by Mary Daheim
“That’s a shame.” Amanda didn’t sound sincere.
The phone rang. Vida had stomped into the newsroom. I followed her. “Did Marje have anything of interest to say?” I inquired.
“I had no chance to ask,” she admitted, taking off her raincoat. “The phone rang three times while I waited for you. Monday mornings at the clinic are always hectic.” She gestured toward the reception area and lowered her voice. “Far too cheeky. How long must we put up with her?”
I was about to reply when Amanda appeared in the newsroom doorway. “Cal Vickers had your car towed to Bert Anderson’s place. Call him around nine after he’s checked out the damage.” She didn’t wait for my acknowledgment before going back to her desk.
“You see?” Vida said. “Cheeky, lacking in respect.”
“You know we’re stuck with her for five to six weeks,” I murmured. “Ginny’s going to take all of her maternity leave. The only reason Amanda would quit is if she was needed sooner at the post office.”
“Or,” Vida retorted in a low tone, “you fired her.”
“She’s doing the job as far as I can tell. Let’s be patient. Amanda’s whole personality seems to have changed. I’ve always thought of her as kind of flighty.”
Vida looked thoughtful. “A personal crisis of some kind?”
“Maybe.” I glanced over my shoulder. Amanda couldn’t be seen from my vantage point by Vida’s desk. “She’s probably close to forty. Midlife, ticking biological clock, menopause, who knows?”
“True.” Vida sighed and sat down just as Leo entered.
“Cinnamon rolls, three kinds of Danish, and some of the Upper Crust’s new shortbread cookies.” He set the lavender box on the table by the coffee urn and looked at me. “I heard you ran into somebody over the weekend.”
“It was the other way around,” I said.
“So I figured.” Leo began placing the baked goods on the tray. “Holly Gross, right? Are you okay?”
“My back hurts, but it’s improving.” I paused to greet Kip, who was coming from the back shop.
“You’re on the job,” he said and smiled. “I heard you wouldn’t be able to come to work.”
“Did you plan to stage a coup?” I asked, smiling back at him.
Kip laughed. “No. Until about a year or so ago, I always thought coup was pronounced coop.”
I took a raspberry Danish out of the box. “Who told you I was incapacitated?”
“Chili,” he replied, reaching for a cinnamon roll. “She saw Cammy Anderson at the mall yesterday. They go way back. I guess Cammy’s dad, Bert, told her about the wreck. Is your car really totaled?”
“No.” I shook my head. “Honestly, I don’t know how people get their facts so mangled. It’s a good thing we have to verify …” I stopped as Mitch breezed through the door. “Don’t you dare,” I said, pointing a finger at him. “What fanciful tale have you picked up about my fender bender at Safeway?”
Mitch looked puzzled. “What fender bender?”
“You didn’t check the sheriff’s log this morning?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. We had a minor debacle at home. Sorry I’m late. What happened?”
I explained as briefly as I could. The saga was starting to bore me. “That’s it,” I concluded. “What was your debacle, Mitch?”
He chuckled. “Nothing serious. Brenda burned her hand on the stove. Very minor, but she can’t use her loom for a couple of days.”
I went into my cubbyhole. A few minutes later, I saw Vida march over to Mitch’s desk. In what seemed like a furtive manner, she spoke to him for several minutes. The conversation ended when Mitch got up from his chair, put his jacket back on, and went off on his daily rounds. Leo had already left. Just before nine, I accosted Vida.
“Is there a problem here that I don’t know about?” I inquired.
Vida met my gaze head-on. “Yes and no.” Again, she lowered her voice. “It occurred to me that Brenda might want to fill in for Ginny if Amanda becomes intolerable. But Mitch says that although his wife has worked as a legal secretary, she isn’t interested in a job that would tie her down to a regular schedule. He also felt that it wasn’t a good idea for them to be employed in the same place. He thought they might get on each other’s nerves.”
“Well … I suppose that could happen,” I allowed. “She does have her weaving business. It must be something she loves to do.”
“Perhaps.” Vida looked uncertain. “Mitch mentioned that with Christmas coming up, Brenda will be busier than usual.”
