by Mary Daheim
“What about Troy?” I asked.
“He’s improving.” Leo shrugged. “Now what?”
Vida had removed her hat. “Does he know about Andrews?”
Leo nodded. “A PI type checked the local motels. The manager where they were staying didn’t cooperate and warned Mitch.”
“That puts us in a bind,” I murmured. “How are we for ads this coming week?”
Leo paused. “Over halfway to sixty-forty. All the post-holiday and pre-inventory sales help. Do I get to be Clark Kent or Jimmy Olsen?”
“Kip’s already Jimmy,” I said. “You’re Clark. When you’re not being Superadman. We’ll survive. It’s the long term that’s dicey.”
Leo grimaced. “Mitch is the best reporter we’ve had. An amoeba would’ve been better than Curtis Mayne, but still … where do we start?”
“Get more chairs and tell Kip we’re having a staff meeting.”
Leo went off to carry out his orders. Vida leaned toward me. “I’m taking on the sheriff’s office. I have a source there, after all.”
I cringed inwardly. Vida’s florid style didn’t fit hard news, but her dogged nosiness made up for her writing. If Kip could get Turk Durgan to cooperate, he could do a feature, maybe even another piece on how snowboarding had become the latest winter craze since the Salt Lake City Olympics. I’d keep tabs on Gus’s remains. It took almost an hour to share our information. Vida was agog; Kip was thrilled; Leo was bemused; Alison volunteered to take up any slack that was left over; I was uneasy, hoping we hadn’t seen the last of Mitch Laskey.
Adam agreed to pick me up at noon. He was fifteen minutes late.
“Where were you?” I demanded, getting into the car. “I’m freezing.”
“In thirty-five-degree weather? You’re a wuss, Mom. Try thirty-five below with a wind chill factor of minus fifty.”
“No thanks. What have you been doing?”
“I went to the mall, finding sale items for you to buy me. Before that, I made us turkey sandwiches. Check the cooler on the backseat.”
I looked over my shoulder. “Thanks,” I said humbly, and dug out my credit card. “Use this. You can pick up your needs and even a couple of wants. The local merchants will honor it for you. Take a right on Front and then a quick left onto the Burl Creek Road.”
“Thanks, Mom. You know I’ve never spent any of my inheritance on me. I never will.”
“You amaze me,” I said as we passed Old Mill Park, where Rudolph had returned. He seemed to be shivering in the chilling rain and wind.
“Where are we going?” Adam asked. “This part of town has changed since I sort of lived here during college breaks.”
“Thanks to the community college, it’s grown,” I said. “A few new houses along this route, Spence’s radio station—rebuilt since it was bombed—and of course the campus just ahead.”
“Nice setting in the forest,” Adam said as we went by KSKY and approached the college. “It looks like they’ve added some buildings.”
“They have,” I said. “The new fisheries classrooms open this spring. Slow down. We’re almost there. Turn right on the gravel road.”
He obeyed, stopping after fifty feet of the bumpy, crunchy ride. “What a dump.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” I said. “The Eversons live next to it.”
“In a dump?”
“No, they have a nice house.” The last time I’d been here, Milo had found the Pikes dead in their old truck. He wouldn’t let me look, which was just as well. The area near the river was much the same—just covered with a more recent layer of trash.
“Why are we here?” Adam asked after getting the cooler from the backseat and giving me my sandwich along with a bag of potato chips. “This is fun and all that, but as a tourist stop, it’s kind of bleak.”
“What would you say if I told you Myrtle’s buried here?”
Adam took me seriously, but didn’t speak until he’d taken a bite of sandwich. “I’d say you have a reason for thinking that. Is this county property?”
“Yes. There was a house here years ago, but it was torn down or abandoned. At some point, there was a property dispute. Myrtle claimed the adjacent land belonged to her. Judge Krogstad ruled otherwise. The land reverted to the county and people began using it for garbage.”
I waited for Adam’s reaction, which came after he swallowed some of his sandwich. “He killed her over the dispute? Or they became lovers while it was being sorted out?”
“The latter, I’m guessing. I doubt she wrote those poems to get a favorable ruling. Rejected love is a good motive for murder. If he did kill her, how fitting would it be for him to bury her body here?”
