by Mary Daheim
I indicated that I preferred to stand. Fred hesitated, but sat down. “That’s very smart of you to understand your own weakness,” I said. “Most people don’t.”
Fred shrugged. “It’s better than killing somebody when the booze has taken over.” He scowled. “Like poor Clive did. I feel sorry for him.”
“For De Muth, too,” I remarked.
Fred grimaced. “De Muth was an oddball. One of those moody guys. You never knew which way he’d swing. I kept away from him as much as I could, even in my drinking days.”
Mitch nodded. “De Muth comes across as someone who didn’t make friends. He doesn’t seem to have any family around here, either.”
“I guess not.” Fred took an inhaler from the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt. “Allergies,” he said after a couple of puffs. “Sawdust. Good thing I quit smoking.”
I sat on the edge of Mitch’s desk. “I understand De Muth was a good mechanic.”
“He was,” Fred agreed. “He trained some of the younger guys, too. He must’ve had a lot of patience to do that.”
I thought about Harvey Adcock’s mention of a son. Maybe Harvey had seen one of the trainees with De Muth. “Did he hire any of them?”
Fred shook his head. “Not that I know of. He’d teach them the tricks of the trade, but I guess he liked to work alone.”
“So,” Mitch put in, “what did you see happen last Saturday?”
“Let me think …” Fred scratched his chin. I wondered if the beard itched. “I was sitting with Janie—my ex—and her new husband, Mickey Borg. It was Janie’s birthday. That’s why I came. We get along pretty good.” He made a face. “Damn. If only I’d stopped … never mind, water over the dam. Or beer, I ought to say.” He offered Mitch and me a rueful smile. “Mickey didn’t feel good. Janie thought he was coming down with the flu. In fact, Mickey spent half the night in the can. Nobody else could get in there, being a one-holer, and a couple of the guys had to go outside to …” Fred looked at me. “You know—to take a whiz.”
I nodded. “We girls also have to take a whiz sometimes.”
Fred chuckled. “Sure. In fact, earlier on, Clive used the ladies’ can because Mickey was in the men’s. De Muth and one of the Peabody brothers just went outside. Not many people around that time of night after the gas station closes at eleven. When you gotta go … well, you do what you gotta do.”
“True,” Mitch said, rearranging some of the items on his desk, a habit I was beginning to recognize as evidence of impatience. “I’ve seen the statements that all of you gave the sheriff. The real trouble started just before eleven-thirty, right?”
“Well …” Fred scratched his chin again. His dark eyes roamed to the pastry tray behind Mitch. “Maybe I will have a bear claw.”
Mitch turned around and put the pastry on a paper napkin. “Here. How about coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’m already over the limit for caffeine this morning.” Fred took a small bite of pastry before resuming his account. “Bert Anderson showed up about then to wait for his wife, Norene. Al De Muth came back from taking a whiz and Mickey finally came out of the can. Al and Clive were arguing about something, I don’t know what, because Mickey was telling Janie he wanted to leave. He was feeling really crappy. Janie was having a good time, and it was her birthday, so I told Mickey I’d bring her home if he wanted to go. Mickey got mad. He thought I was trying to pull something with Janie, but I’d just given her a big birthday hug. Like I said, we’re on good terms. The next thing I knew, Clive and De Muth were at each other by the pool table. Somebody—maybe it was Norene—thought they were fighting over Holly Gross. I don’t know about that, I wasn’t paying attention. Oh, and just before, Averill Fairbanks said he heard a space ship outside and he left. But not for good, I guess, because he didn’t take his jacket or what he calls his special UFO glasses. Then De Muth fell down—I couldn’t see why—and everybody suddenly shut up. Julie Canby had come out of the kitchen to say it was closing. I think she was the one who realized De Muth was dead. It all happened so fast that it’s hard to sort out.” Fred’s expression was apologetic. “To think I was sober, but I’m still kind of mixed up about everything. You can imagine the rest of the crowd.”
“We can,” Mitch said with an ironic smile. “You didn’t actually see Clive hit Al with the pool cue?”
“No.” Fred winced. “Janie was singing to me. One of our old songs from when … the good old days.” He took another bite of bear claw. “I didn’t know Amanda worked here.”
