by Mary Daheim
“Rarely,” Vida snapped. “The people who send me e-mails are usually older and wiser.”
That was probably true. “Okay, I think the message says ‘You are sad. I am, too. See you tonight.’ The moon—I think—means night, and it makes sense in context.”
“Oh, heavens!” Vida scowled at the notepad. “I upbraided Roger for this sort of thing, but he laughed and insisted everybody does it. Maybe they do, in which case I should apologize to him. He’s merely communicating in a more up-to-date manner. I seldom reproach him, and now I feel mortified.”
“You shouldn’t,” I said. “Frankly, I find this sort of thing an abuse of the English language.”
“Yes,” Vida allowed, “that’s why I was upset. He’s been to college and I felt he should know better. Now I realize he’s ahead of the curve when it comes to technology.”
I couldn’t look Vida in the eye. If her grandson took an AK-47 to the mall and shot down six innocent shoppers, she’d make excuses for him. I tossed the used page in the wastebasket. “Why was Roger sad?” I asked, hoping that it was because he’d been hired for a full-time job.
Vida looked embarrassed. “I’ve no idea, because I didn’t realize what the letters and numbers meant. Maybe it was the other person who was sad. One of his chums, no doubt. He left not long afterward, and I haven’t seen him since. I must call and apologize.” Her usually purposeful walk slowed as she exited my cubbyhole.
It didn’t take long to go over Vida’s weekly contribution to the Advocate. Her style was folksy and would never win any journalism awards. She wrote her features as if they were letters, not newspaper stories. That was fine with her readers, who apparently felt she was taking them into her confidence.
It wasn’t quite noon, so I called Marisa, hoping to catch her before she went to lunch. She was eating in according to Judi Hinshaw, who transferred my call.
I kept my account of Holly’s purported lawsuit short. “And no, I’ve no idea who Holly has hired to represent her.”
“At this point,” Marisa said, “I don’t care if she’s hired Clarence Darrow. If Mickey Borg is lying to the sheriff, his eyewitness story has to be exposed before we ever get inside a courtroom. If Holly formally charges you with assault, it’s a criminal case.”
“Oh for …” I stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Dodge should’ve,” Marisa said. “Didn’t he mention it?”
“No.” Resentment welled up. Was Milo so wrapped up reconciling with Tricia that he didn’t give a damn what happened to me? Or wasn’t he taking Holly seriously? “No,” I repeated. “Except for the hiring of a lawyer, the sheriff didn’t have much else to say. Although,” I added lamely, “he thought that you could handle Mickey Borg on the witness stand.”
“We don’t want to get that far,” Marisa said. “Talk to Dodge. I won’t bill you for something that should go away.”
“Okay.” I remembered something Marisa had told me when she was at my house for dinner. “I hate taking up your time, but the other night you mentioned that awhile back Holly wanted to see you about doing pro bono work for her. Judi told her your services weren’t free. Was Holly trying to get child support from her kids’ deadbeat dads?”
“Yes. I never spoke to Holly, though.”
“So how does she get by? I don’t recall her ever working.”
“That depends on your definition of work.”
“Supporting three kids as a hooker in Alpine?”
“She lives in a trailer and she’s probably on welfare. For all I know, she got another attorney to handle the child support issue. He or she may be the same one she claims to have taken on her lawsuit,” Marisa said, speaking faster than usual.
I realized that Marisa was growing impatient. She wouldn’t be lunching at her desk unless she was busy. “I’ll let you go,” I said, “but I heard Mickey Borg is supposed to be one of kids’ father.”
“That might explain why he’d lie for her,” Marisa said.
“Thanks, Marisa,” I said as Vida stomped into my cubbyhole. “I’ll let you know what happens next.” I hung up.
“I’ve rarely seen the likes of this!” Vida declared, waving a computer printout at me. “It’s an e-mail from Janet Driggers about Alvin De Muth. He had a wife. Why didn’t that ever come to light?”
“Probably because his wife—or widow, I should say—lives in Colorado,” I replied. “Is there any mention of children? I forgot to ask.”
