by Mary Daheim
And then I confided that I’d been depressed—without mentioning Doc Dewey’s Paxil prescription. Milo told me more about his ex-wife. Mulehide, as he called her, and how she’d belittle him, even in front of the children. Milo had complained about her before—the nagging, the endless complaints, and eventually the affair she’d had with one of the other teachers at the high school where she taught English and Spanish. She’d taken their children and robbed him of his pride. He’d never been the same since.
Or, as he put it, “You wouldn’t have known me thirty years ago. I was full of piss and vinegar, out to save the world from all the bad guys.”
“Maybe,” I’d told him, “I wouldn’t have liked you half so well.”
“Maybe you would,” he’d replied. “Maybe then, everything would’ve been different. For both of us.”
Just after ten-thirty, I was about to ask if in fact he wanted to spend the night. But his cell phone rang. It was Dwight Gould, who thought the sheriff should come by the office. Something new had been discovered at the forest fire site. No big deal, but he might want to check it out.
“Did Dwight say what it was?” I inquired, putting on my robe while Milo dressed.
“No,” the sheriff replied, fastening the belt with the eagle buckle. I couldn’t help but notice that he’d moved down a notch since the last time I’d seen him dress. “You know Dwight—he never says much until he’s ready.”
“Taciturn,” I remarked, then saw that Milo was having a bit of trouble putting on his boots. “Here,” I volunteered, “let me help. I’ve seen it done in the movies.”
“I haven’t worn them before,” he admitted. “I had kind of a time of it this morning.”
With my hands on the left boot, I looked up at him where he’d sat down on the bed. “Milo, has it occurred to you that we might be getting old?”
Milo let out a guffaw. “Hell, yes. But we’re not old, we’re just hitting our stride in middle age.”
“I’ll be fifty in November,” I said, straining to get the boot in place.
“I’m still ahead of you by a couple of years. Oof.”
“I got it,” I announced. “Let’s do the other one. Unless my back gives out first.”
The second boot went on more easily than the first, though I ended up taking a pratfall on the floor and panting slightly.
Milo stood up, then helped me to my feet. “Thanks, Emma.” He kissed me on the cheek.
I kissed him back. “Thank you. For everything.”
After Mass that morning, I managed to avoid my fellow parishioners by sneaking out during the final stanza of the recessional hymn. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially to Ed and Shirley Bronsky, who were in attendance with their five children.
I wasn’t feeling antisocial because I was depressed. Rather, I was feeling guilty about having an empty day ahead of me and knowing that I should plunge myself into Judge Marsha’s project. The problem was that I didn’t know what else I could do. My resources seemed exhausted.
Except for Vida, who was scheduled to call on June Froland that evening. Driving out of the parking lot, I considered a visit to my favorite snoop, but First Presbyterian’s services lasted longer than St. Mildred’s one-hour liturgy.
I’d turned off Cedar onto Third when I heard a horn honk behind me. Wondering who the crank might be, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Milo’s Grand Cherokee coming up the hill. He honked again. I pulled over at the corner of Cascade and rolled down my window. The sheriff came abreast of the Lexus.
“Want to go for a ride?” he called.
“Where?” I responded.
“Up to the fire site,” Milo replied, ignoring the pickup truck and the compact car stuck behind the Grand Cherokee.
I hesitated. It had been raining off and on since I’d gotten up. I wasn’t dressed for traipsing around the environs of Embro Lake.
“I’ll have to change first. Follow me home. It won’t take long.”
While I slipped into a pair of old slacks, a badly pilled sweater, and my heavy-duty boots, I wondered why the sheriff wanted me to go with him. It wasn’t a romantic gesture, I was sure of that. We’d met by chance. Milo didn’t act upon whims, so his intentions must be official.
When I climbed into the Cherokee, I immediately inquired why this trip was necessary.
“Evidence, maybe,” he said as we started along Fir Street.
“Just in case Fleetwood gets wind of it, I didn’t want you to feel left out. I was headed for your house. I forgot you’d probably be at church.”
“What kind of evidence?” I asked.
