by Mary Daheim
Dear, good, practical Milo. “We've discussed it,” I said, “but it always sounds as if Tom wants to live in San Francisco. He's not a small-town sort of guy.”
“It wouldn't kill him,” Milo said in his laconic fashion. “He'd still be traveling to big cities for meetings and whatever else he does there. I thought he liked to fish.”
In Milo's world, if you fished, you could live on Jupiter if there was a good river with some nice riffles. “Tom used to fish, when he still lived in Seattle. He was into a lot of outdoor sports when I first met him, but I don't think he's had much leisure time in recent years.”
“He'd probably like getting back to the great outdoors,” Milo said with the confidence of a man who believed that fishing in particular could cure just about any malady. Wading into the river, casting the line, waiting— to fishermen like Milo, fishing was a state of grace, a sense of wholeness, of trust, of peace. “Cavanaugh could make up for lost time. Hit the ball in his court, Emma. “Why should you take on the whole burden of the decision making?”
Milo was right. He'd made me feel better. I could
have kissed him, but it probably wouldn't have been appropriate.
“Thanks,” I said, genuinely grateful. “You have common sense. Even Vida should acknowledge that. You know how much weight good sense carries with her.”
“Oh, I sure do.” Milo allowed himself a small grin. “So what's up besides the most important decision of your life?”
“Nothing,” I said, “except I was worried about you yesterday. You seemed upset.”
“Well,” Milo began, taking a roll of breath mints out of his shirt pocket and offering one to me, “I was.”
I accepted the mint and popped it in my mouth. “About Tara?”
He shook his head. “No, she called this morning. It was pretty late by the time she and Dan got Brian's body to the airport night before last, so they decided to stay over. She's fine. I'm having dinner there tomorrow.”
“So what was the problem?” I persisted.
The sheriff grimaced. “I can't tell you.”
I leaned back in the chair. “Milo …”
“Don't give me the evil eye,” he said with a wave of his hand. “This isn't one of those public record deals where I have to tell you. Believe me, it's better that you don't know for now.”
I wasn't giving up. “Has it something to do with Brian Conley?”
“No.”
“The Hartquists?”
Milo hesitated. “No.”
“The O'Neills?”
“Stop asking.”
“So it is the O'Neills,” I said. “But not the Hart-quists?”
“I said not the Hartquists,” Milo replied, sounding impatient.
I thought for a few moments. “The O'Neills were up to something. What was it?”
Milo threw his arms up in the air. “I'm not going to tell you. Got that?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I'll trade you for it. Brian Conley's body has gone missing at JFK in New York.”
Milo didn't change expressions. “That's not my jurisdiction.”
“But it is your homicide,” I persisted. “Don't you care?”
The sheriff sighed. “Yes, I care.” He made a note on a legal-sized yellow tablet. “How did you find out?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because you're a good citizen.”
I thought it over. I was a good citizen. Slim chance it might be, but it was possible that the missing coffin could be some sort of bizarre lead in the homicide case.
“Brian's mother told me,” I finally said.
“I'll check it out. But,” he went on, “it's probably just some screwup at the airport.”
“Probably,” I admitted. “But isn't it worth something in terms of a trade?”
Milo shook his head. “Nope.”
“Okay, let's try this one,” I said, determined not to let him off the hook. “What if I told you I had a nice chat last night with Gina Ancich and Nolan Curry?”
Milo evinced mild surprise. “They were in town? How come?”
“Apparently to honor Brian,” I said. “They went up to Tonga Ridge and left some flowers.”
“How did they stop to see you?” Milo asked, clearly miffed.
“I'm not going to tell you,” I said, and gave Milo a superior look.
Milo chomped down so hard on his mint that I heard it crack. “Come on, Emma, don't get ornery.”
“I'm not being any more ornery than you are,” I declared smugly.
The sheriff expelled a big sigh. “Okay, I don't give a damn what they said. I already talked to them both on the phone. They sounded like a couple of nitwits.”
I couldn't argue the point. “Do you think it's an act?”
