by Mary Daheim
I was accustomed to Janet’s gallows humor and uninhibited sexual comments that kept her sane while earning a living off the dead. “We could use a respite from tragedy around here,” I remarked.
“Speak for yourself,” Janet shot back. “Al and I have bills to pay. Shall I e-mail this info to Vida?”
“Go ahead. She’ll be back before lunchtime. I don’t suppose Mrs. De Muth sent a photo of her husband?”
“No. Don’t you have one on file?”
“We might,” I said as Amanda entered the hallway from the back shop. “Scott Chamoud did a short article on De Muth a few years ago. Got to dash. Thanks, Janet.”
Amanda peered out into the front office. “Is that bitch gone?”
“Yes,” I replied. “There’s not much room here for hiding. Did you expect her to jump out of the broom closet and pounce on you?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.” She uttered a truncated laugh. “Sorry about that. Is Patti a head case or what?”
I made eye contact with Amanda. “Why do you ask?”
“Why do you think?” She shrugged. “Patti walks in here and starts screaming and looks as if she’s going to physically attack me. Is that normal around this place?”
“Of course not.” I could’ve added that upon occasion, an irate reader would make threats, but that was an on-the-job hazard. “Look,” I went on, deliberately blocking Amanda’s path to her chair, “I’m not sure you’re suited for this job. I realize this is only your third—”
“Hey!” Amanda cried. “I’m doing the work, right? What more do you want?”
“No disruptions,” I said. “No face-offs in the front office. No disappearing acts. No having to wonder what the hell is going to happen next. No phone calls at home from worried husbands. In short, I don’t want any more muss and fuss. Your attitude and your disruptions aren’t professional. In other words, I want you gone.”
“Fine.” Amanda reached over the counter to snatch up her handbag and jacket. “Fine. I’m gone.”
She got as far as the door, dropped her purse, and burst into tears.
My shoulders sagged. “For God’s sake, what now?”
“Jimmy,” Amanda blubbered, or at least that’s what it sounded like. She was leaning against the door, shaking and sobbing. Maybe Amanda and Patti would meet outside and have a cry-off. Or kill each other. Either way would work for me.
I’d misheard. “Ginny!” she yelled. “Ginny and her damned baby!”
I gaped at Amanda. “Ginny’s baby? What’re you talking about?”
“It’s …” She squeezed her eyes shut, wildly waved a hand, and uttered a few agonized, meaningless sounds.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “Sit. Please. You’re hysterical.”
I’d shoved the chair out from behind the counter, rolling it closer to Amanda. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed some more. It was obvious that she couldn’t focus on anything, let alone get control of her emotions. I took her by the arm and led her to the chair a mere couple of feet away from where she’d been standing. As an afterthought, I locked the front door. This kind of drama was bad for business. I almost wished I kept a bottle of booze in my desk drawer, just like an old-fashioned hard-drinking journalist.
Amanda was still crying, but at least she didn’t seem to be going into convulsions. “Please,” I said, crouching next to her and feeling some peculiar twinges in my back. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. About Ginny and the baby, I mean. Is it because they’re the reason you’ve come to work here?”
Several seconds passed before she responded, and when she did, it was only a wobbly, negative shake of the head.
“Then what is it?”
She shook her head again, but the sobbing had abated.
“Do you want some water?” I asked.
“No,” Amanda answered in a barely audible whisper. “I should go.”
I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was for Ginny to come from the back shop and have a run-in with Amanda. “Let’s take some time to cool off,” I suggested. “You think about what I said, and I’ll see if I can reconsider. Come back after lunch, okay?”
“Well …” She picked up her handbag and stood up. “Maybe.”
While Amanda put her jacket on, I unlocked the door. She walked out without another word or backward glance. Shoving the chair behind the counter, I tried to gather my strength, calm my tattered nerves, and stretch my back to make sure I hadn’t incurred any further damage. I couldn’t remember such an unsettling start to a day. As Ginny and the baby reappeared, I tried to take comfort from the sight of mother and child placidly coming my way.