“Late yesterday a couple of firefighters found the remnants of some kind of building. That’s what Dwight called me about last night. He’d only been notified after the fire crew got back to town and had dinner.”
“What about the victim? You didn’t mention what the M.E. had to say about corpse number two.”
Milo was headed north on Alpine Way, which led out of town and onto Highway 2. “The M.E. hadn’t gotten to him yet. We’ll probably find out tomorrow or Tuesday. Unidentified burn victims take time.”
We crossed the bridge over the Skykomish River. Like all fishermen, Milo glanced in both directions, seeing if there was any action. “Some kid caught a fourteen-pound Humpy yesterday. Not right around here, but down by Sultan.”
“That’s a big fish,” I remarked.
“No good for eating, though,” Milo said as we waited at the blinking red light where Alpine Way fed into the cross-state thoroughfare. “The only thing you can do with those Humpies is smoke them.”
“They’re not bad kippered,” I said. The sheriff and I were on the same page. Our romantic interlude hadn’t broken the rhythm of our renewed friendship. I was glad.
Sunday traffic was heavy in both directions. As usual, too many drivers were going like a bat out of hell. Only the natives seemed to respect the dangerously slick layer of oil left by other vehicles after a fresh rainfall.
There were two logging roads that led from the highway to the Martin Creek and Embro Lake areas. Getting to either of them required driving two miles west or two miles east. Milo chose the latter direction. We backtracked along the winding road for another two miles, which seemed like at least twice that far because we had to slow to half speed. Finally, as the rain started to come down much harder, we met the fork in the road and turned north toward the fire area. We hadn’t gotten very far before we could see the damage. Despite the rain, some of the fallen trees still smoldered. I could smell the smoke, tainted by the chemicals used to put out the flames. I know that forest fires can be our friends, especially those caused by lightning. They keep the ecological cycle moving, Nature’s way of replenishment through destruction. Yet I have never liked seeing a burned-out stand of trees, which look like skeletons. There was an eerie quality to the seared mountainside, a desolation that made me feel as if I were back in some prehistoric era before the deer and the chipmunks and the birds made the forest their home.
“We’re on DNR property now,” Milo said, referring to the Department of Natural Resources. “Let me check the map the firefighters gave Dwight.”
The sheriff pulled off at one of the few wide spots in the road, a man-made turnaround. He took the map out of his jacket pocket, lit a cigarette, and rolled down the windows. I could hear Martin Creek close by, rushing along on its way to join the Tye River. A glimpse of blue gentian assured me that at least some of the Alpine flowers had survived.
I craned my neck to look over Milo’s shoulder. The map was crudely drawn, with the fire-damaged areas circled with a black-tipped felt pen.
Milo was using a red pen to make some marks on the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to one of the red X’s. “That’s where the body was found, right at the edge of the DNR property. And about a hundred yards away,” he went on, indicating the second X, “is where the building timbers were discovered yesterday. You got a camera?”
“No,” I replied in a
disgusted voice. “I never have a camera. I get tired of taking pictures of my shoes.”
He glanced at my feet. “At least you’re wearing boots, because we’re going to have to walk from here.”
“Great.” Giving Milo a grumpy look, I got out of the Cherokee and pulled up the hood on my jacket. “Could it be wetter?”
“The forecast calls for partial sun tomorrow,” Milo said as he joined me on the passenger’s side. “Let’s just hope nobody gets killed out on the highway for the next hour or so. I don’t need any interruptions.”
If there was a trail, I couldn’t see it. But Milo walked purposefully ahead of me, apparently knowing where he was going. The raindrops dripped from my hood and my boots squelched in the ash that was quickly being turned into mud.
“Here,” he said, stopping near a fallen cedar tree. “The body was found on the other side.” He stared in that direction for almost a minute. “Those damned batteries we found in the victim’s hand—what do they mean?”
“You’re assuming that the victim either lived in or used the building? Maybe he had a flashlight with him.”
“Most flashlights you’d use in the woods don’t take AA batteries,” Milo said. “Anyway, where is it? The whole thing couldn’t have been destroyed.”