“She just started,” I said. “She’s filling in for Ginny Erlandson, who had a baby yesterday.”
“I see.” Fred nodded. “Anything else you need from me?”
Mitch shot me a quick glance. “Your statement’s pretty consistent with what you told the sheriff. I can’t think of any other questions.”
“I’ve got a couple of minor items,” I said. “Are Amanda and Walt Hanson regulars at the ICT?”
Fred frowned. “I don’t know. Back in my drinking days, I don’t remember seeing them there.” Again, he looked rueful. “I don’t remember much from back then, to tell the truth. Maybe the Hansons are friends with Marlowe Whipp. Amanda’s worked at the post office off and on.”
“Were they sitting together?” I asked.
“Um … no, Marlowe was at the bar. The Hansons were at one of the tables.” Fred paused. “I mean, they were, until they got up and went to play pool with Janie and Mickey.”
I was getting confused, too. “When was that?”
“Oh … maybe around eleven? I wasn’t keeping track of time.”
“Mickey played pool even though he didn’t feel good?”
“Shoot!” Fred said softly. “I’m not sure … no, that was when Mickey went to the men’s can. The can’s by the pool table. I guess that’s why I thought he and Janie were going to play pool. Janie came back and sat down with me again. She told me Mickey wasn’t feeling good. Stomachache, headache, the whole flu thing.”
“A headache?” I felt as if I were sinking in wet cement. “Mickey complained about his stomach, not his head. But someone mentioned that De Muth had a headache.”
“That’s right,” Mitch chimed in. “Marlowe Whipp, right?”
I gave Mitch a dazed look. “I think so.”
Fred slapped his hand on the desk. “Yes! It was De Muth. But that was later. We thought it was a joke because Holly was coming on to him. She’d already propositioned Clive, but Norene told Janie and me he told Holly to buzz off. Clive didn’t want a case of The Clap.”
“That’s … sensible.” I was still confused, but had a final question. “Did Jack Blackwell and Patti Marsh come to the ICT that night?”
Fred looked sheepish. “They did. They stopped in around ten-thirty and had a drink and left. Maybe Jack wanted to make sure I wasn’t boozing. I never drank during the workweek, though. A mill is a bad place to have a nasty accident.”
Vida returned to the newsroom just as Fred finished speaking. She looked as sour as if she’d been sucking on chokecherries. With the barest of nods for the three of us, she tromped over to her desk and snatched up the receiver before she sat down.
“I better get to work,” Fred murmured, glancing at the clock above the coffee urn. “It’s after nine. I told Jack I’d be at the mill about now.”
I slid off Mitch’s desk. “Thanks for stopping by.” I joined Fred as he started for the door. “I gather Jack and Patti left before the brawl.”
Fred nodded. “I think they took off a little after eleven. If they go out drinking, it’s usually at Mugs Ahoy or the Venison Inn.”
I stopped short of the newsroom door. As Fred made his exit I saw Amanda at the front desk. She was alone, working at Ginny’s computer. She didn’t look up. I assumed the tutorial session had concluded.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Vida, who had just hung up the phone.
“Wrong?” She glared at me. “Ms. Hanson, that’s what’s wrong. She’s extremely pigheaded. Why d
id I ever complain about Ginny?”
“Pigheaded?” I forced myself not to smile. “How?”
“I’ve always thought Amanda was featherbrained,” Vida replied, “though she’s not like that now. Indeed, she’s quite condescending, as if I didn’t know a thing about running this office. Even Kip seems put off, and he’s usually very patient. Amanda is going to cause problems.”
I shrugged. “We’ll cope. If serious problems arise, let me know.”
Vida nodded once. “Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”
NINE
VIDA HAD CALLED THE HOSPITAL IN MONROE TO CHECK on Mike O’Toole, but she couldn’t get through to the nurses’ station. Apparently they were changing shifts. She’d call later. I told her I was going to the Grocery Basket on my lunch hour to pick up a couple of Dungeness crabs.
“I’ll try to talk to Jake or Betsy if they’re at the store,” I said. “I want to take the crab home and put it in the fridge.”
