by Mary Daheim
Vida turned to gaze at me. She chuckled very softly. “Except to Chelan.”
We drove through stands of western hemlock, cottonwoods, and cedar. Tall foxgloves waved in the wind and glossy-leafed salal grew in big green clumps. There were ferns everywhere, and cattails, slim and straight.
I didn’t reply to Vida. I didn’t have to.
It was almost six-thirty when I dropped Vida off at her house. On a whim, I turned left instead of right on Spruce Street. Marlow Whipp’s small store was still open, as I had hoped.
Marlow, however, gave a start when I entered. He peered at me as if I were a stranger, and in a sense, I was. I had never been in the store until now, and though I might have seen Marlow around town, my first real look at him had come on the night of Kelvin Greene’s murder.
“How can I help you?” Marlow asked, moving a bit uneasily behind the counter.
The store was very small, with a minimal stock of just about everything. He had cans of soup, toothpaste, butter, ice cream, toilet paper, macaroni, pet food, pantyhose, eggs, beer, tuna, candy, gum, and cigarettes. He even had three small tins of pâté, though I guessed they had been on the shelf since the Reagan era. The only concession to modern marketing was a gleaming brass espresso machine that I guessed was newly installed. I hadn’t noticed a sign advertising Marlow’s innovation, though I assumed it could improve business. I made a mental note to mention it to Ed Bronsky.
I introduced myself, reminding him that we had encountered, if not met, the previous Friday. Marlow put a hand to his faded brown hair.
“Oh! That was terrible! Can you imagine? A guy like that comes in here and dies?”
I put on my most innocent air. “A guy like … what?”
Marlow swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down above the undershirt that showed beneath his plaid flannel. “Well … a black guy, a stranger, a person who wouldn’t normally come here.” He waved his hands in a helpless gesture.
“Did you think he was going to rob you?” I heard the wry note in my voice, but Marlow didn’t seem to notice.
“I didn’t know what to think.” Marlow shook his head. “I didn’t have much time to think at all. He walked in and sort of staggered.” Marlow pointed to an old-fashioned barrel near the door where he kept his hard candy. “He fell against that, and then came forward. He tried to say something, but he never got it out. Then kerplunk—he landed facedown right where you’re standing!”
I glanced at the worn floorboards. If Milo had made an outline of the body, it was now gone. “Why do you think he came here?” I inquired.
Marlow looked genuinely mystified by the question. “Why? Well, why not? I mean, where else would he go that time of night?”
“A house?” I suggested. “There’s a house next door, there are houses all over the place, at least on this side of Spruce. And wasn’t there activity at the high school field across the street? If the man wanted help, why not go there?”
It appeared that the thought had never occurred to Marlow Whipp. But instead of considering it, he leaned one elbow on the counter and his blue eyes grew wary. “So what are you trying to say, Mrs. Lord?”
I wasn’t sure. I suppose I’d been trying to flesh out the scenario. It appeared that Kelvin Greene had been shot at the cemetery, right by Axel Swensen’s newly dug grave. If that was true, then Kelvin might have stumbled from the cemetery, up the service road to Spruce, crossed Seventh Street, and seen the sign for the grocery store. Would a dying black man be sufficiently rational to realize that he might not receive help from a private residence in a small town like Alpine? Was that why Kelvin Greene had sought sanctuary in a more public place? Maybe he had merely wanted to be sure that someone was on hand to give him aid. I tried to summarize my thoughts for Marlow Whipp.
Marlow, however, wasn’t in a speculative mood. “Who said he got shot at the cemetery? It didn’t say so in your newspaper. I figure somebody plugged him up in the woods. Hell, it could have been an accident. You know how it is with some of those guys and their guns. They’ll shoot at anything that moves. A black guy like that probably looked like a bear.”
I didn’t bother to keep from rolling my eyes. Marlow slapped his hand on a post that was decorated with cans of chewing tobacco. “Hell, Mrs. Lord, what are you getting at? The only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t shoot the son of a bitch, and I never saw him before in my life. I told Dodge that, and he believes me. Now why don’t you all go away and leave me alone?” Marlow’s voice was somewhere between a rasp and a whine.
Giving Marlow a flinty smile, I nodded at the espresso machine. “I wouldn’t mind taking a cup home with me. Can you do a mocha?”
Marlow stared at the big brass vat as if he’d never seen it before. “A mocha? I don’t know…. I’m just learning how to run that rig. The principal at the high school talked me into it. He swears the teachers—and some of the kids—will go nuts for it.”
“They will,” I assured him. “It should perk up your business. So to speak.” I kept a straight face, certain Marlow would miss the unintended pun.
He did. “Yeah, maybe. I do all right. You’d be surprised how much candy and gum those kids buy.”
“And beer and cigarettes?” I added, now giving him a conspiratorial smile.
Marlow ducked his head. “Well … cigarettes, maybe. Some of them are eighteen. I don’t encourage them and I don’t smoke myself. Never did. But I can’t turn them away if they’re of age.”
I let the lie pass. I also passed on waiting for Marlow to figure out how to make a mocha. But I did buy some gum and a pound of butter. The butter cost almost half again as much as I would have paid at the Grocery Basket or Safeway.
Still, I wondered how Marlow Whipp stayed in business. I also wondered if Milo Dodge wondered. And then I wondered why it mattered. I drove home, still wondering.
Vida was giving a dinner party. “Just us girls,” she announced Thursday morning while Ginny and Carla fussed with the coffeemaker. “We four, plus Libby Boyd, Marilynn Lewis, and Cyndi Campbell. Friday, seven-thirty.”