“True,” I agreed. “As for Amanda, let’s give her a little more time. Her attitude may be caused by a lack of self-esteem or not being convinced she can handle the job.”
“Piffle.” Vida scowled at me. “Self-esteem indeed! Whoever invented that term? Maybe I should write an advice column. Far too many people are wrongheaded these days. They’re filled with nonsense, putting labels on every possible human trait. No matter how destructive or silly a person may be, there’s no need to take responsibility for even the most deplorable behavior. I find it all very tiresome.”
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.” Vida waved an impatient hand. “I know what you’re thinking. We might get sued, there could be repercussions, readers may be afraid to air their problems in print, I’d be taking on too much—and so forth. But I feel as if a voice of reason—along with common sense—is needed in this community. I’m willing to take the risk. Are you?”
I honestly didn’t know. “I can ask Marisa Foxx about our liability.”
“Do that.” Vida rested her chin on her hands. “Most daily papers carry advice columns. It’s not as if I’m inventing the concept.”
“True,” I agreed. “Let me mull a bit.”
“Of course.”
I refilled my coffee mug and went back to my office. Like Vida’s “Scene Around Town” items, I knew that if she wrote an advice column, it’d be well read. It’d also get tongues to wagging as subscribers tried to figure out what wife was having an affair with what husband, whose teenage daughter wanted a tattoo, which neighbor was throwing debris into another neighbor’s yard, what family had feuding members who refused to be under the same roof for holidays, and which business owner had asked how to handle a light-fingered employee. I got so caught up in Vida’s proposal that I forgot to call Bert Anderson about my car. At nine-thirty, he called me.
“It’s not too bad,” Bert said in his raspy voice. “I can get your new tire from the Honda dealership, but it won’t be here until tomorrow. The whole job, including the tire, should cost around four fifty.”
I winced. But I had to be realistic. “Okay. I still have to find out if Holly Gross has insurance.”
“Good luck with that,” Bert said.
After hanging up, I pondered my next move. If I’d been dealing with someone more reasonable than Holly, I’d have exchanged insurance and other pertinent information at the accident site. But Holly wasn’t reasonable. For all I knew, she could’ve been drunk or on drugs. I dialed Marisa Foxx’s number. The phone was answered by Judi Hinshaw, another one of Vida’s swarm of relatives. Judi told me her boss was with a client, but would call back in an hour or so. I told her about the collision and my need to know if the other party was insured.
“The sheriff should be able to tell you that,” Judi said. “Like so many Alpiners, Mrs. Freeman’s agent is Mr. Shaw.”
“Uh … I’m not talking about Molly Freeman,” I said.
“You’re not?” Judi sounded puzzled.
“No. It was Holly Gross.”
“Oh!” Judi exclaimed. “I heard Molly Freeman was the one who hit you in the Grocery Basket parking lot. Somebody said Mike O’Toole’s death had really upset her. It’s understandable, since she and Principal Freeman take a continuing interest in Alpine High grads.”
Holly, Molly, Polly Wolly Doodle all the day. I sighed in frustration. How could such a simple incident get so screwed up in the telling? “I wish
it had been Molly Freeman,” I said. “She’s far more responsible than Holly Gross. Furthermore, it was at Safeway.”
“Oh! Holly’s such a ho—oops! I spilled coffee on my desk,” Judi said. “I’d better hang up. Try the sheriff.”
I felt like saying the sheriff was already trying me—or at least trying my patience and good nature.
Grow up, I lectured myself. I dialed the main number for SkyCo’s law enforcement office instead of the direct line to Milo. Still behaving like an adolescent, I hoped he wouldn’t take the call.
My wish was granted. Lori Cobb asked me how she could help. “Mr. Laskey just left,” she said. “Did you want to tell him something?”
“No,” I said. “I want to know if Holly Gross has car insurance.”
“She doesn’t,” Lori replied. “Furthermore, her driver’s license was pulled a month ago. That’s twice in the past two years, both times for DUIs. You’ll see the details when Mr. Laskey gets back to your office. Holly’s going to have to get a bicycle.”