“No. They're like a bunch of these kids in their twenties,” Milo said. “They're self-absorbed and not tuned in to the rest of the world. How did Gina seem? Upset?” “Not really. She said she'd gotten over her grief when Brian wasn't found right away.”
“That figures,” Milo said with disgust. “These kids don't have any attention span, either. She's probably got a new guy already. Maybe this Curry she came up here with. What do you think?”
“I think I already told you too much,” I declared. “I'm leaving now. Goodbye, Milo.”
“Don't go away mad,” Milo called after me.
“I'm not,” I said, and turned in the doorway. “I have other resources to find out what the O'Neills were up to.” I gave the sheriff my cheesiest smile. “Vida. And her dear nephew, Billy Blatt.”
“He wouldn't say anything,” Milo retorted. “Not this time.”
“Every time,” I said and walked away.
Upon my return to the office, the O'Neills were already the topic of conversation. Vida was in a snit, expounding on what she deemed were the crudities of an Irish wake.
“Imagine!” she exclaimed to Leo and to me as I came through the door. “It's archaic. How could Betsy and Jake O'Toole stoop to such a thing?”
“Hey,” Leo said, holding up his hands as if to ward off
an imminent physical attack from Vida, who was pacing the newsroom. “I'm just the messenger. When I went to see about next week's ad for the Grocery Basket, Jake told me they were hosting the wake tonight. It can't be held at the O'Neill place, because it's a dump. It's also a crime scene.”
“Still?” I said. “That's interesting. Given the circumstances of the O'Neill murders, I would've thought that Milo would be finished there by now.”
“Guess not,” Leo said with a shrug, then turned to Vida. “I'm going to the wake. Why don't I pick you up around seven-forty, Duchess?”
Vida, who was standing at her desk, shot Leo a look that would have withered most people. “Don't call me Duchess. You know how I despise that nickname. And what makes you think I'd attend such a tawdry affair?”
Leo raised his unruly eyebrows in an expression of utter innocence. “Isn't it a House and Home item? Don't you always cover big funerals and other death-related shindigs?”
Vida made a sour face. “Yes, yes, of course I do. But this seems like a most distasteful event. Still …” She gave me a quick glance. “I suppose you feel I ought to attend, don't you, Emma?”
I nodded solemnly. “Yes, I think you should. If it's any reassurance, I don't believe mourners drink at the wake. It's only after the funeral that they … um … celebrate the life of the deceased. Or lives, in this case.” I had to turn away; I was about to burst into laughter.
“Very well.” Vida took a deep breath, as if she were ready to march into battle. “I can drive myself,” she said to Leo. “The O'Tooles live very near my home. But thank you for the offer.”
“If you need moral support,” Leo said, “I'll be there. Of course, you could ask Buck to go along.”
Buck was Buck Bardeen, a retired air force colonel and Vida's longtime companion. She hadn't mentioned him much lately, and I sensed that Leo was angling for information.
“I shan't bother Buck,” Vida declared. “And I still don't understand why Jake and Betsy are hosting this wake. They weren't close to the O'Neills in any way.”
“The surviving relatives asked them to do it,” Leo replied, sitting back down at his desk. “Most of them don't live around here anymore and the O'Tooles have a house big enough to accommodate the ritual. Besides, Jake's Irish.”
“That's not much of a reason,” Vida muttered, picking up her purse and putting on a green hip-length cardigan sweater with big orange patch pockets. “I must dash. I interview the summer solstice princesses today. But first, I'm off to see my nephew Billy at the sheriff's office. Perhaps I'll treat him to lunch.”
Leo's gaze followed Vida until she closed the door behind her. “What's up with the Duchess and the Colonel? She hasn't talked about him much lately.”
“I know,” I said. “For a while there, I thought they were getting … how shall I put it?” I couldn't find the right word. Serious didn't work; neither did involved. As ever, Vida didn't fit into a mold.
Leo looked bemused. “Did her late husband actually get killed going over Deception Falls in a barrel?”
“Not exactly,” I replied. “Ernest was about to make the attempt, but after he got inside the barrel and before he could be placed in the water, a truck backed over him. Or so I've been told.”