“Kip thinks Brandon looks like me,” Ginny said. “I think he looks like Rick. What do you think?”
The baby had opened his eyes and was yawning. “I can’t tell,” I admitted. “Did Amanda say anything to you when you arrived?”
Ginny looked puzzled. “She said hi and that Brandon was a nice baby and … well, that was it. Why?”
“Because she just had a fit and left. What are you doing for the rest of the morning?”
“I’m going to the grocery store to get …” She stopped and stared at me. “What do you mean? Amanda quit?”
“Not exactly.” I grimaced. “It’s all kind of weird. I thought if you could fill in until lunchtime … Oh, never mind. We’ll manage.”
Ginny gazed down at Brandon. “I’m nursing him, but he won’t be hungry again until one o’clock. I suppose I could stay for an hour or so. I did it before when the other boys were small.”
“I remember.” The baby-on-board venture had worked well enough until the boys had started walking. Chaos had ensued, forcing Ginny to leave them at Donna Erlandson Wickstrom’s day care. As Ginny’s sister-in-law, she’d charged only half the usual rate. “I’d really be grateful for your help,” I said. “I’ll pay, of course.”
“You don’t need to,” Ginny said.
“But I will. Or give you a gift certificate. Whatever.” I smiled. “Believe me, I appreciate you now more than ever.”
I was helping Ginny and the baby get settled in when the phone rang. I was closest, so I answered. “Ms. Lord?” Bert Anderson said. “Your car’s ready to roll.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll come by in an hour.”
“You need a ride?” he asked.
“I can probably get somebody here to bring me,” I replied. “At least one of them should be around before lunchtime.”
“If not,” Bert said, “Ginny Erlandson is coming by later when Rick drops off their SUV. I’ll ask if she’d mind collecting you on her way.”
I glanced at Ginny, who was taking off Brandon’s cap and jacket. “Ginny’s right here. I’ll ask her myself.” I hung up. “What are you driving, Ginny? Bert Anderson’s expecting Rick to bring in your SUV.”
Ginny nodded. “Bert’s going to fix that damage from hitting the planter. I borrowed my mom’s car this morning. It’s that dark green Subaru parked next to Kip’s pickup.”
“This has been a terrible week for vehicle damage around here,” I remarked. “Especially since Al De Muth and his expertise aren’t with us anymore. Of course it was a worse week for him.”
“Yes,” Ginny said, moving the stroller into various positions. “Getting killed, I mean.”
I nodded. Ginny not only lacked a sense of humor, but seldom recognized irony. “Here comes Vida,” I said. “I’ll let you two chat it up.”
“Okay.” Ginny pushed the stroller a few inches to the right. “Do you think Brandon’s in a draft?”
“The counter shields him from the doorway,” I said. “He’s fine.” I hurried back through the newsroom, pausing only to pour some hot coffee. I could hear Vida ooh-ing and aah-ing in the front office. My phone rang again.
“Is this a wrong number?” Rolf Fisher inquired in a bemused tone.
“Probably,” I said. “You’re wrong if you think I’ll come to France.”
“Too late,” he said.
“I’ve met une femme très enchantée. We are about to open a dry white Pouilly-Fumé, not to be confused with the Burgundy wine of the same name. This heavenly gift of Bacchus is almost as bewitching as my lovely guest.”
“You’re not casting any spells in this direction,” I said. “In fact, the sheriff just rode in.”
“Mon Dieu! I’m forced to offer my attentions to Mimi.” Rolf cut me off. In more ways than one, I thought as Milo ambled into my office.
“You already look pissed,” the sheriff said, taking off his regulation hat, which just barely cleared the door frame. “I’ve got bad news.”
“Is there any other kind?”
As he sat down, his big frame dwarfed my visitor’s chair. “I can’t break Mickey Borg’s story without breaking his arm. He says he saw the incident and will testify in court that it was your fault. You hit Holly’s car and beat her up. She’s hired a lawyer. Have you got a Plan B?”
EIGHTEEN
“THAT’S RIDICULOUS,” I SAID. “WHERE THE HELL WAS Mickey? Hiding in a grocery cart? Did you talk to Dane Pearson at Safeway?”
