by Mary Daheim
“I’ve already done that,” Spence said, lolling against one of the pine poles that held up the little roof over the porch. “Your key’s probably rusty. Want me to try it?”
I hated to ask, but I wasn’t adroit at keys and locks under any circumstances. “Here,” I snapped, and handed over the key.
A twist of the wrist was all it took for Spence to open the door. “After you, madam,” he said with a courtly bow.
I managed to enter the house without tripping over my own feet. The keys lay on the sofa arm, just where I remembered I’d left them.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, the manners that Vida had attributed to me going out the window. “Why aren’t you at the station?”
Without being invited, Spence sat down in the nearest armchair. “I did the eight o’clock news. You know—about the cedar trees and the rest of it.” He paused just long enough to make sure I was suffering. “Ordinarily, I don’t go on the air Sundays. I turn the programs over to Tim Rafferty or one of the college students.”
“You also use a bunch of canned reverends, most of whom sound like they’re broadcasting from a revival tent,” I retorted. “Where do you get that stuff?”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Spence’s face. “KSKY is a small station, on a limited budget. The canned features we air are always of general interest to our listeners, and often they have a local angle that hits home. We use low-cost resources the same way a small weekly newspaper in a small town does,” he added with bite in his usually mellow voice.
“Touché,” I murmured. The Advocate ran its share of wire service filler. “So why are you here?”
Spence shrugged. He was wearing his customary cashmere sweater—this one in maroon—under a black leather jacket. “I was curious. What really happened with Max Froland tonight?”
“What do you mean?” I was still cranky, and didn’t try to hide it. “Do you think I poisoned him?”
Spence chuckled. “Relax, Emma. If we’re going to work together on co-op advertising, you can’t be jumping down my throat every time we see each other.”
Spence was right, but I still felt mulish. “This has been a bad day.”
“I know that.” Spence’s dark eyes were very steady as he watched my face. Along with that eagle beak of his, he looked like a bird of prey, considering a weaker creature. “Was he really sick or was he drunk?”
“If he’d been drunk,” I replied, trying to become less fractious, “you wouldn’t put that on the air.”
“Of course not. I have the same policy as you do, citing people for drunkenness only if they break the law. Good God, if I broadcast the names of everybody in town who got loaded and passed out, I’d get a lot more crank letters than I do now.”
“You probably get letters from the same people I do,” I said, my temper coming under control. “How about Caspar, Captain of the Underworld? Or Red Whiteandblue?”
“I’ve missed them,” Spence said. “My favorite is the one who always addresses me as ‘Spawn of Satan’. He—I presume it’s a he—hates any music that was recorded after 1950. He never signs his name, though, not even a phony one.”
“By now, I know who most of them are,” I replied. “Somehow, I can still smile and nod when I see them on the street or in the grocery store.”
“It’s the threats to blow up the station I don’t much like,” Spence said, stretching out his long legs. I suspected he hoped I’d ask him to take off his jacket or offer him a drink. I wasn’t feeling quite that hospitable yet.
“Do you report the threats to the police?” I inquired.
“Do you?” Spence shot back. “I don’t take any of it very seriously. It’s more like a nuisance. I assume you get the same threats, too.”
“The ones I get want to set fire to the Advocate,” I responded. “You may have a more sophisticated audience than I do if they know how to make a bomb.”
“It’s the price of doing business and being in the public eye. Or ear,” he added. “There’s no point in reporting that kind of nonsense. Dodge has better things to do than chase after a bunch of loonies who are actually harmless.”
“I agree.” My conscience was nagging me. “Would you like to take off your coat and have something to drink?”
Spence shook his head. “I should check in at the station one more time tonight before we sign off at midnight. I was wondering—does the sheriff think there’s a tie-in between the meth lab fire and the fallen cedars?”
“I don’t know,” I said, refusing to mention the sheriff’s liking for the possible connection. “Milo never thinks. I mean,” I added hastily, “he doesn’t speculate.”