Vida was still annoyed. “No. Mrs. De Muth is the only survivor.” She scrutinized Janet’s message. “She wants the body shipped to a funeral home in Denver. I’ll write this up now. I’m eating in today.”
As she left my office, Ginny came in. “Rick’s taking the SUV to Bert Anderson’s place. Is it okay if I leave now so I can pick him up?”
“Sure,” I said, noting that it was twelve-fifteen. “Can I hitch a ride? My car’s supposed to be ready, but I’ll check with Bert to make sure.”
“Okay,” Ginny said. “I’ll get Brandon ready to go.”
Bert, however, had bad news. “Sorry, but I got sidetracked. One of Blue Sky Dairy’s trucks had an electrical problem. Can’t let the town go without milk. I’m finishing that job now, so I’ll get back to your Honda as soon as I grab a sandwich. Your car will be ready by five.”
“I hope so,” I said.
I went to the front office to tell Ginny I wouldn’t be tagging along. She offered to fill in again if we had any more problems. I said thanks, hugged her a second time, touched Brandon’s soft cheek, and watched mother and son exit. I got my jacket and purse, planning to run across the street to the Burger Barn. Before I could get to the door, Betsy O’Toole practically bowled me over as she tried to come inside.
“Emma!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Why?”
“We have to talk,” Betsy said, her eyes red and her skin so pale that the freckles had all but disappeared. We were both on the threshold. I was leaning against the door to keep it open. If Betsy came in, we’d have no privacy from Vida. Fortunately, she couldn’t see us from where she was sitting at her desk.
“Let’s go to the Venison Inn,” I said, taking Betsy’s arm and moving away so the door could shut.
She tried to hold back. “But I can’t let anyone see me like …”
“You want Vida to see you?”
“Oh. I thought she’d be at lunch.”
“Not today.” I let go of Betsy’s arm. “We can eat in the bar. It’s never too full at lunchtime.”
“I can’t eat.”
“You look like you could use a drink.”
“I could, but I won’t. What would our customers think if they saw me …” She stopped just short of the restaurant’s entrance, using the reflection on the door’s plate glass for a mirror. “Oh, God, I look ghastly. I should’ve put a grocery bag over my head.”
“Let’s go to the bar,” I said. “We won’t have to wait to be seated.”
Inside, I hustled Betsy down the row of booths, talking her ear off about something-or-other to give the impression we were wrapped up in our conversation and couldn’t pause to exchange greetings. The Reverend Poole was sitting with an elderly woman, Scooter Hutchins studied flooring samples under the watchful eye of a well-dressed younger man, four members of the community college faculty including the dean of students were engrossed in the menus, and Stella Magruder’s husband, Richie, was chatting with Harvey Adcock. If any of them noticed our quick passage down the aisle between the booths, they didn’t try to detain us.
“Corner table,” I murmured, nodding as far away from the bar activity as we could get. If Betsy changed her mind about a drink, I’d have one, too. My back still hurt but I hadn’t taken a Demerol since breakfast.
Betsy half fell into the chair, glanced at the array of bottles behind the bar, and opted for a drink after all. “A screwdriver,” she said. “I can pass that off as orange juice.” She started to pick up a menu but let it fall from her hand
and expelled a huge sigh. “Emma, I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should talk to Father Den instead of you, but I’m too ashamed. What would your brother or your son say?”
“About what?” I asked, wondering if Betsy had cracked under the relentless stress of the past few days.
The faintest hint of a smile played at her mouth. “I forgot. You’re not a mind reader.” She looked past me toward the bar. “Oh, no—here comes Sunny Rhodes. Can you head her off? She’ll talk me to death.”
I got up and managed to meet the bartender’s wife halfway. “Two screwdrivers,” I said in a low voice. “Betsy’s very upset, so don’t let anybody pester her, okay? I can get the drinks when I see they’re ready.”
“Then come now,” Sunny said. “It won’t take Oren long. Poor Betsy. Poor family.” She shook her head before beckoning to her husband and giving him our cocktail order. “You never know with kids these days, do you? It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t turned white worrying over Davin all these years. Thank goodness he’s out of his teens now.”
