by Mary Daheim
“That might be smart,” I said, noticing that Milo had finished his call and turned back to face us.
“Get your butt over here, Emma,” he said. “You know how much I hate hanging out in hospitals.”
With a bleak glance at Stacey, I trudged across the entry area. “Asshole,” I said to Milo under my breath as he opened the door.
“What?”
“Poor Stacey thought I was your wife. I told her I wasn’t. Now she probably thinks I was lying, because you sounded just like a husband.”
“Hey,” he said, putting his arm around me, “I like that idea. Besides, you know I hate hospitals.”
“You’re impossible. What did Monroe have to say?”
“Wait till we’re in the car. Can you make it—”
“Yes! Get away from me!” Luckily, I got into the car on my own.
Milo put the key in the ignition. “Are you mad?”
“No.” I gave him a flinty look anyway. “But tell me about Monroe before I change my mind.”
“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” he said, waiting for a motorcycle to pass before pulling out onto the street. “I can’t get caught in the middle. I’d be overstepping my bounds if I did.”
“You mean if you took the Laskeys’ side.”
“There are no sides. It’s a cut-and-dried situation. The state’s in charge. SkyCo just got caught in the middle.”
I nodded. “I wish the Laskeys could keep Troy in the hospital here. I’m sure he’d have much better care and they could be with him.”
Milo didn’t say anything, rarely allowing sympathy to interfere with holding the line and going by the book.
“Hey,” I said, realizing that after turning onto Front he was slowing down by his headquarters. “Aren’t you going to let me off at the paper?”
“Oh.” He kept going and pulled into Vida’s vacant parking spot. “How long are you going to be there?”
“I don’t know,” I said. The dashboard clock registered five after six. “If everything’s okay, I can still make the dinner with Adam and Ben.”
“They’re adults. They can’t get along without you?”
“Milo …” I hated it when he looked at me with obvious longing. No, I didn’t hate it, but there were limits. “Damn, aren’t you tired?”
“Not particularly. Are you?”
“Yes. And I hurt. You really are a bear, big guy. Don’t lean so close. I, too, have family duties.”
He backed off. “I know. How long will they be in town?”
“Too long,” I said—and could’ve bitten my tongue. “That’s awful. I hardly ever see them and I was mad at Thanksgiving when they canceled and now …” Feeling stupid, I looked at Milo. “Am I selfish?”
He stared through the windshield and shook his head. “No. More like you’re turning into me. You want something you’ve never had.”
I didn’t respond right away. “I had Tom.”
“Not for long.”
“I thought it was going to be forever.”
“You were wrong.”
“Did you give up on me when I was on the verge of marrying him?”
“Almost.” He finally looked at me again. “Don’t get mad or upset, but I never thought it would happen.”
I was shocked. “Why?”
He shrugged. “The S.O.B. never lived up to any of his promises. I figured there’d be another crisis with his screwy kids or one of his newspapers would get blown up or …” He shrugged again. “He was a … what’s the word? A chimera?”
I couldn’t help but smile. Milo had a good vocabulary, but it wasn’t exotic. I nodded. “I could never depend on him. When I told you Tom and I were engaged, you said if things didn’t work out, you’d be there for me. I was so touched—I thought you meant as a friend.”
“Well …” His expression was wry. “Maybe I did, maybe I thought it was all I could ever be to you. But I figured you marrying the guy was damned iffy.” He sighed. “Remember the big snow when I walked in on the two of you? I didn’t know Tom was in town. I wanted to … not kill him, but he’d taken you away from me, he was where I felt at home. I gave you both a bad time. That was a rotten thing to do.”
I thought back to that December six years earlier. “That’s strange. All I could think about was how you felt. I felt guilty for hurting you. I never gave Tom a thought. And he knew about us, even before you made a point of … what we’d had.”
“Damn.” Milo looked surprised. “I wish I’d known that then.”
“You do now,” I said softly. “I wish I’d figured out why I reacted that way. But Tom had another domestic crisis, taking off without a word two days later. He always needed to be needed—except by me. He never realized I might need him.”