I studied the ground that had captured the sheriff ’s attention. There was nothing to see. Milo must have agreed. He trudged ahead, stepping over more fallen trees and branches. With my hands stuffed in the pockets of my jacket, I was wishing I’d worn a pair of gloves when Milo stopped again. As I hurried to catch up with him, I saw about a six-foot length of official yellow tape warning off trespassers.
“The fire crew put that there, just in case,” Milo said.
Under the tape were the remnants of what looked like two I-beams. As I bent down, I could also see the remains of a tin roof and some shards of glass.
“It’s from some kind of structure,” I ventured. “A shack, probably.”
Milo gave a nod. “If it weren’t for the glass, it might be a shed. In the old days, some people kept cows around here.” He turned to peer around me. “Ah. Here come Dustin Fong and Jack Mullins with the evidence kit. I wanted to get them here sooner, but Jack was at church.”
Jack Mullins was another deputy and a fellow member of St. Mildred’s. I’d seen him at Mass but had avoided him along with everybody else.
Jack looked faintly disgruntled; Dustin, as usual, seemed quietly eager.
Milo addressed them without preamble. “Dwight said nobody on the fire crew messed with this. Let’s hope he’s right.”
“A hell of a way to spend my first day back from vacation,” Jack muttered. “Nobody cares that I caught three Kings up at Glacier Bay.” He turned to me. “How’d you get stuck up here, Emma?”
“Milo promised me a picnic,” I replied, making a mental note to do a short feature on the Mullins’s Alaska trip.
“What kind?” Jack asked, his usual humor surfacing. “A barbecue?”
“Everything around here looks too well done for my taste,” I said.
Dustin is the youngest of the deputies, and unlike most of his twentysomething peer group, possesses great humility. Perhaps it’s his Chinese ancestry, or maybe he’s just an exception to the rule. Dustin stood next to the sheriff, virtually at attention. “Have you any idea what we’re looking for, sir?”
“Anything that looks like it shouldn’t be in a forest,” Milo replied. “If this was some kind of hermit’s shack, there should be more than just bits of glass, a tin roof, and some burned-up lumber.”
Jack gave Milo a questioning look. “Are you tying the victim to this?” he asked, waving a hand over the debris.
“Not yet,” Milo said. “But it’s a possibility. If it’s one of our mountain men, we may never know who he was.”
“You keep saying ‘he,’ ” I interjected. “You’re sure it’s a man?”
“The M.E. thinks so,” the sheriff replied, then turned back to his deputies. “You got everything you need?”
“Except a canopy to keep us dry,” Jack retorted. “Jeez, couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow? The rain’s supposed to let up by then.”
“I don’t believe weather reports,” Milo shot back. “I don’t believe in waiting, either. I’ll be in touch.” He turned on his heel—no cowboy boots for him today—and started back toward the road.
I trudged behind him. The wind was picking up, turning the rain into raw, cold pelts. We were well above the three-thousand-foot level, where snow could fall as early as the end of the month. But not now, with the temperature somewhere in the low fifties. With the region’s unpredictable climate, it could hit seventy on Monday.
“Sheriff!” Jack’s voice cut through the downpour. “We got something!”
“You’d better,” Milo muttered, then heeled around and strode back to the evidence site.
I trailed along, wishing that for once I’d brought a camera. Then it occurred to me that the deputies must have one. Maybe they could save my behind.
“Bottle caps,” Jack said, holding out a latex-gloved hand. “Maybe from medicine bottles.”
Milo gazed at the half-dozen scorched metal caps, which were all about the size of a nickel. “What else?”
“Hey, we just started,” Jack responded, looking put upon. “What do you expect, a smoking gun?”
“Not in this rain,” Milo remarked, his eyes now on Dustin who was grubbing around in the dirt. “Where are the bottles?”
Dustin looked up. “We figure they were those plastic kind. But if they were glass, we’ll find some sign of them. Hey— what’s this?”
