by Mary Daheim
“But you say Kenny is a good student?”
“He is,” Betsy said, her tone ironic. “Maybe the best of the whole O’Toole bunch. He’s kept out of trouble. Kenny isn’t a risk-taker like Mike or even a couple of ours.”
“But Mike’s never really been in trouble, has he?”
Betsy’s gaze wandered back to the cheese display. “Nothing serious.” She pointed to the yogurt shelves. “I’d better hustle. Obviously, we’re shorthanded. I’m thinking of putting Tim in charge of the produce until Buzzy gets back to work. It’ll be good for Tim to walk in the real world instead of zapping aliens on the computer.”
I finished my purchases and headed home. Milo’s dinner was costing me almost ninety bucks. Along with the crabs and the butter, I bought potato and Caesar salads in the deli, a loaf of garlic bread, and a chocolate torte. By the time I wrote a check for the total, I decided that if the sheriff thought he was going to get a second dessert, he was wrong. The torte, made by a Seattle pastry company, cost twelve dollars. I’d also spent another seven bucks on a pastrami and Swiss cheese sandwich for my lunch.
When I got back to the office, Mitch was sitting at his desk, shaking his head. “I’ve had some weird interviews in my time,” he said, “but even in Detroit, I never met anybody quite like Averill Fairbanks. Anybody, I should say, who wasn’t high on heavy-duty drugs.”
“Averill’s an original.” I sat down in Mitch’s spare chair and took out my sandwich. “How’d you happen to run into him?”
Mitch swung around in his chair and stretched out his long legs. “I stopped at that teriyaki joint in the mall and decided to eat in Old Mill Park. It’s not bad outside, after the fog lifted. Anyway, Averill was sitting at the base of that statue, talking to himself.”
“He does that,” I said. “Sometimes he talks to the statue. It’s of Carl Clemans, who founded Alpine and owned the first mill.”
Mitch nodded. “So I duly noted. I’d gone over Averill’s statement, and it was totally incoherent. ‘Worthless’ is how Dodge put it. But what the hell, I decided to talk to the old coot just to cover all the bases.” He shook his head. “Bad idea. He kept talking about seeing Venus at the tavern. ‘Luminous,’ he said, ‘a sister,’ a ‘goddess.’ I got that part, having a basic knowledge of the universe from taking astronomy at Michigan State, but when Averill mentioned that Venus was ‘amoral yet enchanting,’ I started to wonder. I asked how he could see Venus if he didn’t take his special UFO glasses outside with him. Of course I know that anybody without special gear can see Venus on a clear night, but Saturday was overcast. Averill said he didn’t need glasses because Venus was standing by the river, her tears mingling with the flow of mountain waters.”
“Hmm.” I finished a bite of sandwich and put the remainder back into the white paper sack. Eating pastrami and its trimmings in front of my reporter wasn’t exactly image-enhancing. “Could he be referring to Clive’s girlfriend, Jica Weaver?”
“Maybe.” Mitch raised his arms and yawned. “I don’t think he meant Holly Gross, though she was at the tavern, too.”
I gestured toward the front office. “So was Amanda Hanson, along with Norene Anderson, Julie Canby, and Janie Borg.”
“But none of them was outside.”
“That we know of. When did Averill come back into the tavern?”
“I don’t know that he did,” Mitch answered. “Heppner told me they had to take his jacket and glasses and whatever else he left behind to him the next day.”
“Maybe you should talk to Jica in person. I’d like to get your impression. Sam Heppner interviewed her, but he’s not very perceptive.”
Mitch nodded. “Heppner strikes me as a real blue-collar type of cop. Steady, reliable, but no imagination. Not shrewd enough to finesse meaningful answers. Maybe I’ll leave early this afternoon and take Brenda with me. She loves browsing in antiques stores. Having her tag along would make my visit less formal. Jica might open up a bit.”
“Oh, she’ll open up,” I assured Mitch. “But what she says won’t contribute much unless you’re able to zero in on something solid.”