“Two crabs?” Vida scowled. “For Milo? Have you lost your mind? Those crabs will cost at least fifty dollars. What’s the occasion?”
“There isn’t one,” I said. “Though it never hurts to give the sheriff a couple of stiff drinks to see if he loosens up about a murder case.”
Vida looked over my shoulder to see if Mitch was listening. He’d stood up to put on his jacket, preparing for his morning rounds, which included studying the sheriff’s log. As soon as he went out the door, Vida spoke up. “Don’t be foolish, Emma. I simply don’t understand what goes on between you and Milo. It’s none of my business, but sometimes I feel you’re both looking for something neither of you will ever find in each other.”
The lecture took me aback. Vida, who’d genuinely liked Tom, had never discouraged me from continuing the relationship even though “Tommy,” as she always called him, was still a married man when we resumed our love affair. I knew she was also fond of the sheriff—as she was of me.
“We’re adults,” I said, feeling defensive. “I don’t intend to do anything but cook, eat, and drink.”
“Oh, piffle!” Vida yanked off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I gritted my teeth. “Ohhh …” Vida wailed, “to think you’re both old enough to know better!”
“Hey—have I ever once asked you about Buck Bardeen?”
Vida stopped grinding her eyeballs and stiffened. “About what?”
I leaned on her desk. “You and Buck have been seeing each other for years. Have I ever so much as hinted that I’d like to know what goes on with the two of you?”
Vida sniffed and put her glasses back on. “That’s different,” she said and pursed her lips.
“How?”
“Never mind.” She sat up very straight and tucked her flowered blouse into the waistband of her brown skirt. “You’re quite right. I shouldn’t interfere. Excuse me. I must ring the hospital again.”
It was useless trying to get anything further out of Vida. I went back into my office and reworked the Highway 2 editorial. At noon, I drove to the Grocery Basket. The reader board, which usually displayed the weekly specials, had GET WELL, MIKE! in big, black letters. I barely knew Mike O’Toole. In fact, I couldn’t quite picture him except as a preteen a dozen or so years earlier in mid-January when his sled skidded into the snowy intersection of Fifth and Front Street. He broke his arm when he hit a fire hydrant. We’d run his school picture along with the three-inch accident story. He’d been a pleasant-looking boy with light brown hair and a toothy smile. I’d probably seen him many times, either at the Grocery Basket or around town, but I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a crowd. I made a mental note to get a more recent photo of Mike for our next edition.
The store seemed ordinary, with high school kids and adults buying lunch from the deli, older folks strolling unhurriedly along the aisles, and mothers shopping with their toddlers securely strapped into the green grocery carts. I headed directly for the seafood section. A bald, middle-aged man whose first name was Darryl and whose last name eluded me offered his usual friendly smile.
“We’ve got some really nice crabs,” he said. “Oysters, too, the extra small Hama Hamas.”
Darryl knew I loved oysters. But Milo didn’t care for them, somehow believing that only the idle rich indulged themselves with such delicacies. I’d once asked him where he got such a peculiar notion, and he’d mumbled something about his mom or his dad telling him that oysters Rockefeller were only for the ultrawealthy or else they’d go by another name. I argued with him—in vain.
“Just the crabs today, Darryl. Can you clean them for me while I get a couple of other things?”
“Sure can.” He reached inside the display case where the orange-shelled crabs nestled in beds of ice. “I’ll give you the two biggest ones.”
“Good.” The bigger the crab, the less I was paying for the shell. “What’s new with Mike?”
Darryl’s usual cheerful expression disappeared. “Poor kid,” he murmured. “I haven’t heard anything since I got to work. Still critical. But at least he’s alive.”
“Is either Jake or Betsy around?”
Darryl began wrapping up the crabs. “Jake’s with one of the turkey wholesalers. We’re starting to take Thanksgiving orders next week.” He grimaced. “Life goes on. I think Betsy’s in dairy, facing out the shelves.”
My eyes widening, I watched Darryl weigh the crabs—and come up with a digital readout of fifty-one dollars and thirty-three cents. He smiled. “I know—it’s pricey. But it’s worth it, especially when you figure how dangerous it is for those crabbers to bring them out of the water. Seems like almost every year, a ship goes down.”