“What’s your guess?”
“It’s just a guess. Maybe, but when were they cut? Before or after the fire? They were away from all the damage,” I went on, “so if they were hacked down before, nobody would have noticed. Did you inquire at the sheriff’s headquarters?”
“Yes. But they weren’t talking, maybe because they hadn’t figured it out yet.” Spence paused, stroking his chin. “They should be able to tell from the weather. The rain came after the fire. My own guess is that they were cut in the last twenty-four hours, after most of the fire crews had left the area. I figure it was a separate operation.”
“You may be right,” I said, wondering why Spence was drawing out the conversation. I supposed it was his way of forging a bond between us—a pair of newshounds, on the scent. Thus, I changed the subject to our professional common ground. “It looks like you and Leo have come up with some good co-op ads.”
“Leo’s a great salesman,” Spence acknowledged. “He uses different tactics than I do. Leo cajoles, coaxes, nudges, and always makes the client laugh. I tend to be more . . . subtle.”
“Smooth” was the word I figured Spence really meant. “At any rate, I’m pleased with how this issue is shaping up.”
“Good,” Spence said with the grin that flashed all those big white teeth. The better to eat you with, my dear. “By the way, do you think Dodge will be able to come up with an ID on the fire victim?”
“Only if he gets lucky and finds a dentist who can match records with what’s left of the body,” I said. “Frankly, I don’t like the odds.”
“No, you’re probably right.” Spence paused again.
I made another offer of a drink. It was a tactic I used to get a guest to either fish or cut bait.
Spence chose the latter. “I’m going to hit the road.” He stood up; so did I. “Is Max Froland a drinker?”
“I don’t know,” I said walking him to the door. “I have a feeling he just sort of had a letdown tonight. You can’t blame him, really.”
“No,” Spence agreed. “He’s been through a lot of crap.”
“It happens.”
“Yes.” For just a moment, he looked grim. “It does.” Spence started to open the door, then stopped. “Speaking of letters, did you get one a couple of weeks ago threatening to reveal your darkest secret?”
“What?” I think I actually gave a start.
“That one creeped me out a bit,” Spence said. “Whoever wrote it threatened to take out an ad in the Advocate, telling all. I thought maybe you’d gotten one like it, only threatening to take out an ad on KSKY.”
“No.” I tried not to stare at Spence. “Was it signed?” Spence shook his head. “It was handwritten and mailed here in town. Judging from the penmanship, I’d say it was an older person.”
“Did you keep it?”
“No. What’s the use? It just struck me as a little weirder than most.” Spence opened the door.
“Do you have any dark secrets?” I inquired as he headed onto the porch.
He turned and gave me an ironic look. “If I did, would I tell you?”
Spencer Fleetwood went down the steps and walked to his car. He didn’t seem to have his usual swagger.
I wondered why.
In the morning, I considered calling Max to see how he was feeling. But I’d probably wake him�
��along with June— so I decided to wait. As good as my word to Judge Marsha, I made a quick stop at the office to collect her letter and then trotted over to the courthouse.
The judge wasn’t in, so I gave the letter to the bailiff, a short, stocky man named Gus Tolberg. Gus looked put upon, as he always did, even in court. Maybe he should have remained on the Tolberg farm that his family owned just outside of town. He was trustworthy, however, and I knew it was safe to leave the letter—and the photo—with him. I was just damned glad to be rid of the thing. But I wondered if I should tell the sheriff about it. If Jack Froland had written that letter, and if his death wasn’t accidental, then the letter might be evidence.
I was halfway through the rotunda when I remembered that I’d promised Ben I’d apply for a passport. I hesitated, then decided to do it. Obtaining a passport didn’t mean I’d actually have to go to Italy. I could make up my mind later.
The county clerk wasn’t in yet either, but I was informed that I couldn’t apply at the courthouse. I’d have to go to the post office on my lunch break.
By the time I returned to the office, Vida and Leo were arguing about the amount of space she’d have in the special edition.