Leo choked on the coffee he'd been sipping. “Holy Mother!” he cried between gasps for breath. “You're kidding!”
“No. That's the story.”
Shaking his head and still chuckling, Leo seemed in-
credulous. “Are you sure the Duchess didn't run over him herself?”
“Leo,” I said in a chiding voice, “from what I've heard, Ernest was an exemplary man. By the way, how come you're going to the O'Neill wake this evening?”
Recovering from amusement, Leo tipped his head to one side. “Oh … Irish solidarity, I guess. I haven't been to a wake since my father died almost twenty years ago.”
“You haven't been to Mass very often, either,” I remarked.
“Hey, I go at Christmas and Easter,” he retorted.
“A C-and-Eer,” I said, heading to my office. “You're going to hell, Leo.”
My ad manager uttered a snort. “I've already been there.”
In the early afternoon, I consulted with Scott Cha-moud about the O'Neill and Conley murders. We had agreed that I would write the lead stories on both investigations, and he'd do all the interviews and sidebars.
“Where do we go from here?” Scott asked. “We can't do much about the Hartquist-O'Neill angle until the trial, and so far, Conley's homicide seems to have come to a dead end. So to speak.” He flashed me that fabulous grin with all those wonderful perfect white teeth.
“There are some leads we could follow up,” I said, behaving like the virtuous middle-aged professional woman that I am instead of catapulting across my desk and landing in Scott's lap. “Dodge isn't telling everything he knows. For example, the O'Neill house is still a crime scene. Why?”
Scott shrugged. “Maybe because it's so trashed? I've driven by there several times, and that place is even more of a dump than the Hartquist house, fire notwithstanding.”
“So maybe we should take a look,” I suggested, glancing at my watch. “It's one-thirty. Have you got time to drive up there with me and bring a camera?”
Scott did, so we headed for Second Hill, out Front Street to Highway 187—otherwise known as the Icicle Creek Road—then took the jog onto the gravel track that had always been known as Disappointment Avenue. It had been given the name some ninety years earlier by disgruntled miners who hadn't found their pot of gold on First and Second Hills. The road was a dead end in more ways than one.
We wound among tall evergreens and arches of vine maples. It was a gloomy ride, with overcast skies and the thick foliage shading our uphill climb. A broken gate marked the entrance to the O'Neill property. Sure enough, there was crime scene tape strung across it.
“Dare we?” Scott inquired, looking slightly apprehensive.
“We leave my car here,” I said. “We walk. If we get caught, we say we're lost.”
I reminded myself that this was Scott's initial involvement with a multiple homicide. His dark eyes sparkled, like those of a little boy who had been given his first fielder's glove. But he had some reservations.
“Should we have waited until after dark?” he asked, lowering his voice as if Milo might be lurking in the jumble of blackberry bushes that all but engulfed the broken fence.
“It's okay,” I assured him. “I don't see anyone around. If Jack Mullins or one of the other deputies shows up, we can handle it.” Fleetingly, I thought of Vida's “handling” of her nephew, Bill Blatt. I was sure that her lunch treat would include more grilling than what was going on in the restaurant's kitchen.
The O'Neill house had been built on a steep slope, with two and a half stories. What I assumed was the
basement had boarded-up windows in front but was below ground level in back. The whole thing was a boxy affair, with an ancient tin roof and a crooked tile chimney. Indeed, the whole house looked crooked. But then the O'Neills had always been a little crooked, too.
We trudged through the tall grass, rampant clover, and various weeds, including nettles and a sinister stand of devil's club. Three pitiful fruit trees whose branches were full of caterpillar nests stood to the right of the house. The entire place was littered with beer and liquor bottles, empty tin cans, old newspapers, articles of clothing, including at least a dozen unmatched socks, and an ancient icebox.
“I guess,” Scott said as he picked his way through the debris, “that the sheriff didn't bag this stuff as evidence.”