I nodded. “I know. Years ago, I remember showing my brother, Ben, the monument at Fishermen’s Terminal in Seattle. I’m glad that there’s a tribute to those who risk their lives to satisfy our yen for seafood.” I didn’t say so, but I recognized the irony that driving a truck to procure pumpkins could also be hazardous work.
Betsy was rearranging the Western Family butter that was on sale this weekend. “I’ll take two,” I said.
Betsy jumped. “Oh! Emma! You startled me.” She stood up and handed me the packages of butter. “I’m a nervous wreck. But that’s nothing compared with Buzzy and Laura.”
“Any news?” I asked.
Betsy sighed, her face so pale that I could barely see her freckles. “No. But deep down, I think Mike will make it. He’ll have a lot of rehab, maybe even some soul-searching about what he wants to do with the rest of his life. At least that’s how I’m looking at it.” She shook her head. “It was a stupid stunt, trying to pass that guy on the motorcycle. Why do kids think they’re immortal?”
“I guess it’s their nature. Had Mike done a lot of truck driving before this?”
“Some.” Betsy bent down to even up the rest of the butter. “He’s always been nuts about cars and trucks. Buzzy told us he was thinking about becoming a mechanic. That might not be possible if Mike ends up with any physical limitations. Mechanics have to be in tip-top shape.”
“Are Buzzy and Laura still in Monroe with Mike?”
“Yes. Kenny is staying with us.” Betsy moved a few steps to the cheese section. “Kenny’s so different from Mike. He’s quiet, a good student, easygoing. Oh, he’s a grown man now—almost twenty-two—but I didn’t want him staying alone. He got his AA degree from the college here and started at the University of Washington this fall. Of course he came back last night. I suppose he’ll return to the UDUB the first of the week, unless …” She faltered.
“I understand.” I patted her arm. “Mike is young and must be in good physical condition. That should help him pull through.”
Betsy nodded. “I hope so. Father Den was at the hospital last night. He’s been a pillar.”
I nodded. “I should e-mail Adam and Ben to add Mike to their lists of special Mass intentions. It’s good to have a couple of priests in the family, though I wish I saw them more often.”
Bet
sy didn’t respond at once, staring off into the distance toward the milk and cream shelves. “I often think of Adam as a sign of hope for our kids—and Laura and Buzzy’s. Your son took a long time to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, but when he finally decided, he chose something worthwhile. So many young people drift these days.”
“Oh, Adam drifted all right.” I smiled. “I was beginning to think he’d end up attending every college and university west of the Rockies—and still not get a degree. But I can thank Ben for getting Adam focused. My brother was a terrific example, especially since Tom wasn’t … well, let’s face it, he was an almost absent father.”
“Life’s hard.” With her fists on her hips, Betsy looked at me. “Honestly, Emma, I wonder how any of us can raise kids these days. You get to the point where you feel you’re a successful parent if your children haven’t been arrested by the time they’re eighteen.”
“Your four seem to have turned out well,” I said.
Betsy sighed. “At least they all got through high school. Ryan’s doing okay at Seattle U, but Erica keeps changing majors at WSU, Melissa isn’t interested in going to college, and Tim is … well, sometimes I think Tim’s just hanging around the house waiting for Jake and me to croak so he can take over the store.”
“Tim’s working, isn’t he?”
Betsy shrugged and waved a hand. “He’s supposed to be learning how to run this place. But he spends most of his time playing computer games in the office. I have to boot his butt out just about every time I go in there to work. And you know how small and cramped that office is—about the size of yours.”
I stepped aside for an elderly woman to pass. “Are your kids close to Mike and Kenny?”
“Fairly. You can’t force cousins to be buddies. Let’s face it, Jake and Buzzy are brothers, but they couldn’t be more different. It’s the same way with the younger generation.” She looked sad. “Our four brats think they’re better than Buzzy and Laura’s two, if only because Buzzy’s never had a head for business and has ended up relying on Jake and me. It’s not right, but there’s nothing we can do about it at this late date. Jake and I should’ve kept our mouths shut around our kids when we griped about having to bail out Buzzy and Laura over the years.”