The corner of some kind of box was half sunken in the ground and partially covered by a large tree limb. Dustin carefully removed the branch with Jack’s help, then they both started brushing away mud, dirt, leaves, and soot.
“It’s an icebox,” Jack said. “No—it’s a small refrigerator. You can see the brand name in the corner. Kenmore. That’s a Sears product.”
Milo studied the exposed part of the fridge. “You bring shovels?”
“Sure,” Jack answered, thumping on a long metal case. “We forgot the forklift, though,” he added with a wink for Dustin.
“Get this thing out of here,” Milo said, then bent down to put on a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll work here, away from the fridge.” He tossed a pair of gloves in my direction. “You take that part over there by the cedar tree.”
I tried not to look dismayed. “Am I deputized?”
“You got it,” Milo replied, not glancing up from the ground.
We worked in silence—except for grunts from Jack and Dustin—for at least ten minutes. Occasionally, the sheriff would pick something up, scrutinize it, and put it into an evidence bag. I, however, seemed to be working a patch that yielded nothing of interest except for a battered Budweiser can. I found two more before the deputies managed to free the fridge.
Luckily for them, it was a small model, the kind you’d put in a den or a motel room. Part of the exterior had melted in the fire. Dustin used a crowbar to open the door. A noxious smell like a stink bomb made me gasp and fall back. The others reeled slightly, too.
“Jesus!” Milo exclaimed. “What the hell is that?”
“Whatever it is,” Jack said between coughs, “I hope my wife’s not making it for Sunday dinner.”
Slowly, the stench dissipated. Milo put a blue-and-white handkerchief over his nose and mouth before looking in the fridge.
“This damned thing blew up,” he said in a muffled voice. “It must have been the air getting to the refrigerant chemicals.”
Gingerly, I edged up behind Milo. There wasn’t much to see from my vantage point except for clumps of what looked like melted plastic.
Milo, however, had a trained eye. “Well, that explains it,” he said, standing up and stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “The bottle caps, the fridge, and those batteries the victim had in his hand.”
“You’re right,” J
ack agreed. “We should have guessed.” Like an impatient child, I stamped my foot. It got stuck in the mire, ruining the effect. “What are you talking about? What is all this junk?”
Milo gave me a half smile. “What you’re looking at, Emma, is what’s left of a meth lab.”
January 1917
Louie Dawson was afraid, but he didn’t show it. Louie wasn’t quite nine years old, but he refused to be bullied, even by his teenaged cousin Vincent. To stiffen Louie’s backbone, he had Billy, his other cousin, with him. They were the same age, but Billy was as tall as a twelve-year-old.
“Come on, you little brats,” Vincent said in his most menacing voice, “fork it over. Both of you owe me twenty-five cents.”
“No, we don’t.” Louie stubbornly shook his head. “You owe each of us twenty-five cents.”
“Liars,” Vincent said. He glanced furtively around the area by the bunkhouses. The woods were shut down, due to the heavy snowfall between Christmas and New Year’s. There was no one in sight on this cold day in early January. No one, that is, except Jonas Iversen, who was slipping and sliding down the snow-covered hill to join the other boys.
“Hey, Jonas!” Vincent called. “Want to meet a couple of welshers?”
“Pipsqueaks is more like it,” Jonas replied, skidding to a stop right in front of Louie. “How could these dumb clucks get your goat?”
With another glance at the bunkhouses, Vincent began walking away. Jonas followed him. “I bet these little punks twenty-five cents apiece that Oregon would win the Rose Bowl. Oregon won, and those two won’t pay up.”
“He’s lying!” Billy yelled, his long stride allowing him to catch up to the older boys. “Louie and I bet on Oregon! I don’t even know where Pennsylvania is!”
“It’s down the shithouse,” Vincent retorted, “so you owe us because you bet on those losers.”
Louie, who was chunky if not tall, had hurried along behind Billy. “We know where Oregon is,” Louie declared. “Some of the guys around here come from there.”
“Fourteen to nothing,” Billy said. “You’d have to be a real dope to not know that Pennsylvania couldn’t score against Oregon. And we’re not dopes, so we bet on Oregon.”