by Mary Daheim
While mixing pancake batter, I related the Bellevue standoff saga.
“That’s horrific,” Adam said when I’d finished. “You must’ve almost lost it while that went down on TV.”
“I actually passed out at one point,” I admitted.
“Were you alone?”
“No,” I said. “Believe it or not, I was here with … oh, God!” I said under my breath as I heard a mellifluous voice call my name from the living room. Milo must have forgotten to lock the door behind him. “Speak of the devil. It’s Fleetwood. Tell him I’m dead.”
Adam left the kitchen. I heard him say good morning. I heard Spence ask for me. I heard Adam tell him I was dead. I heard Spence laugh. And then he was in the kitchen, obviously amused.
“You’ve looked better, but you’re able to move,” he said. “Is that pancake batter? A great favorite of mine.”
“Go away. My son will eat all of it. He’s one hungry priest.”
“Ah!” Spence cried, offering Adam his hand. “I thought you’d dumped the brutal sheriff to take a young lover. How do you do, Father?”
Adam seemed reluctant to shake hands, but he gave in. “Hi. Nice to meet you.” He turned to me. “I’m heading for the showers after all, Mom.” He made a hasty exit. I didn’t know if my son was chicken or afraid he might break Spence’s nose.
Spence leaned against the fridge. “Thoughtless of you to have a fire before I woke up. Don’t worry, I got it on our first newscast at six.”
“You’re a real jerk,” I said. “I’m not putting it online. It’ll be in the log, no name, just an address, and not until next week.”
Spence’s expression grew serious. “You’re damned lucky, Emma. You really could be dead. What happened?”
“See for yourself,” I said. “I haven’t had the nerve to look yet.”
He opened the door and went into the carport. “Come on. It’s not too bad. Your car needs washing, though.”
I gritted my teeth and joined him. The scorching on the cabin’s logs was ugly. A lingering odor of kerosene hung on the cool morning air. The concrete floor was a mess of wet pulp, apparently from the paper that had helped start the fire. My car definitely needed a bath. It would’ve been nice if the firefighters had hosed it down before they left. Ashes covered part of the windshield and the hood. The fireplace wood had suffered the most, but it was going to be burned up eventually. I should be grateful that nothing worse had happened.
“How much of a deductible have you got?” Spence asked.
“It’s either five hundred or a grand,” I said. “I have to call Brendan Shaw.”
Mr. Radio followed me back inside. “How do you think it started?”
“Ask the sheriff.”
“No thanks.” He took out one of his imported black cigarettes. “Anything new on Laskey?”
“Sadly, no.”
He flicked ash in the sink. “Do I get pancakes?”
“Dodge is coming to breakfast.”
“The sheriff and the priest.” Spence inhaled and blew smoke rings. “If I stayed, what could possibly go wrong?”
I put two skillets on the stove. “My brother may stop by.”
“Good Lord, woman, why not call in the Marines, too?”
“The Gulf War chopper pilot just left,” I said, filling one skillet with rashers of bacon. Adam reappeared, giving Spence a curious glance.
Mr. Radio held up a hand. “I’m leaving, Father. Mother Lord has rejected my latest attempts to seduce her.” Spence left, whistling.
“That guy’s so phony I almost like him,” Adam said. “You ever …?”
“No!” I shook my head. “He’s not a bad guy. Spence has carried some heavy baggage along the airwaves of life.”
“Most do,” Adam allowed. “Did Vida finish the orange juice?”
“She only had one drink.” The phone rang. “Can you grab that?”
Adam shut the fridge before going to the living room. I couldn’t hear a word over the clatter of freeing my griddle from the stove’s drawer.
“Who was that?” I asked when he returned almost immediately.
“The sheriff canceled his pancakes,” Adam said. “He’s on the job.”
“Oh.” I looked at the stove’s clock, which displayed 6:44. “I wonder what’s going on. And don’t ask if I can wheedle it out of him. When it comes to his job, Milo is impervious to my charms.”
“Is that why you guys fight and make up and fight and …”
“Can it. Just sit there and eat your pancakes.”