Mitch laughed. “Emma, do you know how many kinds of wackos I’ve interviewed over the years? I’ve got my trade secrets. Trust me.”
“I do,” I said, and meant it.
MITCH LEFT THE OFFICE AROUND THREE-THIRTY. SINCE IT WAS Friday, I warned him about heavy traffic between Alpine and Snohomish. He reminded me that the admonition was unnecessary. He’d already seen the carnage that Highway 2 could cause.
“You shouldn’t have sent him to interview Jica,” Vida declared after he was gone. “I sense from what you’ve told me that a woman would have a better chance figuring out if Jica has any real information. Either you should have talked to her again or I should.”
“It’s too late now,” I said. “Besides, you weren’t here when I spoke to Mitch about it.”
“I certainly wasn’t,” Vida retorted. “I didn’t realize he was going to Snohomish until just now.”
Her reproachful tone irked me. “A woman is going to talk to Jica. Mitch is taking his wife with him.”
“His wife?” Vida looked exasperated. “What does she know about reporting? She’s a weaver, for heaven’s sakes!”
Vida made the word weaver sound as if it were synonymous with hooker.
“Brenda probably knows how to talk to other women,” I said. “You met her. She’s smart and sociable.”
Vida’s severe expression remained in place. “I met her for about five minutes. You couldn’t have spoken with her much longer than that. Mrs. Laskey seemed anxious to leave the office. I found that rather insulting.”
“Brenda had to meet with the real estate agent and wait for the moving van and solve about ten other problems that day.” My patience was growing paper-thin. First Leo and now Vida seemed to be off their feed. With Ginny out of action and Amanda an unknown quantity, I was beginning to feel like a skipper on a fishing boat. The Good Ship Advocate might be sailing into troubled waters.
“Brenda Laskey should’ve come out with her husband when he interviewed for the job,” Vida said. “She stayed back there in Royal Whatever—Royal indeed! What could possibly be ‘royal’ about Detroit? Then she suddenly showed up the day before Mitch started his job and he didn’t have time to tie up the loose ends of the move. The only thing she seemed concerned about was her loom.”
“She probably had things back in Royal Oak that required her attention,” I pointed out, trying not to sound annoyed. “They’d lived there for almost thirty years. They have family. It couldn’t have been easy for them to pull up stakes.”
“Family?” Vida gave me her most owlish stare. “What do they have in the way of family? I’ve never heard Mitch mention children.”
“He told me they had three, but they’re scattered with one in graduate school, and … I forget where the other two are.”
“Not very close-knit, if you ask me,” Vida snapped. “Oh, I don’t blame them for choosing Alpine, of course. That was very smart of them. But it still seems … odd.”
“Mitch said they were in a rut, especially him,” I explained, and not for the first time. “He’d gotten stale on the job, he was tired of the pressure to meet constant deadlines on a daily, and the paper itself was downsizing, so he knew it was just a matter of time before he’d be forced into retirement. Mitch wasn’t ready for that, and he and Brenda agreed that a change of scenery might give them a whole new slant on life.”
“Well now.” Vida seemed appeased. “They couldn’t have chosen more beautiful scenery or a finer town to escape big-city horrors.”
I could’ve mentioned that even now Mitch was covering one of our own horrors, but having defused Vida’s ill temper, I kept quiet. A moment later Amanda poked her head into the newsroom.
“The sheriff’s on the line,” she announced. “He wants to speak to you pronto. His word, not mine.” She retreated into the front office.
Vida harrumphed. “Cheeky
, don’t you think?”
I shrugged and went into my cubbyhole.
“What’s the rush?” I said into the phone.
“I have to take a rain check,” Milo said. “Mulehide’s in town.”
I thought I’d misheard. “What?”
“Mulehide. My ex-wife. Are you deaf?”
“No.” I paused, flabbergasted. “Why?”
“Tanya’s finally getting married,” Milo replied. “Not to that last loser I told you about—hell, all of her boyfriends were losers. Anyway, this is some new guy. He’s employed.”
“As what?”
“Damned if I know. Mulehide said he works for the City of Bellevue. He could be the mayor or the guy who stands in the middle of street construction with the STOP and SLOW sign.”