Milo picked up my hand—gently. “I’m not like that, Emma.”
I lifted his hand to my cheek. “I know you aren’t. You never were.”
We looked at each other for a long time. A dozen, two dozen people could have passed by on the sidewalk. A circus parade could have gone down Front Street. The Advocate could have caught fire, raging on for a block and a half to envelope the sheriff’s headquarters. There was nothing, nobody in the whole world except us.
He slowly removed his hand. “Go on, do what you have to. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” I said, opening the car door. “You will.”
I got out and walked across the sidewalk to the Advocate’s entrance. The sheriff didn’t pull away until I was safely inside.
“Vida’s on her way,” Alison announced when she saw me.
“Great!” I exclaimed. “Did she just get back from Bellingham?”
“She got home before five, but went grocery shopping. She’s going to invite you and your brother and your son to dinner later this week.”
First the good news, then the bad news. I wondered what inedible concoction Vida would devise for the Lords. We couldn’t all claim illness as an excuse for turning her down. “Do you want to leave now?”
Alison seemed uncertain. “I haven’t been back to the apartment since Christmas Eve morning,” she said, referring to the two-bedroom unit she shared with Lori Cobb at Pines Villa. “Lori called earlier. Her grandfather’s funeral is Friday. Kip posted it on our site. I’ll find out if she’s with her folks. If she isn’t, I’d be a bad friend to abandon her.”
“Go ahead. Oh—how are your folks? I haven’t had time to ask.”
She smiled. “They’re fine. They were upset when my birth mother’s death came back to haunt us, but once that was over, they were relieved. Dad worried he’d become the prime suspect again.”
“I wondered,” I said. “It all happened so fast after you started working here.” I suppressed a shudder at the memory of how the tragedy had ended that fateful night in early December. “By Monday, I was still so wrung out that I could barely help Mitch put the story together.”
Alison sighed. “In the long run, it was all for the best.”
The door burst open and Vida appeared. “Well now!” she cried. “A fine kettle of fish! I should never leave Alpine. Look what happens!”
I hugged her. “How was Christmas?”
“Ohh …” She re-pinned her red velvet beret. “Having everyone together was pleasant. Roger toured the campus, but hardly anyone was around. He didn’t seem enthused about transferring there, though it’s certainly better than the Marines.”
“My uncle was in the Marines,” Alison said. “They have really great uniforms. Uncle Abe looked like a movie star.”
In my mind’s eye, a vision of the tubby Roger stuffed into a Marine uniform looked more like a moving van.
“Yes,” Vida said fretfully, pulling off her gloves, “but now I must focus on the matter at hand. Can you summarize for me, Emma?”
“Sure, but let’s go into the newsroom,” I said.
“Can I come?” Alison asked. “I should get caught up before I go.”
“Of course,” I told her. “You’re staff. Wh
ere’s Kip?”
“He’s on his way back,” Alison replied. “The Laskeys aren’t home. Kip said Fleetwood was leaving, too, heading for the sheriff’s office.”
“A good place for him,” I said, sitting down at Leo’s desk. “Milo can handle him.” I winced inwardly. The last time the sheriff had “handled” Spence, he’d broken Mr. Radio’s nose. “No remote?”
Alison shrugged. “If he did one, he had to talk to himself. I didn’t realize the Laskeys had an Escalade. It must be Mrs. Laskey’s car.”
“Weaving may be more lucrative than newspapers,” I said. “But these days, so is welfare.”
Vida sniffed. “Maybe Brenda came from money.”
“It’s my fault,” I said. “We don’t know the Laskeys that well. I should socialize more with them. Okay, let me update you.” It took ten minutes to do that, even though Vida remained relatively silent. I ended with the latest events at the hospital, the only part of the saga that Alison didn’t yet know.
“My, my,” Vida murmured, “this is a shame. Mitch won’t be able to contribute to his son’s story. If he can focus, he might manage to deal with the remains in the cave. What can I do?”
“I’ll take up the slack for Mitch,” I said, “but anything with Roy is yours. We’ll only mention that he’s unwell. I assume he’ll have to take a leave to glue himself back together.”