He ate almost all of them. If the sheriff had shown up, I’d have ended up with toast. I asked my son what he ate in Alaska. He insisted he did just fine, but I envisioned him stalking a bear for breakfast or fishing ice floes for undersized pike.
My son said he’d drive me to work, then return to wash my car and clean the carport. Despite his stated relief that I finally had a man around to ensure I could—usually—walk and talk at the same time without incident, it felt nice to have Adam do something for ol’ Mom.
Vida practically assaulted me when I came through the door. “Emma! How could I not know what happened until I turned on KSKY as I drove to work! Spencer said you had a fire!”
I glanced at my watch. It was eight-ten. “My chauffeur was late. He had to say his prayers.”
“Your … oh! Adam, of course.” Vida and Alison exchanged quick glances. “How did the fire start? Spencer didn’t state the cause.”
“It’s being investigated. We’ve got a busy day ahead. Who has the bakery run?” I’d forgotten, with Mitch out of the rotation.
“I do,” Alison said. “I mean, I already did.”
I smiled at her. “We’re going to miss you.”
“Maybe you won’t have to,” she said. “Ginny called a few minutes ago to say she was thinking about part-time. Between the two of us, we might be able to make that work. My classes are mornings only.”
I considered my options. “That’s a possibility. As you know, Amanda Hanson’s my fallback person.”
“Amanda’s pregnant,” Alison said.
“What?” I shrieked.
“I heard it last night,” Alison said. “In fact, she only found out late yesterday. After trying so long, she thought it was a false—”
“Good grief!” Vida cried. “Why didn’t Marje tell me?”
“Because her rear end hurts?” I suggested.
“She’s lucky I don’t make it worse,” Vida muttered, standing in the doorway. “No excuse. Unless she tried to call me while I was out, but didn’t leave a message. When?” she demanded of Alison.
“When?” Alison looked startled. “Oh—the due date. Early July.”
“Well now.” Vida reflected briefly before going to her desk.
Leo came out of the back shop. “What’s the commotion?”
“Amanda and Walt Hanson got the key to the parent trap,” I said.
Leo raised his eyebrows. “You mean the kid Roger …”
I shook my head. “No. They did it on their own.”
“You scared me,” he murmured, heading into the newsroom.
I turned back to Alison. “No word from Mitch?”
She glumly shook her head. “Poor man.”
Kip joined us, looking fresher than he had the previous morning. “That’s awful about your fire. You want me to post it on the website?”
“No. At least not yet,” I amended. “Let’s wait for the official cause.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll clean up the mess out back. Our trash got trashed last night. There’s stuff all over, almost to Railroad Avenue.”
“Go for it,” I said, heading toward Vida’s desk.
“Here,” I said, digging the manila envelope out of my purse. “When you get time, let me know what you make of these.”
Vida pounced. “I have time now.” She peeked into the envelope and sniffed. “Jasmine? My, my.” Her eyebrows lifted as she carefully removed the fragile pages. “Poems? Harold? Myrtle? W
ell now!”
I left her to the task. Pouring coffee and selecting a maple bar, I went into my cubbyhole to fortify myself before doing Mitch’s run to the sheriff’s office. It wasn’t quite eight-thirty, but it was now or never.
The rain had stopped and the clouds had lifted. I could see the crests of Mount Baldy on one side of the street and Mount Sawyer on the other. Yet the same wind sending the clouds away had a cold bite as it blew through the valley of the Sky. I walked faster, crossing Third.
“He’s not here,” Sam Heppner said with what sounded like uncustomary pleasure.
“Who?” I asked. “Dwight Gould?”
“He’s not here, either,” Sam said, reverting to his usual sour self.
Lori Cobb, however, was in place. I turned to her. “How are you?”
“Okay.” She smiled wanly. “I sent Mrs. Runkel the details about Grandpa’s funeral for your website. It’s at the Baptist church tomorrow, one o’clock. Short notice, but it was hard to get the family to agree.”
“She’ll be there,” I said. “I’ll try to go, but we’re shorthanded.”
Bill Blatt, who had been on the phone, wished me good morning.
