by Mary Daheim
“No,” I said. “He seemed bored.”
“He probably was. Adultery’s not very interesting to a third party.”
“Hey—it’s not as if Milo and I are married to other people.”
“He still is if he got married in a church. Any church. That’s the way it is. I figure he did. That counts.”
“He’s never really talked about his wedding. I assume they got married in a church. They had a reception. He mentioned it recently when he thought his daughter was getting married this summer.”
“Have you discussed marriage?”
“No. We haven’t had time to talk about much of anything.”
Ben chuckled and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t doubt it from the way you described your great awakening with the local lawman.”
“I don’t mean that,” I said angrily. “He’s been gone almost since then, nursing his daughter and his ex. I’ve talked to him exactly three times since then, and today was one of them.”
“That was one stilted conversation,” Ben said. “I wasn’t sure who you were talking to. It could’ve been our great-aunt Lulu in Humptulips, judging from your prissy expression.”
“Aunt Lulu’s been dead for thirty years.”
“I didn’t know she was sick.” He grew more serious. “At least you finally buried Cavanaugh’s ghost. Oh, Tom was okay, just messed up—and married. How’s Adam going to react?”
“Good question,” I said. “For now, he doesn’t need to know.”
Ben lifted his hands helplessly. “Why rush after fifteen years? I, a celibate priest, knew Dodge was nuts about you from way back.”
“I knew that, too. He mentioned marriage years ago, but I didn’t reciprocate. May I remind you, Stench, you weren’t always celibate? Do the names Rosemary and Colleen and Terry Lynn ring any bells?”
“Not so much anymore.” He sighed. “Oh, hell, it was fun while it lasted.” He stood up. “Feast of the Holy Family Mass at ten.”
“Right,” I said, wishing Ben wouldn’t go. Having unloaded my burden, I wanted to talk more about it. But men aren’t like women, and I knew better than to press him. My brother always needed to think things through. Maybe he didn’t take me seriously and my apprehension had been wasted.
“Tomorrow’s dinner with Adam and leftovers,” I told him.
He put on his jacket before kissing my cheek and going out into the wet Alpine night.
As soon as he pulled onto Fir Street, narrowly missing my mailbox, I turned out the lights on the tree. The fire still burned in the grate. I emptied the dishwasher, reloaded it, and finished tidying up. When I was done, I stood at the sink, staring out into the carport.
Marriage. Milo and I hadn’t discussed it. When he’d left my house the morning after his return to Alpine from his Bellevue ordeal, we hadn’t talked much. He’d spent most of that Sunday at the office organizing everything for his subordinates before driving back to Bellevue. He’d been there ever since.
Marriage. I’d been engaged twice, a mother once, but never a wife. Ben had never married and Adam wouldn’t, either. Maybe we Lords weren’t the marrying kind. I’d dumped my first fiancé after I met Tom. Our affair had resulted in Adam’s birth, but Tom had dutifully returned to his unbalanced wife while I fled to the Mississippi Delta to have my baby on Ben’s watch. Twenty years passed before I saw Tom again, and almost another decade went by before he was free to marry me. Sandra Cavanaugh had taken too many of her funny-bunny tranquilizers and dropped dead. But when Tom proposed, I’d dithered. It wasn’t just my natural perversity, but the possibility of giving up the Advocate and moving to San Francisco. It was Milo who told me to give Tom a choice and ask if he was willing to move to Alpine. For one fateful moment, I’d considered dumping Tom and falling into the safe, sure arms of the sheriff instead. But that would have dashed my precious dream. And Adam wanted his parents to live out their lives together. Tom had agreed to move to Alpine. San Francisco had too many sad memories for him. I said yes to his proposal.
Marriage? It never happened. Tom had been killed, and I was bereft. Again, I turned to Ben, who dragged me off to Rome. I’d found solace in the colorful, crowded streets and alleys, the glorious churches with their fabulous yet soothingly familiar art, and the sound of an ebullient people who seemed to sing even when speaking in whispers. Ben had been a source of hope and faith—his, not mine. For a while, I felt I’d lost everything when I lost Tom.