“Indeed,” Vida remarked. “Bebe is no help. She’s scatterbrained. Their son, Doug, works for one of the refineries in Anacortes. Brianna, the daughter, recently moved in with her boyfriend in Snohomish.” She paused, fiddling with a pencil. “Shall I go to the hospital to offer the Laskeys support? I could see Bebe if she’s there.”
“You’ve had a long drive,” I said. “Are you sure you feel up to it?”
“Yes,” she asserted. “I didn’t drive. I rode with Ted and Amy and Roger and …” She suddenly coughed. “My! I hope I’m not catching cold. That damp air in Bellingham comes down from Canada, you know.”
I knew where the damp air came from, but I suspected Vida had coughed to cover her slip of the tongue. I assumed she’d almost mentioned that Roger’s illegitimate child had been with the rest of the family.
“Just don’t make yourself sick,” I said, playing along with Vida’s little game. I checked the time. It was six-thirty. I could still make an appearance at the ski lodge, though I’d have to go home first and change. The rigors of the day had done some serious damage to my work clothes, and I didn’t want to embarrass my son or my brother by showing up at King Olav’s looking like a bum. My makeup, scant as it had started out, was long gone, and my hair must’ve looked worse than usual. I stood up, a reminder that I was also sore and stiff.
“What’s wrong?” Vida asked. “You flinched.”
“I fell down. Roy made a mess of the clinic waiting room. You’d better call your niece Marje. Roy threw her on her rear end.”
“Good heavens!” Vida cried. “You left that part out.”
“I condensed the day’s events,” I said. “Marje and I both paid a price for Roy’s breakdown.” I turned to Alison. “When Kip gets back, tell him there’s no need for either of you to stick around. Lock up for the night. I’m off to dinner with my priests and Marisa Foxx.”
“Marisa?” Vida echoed. “Why is she dining with them?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” I was halfway out of the newsroom, aware that Vida despised being in the dark, but I had to hurry if I hoped to arrive before the dessert course. Driving home, I tried to put the day’s hectic events aside. I had to refocus on family. Dealing with Adam’s inheritance was beyond me, though I had to show him I cared. And I did. But my brain was scrambled by too much happening too fast.
I arrived at King Olav’s at seven. Ben, Adam, and Marisa were being served their entrées, all of which looked like halibut. Ben wore the same outfit he’d had on at Christmas, Adam sported a teal sweater I’d given him, and Marisa had on a black wool crepe dress I’d seen at Francine’s Fine Apparel. I was surprised. On social occasions, she usually kept to her tailored suits, adding only a more elegant blouse.
“Well, well,” Ben said, pulling out a chair for me, “have you saved the day for the news-hungry people of Alpine?”
“That won’t get done until we go to press tomorrow night,” I said, squeezing Adam’s arm. “Has Marisa solved all your legal problems?”
“Ms. Foxx knows her stuff,” Adam said. “We’ll meet tomorrow morning to review my options.”
Marisa nodded approval. “I told Adam—Father Adam—to bring his uncle along. I knew you’d be busy getting out the paper, Emma.”
The glum Gala who’d served Mitch and me at lunch had been replaced by the raven-haired girl named Livna that Vida had mentioned as a tidbit for “Scene.” If I hadn’t been so frazzled, I’d have asked her how a non-blonde had been hired by Henry Bardeen. But assuming her name indicated Scandinavian descent, she’d probably passed muster. Livna asked if I wanted a drink before ordering dinner to catch up.
“CC double shot, water back,” I said. “I’ll have the salmon entrée and a salad with honey mustard.”
Ben chuckled. “Sounds like Little Sister had a bad day. Why didn’t you just tell her to bring a jug?”
“Guess what, Ben,” I said, “it was a bad day. How would you like to lose your only reporter and have to go it alone?”
My brother’s expression was impassive. “I’ve been going it alone for thirty years. There’s a priest shortage, in case you haven’t noticed.”
I glared at him. “Just be thankful I’m not a mean drunk.”