“Look, Duchess,” Leo said, waving a couple of ad mockups at her, “are you complaining because I’m bringing in too much revenue? You’ve got a thirty-five—sixty-five split. You should be happy. It’s less work.”
“I counted on a forty—sixty split,” Vida said, “which is what I usually get for my page. For this issue, I have two extra pages besides the regular section. That means I lose fifteen percent of my copy.”
“Yes, it does,” Leo replied amiably. “Which also means that we get fifteen percent more revenue. Hey, talk to the boss.” He turned to me. “I hear your date lost his head in the vegetables last night.”
As usual, the grapevine was fast and extensive. “That’s old news,” I said, making a face at Leo. “Vida, don’t argue about more ads than copy. What are you thinking of?”
“The Froland story,” she retorted, looking out of sorts. “I organized it in my head last night when I wasn’t trying to carry on a sensible conversation with June. I trust you wanted me to write it for my page?”
“Yes,” I said, as always deferring to Vida when it came to Alpine’s history. “We can jump it to another page if you need more space.”
“Very well.” Reaching for her background materials, Vida turned her back on both Leo and me.
We were all busy that morning, trying to fill the special edition. I sent Scott to get pictures of the savaged cedar trees. I’d let him write the story since he handled the police log as part of his regular beat. Meanwhile, I’d handle all the other hard news—which I fervently wished would include the identity of the fire victim.
As of noon, Milo hadn’t heard from any of the local dentists—including Dr. Starr—who could match the dead man’s teeth to an X-ray. However, the sheriff asked if I wanted to meet him at the Venison Inn, which had reopened that morning.
“I should run errands,” I said, thinking of the post office and the pharmacy. “But I skimped on breakfast. Is noon okay?”
Milo said it was. I was almost late because Vida put out a call for “Scene Around Town Items” at five to twelve.
I’d already given Vida a note about Milo’s cowboy boots. “Durwood Parker subbing for the Wesleys,” I volunteered.
“Betsy O’Toole searching for Jake’s birthday present at the mall,” Ginny put in.
“The Peabody brothers carrying an eighteen-wheeler down Railroad Avenue,” said Leo.
Vida gave Leo a stern look. “The Peabody brothers are strong, but not that strong. Come, come, Leo—what were they really hauling?”
Leo grinned at Vida. “Almost had you that time, Duchess. They were using their tow truck to take a busted pickup to Cal Vickers’s Texaco station.”
“Very well.” Vida was not amused. “I need at least two more items.”
Unfortunately, Scott was still at the tree-cutting site. The rest of us seemed to have run out of local sightings. No Aver-ill Fairbanks claiming that Texaco’s regular delivery to Cal Vickers’s gas station was really an invading space ship from Pluto, no Crazy Eights Neffel sneaking into Francine’s Fine Apparel and putting on a Donna Karan evening gown in the display window, no Grace Grundle complaining that her cats had been attacked by mice wearing party hats. But we were saved by Kip MacDuff, who breezed into the newsroom just as Vida was giving Leo, Ginny, and me the evil eye.
“Girl Scouts at Old Mill Park Saturday,” Kip said. “They were having some kind of picnic. The Reverend Otis Poole fell off his bicycle outside the Baptist Church yesterday afternoon. I was driving by, asked if he was okay, he said he was fine, just embarrassed.”
“Excellent,” Vida declared. “You’re very observant, Kip. Thank goodness someone is.” She let her evil eye linger on the rest of us for another second or two.
I arrived at the Venison Inn five minutes late, but Milo had already commandeered a booth for us. It was lucky that he was on time, because it seemed as if everyone in town had turned out for the restaurant’s reopening.
Gone was the fake knotty pine paneling, the lamps on wagon wheels suspended from the ceiling, the work of local artists (including two paint-by-the-numbers), a framed jigsaw puzzle of Glacier Peak, various varnished wooden clocks, and a farmhouse scene rendered in tempera on a rusty saw. All of this small-town decor had been replaced by pale blue paint, dark blue tile flooring, and gray faux leather booths. The only art work was a Buddy Bayard studio portrait of restaurant founder Jack Iverson that hung by the cash register.