My head hurt. I turned off the kitchen light and went into the living room. I was tired. I was happy Adam was coming. I felt sorry for Mitch and Brenda Laskey. Most of all, I missed Milo. I went to bed early. And alone.
THREE
MY BROTHER’S HOMILY SURPRISED ME THE NEXT MORNING. Instead of his usual dry dissection of the Gospel, he took the Holy Family theme and talked about ours. He spun a couple of amusing anecdotes about growing up in Seattle, but spared me embarrassment by not including any of the dopey things Sluggly had done to annoy him. The parishioners laughed and chuckled, but best of all, they stayed awake.
After Mass, there was a lineup of admirers in the vestibule. At least two dozen parishioners were delighted at his return to sub for Father Den, who, Patsy Shaw asserted, “… is sorely missed, but you’re a superb replacement.”
“If I stayed around, you’d get sick of me,” Ben said, looking beyond Patsy and her husband, Bernie Shaw, to where I waited by the bulletin board. “Emma needs rescuing now and then. I neglected to mention that in my sermon.”
I smiled indulgently as the Shaws and a couple of the other parishioners turned to look in my direction. After a few more greetings, Ben was set free by his parish fans. I traipsed after him into the vestry.
“You’re a big hit around here, even going up against stiff competition like Den,” I said. “You brought your ‘A’ game today.”
“If I stay awake, folks in the seats should, too,” he said, shedding the chasuble that had been made for him by Navajo women during his Tuba City tenure. “Didn’t Bernie used to be called Brendan?”
I nodded. “He changed to Bernie a few years ago because he got tired of being called Brenda Shaw. It didn’t suit his image as the local insurance guru. Bernie’s a good guy, though. It was when Edna Mae Dalrymple called him Brenda Starr that he really got ticked off. Of course, Edna Mae sometimes gets confused about—”
My cell’s ring startled me. I fumbled in my purse, but couldn’t find the blasted thing until it switched over to voicemail. While I waited for the message to finish recording, I saw the call had originated from the sheriff’s office. I wondered if Milo had returned.
It was, however, Dwight Gould’s dry bass voice that filled my ear. “Maybe you’re not working today, but I am, damn it. Somebody has to mind the store while the boss is in godforsaken Bellevue. A couple of geocachers or whatever just showed up. They found a decomposed body near a logging road on Mount Sawyer at the twenty-five-hundred-foot level. I’m headed up there now. I’ll keep you posted. Don’t those damned fools know it’s a holiday weekend?”
Having removed his vestments to reveal a Marquette University sweatshirt and old blue jeans, Ben eyed me curiously. “Bad news?”
“Only for the dead body some geocachers found this morning. That was Dwight Gould, the senior deputy in charge while Milo’s away.”
“Not Catholic, right?” Ben saw me nod. “Jack and Nina Mullins were here. I didn’t see Jack being called away to duty.”
“He’s not motivated unless his real boss is in charge,” I said. “Besides, whoever it is has been dead for a long time.”
“What is this geocaching thing?” Ben asked, putting on his jacket.
“It’s been around for a while. My former reporter Scott Chamoud did a piece on it last spring. It’s a high-tech treasure hunt, using GPS devices to find hidden items. Whoever finds the cache is supposed to replace it with something else for the next searchers. Scott said there were a couple of dozen locals already into it.”
“Sounds like it might
be fun,” Ben said, grabbing my sleeve. “You’re taking me to breakfast. I took a vow of poverty, remember? I’ve got that fifties diner the Bourgette family owns in mind. Every time I looked at Dick and Mary Jane in the third row, my stomach growled.”
I’d eaten only a piece of toast before going to church, so I didn’t argue.
Predictably, on the Sunday after a holiday, the diner’s parking lot was almost full. Alpine’s cooks must have been tired of kitchen duty.
When we got inside, there was a line about fifteen deep. “Huh,” Ben muttered. “I wonder if I should pull clerical rank.”
“Doubtful,” I said. “You look like an aging grad student.”
The hostess, Terri Bourgette, had spotted us. She waved a sheaf of menus in our direction. “This way, Father. I held a table, just in case.”