“Where is everybody?” I asked him.
Sam answered first. “Working,” he said, looking down at me. “We’re making up for lost time.”
“Where did you lose it?” I asked innocently.
Sam glared at me. “According to the boss, we didn’t do jack while he was in Bellevue holding his kid’s hand. Serves him right for leaving Dwight in charge. It would’ve helped if Dodge had tended to business after he got back …”
Bill mercifully intervened. “Come on, Sam, Dwight has seniority. The boss made the right call. Don’t bleed all over the citizenry.”
Sam’s allusion to Milo’s defection on Monday afternoon rankled, but I refused to even look at him. Instead, I studied the log. No names of the juveniles in the Rudolph caper or The Pines burglary bust. “How come my fire isn’t here?” I asked, addressing the question to Bill, who would at least be civil.
“Dodge hasn’t seen Ernie Holt’s report yet,” Bill said. “You know the boss … I mean, you know how he works. Not logged until it’s official.”
“No problem,” I said. “Deadline is past,” I added, in case the deputies, like their boss, had forgotten. “I’m done here.”
I made my exit, vowing that if I had to put up with any more guff from the deputies while Mitch was AWOL, I’d let Vida check the log.
As soon as I entered the newsroom, Vida waved the manila envelope at me. “I’m stunned. We must talk.” She got up, not waiting for me to lead the way into my cubbyhole. “I confess I never took those rumors about Myrtle and the judge seriously. How did you get these?”
I explained about Spence’s sister, Marsha. Vida was perplexed. “Why would she bother? I remember his retired-Alpiners series. I helped Spencer put it together. But there’s no way he could have used these poems on the air without a scandal. There’s more to it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marsha Foster-Klein’s unsentimental,” Vida explained. “Not the sort to save old love poems and pass them on to her brother without a reason. And the note Myrtle sent is ominous.”
I nodded. “My reaction, too. I didn’t know Judge Krogstad. Is it possible he had a violent streak?”
Vida put her elbow on my desk and rested her forehead on her hand. “I shouldn’t think so. In his prime, he was the most judicious of men—as well he should be. He barely made deadlines to hand down rulings. I never heard of him losing his temper in court despite ample provocation. The word describing him best is ‘dispassionate.’ ”
“Except when it came to Myrtle,” I noted.
Vida was dubious. “I can’t imagine him in the throes of passion. Marsha wasn’t here for much more than two years. I’m thinking bones, of course. She left around the turn of this century. I believe her last day on the bench was New Year’s Eve, 1999. Now let me think …”
I always wondered how the machinations in Vida’s head worked. I pictured tiny versions of her scampering all over Alpine, peeking in windows, poking in corners, picking up the phone, recalling every sight, sound, and sensibility along the way.
“Yes,” she finally said. “That October, while you and Ben were in Italy, one of the Overholts found some bones when they were working in their pumpkin patch. The Eversons were all agog, but it turned out to be several cats, a litter perhaps. Marsha probably heard about it because—being so close to Halloween and black cats—I put it in ‘Scene.’ ”
I was puzzled. “So she’d wonder about Harold’s connection to Myrtle? How would she know from a ‘Scene’ mention?”
“She wouldn’t,” Vida said. “I made no reference to Myrtle, but there was the usual buzz in town. Who knows what else Marsha might have found while taking Harold’s place? Maybe she saved the poems because she had her own suspicions. In her position, especially since she was leaving town, she wouldn’t want to get involved. Much better to hand them over to her brother, since he’s in the media.”
“And not tell him why?”
Vida shrugged. “Marsha is a brusque sort of person. She probably felt there was no need unless the whole situation resurfaced.”
“And now it has,” I murmured as my phone rang.
Vida left as I took the call. “Dodge is here,” Adam said. “He won’t let me wash your car.”
“Why? Does he think you won’t do a good job?”
“No, it’s not that,” Adam said. “He says it’s evidence and he’s impounding it. In fact, there it goes now.”
“What?” I was flummoxed. “Did he say anything?”
“No. He told me to beat it. Then he and Gould did whatever.”
