenly became ill and her mother insisted on having her hospitalized. Dad knew better than to argue with Muriel Blatt. He diagnosed Vida as having a nervous breakdown. She poured her heart out to him. The young man she’d been seeing was already married and her heart was broken.” He paused. “Yes, he was Waldo Danforth.” Doc ate the last of his doughnut.
It took me a few seconds to take in the notion of Vida with a broken heart. “No wonder she fainted. I assume that was the real reason the Danforths used a phony name. They’d moved away a long time ago, according to their daughter, and they finally moved back to the area to be closer to family members in Leavenworth. Vida never realized that she was sharing a hospital room with Waldo’s wife.”
Doc agreed. “They knew Vida checked in with the hospital to find out who she could send get-well wishes to in her column. Of course, they never expected Vida to end up in the same room with Mrs. Danforth. Julie Canby told me that Mr. Danforth had a very successful career with the Weyerhaeuser timber company south of Seattle. But if Vida saw him, she probably wouldn’t have recognized him. He’s been suffering from ill health for some time.”
“Poor man,” I murmured. No wonder Vida had always been so encouraging about my relationship with Tom. She’d been reliving her own broken romance. Sadly, I shook my head. “And now he’s lost his wife.” I gave Doc a stern look. “Go home. I don’t want you to become the next patient.”
“And I don’t want to add to Elvis’s workload,” Doc replied. “You won’t be able to see Sofia Nelson in the ICU, so we’ll walk out together. You may have to prop me up.”
* * *
—
Back at the office, I went over the additional copy Mitch had written on our lead stories. As usual, he’d done a good job, and I told him so.
He shrugged. “Lots of practice from working in Detroit. I once covered three separate murders in a single day. But things seem to be improving back there.” He looked a little wistful.
We then turned to meeting Tuesday’s deadline. I decided to skip lunch and sent Alison to get me takeout from the Burger Barn. I thought about asking Milo to join me, but I knew he was as busy as I was. A little after one, he called me.
“I made that APB on Blackwell nationwide,” he said in a weary voice. “Nothing so far. I even called the cops in Hardin, Montana. No luck there either. Hell, it’s a small town. If they’d seen the names Blackwell or Marsh, they’d recognize them as strangers.”
“They would,” I agreed. “Look how everybody in Alpine starts yakking about anyone who…” I stopped. “Try Erskine.”
“Irksome?” Milo sounded puzzled. “Those two are way beyond…”
“No,” I interrupted, and spelled out Erskine. “It’s Patti’s maiden name.”
“Damn,” my husband said softly. “You’re right. I’d forgotten that. I’ll change the APB right away.” He banged down the phone.
An hour later, Alison came into my office holding a piece of paper. “That Mrs. Overby came by again with another obituary. She’s like the Grim Reaper. Here.”
I scanned the page and actually wasn’t shocked to see who had passed away. “It’s for Waldo Danforth, the man whose wife died last week.”
Alison shrugged. “I guess he couldn’t live without her. That’s kind of sweet.”
“It is,” I said vaguely, scanning Mrs. Overby’s information about her deceased father. “They were the same age, born exactly a month apart.”
“Soulmates,” Alison said in a dreamy voice. “I wonder if I’ll ever find someone like that.”
“You’ve got Jan for now,” I reminded her.
“But maybe not for always.” She sighed. “Oh, well.”
I watched her walk away, her shoulders slightly slumped.
It was almost four o’clock when Vida showed up. I’d been worrying about her, but she looked fine except for being a bit pale. Most of all, I dreaded how she’d react to finding out that Waldo Danforth had died. I hoped she wouldn’t pass out again.
She paused to greet Liza, Leo, and Mitch, then tromped into my office. “So wet and chilly this afternoon,” she said before plunking herself into a visitor chair. “However, I suspect we haven’t seen the last of the snow. Amy’s feeling better, thank goodness. I gave her a good dose of gumption last night. She needs to be up and doing.”
“Can Ted cook?” I asked, hoping that Vida hadn’t gotten anywhere near the Hibberts’ stove.
“Simple fare,” she said with a shrug. “How many died since last week?”
“Three,” I replied. “Someone named Conrad Carson, but he lived in Skykomish. The other two people were from Baring.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice tightening. “The Danforths. Doc called to ask how Amy was getting along. He mentioned that they’d died. I won’t put any of them in my column. None of them lived in Alpine.”
“True,” I agreed, keeping a poker face.
“So sad about Jean Campbell,” Vida remarked. “She was such a blessing to the rest of us Presbyterians. It’s going to be hard for our pastor to find anyone who can replace her. I hope her mind is at rest. I must find out where she’s recuperating.”
I shrugged. Vida was obviously dismissing the idea that Jean had killed someone. “Don’t ask me. I’m not a member of your church.”
“That’s your loss.” Vida stood up and adjusted the plastic rain bonnet she wore over her purple pillbox. “I must be off. I’ve yet to make the casserole for Amy and Ted. I’ll insist that she eat some of it to get back her strength. It should turn out well. I added some prunes to provide more flavor. How could anyone resist?”
I could if you made it, I thought, feeling a little queasy, but I merely offered
my best wishes for Amy’s recovery.
Still, I wondered how she’d reacted to Waldo’s death when Doc broke the news. I considered calling to ask him, but he might still be asleep. Maybe he’d keep mum, citing patient privacy. It occurred to me that I really didn’t want to know. Losing her first love had broken her heart, and in middle age she’d lost her husband, Ernest. In the last year she’d been forced to take off her blinders when her spoiled grandson Roger had been sent to prison. Most women would have grown bitter with age. Vida had been off her feed for a while—and embarrassed, but she’d recovered. Vida’s strength of character had carried her through life’s heartaches. I mentally saluted her. If I told her how I felt, she’d call me a sentimental fool. I smiled as I heard her voice in my head.
* * *
—
I’d been home for only ten minutes when Milo came in from the garage. “Blackwell and Patti aren’t in Hardin, Montana,” he said after kissing me. “Maybe they heard about the APB and got the hell out of Hardin.”
“Eventually they’ll have to come back here. Jack’s not going to give up his mill. But if Patti drops the charges, you have to cancel the APB.”
Milo nodded as he reached for the Scotch and the Canadian Club. “I’ll find out tomorrow at the courthouse.” Obviously, he wasn’t going to change out of his uniform until he’d fortified himself with a dose of MacNaughton’s.
“You look tired,” I said. “You should’ve slept in even longer this morning.”
“It’s a good thing I didn’t,” he replied, pouring my Canadian Club into a glass. “I was lucky to get out of the office before five-fifteen. Fred Engelman called just before five. Will Pace isn’t coming back to Alpine. Fred got a postcard from him saying he’s decided to stay in Mexico.”
“I’m not surprised. I remember Roseanna Bayard saw it was a one-way ticket.”