My brother shoved me ahead of him past several scowling Alpiners I knew only by sight, not by name. “RCs twenty-one, Prots zero,” he murmured as we followed Terri down the aisle to a booth near the back.
“Since our family has the only Catholic-owned restaurant in town, I had a feeling you’d come here,” she said, ushering us into a booth with glossy photos showing Ed Sullivan in the company of his famous guests and posters for movies shot in CinemaScope’s early era. Terri made a face. “I couldn’t get to Mass this morning. I had to work.”
“God and I understand,” Ben said. “Your parents and a sibling or two subbed for you. Go with God, my child, and bring on the coffeepot.”
Terri giggled in her charming way and hurried off.
“Cute girl,” Ben commented. “How come she’s not married?”
“She’s been going with Chili MacDuff’s brother for a year.” I saw Ben’s puzzled look. “Chili is Kip’s wife. Her real name is Charlotte. The MacDuffs are Presbyterian, Vida’s fellow worshippers.”
Ben grinned. “I’m anxious to see Vida. Tell me what she’s been doing since discovering that Roger’s halo has slipped down over his double chin.”
I told him, concluding by relating my uncertainty over whether or not the Hibberts had kept the child. “You know how Vida is,” I said. “She might be the only person who could get you to break the confessional seal, but when it comes to her private life, she’s a clam. I’m not sure she confides in Buck, let alone …” I stopped as Terri returned with our coffee.
“Here you go,” she said, filling our mugs. “Guess what?” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Some people who just came in found a body on Mount Sawyer this morning. Isn’t that weird?”
“Dwight Gould called me about that,” I said. “Father Milk of Human Kindness proved indifferent to the news.”
“I hadn’t had any coffee,” Ben protested. “I was on autopriest.”
Terri seemed puzzled. Maybe she thought I should apologize. “Sorry. Father Lord was a brother before he became a father.” Seeing that Terri still seemed mystified, I tried to clear up any misconceptions. “I mean, he was my brother. But a Father, as in his final vows. Not—”
“Stop,” Ben broke in. “My sister’s not herself this early. In fact, sometimes even I don’t know her,” he added with a sharp glance at me.
Terri finally laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re related. I don’t know why. There’s a resemblance, but …” She shrugged. “Growing up Catholic, you tend to think of priests as being only priests. Some never even talk about their families. It’s like they were born in the seminary.”
“Yes,” Ben said with mock seriousness. “I can see why certain priests avoid mentioning their relatives.” He gave me an even more severe gaze, the same one I used to give Ed Bronsky when he explained how he hadn’t sold any advertising and why that was a good thing.
Terri was still smiling. “I’d better get busy. I’ll send a server.”
“No need,” Ben said, giving his menu to Terri. “Pancakes, two eggs over easy, link sausages, large tomato juice. Thanks.”
I hadn’t looked at the menu, but I also handed mine to Terri. “The same, except just one egg and a small apple juice.”
“How,” Ben asked, after Terri left us, “have you run a newspaper for so long, Sluggly? Does Dodge realize what you’re like?”
“Yes,” I said haughtily, “and he’s often vexed by my many flaws.”
“Serves him right.” Ben drank some coffee. “Okay, do you know anything more about the body other than that it was found by people doing something I’d never heard of until now?”
“No. Dwight had no details. He had to go up to Mount Sawyer to see for himself. Are you thinking of giving the Last Rites to the corpse?”
“You do recall it’s been renamed the Sacrament of the Sick?”
“The body has started to decompose. I doubt any sacrament could revive him. Or her.” It occurred to me that I should talk to the body finders, since they were right here in the diner. This was a story, and Mitch might not be able to cover it. “Okay,” I said, sliding out of the booth, “despite my personal and professional inadequacies, I’m off to investigate. You can stay put and show off the unholy holes in your Marquette sweatshirt. Good luck with that.”
Ben didn’t say a word. He just sat there looking superior.
Terri pointed out the couple who’d made the discovery. “I don’t know them but they’re from around here. They know the area.”