I hated it.
“It’s kind of bland,” Milo allowed. “Harder to keep clean, too.”
“It even smells different. The grease buildup is gone,” I complained, opening the new menus that consisted of four blue and white laminated plastic pages. “They’ve changed some of the entrees and raised the prices.”
“You can’t blame Fred and Opal for that,” Milo remarked. “They haven’t upped prices in years. All this new stuff has to be paid for.”
“They should have spent more and hired a good interior decorator,” I huffed. “I’ll bet Opal designed this herself.”
“We’ll get used to it,” Milo said, giving me a benevolent smile. “The last remodel was . . .” He was interrupted by his cell phone.
I watched the sheriff expectantly as he listened to the caller on the other end.
“No kidding . . . that’s a big break. Okay, I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. Thanks, Bill.”
“Well?” I said to Milo who looked pleased. “Is the news worth spreading?”
“Not yet,” the sheriff replied. “That was Bill Blatt, saying that a dentist in Monroe had matched the X-rays to the fire victim.”
“Not a local, then,” I said. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
“I can tell you,” Milo answered slowly, “but I don’t want the name to get out until I’ve talked to the family. If there is a family.”
“Who is he?”
“Some guy named Terry Woodson.” Milo picked up the menu again. “At least they still have cheeseburgers.”
“Terry Woodson?” I echoed. “That sounds familiar.” Milo looked up from the menu. “Yeah? You’re right, it does.”
I stared off into space, the space that was just to the left of Milo’s head. The crinkly old brown upholstery had far more character—not to mention tears and holes—than the gormless gray. I was so lost in thought that I jumped when Beverly Iverson spoke to me.
“How do you like it, Ms. Lord?” she asked, obviously well-pleased with her parents’ improvements to the family establishment.
“It’s . . . fresh. And lighter,” I said, hoping my smile wasn’t as phony as it felt.
“We’ve expanded the menu, too,” Beverly said, “with eight different burgers and several varieties of pasta. Would you like to hear our luncheon specials?”
I politely declined. So did
Milo. Boring, in a rut, with no imagination, we both ordered our standard burgers, fries, and salad; coffee for the sheriff; Pepsi for me.
“You look distracted,” Milo remarked after Beverly had left. “What’s up?”
“That name,” I said. “Terry Woodson. I know it from somewhere. Think, Milo.”
Milo, however, shrugged. “It doesn’t ring any real bells with me. We’ll check to see if he had any priors. Maybe you remember his name from the log.”
Faintly, I heard my cell phone ring in my purse. As usual, I had trouble digging it out. I managed to catch the call on the fourth ring. The connection was bad, as it often is in Alpine where the mountains interfere with reception.
“Who?” I all but shouted, unable to make out more than a couple of words and a lot of crackle and zap.
“Max.” The single syllable came through. But the next words were mangled. I slipped out of the booth and moved to the rear of the restaurant. Max was still talking. “. . . next time.”
“Sorry, I didn’t hear most of what you said,” I told Max.
There was a pause on the other end. Maybe Max was rethinking what he’d said the first time. “I’m heading for Seattle. I called you at the office but they said you’d gone to lunch. I got your cell phone number. Can you hear me now?”
“Yes, much better.” I nodded at Heather Bardeen who was heading for the rest room. “How do you feel, Max?”
“Better. But foolish. I guess everything just came over me at once. I wanted to apologize and let you know that if you’ll let me, I’ll do better next time I’m in Alpine.”
“That’s okay, Max,” I said. “I understand.”
“Thank you. I realize it must have been embarrassing. I must ring off now, I’m approaching the 405 interchange to Seattle.”
I clicked off the phone and returned to the table. Beverly had delivered our beverages. Milo was smoking and studying the ceiling with its recessed lighting. I told him about Max’s call.