Adam nodded. “I haven’t been a priest that long, but I’ve already run into some grim stuff.” He shook his head. “What now?”
I paused to eat a potato chip. “It’ll take sniffer dogs to find Myrtle—if she’s here. When last seen, she was headed for home, where Roy and Bebe live now. In his few semilucid moments, Harold asks his son, Don, if she’s come home. No one ever saw her again, so I doubt she ever left. The empty berry bucket she had with her when she called on her neighbor, Mrs. Roberson, was never found. No berries, either.”
“So she never went after … what? Blackberries?”
“She may have started out to pick them in the area on Mount Sawyer where Gus’s body was found. Milo went over his notes and Myrtle apparently got as far as the creek. The search dogs lost her scent at that point. Somebody may’ve stopped her.”
Adam grimaced. “Harold?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. There are several ways it could’ve played out. Mrs. Roberson was no Vida when it came to keeping tabs on her neighbors. Even now, the only full view of the Everson house is from what used to belong to the Robersons. If Harold showed up there, he wasn’t spotted.”
“What about Mrs. Krogstad?” Adam asked. “Was she jealous?”
“I’ve no idea,” I admitted. “Whoever killed Myrtle would’ve had to carry her here and do some serious digging. Risky, too. But the judge was undoubtedly upset by her break-up note. I figure they quarreled and …” I shrugged. “It’d serve no purpose to charge him, but if Myrtle’s remains were found, the family could finally stop searching.”
“Nobody would have to know she was murdered,” Adam said.
“So much time has passed that they probably couldn’t tell. I wonder if Spence’s sister sensed what happened. Marsha clerked for the judge. After he got gaga, she may’ve tried to discuss pending cases she had to take on. Maybe he let something slip. I can’t think why else she’d keep the poems. If Myrtle was found, Spence would have a hot story.”
“Let the almost dead bury their dead,” he murmured, finishing his sandwich. “Where to?”
“The newspaper,” I said.
Adam reversed onto the road. “You’d share the story with Spence … Whoa!” He swerved as a vehicle raced past us. “Is that Dodge?”
“Yes. Skip my office,” I said, seeing the red light flash as the Cherokee disappeared from view. “Take me to the sheriff.”
FIFTEEN
AS WE DROVE ALONG FRONT STREET TOWARD THE SHERIFF’S headquarters, I noticed that Milo’s usual space was vacant. God help anyone who parked in it when he wasn’t around. He’d arrest me if I did it.
But I was undaunted. “Pull in,” I told Adam.
“Mom! It says, ‘No Parking, Skykomish—’ ”
“Do it.”
“Jeez.” Adam had overshot the space, so he had to back up before pulling in. “I’m not sitting here to get busted,” he said as I opened the door. “You’re on your own.”
“I usually am.” I exited the car without falling down.
“Oh, no,” Sam said as I came through the door. “Who the hell pulled into Dodge’s spot? That’s a four-hundred-buck fine.”
“Stick it, Sam, it was a dump-and-drive,” I said, making sure Adam had reversed onto Front. “What’s going on?”
“Can
’t say.” Sam looked smug as he strolled to the coffeemaker.
The only other person in sight was Lori, who offered me a kindly glance and leaned over the counter. “You better go, Emma.”
“No,” I said, sitting in one of the chairs by the entrance.
Lori turned, watching Sam disappear down the hall. “Really,” she said earnestly. “You shouldn’t be here. There’s a big bust going down.”
“Are you talking about Mrs. Runkel?”
Lori had lost her sense of humor. “No. I mean it.”
Alarmed, I stood up. “Mitch Laskey?”
Lori shook her head. “Why would … Please, Emma.”
I was torn. If something big was happening, I should be on the spot. But Lori wasn’t fanciful or an alarmist. On the other hand, Spence might show up at any moment. Even if we were working on the same story angle, he’d gloat if he got the breaking news first.
I compromised. “Can I wait in the sheriff’s office?”
Lori looked uneasy and paused, probably picturing the scenario. “Okay,” she finally said, “but lock the door so nobody sees you. I’ll tell you when the coast is clear.”