Washington State laws were tough on drunken drivers—when they got nailed. “Had she been drinking when she ran into me?”
“No,” Lori said. “Holly only drinks at night and she doesn’t like to pay for her booze.”
“Define pay,” I murmured. “Is she facing jail time?”
“I doubt it.” Lori sounded grudging. “She’s got kids, and the first time she had to pay a fine and do the electronic home monitoring thing. I figure that’s what will happen again, though the fine will be stiffer and the driver’s license won’t be reissued for two years.”
“That’s tough,” I said, feeling sorry for her kids, if not for Holly.
“Got to hang up,” Lori said. “Fred Engelman’s leaving for work, and I have to give him his personal belongings.”
After Lori rang off I called Bernie Shaw, who commiserated before reminding me that my car insurance had a five-hundred-dollar deductible. “Sorry, Emma, but it’s just as well you aren’t putting in a claim. Insurance companies are getting even stricter about canceling policies. There’s nothing an independent agent like me can do about it, either. Just be thankful you’ve got personal liability.”
“Right. When I pay the premium every …” I stopped as it suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t know what Bernie meant. “I’m sorry. Why should I be thankful?”
“You don’t know?” He sounded surprised.
“Know what?”
“That Holly wants to sue you,” Bernie replied.
“That’s absurd!” I shouted. “She hit me!”
“Now, Emma, don’t attack the messenger,” Bernie said, reverting to his genial insurance agent’s tone. “Holly claims one of her kids has whiplash and that when you attacked her she hurt her arm and her shoulder. I suppose there’s nothing official yet. It’s Monday morning.”
“It sure as hell is,” I huffed, glancing out into the empty newsroom. Vida must have left while I was talking to Lori Cobb. “Holly can’t possibly be serious,” I went on, trying to regain my composure. “She can’t afford a lawyer, and she’s in deep trouble with the law for driving without a valid license. We’ll be running an item in the police log column, including the citations she got. Furthermore, she attacked me.”
“That may be true,” Bernie said, and paused. “But I understand she has a witness who was in the Safeway lot Saturday.”
“A witness? Who?”
“Mickey Borg, from Icicle Creek Gas ’n Go.”
DESPITE MY VOW TO IGNORE MILO, TEN MINUTES LATER I stormed into his office. “Tell me what you know about Holly and this mess she’s making for me,” I demanded, standing in front of the sheriff’s desk.
“Oh, crap!” Milo dropped the cigarette lighter he’d been holding. It fell to the floor and apparently bounced out of reach. He grunted as he bent down to retrieve the lighter. “You seem to have improved,” the sheriff remarked wryly. “What got you into a freaking tizzy now?”
“Bernie Shaw says Holly is suing me. Do you know about it?”
Milo lighted his cigarette. “She yelled and screamed and made all kinds of threats when she was here. I didn’t pay much attention. Holly can count herself lucky if she doesn’t end up in the slammer.”
“You don’t have room,” I said, simmering down a bit. “She claims to have a witness—Mickey Borg.”
“Mickey?” Milo shook his head. “That figures.”
I finally sat down. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know?” The sheriff was faintly incredulous. “Mickey’s been one of Holly’s best … let’s say ‘customers’ for a long time.”
“You mean even now that he’s married to Janie, Fred’s ex?”
“Hell, yes.” He brushed some ash from his shirt. “According to Fred, Janie knows about it. She’s not a happy camper these days.”
“I guess she wouldn’t be,” I murmured. “No wonder she told Mickey to go home without her. Fred never played around as far as I know. I suppose he was too drunk most of the time.”
“That sounds right,” Milo agreed. “Hey, stop tying yourself into knots. You know damned well Holly won’t carry through.”
“Maybe I should talk to Mickey.”
“Bad idea. I’ll do that.”
“You will? When?”
Milo shrugged. “Probably on my way home. I usually get gas at Cal’s, but Mickey’s place is practically next door to my house.”
“You’ll let me know what he says?”
“If he says anything.”