“I already bought the crab.”
“It’ll keep for a couple of days, won’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “But I may eat most of it myself. Why is Tricia coming all the way to Alpine? She hasn’t been up here in years.”
“She wanted me to come to Bellevue tonight,” Milo replied. “I told her I couldn’t—I was working a homicide. It’s a bitch driving in bumper-to-bumper Friday traffic on Seattle’s frigging Eastside. Mulehide wants to go over the wedding plans with me. I’m supposed to pay for half of it. She’ll be lucky if she doesn’t become the next victim around here.”
I sympathized with Milo, but I was still irked. “Tanya is your daughter. She probably wants you to walk her down the aisle.”
“What aisle? The wedding’s going to be held in Marymoor Park by some damned windmill. August. I forget which day.”
“Okay. Good luck.” I rang off first.
I sat quietly for a moment or two, wondering if I should freeze one of the crabs when I got home. They were fresh, but never tasted quite as good after being frozen. I was still mulling when my phone rang again.
“Bonsoir,” said the male voice. “Or should it be bonjour? It’s late afternoon on the Skykomish, but it’s midnight on the Seine.”
With a start, I recognized Rolf Fisher’s voice. I almost snapped that he could say adieu instead, but naturally I was curious. “Rolf?”
“It is I,” he replied, “sitting on a balcony overlooking the glittering lights of Paris. Would you care to join me for dinner tomorrow evening?”
“Are you nuts?” I exclaimed. “I haven’t heard from you in months!”
“True. It seems my absence hasn’t made your heart grow fonder.”
“Quite the opposite,” I retorted, aware that my previous loud remark had caught Vida’s attention. She had shot me a quick glance and now was pretending to be absorbed in an orange flyer she’d taken out of her in-basket. “I think I’ll hang up.”
“Don’t you want to know if I’m really in Paris?”
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Untrue. I don’t hear the sound of a disconnect.”
I lowered my voice even further. “Okay. If you’re in Paris, tell me why and make it short. An inch at most, in column count.”
“I quit my job at AP I figured they were going to retire or can me eventually so why not beat them to it? I wanted to enjoy my sudden leisure, so I flew to London two weeks ago. An old buddy of mine from the UK bureau told me he knew a chap who wanted to rent his cottage in the Loire Valley. Was I interested? I said yes. I move in Sunday.”
“That’s an inch and a half, maybe two. I’m hanging up now.”
“You don’t like France? Or do you hate me?”
“I think France is great. I don’t hate you, but you can be a jerk.”
“Fair enough.” A sound like a wry chuckle reached my ear. “I am a jerk. But you’re not much better. Women usually give notice when they stand a guy up. Being a no-show puts you at the top of the would-be jerk class. Or should it be ‘jerkette’?”
“You never bothered to find out why I couldn’t come into Seattle that weekend,” I countered. “You simply went to ground. Yes, I was upset, not just with you, but with myself. And then I was mad and then … I decided you weren’t worth the emotional drain.”
“God, but you’re a rational woman. Not always an attractive feminine quality, but I’m perverse enough to like it. By the way, I did call about the homicide case that made you reject me that weekend.”
“You called the sheriff, not me,” I said.
“I called your office, too, but you weren’t in. Whoever answered sounded flaky.”
“True,” I murmured.
“So what have you got against France?”
I hesitated. “Honestly? My late fiancé and I were going there for our honeymoon. End of explanation.”
“Fair enough.” It was Rolf’s turn to pause. “But Tom’s been dead for quite a while.”
“You think I need reminding?” I snapped.
Rolf ignored the comment. “You have a valid passport from your trip to Rome with your priestly brother a few years ago. I hate to tell you this, but Paris and France have survived about a trillion tragic love stories. Yours would fit right in. And you might actually like it here.”
“No, thanks.” I noticed that Vida still seemed caught up in the orange flyer. “You may not believe this, but it’s true. I’m breaking in a new reporter and covering yet another homicide.”