“Lori … Okay.” I obeyed, locking the door behind me. A minute later, I unlocked it. I could still peek. There’d once been a window, but it’d been removed during the remodel and replaced with a skylight. Now that was also gone, because it had leaked. My watch said one-ten. I wandered to the sheriff’s side of the desk. Prying was part of my job, but I refused to invade Milo’s privacy. Still, I couldn’t help seeing what was in plain sight on the legal-sized tablet he used for taking notes. He had decent, and, like the rest of him, big, handwriting: “paper frags”; “medal”; “JB”; “DK—wood”; “CGA—KingCo/SPD.” The last entry was probably Charles G. Andrews. Milo must be checking on him through his KingCo and Seattle Police Department liaisons.
Except for the medal, I stopped guessing and moved back to the door. It was one-twenty. All was quiet. I felt antsy. After pacing and fussing for fifteen minutes, I heard raised voices. I tried to turn the lock—and couldn’t. Maybe Lori hadn’t locked it in the first place, but I had. Locks and keys were never my strong suit. Maybe the damned thing was stuck. Why hadn’t I alerted Vida or Kip? We should get a photo taken outside instead of violating the sheriff’s sacred premises. Maybe it wasn’t too late. I dug out my cell and called Kip, who sounded confused.
“But if you’re already there …”
“Just do it.” After hanging up, I went to the door, but caught only occasional words, including barked orders from Milo. Then I heard a woman’s voice—not Lori or Doe. A moment later, a baby cried. The sheriff was arresting infants? Visions of tiny pink or blue handcuffs danced in my head. The cries faded away. Five more minutes passed. I called Kip again. Alison answered. I asked if Kip was still gone. She said he’d never left. Vida was taking the pictures. I slumped against the door. “Where is she now?”
“Not back,” Alison said. “Excuse me, Emma. The mayor’s here.”
Still leaning against the door, I stared at the ceiling. The noise had died down. Then I heard Milo cussing, followed by a shriek from Lori. The door opened, knocking me into the wall. The sheriff stalked on by, going to his desk and rummaging in a drawer while I winced in pain. Maybe he won’t see me, I thought frantically.
But he did. “For chrissakes! What the hell are you doing?”
I couldn’t speak. I was too humiliated. And in pain. Milo would calm down, he’d haul me off the wall, he’d …
But he only shook his head, pocketed the cigarette pack he’d gotten out of the drawer, and strode past me. I was left to face Vida, who was just as stupefied as the sheriff had been.
“Emma! No wonder Milo is angry. What are you doing?”
I staggered over to the nearest chair and sat down. “My job,” I said, grimacing. “What’s happening?”
“If,” she said severely, “you were doing your job, you wouldn’t have to ask. Goodness, you look dreadful. Why are you in here?”
“Lori told me I shouldn’t be, but I don’t know why.”
Vida sat in the other visitor’s chair. “Lori followed Milo’s orders.”
“Huh?”
“The maple poachers’ arrest,” she said. “I took photos outside. Kip was coping with a computer problem. You know how he is when that happens. His brain only works on a tech level.”
“And the poachers are …?” I asked, not really caring at this point.
“Oh!” Vida clasped a hand to her unruly gray curls. “Your neighbors, the Nelsons—Doyle and Laverne. And their eldest son, Luke.”
“The Nelsons?” I echoed.
“I have no details, but Milo put it together after your fire.”
“What did my fire have to do with it?”
“I don’t know, except it was something he saw at the Nelson house when he was questioning the neighbors. Billy couldn’t talk because he was responsible for bringing in Luke Nelson along with his wife, Sofia, and their baby, Chloe.”
“What’s Chloe being charged with?”
“Being too chubby for six months,” Vida said. “Poor parenting skills. I don’t think Sofia is under arrest, but she insisted on coming with Luke and they couldn’t leave the baby.” She glanced out through the door and stood up. “Here’s Spencer. Yoo-hoo!”
“Oh, please!” I groaned. “I want to get out of here.”
“I’ll stay,” Vida said, getting to her feet. “Hello, Spencer.”
Mr. Radio kissed Vida’s hand. “An unexpected surprise. Who’s the waif with you? She looks like she was mauled by the resident bear.”