“The manager?” Milo turned in the chair and stretched his legs. “Dwight asked him about it. Pearson didn’t see Mickey, but he admitted that it was raining so hard he couldn’t see much of anything.”
“Swell.” I picked up my coffee mug, but realized that my hand was shaking. “Oh, crap!” I pushed the mug away. “You drink it. I don’t need more caffeine to make me jumpy. It’s been a really rotten morning.”
“Is that why Ginny and the kid are out front jawing with Vida?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff shoved the mug back in my direction. “Well?”
“Well what?” I snapped.
“Aren’t you going to go into one of your usual long and drawn-out explanations of why you look like bird crap?”
“Oh.” I made a sour face. “So now I even look bad. It’s not enough that I feel bad, right?”
Milo shook his head. “Don’t pick a fight, Emma. I’m not in a very good mood, either. I’m damned sick of babysitting so-called prisoners. Why doesn’t that hotshot attorney of Clive’s get him out on bail? Why can’t Fred just lock himself in the john over the weekends instead of bugging the hell out of me and the rest of my staff? Why won’t …” He stopped as his cell rang. “What now?” he muttered, checking the phone’s tiny screen. “Dodge,” the sheriff said in a weary voice and glumly listened. “So? Give it back to Spike Canby. Hey, I don’t give a damn what he said. He can shove it up his ass for all I care.”
“What was that about?” I asked as Milo closed his cell phone.
“Just in case, we sent that pool cue those kids found to the lab in SnoCo. They didn’t find zip. I knew they wouldn’t. The damned thing had been in the water too long. I told Dwight to give it to Spike whether or not it belonged to him. He doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground anyway, and Julie Canby told Sam Heppner that they were short a pool cue. Spike can replace it with …” The sheriff frowned. “Why would anybody take a pool cue?”
“I thought Spike told you they sometimes disappear.”
“So he did.” The sheriff was still looking thoughtful. “Maybe somebody dropped something into the river or the creek and used a pool cue to get it back. Clothes, maybe.”
It wasn’t like Milo to speculate. “You mean anywhere along the river? Or at the tavern?”
“How many people who live on the Sky or Burl Creek have a pool table? Even if they did, why take a cue outside?”
I was impressed. “Good point. So you think the one the kids found in the underbrush on the river is from the ICT?”
“Maybe.” Milo shook his head. “Hell, even if that’s right, what does it mean?”
We both sat in silence for a few moments. “I heard from Janet Driggers,” I finally said. “De Muth was married. Did you know that?”
“No, not until Al Driggers told me.” Milo sighed. “The final autopsy on the vic didn’t show anything new or different.”
“So I gathered from Janet.” I resisted needling the sheriff about not giving me the information earlier. “Are you going to contact Mrs. De Muth?”
“Doe got a call from her last night. Nothing she could add except that they’d been separated for several years, but not divorced.”
“That’s odd,” I remarked.
“Is it? Saves money on lawyers if you don’t intend to get married again,” the sheriff said. “I’ve known some people like that, including two or three couples here in Alpine who separated, but still lived in the same house. The Skylstads did that for years until Cap fell for one of the Gustavsons and Bessie wanted to marry a guy from Index. The Skylstads finally got a divorce but couldn’t agree which one of them should move. They had a big house on First Hill and their kids had moved away so they divided the place and kept right on living there with their new spouses.”
“That must’ve happened before my time.” I watched Milo’s face closely, half expecting him to make a reference to his own changed marital situation. As far as I could tell, there was no reaction.
“I was in high school back then.” Milo took out his cigarettes. “The only one of that foursome who’s still alive is Bessie, and she’s in the nursing home with Alzheimer’s. The poor old gal probably doesn’t remember which husband was which—or if she ever had a husband.” He lighted his cigarette and took a deep puff.
“I suppose,” I said after I’d gotten my ashtray out of the drawer, “I’ll have to talk to Marisa Foxx about Holly.”
“She’s sharp. If Mickey’s lying, Marisa will nail him to the courtroom wall.”