Rolf sighed heavily. “That’s what you were doing three, four months ago. You’re in a rut. Get out of it.”
“Please. Don’t badger me.”
“Okay. But promise you’ll think about it.”
“I … Oh, damn, I won’t be able not to. But that doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. What,” I began hurriedly to prevent Rolf’s ongoing argument, “are you going to do while you’re in France?”
“I’m going to write a book.”
“What about?”
“Does it matter?”
“No. But what am I supposed to do while your literary juices are flowing freely?”
“Pose for the nude illustrations I’m considering?”
“Stop being a jackass.”
“Start thinking about Paris. Au revoir.”
Rolf ended the call.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. There was too much on my plate already—a homicide case, a sense of unease hovering over my staff, the conversion to an online edition, and two expensive Dungeness crabs in the fridge. I didn’t need or want any further distractions.
So of course I thought about Paris.
TEN
VIDA, OF COURSE, GAVE ME NO OPPORTUNITY TO TRY TO forget about Paris—or Rolf. “What,” she asked entering my office some five minutes later, “was that all about? I couldn’t help overhearing, but you seemed upset. Surely it’s not connected to the Icicle Creek Tavern disaster? Or was it Milo who disturbed you?”
“Milo’s the one who’s disturbed,” I replied. Vida was all ears when I related Tricia’s imminent arrival in Alpine and Tanya’s wedding plans.
“I hope Milo’s daughter has made a good choice,” Vida said skeptically. She’d sat down in one of the visitors’ chairs and was frowning. “Goodness, I haven’t seen his children in ages! I might not even recognize them. Do you suppose we’ll be invited to the wedding?”
“You might be,” I said. “I won’t. I never met those kids or Tricia.”
“That’s so. They left Alpine before you arrived.” Vida looked at me with her owlish expression. “Then you’re not upset?”
I figured I might as well give in, since Vida never backed off in her quest for knowledge. “It was Rolf Fisher, calling from Paris.” I made short work of that recital. “I’m not going. I think I’ve gotten Rolf out of my system.”
Vida nodded. “That’s probably wise. I’m told that France has its charm,” she continued, picking up steam, “but so many people from Alpine who’ve visited there complain that the French are snobbish and refuse to speak English even when it’s obvious that they know the language. Jean and Lloyd Campbell enjoyed their tour of the chateau country last year, but they certainly would
n’t want to live there. And such gruesome stories they heard about some of those places! Jean could barely talk about the poisonings and murders and other kinds of violence. It’s very expensive, too, especially in Paris. I remember how Darla Puckett was utterly put off when she spent two weeks in France a few years ago. Everything was so old, and much of it needed repair.”
I kept a straight face. “I think the French do a pretty good job of maintaining their historical sites. The country is much older than ours.”
Vida bristled slightly. “We’ve kept the original mill in excellent condition as our history museum. Oh, I’ll admit, most of the houses built for the workers and their families had to be replaced or renovated, but you can’t say we’ve let things go around here.”
It was unwise to make further comparisons between Alpine and Paris. “Do you want to eat crab for dinner?”
“Crab? But isn’t … oh, Milo can’t come. No, but thank you.” Her gaze darted around my cubbyhole. “Buck and I have plans.”
As she spoke, Leo had come into the newsroom and was tiptoeing toward us, a finger of warning at his lips. He was about to pounce on Vida when she whirled around in the chair. “Leo! What are you doing?”
“My God,” he exclaimed, grinning. “You really do have eyes in the back of your head!”
“Certainly not. What a ridiculous idea. However, I do have very keen hearing,” she continued as Leo leaned against the empty chair. “I could hear you breathing. All those filthy cigarettes make you wheeze.”
Leo feigned indignation. “They do not. I have allergies. Ms. Hanson is wearing a very heady perfume.”
“Yes,” Vida agreed. “It’s not cheap, either. Jasmine-based, perhaps.”
“I should have a chat with her before we close up,” I said. “I’ve been neglectful.”
Leo shrugged. “According to Kip, Amanda seems to be doing okay. She doesn’t need a lot of direction.”