The middle-aged man and woman were studying their menus. Unlike Vida, who would’ve come on like their long-lost best friend, I used a less aggressive tactic. “Excuse me,” I said, stopping at the barrier between their booth and the adjoining one, “I’m Emma Lord, the editor and publisher of the local newspaper.” I paused for their reaction.
Both husband and wife—they wore matching wedding rings—eyed me curiously. “Is this about the body?” the man asked politely.
“Yes,” I said. “Are you familiar with the Advocate?”
The woman, a pretty, plump brunette, twisted around to get a better look at me. “I’ve seen it. I grew up outside of Snohomish on a farm. Jim and I live in Maltby now. Would you like to sit down?”
I feigned hesitation before accepting the offer. Jim’s wife moved over in the booth. I sat down beside her. She held out her hand. “I’m Melody McKay. That’s my husband, Jim.” I shook hands with both McKays. Before I could say anything, a young waitress with a magenta streak in her short, fair hair came to take their order. Melody requested an omelet with ham, Swiss cheese, and mushrooms, no coffee, just orange juice. Jim went for the waffles with bacon and eggs.
“You must think we’re ghouls,” Melody said, “having such appetites after finding that poor dead person. Jim and I are adventurers at heart. So are our boys. We’ve done so many crazy things that discovering a corpse doesn’t seem so weird. Our friends were upset, though. They headed straight home.”
“I only know what came from the sheriff’s office,” I said, hoping to give myself credibility. “Could you tell if it was a man or a woman?”
Melody and Jim exchanged glances. “I’d guess a man,” he said. “There wasn’t much left, fairly skeletal. Clothes just about gone, too. But judging from the bone structure, a male is my call.”
“I won’t argue,” Melody said. “The body was sort of scrunched up and we didn’t want to touch anything.”
I nodded. “Right. This was where on Mount Sawyer?”
Jim and Melody both grinned as he took something out from the pocket of his flannel shirt. At first I thought it was a cell phone, but I was wrong. “I can tell you exactly where we found that body. Ever use one of these?” He held out the small black device in his palm.
“No,” I said. “What is it?”
“It’s a handheld GPS tracking system,” he replied. “You may have seen them installed in some of the newer Cadillac Escalades and other high-end vehicles. But this baby packs light. I got it for Christmas from Santa Claus.” He winked at Melody. “I couldn’t wait to try it out. We followed a forest service road to about the twenty-five-hundred-foot level of Mount Sawyer and then
hit the trail that’s kept open for winter recreation. Not much snow this year, though,” he continued, slipping the new toy back into his pocket. “We were supposed to find the treasure cache near the trail’s end. But when we got there, Don and Dee—the couple from Index who went with us—noticed there’d been a recent rockslide about fifty yards from the end of the trail. Don’s a geologist for the state, so he wanted a look. Until we got up close, we couldn’t see that there was a hole no bigger than this booth in the mountainside. Don knows how to deal with that sort of situation without having the whole blasted thing fall in on him, so he went first. He got more than he bargained for.”
Melody rolled her eyes. “He let out the biggest yip. Dee was afraid something had happened to him, so she ran inside. We were right behind her. There was the corpse, with poor Don looking thunderstruck. And then,” she added, unable to keep from laughing, “Dee threw up. Jim and I got them out of there and took another look. We knew we’d have to notify the local authorities.”
“So we did,” Jim said. “The Krogstads didn’t want to stick around. We went to the sheriff’s office and told the guy on duty about it.” He shrugged. “After I gave him the GPS coordinates, we left our contact number in case they want to talk to us again.”
The waitress delivered Melody’s juice and poured Jim more coffee. “Are your friends related to the Krogstad who used to be the superior court judge here?” I asked after the magenta-striped server went away.
“Yes,” Melody said. “Don’s the judge’s youngest son. The old guy is in a nursing home in Everett now. Very sad. Dementia, I think.”
I recalled that Judge Krogstad’s condition had become apparent in the last few years he’d sat on the bench. I’d had trouble keeping Carla from writing a story about him hitting an out-of-town attorney on the head with his gavel and insisting he was playing Whack-a-Mole with his grandkids at the Evergreen State Fair in Monroe.
“I’d like to have your contact number, too,” I said. “Just in case.”