“Why would he lie?”
Milo snickered. “I can think of one reason. Can’t you?”
“Holly’s charms are worth a perjury charge? Get real.”
The sheriff’s hazel eyes locked on my face. “You don’t know?”
I scowled at him. “Know what? I’m not up to playing games.”
“Let’s say it beats child support,” Milo said in his laconic voice.
My jaw dropped. “You mean Holly’s kids?”
“One of them, anyway.” He took another puff and exhaled. “Hell, Emma, don’t you listen to the grapevine? Hasn’t Vida told you?”
“Apparently not.” I leaned to one side, trying to see around Milo. Mitch was talking to Leo, but Vida wasn’t at her desk. “Are you saying that the paternity of Holly’s kids is common knowledge?”
“No. But Vida knows all, and sometimes she knows when to keep her mouth shut.” The sheriff lowered his voice. “We got a domestic violence call back in … March? April? Your ex-reporter, Scott Chamoud, got it off the log and put it in the paper, but as usual we withheld names and didn’t give a specific address, just that the incident occurred at Spruce and Second streets.”
“The trailer park,” I said, vaguely recalling the item.
Milo nodded. “You got it. Anyway, Bill Blatt and Doe Jamison responded. The disturbance was between Holly and Mickey. She was pregnant with her third kid and demanding that Mickey pay her off. As so often happens with those domestic battles, they’d both calmed down by the time the deputies got there. Luckily, they didn’t turn on Bill and Doe. That’s why we hate to get involved in domestic brawls.”
“I know. Jack Mullins got a broken arm once and Sam Heppner got hit in the head with a fireplace poker.”
“Concussion,” Milo recalled. “Sam spent three days in the hospital. I suppose you’ve already figured out that Vida squeezed the names and details out of her nephew Bill.”
I was puzzled. “I don’t recall her mentioning it. That’s odd.”
Milo chuckled. “She can keep some things under those weird hats of hers. Hey, what’s Ginny doing up front?”
“Amanda needed some personal time,” I replied, not wanting to go into the details. It was almost eleven-thirty. I still had to proof Vida’s copy and go over Leo’s ads.
“Cute baby,” Milo said, taking a big sip of my coffee. “Brendan?”<
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“Brandon.” I realized that the sheriff was making uncharacteristic chitchat. Stalling for time, maybe. “Hey, big guy,” I said, “it’s Tuesday. Do you remember what that means?”
Milo’s innocent expression was also unlike him. “That tomorrow is Wednesday?”
I sighed. “You know damned well it’s our deadline. And if you don’t then you haven’t paid much attention for the last fourteen years.”
He shrugged, pushed back in the chair, and stood up. “I know when I’m not wanted. See you.”
I watched him stop in the newsroom to talk to Mitch and Leo. The three of them seemed to be yukking it up. Ten minutes later, Vida reappeared and came into my office. “Have you read the Lofgren-Sanford engagement copy yet?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“I must make a change. The would-be groom’s first name is Ronald, not Donald.” She grimaced. “That’s the trouble with handwritten announcements these days. The younger generation has horrid penmanship. Imagine! Not teaching cursive or penmanship in the schools. What’s to become of this country?”
“They can’t tell time on a clock with hands,” I said. “It’s all digital.”
Vida agreed. “Oh, yes! As for spelling, they don’t use actual words. When I was at my daughter’s house for dinner the other night, I happened to see Roger’s cell phone. Goodness, do you realize what can be done with those devices? I knew that some of them could take pictures and play music, but Roger’s is the latest model, and I can’t even begin to recall all of its functions. I glanced at the screen and saw what is called a text message.” She picked up one of my memo pads and wrote, ‘u r : (me 2 c u 2’ followed by what looked a backward C.
I shook my head. “What’s that last thing you put down?”
“It’s supposed to be a crescent moon,” Vida replied. “As you know, I’m not an artist.”
“I can make this out,” I said a bit sheepishly. “It’s shorthand for texting. Some of these symbols show up in e-mails. You must’ve seen them in the ones you get for the paper.”