“It was a door, jackass,” I said, limping to collect my purse.
Vida simpered and withdrew her hand. “Emma’s accident-prone.”
I got around Spence without stomping on his foot. Lori, Dustin, and Sam were conferring at the counter. I ignored them. It was all I could do to limp back to the Advocate as snowflakes drifted down.
Mayor Baugh had grown tired of waiting for me. I grabbed some bottled water from the stash under the coffee table. Rolling up my sweater sleeve, I saw a bruise on my left arm from where the sheriff’s door had hit me. Vida returned just as I swallowed two Excedrin. I confronted her midway across the newsroom. “What’s the charge against the Nelsons and why shouldn’t I have been there?”
She slipped out of her tweed coat and sat down. “Dwight and Doe brought in the two younger Nelsons in connection with your fire. Billy thinks they set it in revenge for their arrest in the Pines burglaries. Living next door, they know you and Milo are … friends. He didn’t want you there because he was afraid they might do something awful to you.”
“Like hit me with a door?”
“Now, now. Milo didn’t know you were in his office.”
“How come those kids weren’t already locked up?”
“Bail was posted on the burglary charge. The boys hid at home while their parents were away. Dwight and Doe just picked them up.”
“So I missed all the excitement.” I stared at Vida. “Who posted bail for them? They don’t have any money.”
“I’ve no idea,” she retorted. “I was vexed because I couldn’t take pictures of the younger Nelsons. The older one looks eighteen to me, though he insists he’s not. I know the younger one is sixteen. Imagine leaving them unsupervised, especially at Christmas! And you’ll never guess where Doyle and Laverne were found! With the Krogstads!”
“So they were hiding those crooks from us when we went there? Don’t tell me the Krogstads are crooks?”
“They’re family,” Vida said. “Dee and Laverne are cousins. Dee’s a weaver who also makes loom parts. Dee works with maple. She’s been buying it—innocently, I hope—from Doyle Nelson. He and Laverne claimed their roof leaks, but I assume they were lying low. Perhaps they were afraid your artist saw them cutting the maples before he was shot. I suspect the Nelsons rarely read the Advocate and didn’t know there wasn’t any connection between the poaching and the sh
ooting.”
I shook my head in dismay. “I hope they all serve time.”
“Awkward, if so,” Vida murmured. “You’ll have to testify against them. No wonder poor Milo was so concerned.”
“Poor Milo, my ass! He almost killed me. What about poor me?”
Vida shot me a disgusted look. “Emma, your language has become very coarse lately.”
I held my head. “I’m frazzled. Too much has gone on …”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Too much indeed. The Cobbs, holding Alfred’s funeral on New Year’s Eve Day with such short notice! I can only imagine how long it’ll take the Patricellis to figure out what to do about Gus. They’ll probably wait until Matt gets here from Yakima.”
“Matt?” I said stupidly.
“Yes, the eldest. I’ve told you about him. He’s the banker.”
I remembered Milo mentioning the eldest Patricelli brother. “Oh, right,” I murmured as inspiration hit. “I’d better get to work.”
“You should,” Vida said, once again forgetting who ran the paper.
I immediately called Pete, asking for Matt’s work number. He was in a rush, but had memorized the information. I dialed the Yakima Wells Fargo office and was transferred to Matt. I introduced myself and offered my condolences. Matt accepted graciously. Then I cut to the chase. “Along with the investigation concerning Gus, there’s a second situation that I’m covering for the paper. Do you recall an accident with a young man and a Good Humor wagon a year ago around Labor Day?”
“Oh, that was terrible,” Matt said dolefully. “A poor kid got hit and it turned out the Good Humor driver was a drug dealer. It happened only two blocks from the bank, and when I heard the sirens, I went out to see what was going on. Medics, cops, firefighters, and that poor little boy lying in the middle of the street. I said a whole rosary on the spot.”
“Did you know the child?”
“No,” Matt replied. “I heard later that the family was passing through on their way to Lake Coeur d’Alene. They stopped to get gas and the boy wanted to buy a comic book across the street. He ran between parked cars instead of using the crosswalk at the corner. It wasn’t really the driver’s fault, but the cops could see the guy was high.”