“At least you can clean the carport.”
“No, I can’t. Dodge put crime-scene tape around it.”
“Damn! He isn’t about to cuff you, is he?”
“I don’t think so. He just left.”
I sighed. “I shouldn’t be annoyed. He’s doing his job. What are you going to do, or are you under house arrest?”
“I’m monitoring Jorge and the villagers. Hey—that sounds like a band. I’ll alert you if Fleetwood stops by to do a remote for KSKY.”
I hung up, but the phone rang again before I could get more coffee.
It was my nice neighbor, Viv Marsden. “Are you okay?” she asked. “I know your son’s with you, so I didn’t want to be a pest.”
I assured her I was fine. “Thankfully, the damage was minimal. Something woke up Adam just after the fire started.”
“That was lucky,” Viv said. “I was questioned by the sheriff. So were the other neighbors. Dodge took our side of the street and one of his sourpuss deputies took the other.”
“What did the sheriff quiz you about?”
“If we’d heard or seen anything odd,” Viv said. “Val and I didn’t wake up until we heard the sirens. I’ve talked to some of the other neighbors, but none of them were awake, either. I haven’t seen the Nelsons since before Christmas. Is it true their younger kids were arrested for burglary?”
The grapevine was working efficiently. “Yes, at The Pines.”
“Maybe Laverne and Doyle went out of town for Christmas. He’s been unemployed since Jack Blackwell fired him from the mill.”
Both men were at the bottom of my “Favorite Alpiners” list. Viv and I wished each other a better day and rang off.
My phone rang yet again. The voice was aggravatingly familiar. “You,” Rolf Fisher said, “are an ungrateful wench. Could you not give me the courtesy of a merci in some form of communication?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve been busy. Thank you.”
“That’s it?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?”
“It’s not enough. Picture the Loire Valley in this beautiful, brumal season. Darkness falls on my quaint cottage among the barren trees. The mist settles on the starkly withered grasses lining t
he riverbank.”
“You’re writing a book, aren’t you?”
“Whatever I’m doing, I’m doing it without you.” He sounded almost serious. “What’s wrong, Emma? You can’t bother to be polite?”
“I’m really busy. Ben and Adam are here. I apologize, Rolf. I’m …”
I looked up. The sheriff was leaning against the doorjamb. “Oh! Emergency! I have to hang up.” I fumbled trying to disconnect—and dropped the phone on the desk.
Milo snatched the receiver. “Listen up, Fisher. If you ever call Emma again, I’ll arrest you for harassment and throw away the key.” He slammed the phone down and glared at me. “What was that about?”
“He called me,” I said, in a pale imitation of my real voice. “I never thanked him for the gift basket. I forgot. You threw it out. Except for some cheese. And please stop glaring at me like that.”
The sheriff straightened up. “Sorry.” He looked sheepish. “I forgot I was the jealous type.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, feeling more like me. “Rolf’s a jerk. Tell me about my car, my carport, my … Why aren’t you eating a bear claw?” Today’s pastries included Milo’s favorite.
“I already did while I was talking to Walsh.”
“Have you had breakfast?”
“The bear claw was breakfast. I’ll grab one more on my way out.”
“Why are you here?”
“I guess I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I am. I’m tougher than I look.”
“No, you’re not.” He sighed. “Don’t ask about the fire, okay? I’m still working on it. I’ll see you later.” He wheeled around and left.
Ten minutes later, Alison brought my mail. “Late again,” she said. “Marlowe Whipp says they’re still backed up. Any news on Mr. Everson?”
I told her to ask Vida. I needed more coffee—and a nap. The early-morning drama and lack of sleep had caught up with me.
Leo met me in the newsroom. “Mitch called while you were on the phone,” he said.
Vida looked up so fast that her red-and-blue-striped pillbox almost fell off. “What? Where is he? What did he say?” She seemed poised to vault across the space between her desk and Leo’s.
“On the lam,” he replied. “Brenda’s in a bad way, so he’s taking her someplace and didn’t say where. He apologized for leaving us in the lurch. I told him to wait to talk to you, but he couldn’t.”