“Right.” Of course I wanted to ask Milo about Tricia, but I couldn’t bring myself to broach the subject. He’d probably intended to tell me about their plans Saturday night, but my disaster had interfered. Maybe he hadn’t phoned me yesterday because he knew I’d still be dealing with a painful back. The sheriff was fiddling with his lighter, standing it up on end and then putting it aside. Speak, Emma, I ordered myself. Milo’s waiting for you to say something. I spoke—but uttered only innocuous words. “Any luck on the river yesterday?”
He shook his head. “No real action. But I saw a deer.” He puffed on his cigarette and exhaled. “I should’ve had a rifle instead of a rod.”
I grimaced. “How can you do that? I couldn’t.”
The sheriff shrugged. “What’s the difference between a fish and a deer? You’d eat both of them.”
“Yes, but deer have such wonderful eyes. Fish are … fishy-eyed.”
“Cows have nice eyes,” Milo pointed out.
“But I don’t get up close to a cow very often.” I stood up. “I have to go back to work. Let me know what Mickey says.”
“Will do.”
I hurried through the reception area. By the time I got outside, I was furious with myself—and with Milo. We were a pair of middle-aged gutless wonders. I started along Front Street, stalking as if I were hunting some kind of prey. A cow, maybe. I’d wrestle it to the ground. I’d turn it into ground round. I’d …
I stopped at the intersection of Front and Fourth. The early fog had lifted. The morning air was fresh and crisp. A freight train whistled as it rumbled slowly through town. Instead of going back to the Advocate, I turned the corner and headed for Railroad Avenue. The BNSF Railway freight was long, maybe close to a hundred cars, and some of them were double-decker containers. I waited quietly, fascinated as always by the variety of old and new, multicolored, graffiti and tag art decor, contents that were concealed and open cars full of gravel, all heading east up through the eight-mile Cascade Tunnel. The sight was soothing, reminding me there was always a sense of mystery and discovery to what was around the bend or over the hill.
The last car passed by. It wasn’t a caboose or, as we sometimes called it, a crummy. Twenty-odd years ago, FREDs—flashing rear-end devices to detect hot boxes and other potential problems—had made the caboose obsolete. Somehow, freight trains didn’t seem complete without their colorful punctuation marks at the end. Vida loved to tell about standing by the tracks when she was young. She
’d wait with her chums for the caboose and shout, “Throw me a fusie!” Sometimes one of the train workers would comply, especially if it was close to the Fourth of July—or Independence Day, as Vida always called it.
I crossed the tracks and headed for Bert Anderson’s auto repair and chop shop, figuring that as long as I was going to have to pay for the Honda’s damage, I might as well get the project under way. I went by Alvin De Muth’s truck stop and repair area, noting that someone had put a CLOSED sign on the front door. The used-car lot next door was quiet, with only a young couple strolling among the dozen or more vehicles. I walked faster, hoping that the activity would loosen up my back muscles. Beyond the Nissan dealership and the DMV office, I turned into Bert Anderson’s shop, which was located in a refurbished building that had once been part of a shingle mill.
Bert’s wife, Norene, was at the desk in the small front office. She looked up and smiled. “Hi, Ms. Lord. Sorry about your accident. Bert’s over on the other side of the tracks in the wrecking yard. Should I let him know you’re here? He can’t see much from there since he put up that big fence.”
“No,” I said. “Just tell him I’ll be paying for the repair. And the tire, of course. I’ll put it on my Visa.”
Norene made a note on a green pad. “Okey-dokey. I heard you had back troubles after the accident. How’re you doing?”
“Much better,” I said. “I walked here from the sheriff’s office.”
“Good for you.” She smiled again and rubbed her upper arm. “Would you believe this bee sting still itches from over a week ago? I was lucky I could work at all after that happened. I took last Saturday off to get my strength back.”
“I heard you had a severe allergic reaction,” I said. “Bees should go away by this time of year.”
She nodded, her mass of auburn ringlets jiggling and bobbing from the top of her head to her sloping shoulders. “It wasn’t as if I’d disturbed them. I went outside for a smoke. Somebody once told me cigarette smoke kept the bugs away, but that’s not so. I had to give that nest a good whack after I got stung. I ran like the dickens back to the tavern.”