“He’s got his AA degree,” I said as Oren Rhodes offered me a sympathetic smile. “That’s great.”
Sunny nodded. “Now if he could just get a decent job. At least he’s stopped hanging out with Roger. That was always a dead-end trail.” She gasped and her blue eyes widened in horror. “Oh, no! I shouldn’t have said that. Please, please don’t tell Vida.”
I promised I wouldn’t. “I’m not a big fan of Roger’s, either. He hasn’t done anything really stupid, has he?”
Sunny turned away to hand me our drinks. “No. No, of course not. He’s just … Roger. Let me know when you’re ready to eat. We’re shorthanded, so I’m filling in. Good help’s hard to find.”
“I’ll second that,” I muttered, thinking of Amanda.
By the time I sat down, Betsy had regained some of her composure. She raised her glass. “To Mike.”
“To Mike.” Our glasses clicked. “Have you slept recently?”
“Some,” she replied after taking a big sip. “Jake’s so restless. He keeps waking me up.” She sipped again. “You’ve got a deadline. I don’t want to keep you away from work too long.”
“We’re on schedule,” I assured her. “So far.”
Betsy’s gaze roamed around the bar. The usual workmen in their flannel shirts, parkas, and hooded jackets lined the bar stools, knocking back enough beer to get through the rest of the day. I avoided eye contact with any of the customers. I didn’t want to be accused of snobbery for not offering so much as a friendly smile. My gaze fixed on the wall behind Betsy where an old framed photograph showed a logger sitting in front of a donkey engine, the steam-powered hoist used to haul logs out of the woods. His shoulders slumped, his hands rested slackly between his knees, and his clothes were grimy. Maybe he was the donkey puncher, taking a blow while waiting for more timber headed down a steep hill to the yard, the mill, or the holding pond. I wondered what, other than an honest day’s work, was on his mind. Life was said to be simpler a hundred years ago. I didn’t believe it. It was only slower.
“Doc called me this morning at six-thirty,” Betsy said, startling me out of my reverie. “He had a problem and asked if I could come to the clinic before their patients showed up. So I did.” She hung her head, hands wrapped around her glass.
I waited.
Betsy looked up and cleared her throat. “I’m going to tell you what he told me and I’m going to do it as fast as I can because it upsets me so much.” She took a deep breath. “The surgeon in Monroe told Doc they couldn’t get the pain meds to kick in because Mike was so full of cocaine and speed and God-knows-what that there was no way to deal with his suffering or prevent cardiac arrest, so he died.”
Betsy’s face hardened. She took another drink from her glass and ran a finger under each eye, maybe to make sure she wasn’t crying. There were no tears. Maybe she had none left.
I didn’t know what to say. “Is that why Doc told the family not to consent to an autopsy?”
“Yes. He didn’t want us to know.” She shook her head. “But Doc’s conscience bothered him. He got to thinking about the other kids in the family and their friends. He asked if any of our four had done drugs. I told him I thought they’d probably tried pot, but nothing else. You don’t know, though, do you?”
“You don’t want to know,” I said. “That’s stupid, but I felt that way about Adam, especially after he went away to college. To this day, I’ve never asked him what he tried or didn’t try. He’d tell me, though. I suppose that’s why I never asked.” It was my turn to take a big drink.
“So what do I do now?” Betsy said, as much to herself as to me. “Ask Father Den’s advice? Have Doc talk to the kids? I haven’t even told Jake. I just want all of us to get through the funeral. I guess,” she went on ruefully, “I had to talk to somebody and it turned out to be you. Maybe I thought that since you raised a child on your own and he became a priest, you had some special gift.”
“Oh, God, no.” I laughed in an odd sort of way. “I had nothing to do with it. I was stunned when Adam told me about his decision. In fact, I was upset. But one of my few virtues is that I know how to keep a confidence. You have to in the newspaper business. I think you’re right when it comes to waiting until after the funeral to tell the others, including Jake. I gather he’s been hit hard by this whole thing.”
Betsy nodded. “He’s always felt responsible for Buzzy, and that carries over to Buzzy and Laura’s kids. Doc raised a good point, though. Somehow we’ve got to open up about Mike.”