“Maybe that's why it's still a crime scene,” I said, then stepped into a hole and almost turned my ankle. “Drat,” I muttered, “this place is a regular obstacle course. Maybe the sheriff means to sort through this junk later.”
Scott began taking pictures—of the house, the surroundings, and a close-up of the icebox. “This place definitely lacks a woman's touch,” he remarked as we moved closer to the front door.
“The old man was widowed several years ago,” I said, “not long after I moved to Alpine. Dusty—he's the one who never married—was still living at home.” I winced as I noted at least two broken windows and several missing shingles. The gutters sagged and moss covered large patches of the house's exterior. “Anyway, Dusty stayed on after his father died, and Rusty and Stubby were in and out, depending upon whose wife had left him and for how long.”
We were on the wooden porch, where the boards creaked beneath our weight. It was a marvel that the O'Neills hadn't fallen through at some point. None of
them were small, though age and ill health had wasted Paddy O'Neill before his death.
Removing a roll of film from his camera, Scott indicated the front door, which had been padlocked by the sheriff. A boldly lettered sign read:
crime scene —keep out
by order of the skykomish county
sheriff's department
“Now what?” Scott inquired.
We checked the basement door, which was just around the corner from the front porch. It, too, was padlocked, and it bore a similar sign. So did the back door. A window at the rear of the house had recently been boarded up, perhaps by the sheriff.
“Damn,” I breathed, gazing at a couple of the other windows, which were intact. “I wonder if Milo would bust me for breaking and entering.”
“He might,” Scott said in a worried tone. “Wouldn't it be illegal?”
I nodded, then studied the padlock on the back door. “The wood's so rotten that if we leaned on it… ?” My voice trailed away.
“Gee, Emma,” Scott said, frowning, “I don't think that's a good idea.”
“Scott,” I began in a cynical tone, “how do you think Pulitzer Prizes are won? Not by the faint of heart.” I leaned my one hundred and twenty pounds against the door frame and pushe
d. The wood creaked; the hinges groaned. “Your turn,” I said to Scott.
My reporter looked dubious. “Is that an order?” he asked, then gave a start as we heard a rustling noise nearby.
Anxiously, I turned toward the source of the sound, some salal bushes at the corner of the house. A squirrel
emerged and scooted through the grass, pausing once to sniff at an empty whiskey bottle.
“Maybe he wants a stiff drink,” I remarked, then gazed at our surroundings. An old shed had collapsed about twenty yards away, its dilapidated roof covered with berry vines and morning glory. There was a surprisingly tidy woodpile, a bale of rusted barbed wire, the transmission from a car, and various other objects, including the ubiquitous bottles and cans. The brick chimney of the nearest neighbor could be seen through the cottonwood trees.
I nodded at Scott. “Go for it,” I said. If nothing else, it would serve Milo right for keeping secrets.
Scott gave me one last look, his dark eyes sparkling. Maybe he realized this was his first big adventure in journalism. With boyish enthusiasm, he slammed his shoulder into the door, which cracked in three places, all on the horizontal. But the hinges and the lock had broken. We ducked under the chain with the padlock and went inside.
The house was a mess. No doubt it had been that way before the sheriff and his deputies tossed it, but we could barely get through without stepping on all manner of objects, including a stuffed leprechaun.
“This looks hopeless,” Scott said as we picked our way through the living room, which had three TV sets, all old, all smudged with dust and grime. “What are we looking for?”
“Who knows?” I made a face. “Whatever was here— if anything but junk was ever here—has probably been removed by the sheriff.”
“Then why are we here?” Scott asked plaintivly.
I uttered a big sigh as we started upstairs. “I don't know. That is,” I said, stumbling on the uneven wooden steps, “sometimes things are overlooked by the law enforcement officials.”
“Clues?” Scott said behind me.
I gave a small laugh that sounded more like a snort. “Well … maybe. Imagination isn't Milo's strong suit. He solves crimes strictly by the book. None of his deputies is particularly imaginative, either, except maybe Dustin Fong. But Dustin's the youngest of the crew, so he may feel out of line if he makes what seems like a far-out suggestion.”