Ben’s expression became noncommittal. “You’re a lot of things, but not that. I imagine you’ve found comfort from outside sources.”
Adam shifted uncomfortably. Marisa was preoccupied with her string beans. I arranged my napkin on my lap. The sudden silence seemed to echo from one end of the half-empty dining room to the other.
Adam finally spoke. “Uncle Ben and I ran into Pete Patricelli this afternoon. I haven’t seen him in fifteen years. He said he’d seen you today. I didn’t know he had a brother who’d been in prison.”
“Oh,” I said casually, “it happened years ago. You were probably away at school. I never met Gus. He wasn’t living here when he got arrested the first time.”
Marisa frowned. “The only Patricelli I know is Marcella, Paul’s wife. She goes to Sunday Mass, but I rarely see Paul with her.”
“Paul doesn’t like to go anywhere,” I said, “especially to work. Marcella supports them with her alterations and tailoring business.”
Marisa nodded. “She’s very good.” She turned to Ben. “Enough about clothes. I want to hear more about your recent assignments.”
“Hey, Uncle Ben,” Adam said, “tell Ms. Foxx about taking those two eighty-year-old nuns to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”
My CC arrived. Ben regaled Marisa with what, under other circumstances, might’ve been an amusing tale about the elderly sisters who’d been huge Buddy Holly fans and had broken into song with “Peggy Sue” or one of Holly’s other big hits from back before I entered my teens. The double took the edge off my more perverse side, but it also made me sleepy. The salmon was dry, perhaps overcooked. When Marisa urged us to order dessert, I just wanted to go home and sleep.
“Please, Emma,” she begged, “I already told Ben—Father Ben—this was my treat. I don’t often get a chance to do something for the clergy.”
“That’s kind,” I said, “but I have to follow up on Troy Laskey, who may be moved back to Monroe tonight.”
Marisa looked puzzled. “Isn’t that where he should be?”
“Did I forget to mention the poor kid has pneumonia?”
She put a hand to her short blond hair. “If you did, I missed it.”
Ben nodded. “So did I.”
“My bad,” I muttered, picking up my purse. “Excuse me, I really have to go. I’ll see you at home, Adam.”
“Sure, Mom,” he said vaguely. “I
think I’ll skip the Eskimo pie. I wonder what that boysenberry cobbler is like?”
The good news was that I wasn’t drunk. The bad news was that I wasn’t drunk. The last time I’d been drunk was years ago when a clever killer had plied me with liquor. In October, while making drinks for Milo and me, I’d fallen down in my kitchen. I’d already been in a catfight with the town hooker at Safeway’s parking lot and I was pretty banged up. The sheriff had called Doc Dewey, who gave me a prescription for Demerol. The result was an extreme case of goofiness. It had not been a night to remember.
As relieved as I was to be home, once I took off my jacket, my log house felt empty. My eyes strayed to the armchair where Milo so often sat. Stop being a smitten adolescent. Act your age and tend to business.
I shook myself, sat on the sofa, and called the sheriff. “This is business,” I said when he answered.
“Business? Who’s there? The priests?”
“No, but they will be. Or at least Adam will. Where are you?”
“In the basement, going through my tackle box. Why?”
“I thought you might still be at work. What happened with Troy?”
“Damned if I know,” Milo replied. “The Monroe guys booted Mullins out of the hospital. Jack assumed—you got that?—assumed they were taking the kid back to the facility.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “Mitch and Brenda will be even worse than they are already. Can the Laskeys accompany Troy?”
“I don’t know,” Milo said. “I’m just a lowly county sheriff.”
“I wonder if I should try to get hold of them.”
“Give yourself a break. Oh—I had time to kill while I waited for Mullins to come back, so I went through Myrtle’s file. I knew I’d forgotten something. I’d had Art Fremstad—Donna Erlandson Wickstrom’s first husband—call out the dogs to get a trail on Myrtle after she left the neighbor’s house. They picked up a scent leading them along Carroll Creek. By ’88 the parcel of third-growth timber had been harvested two years earlier. Hang on. I dropped a lure.”