“Honesty is the best policy,” I said, and immediately wished I could retrieve the cliché. “I mean …”
Betsy held up a hand. “Stop. It’s not that simple. What Doc means is that somebody around here is dealing. That’s why we have to get the word out. Whoever it is should be charged not just with dealing or possession, but with murder.”
NINETEEN
BETSY REFUSED TO ORDER ANY FOOD, BUT I GOADED HER into sharing my shrimp Louie and some of the sourdough bread that went with it. She had to keep up her strength, and she couldn’t get through the day on one screwdriver. I’d asked her if she intended to go to the sheriff before confiding in the rest of the family about Mike’s apparent drug use.
“It wouldn’t be right until we’ve all had time to recover from the shock,” she’d told me. “Then we can discuss what to do. Maybe Doc should talk to Dodge. The sheriff likes facts, and Doc can get accurate information from the Monroe hospital. Besides, I think Doc’s conscience would rest easier if he’s involved in what I hope leads to nailing whoever’s dealing that wretched stuff around here.”
I agreed that was probably the best route to take. We parted just after one o’clock. To my surprise, Amanda was back on the job.
“Well?” she said as I arrived. “Am I fired?”
“No.” I braced myself on the counter. “But I can’t have scenes like the one with Patti. And don’t bother to remind me she probably started it. You could’ve defused the confrontation by walking away and letting one of us know. We’re all well versed in deflecting angry readers.”
“I don’t think Patti knows how to read,” Amanda retorted.
“That’s not the attitude to take around here,” I said. “We may be a small staff in a small town with a small newspaper, but we try to be professional. Personal relationships should be left outside the front door. I doubt you’d get away with that sort of thing at the post office.”
“It’s never happened there.”
“Lucky postal workers,” I murmured. Amanda bristled. “Hold on,” I urged, trying to sound more sympathetic. “Even though I don’t get it, I won’t ask about your reaction to Ginny and her baby. Okay?”
Amanda’s face tightened. “Fine.”
“Good.” I forced a smile and started into the newsroom.
“How old are you?”
I turned around. “Why do you ask?”
Amanda opened her mouth to speak, and then clamped it shut.
She shook her head and focused on her monitor.
Vida was heading for the back shop, and Mitch was looking at photos on his screen. “Did you see these?” he asked when I stopped by his desk. “They’re the ones I shot at the O’Toole kid’s vigil. Leo took some, too. He’s not that bad with a camera.” Mitch moved the monitor so I could see the screen.
I leaned on his desk. “That’s a good one of the younger set.”
“I’ve got IDs for this bunch,” Mitch said. “I didn’t find out who some of the others were. I figure there were a couple hundred people at the park that night.”
I recognized Davin Rhodes, Melissa and Erica O’Toole, Mike Corson, Carrie Amundson, and two of Ed and Shirley Bronsky’s kids, Rick and Molly. “That’s a good shot, nice angle. Their faces capture the sadness of the moment. You must’ve been kneeling.”
“I took it lying on a picnic table bench.” Mitch switched to a different shot. “This is the only decent one I got of the older O’Tooles, but it’s almost too heart-tugging.”
I agreed. “Laura looks ghastly and Buzzy’s a blank, as if he doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing. Jake’s eyes are closed. Betsy seems detached. She’s almost literally out of the frame.”
“It’s as if she’s trying to disappear to avoid the anguish,” Mitch said. “The O’Toole story was tough to write, especially the sidebar that goes with these,” he went on, clicking through several more crowd shots. “I talked to both Jake and Betsy that night but not to the kid’s parents. Somehow, I couldn’t.” His lean face was grim.
I nodded. “The worst of it is that they still had hope that night. If Mike had lived, the photos would be an answer to a prayer. But …” I stopped and shook my head. “Maybe we shouldn’t run them.”
“Your call,” Mitch said.
I thought for a long moment. “No. We have to. They show community and caring. The pictures capture one of those special moments when people put aside their own agendas for a common cause. You must’ve had to deal with lots of grieving families and friends in your time with the Detroit Free Press.”