I had misgivings about Libby and Marilynn at the same dinner table, but I couldn’t say why. So I kept my mouth shut. Carla, however, did not.
“I may be going in to Seattle Friday night,” she said, flipping her long black hair over her shoulders. “Peyts wants to have dinner at that new restaurant on the water. Palisades or something?”
Vida shrugged. “In that case, I won’t invite Libby. I was only doing that so she wouldn’t feel excluded. Did you say she had a beau? Where is he—Seattle?”
Carla was fiddling with a fingernail. “What? She doesn’t talk about him much. Libby’s private. She had a rough youth. I think she obsesses about being respectable. Don’t get her started on her parents, though. She says they were total potheads, always protesting something and being thrown in jail.” Getting an emery board out of her desk, she began filing away. “Of course, I don’t see her that much. She works weird hours.”
“Good,” Vida declared. “Then you won’t get sick of each other. It’s important for roommates to be independent.”
Ed arrived late, but filled with good intentions. “I got four inches instead of two out of the pet store this week. They’re introducing a new line of dog and cat food. Henry Bardeen up at the ski lodge has a summer promotion, including a special for the restaurant. There’s a rumor Payless may be coming in. Shall I check it out?”
Overcome by Ed’s burst of energy, I practically reeled around the news office. “Gosh, Ed, why not? We should probably start in on the Fourth of July insert, too.”
“Right-o,” Ed agreed, wedging himself into his chair. He started humming. Dazed, I headed for my office, but was stopped by the sound of Todd Wilson’s voice. He had arrived in the company of Francine Wells, who had come to see Ed about yet another ad. Todd, however, was calling on Carla. The PUD was doing maintenance work the last week of May, and there would be some limited power outages. Todd wanted to m
ake sure that their customers were forewarned.
I listened to hear if my address was included. It wasn’t, but Vida’s home was among those that would be without electricity for almost three hours on May twenty-eighth. Luckily, it was during the day when she’d be at work.
“I better not lose anything in my freezer,” she warned Todd.
“You shouldn’t,” Todd assured her, “except maybe ice cream. That’s why we warn people.” He gave her a big smile.
“Ice cream!” Vida exclaimed. “That’s Roger’s birthday! Now I’ll have to shop on my way home! Really, Todd, you could have picked a better day!”
Todd was still smiling. “It can’t be helped, Mrs. Runkel. If you want to file a complaint, wait until after June eleventh. I’ll be in Europe then.”
Vida stared at Todd over the rims of her glasses. “I thought it was your in-laws who were going to Europe,” she said.
“They are, later in the summer.” Todd looked very pleased with himself. “But Wendy and I decided we needed a getaway as soon as school was out. We’re heading for Greece and Italy for a month.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey—it’s almost nine. I’ve got a meeting. See you.”
Ed was still conferring with Francine Wells. Carla had resumed filing her nails. Ginny was checking the coffeemaker which seemed to have stalled on us. Vida was sitting with her chin on her fists, staring at the door that had closed behind Todd Wilson.
“Greece and Italy for a month?” Vida rubbed furiously at her eyes. “Now that’s ridiculous! Todd only gets two weeks’ vacation. What’s he doing, taking a leave?”
Francine’s perfectly coiffed head raised from the dummy she had been studying with Ed. “I could have told you about their trip,” she said, obviously pleased to know something Vida didn’t. “Wendy was in the shop yesterday buying me out. She must be taking a steamer trunk.”
Vida’s gaze darted from Francine to me and back again. “Did she spend more than a thousand dollars?”
Francine feigned shock. “Vida—you know I can’t tell you how much a customer spends!” She winked in an exaggerated manner. “Let’s say you’re lowballing me by about a third.”
Disgusted, Vida swung around in her chair. “Oh, good heavens! And I thought I knew the biggest fools in town!” She gave me another quick look. I was beginning to feel less guilty, not only about the money I’d blown, but about not spending it with Francine.
“She must have gotten some nice things,” I said in a weak voice.
Francine nodded. “She did. But Wendy’s hard to dress. Her posture isn’t great and she’s awkward. We worked at it, I’ll tell you. But by the time she left, we were both happy. If nervous,” she added with a little laugh. “Me, I mean. I don’t usually have that much cash in the register, and the way things are going these days …” She made a graceful gesture with one hand, the diamonds in her wristwatch glinting in our sickly fluorescent lights.
Vida pounced. “Wendy paid cash?”
Francine’s fine eyebrows arched. “Why, yes. She usually does.” leaning on Vida’s desk, her voice dropped to a confidential level. “It must be Todd’s father who has the money. Isn’t he a big-shot Everett businessman?”
Vida gave a snort. “He owns a muffler shop. How many mufflers do you have to install to get rich?”
Francine moved toward the door. “Somebody in that family is well-off. Lloyd’s done all right, but the appliance store must be hurting in these hard times. Jean’s dad worked at the mill, didn’t he?”
Vida nodded. “Dust Bucket Cooper, they called him. I never knew why. After the original mill closed, he helped build the ski lodge. Then he drove a truck for one of the other logging companies, I forget which. Died in ’sixty-three. Heart.”
Having received the capsule biography of Dust Bucket Cooper, Francine left. Vida was still fuming.
“I don’t understand it,” she seethed. “Where do the Wilsons get so much money? Cash! If Lloyd and Jean were rich, they’d give more to the church. So what are Todd and Wendy up to?”
Carla had finally finished her nails. “Prostitution,” she said calmly. “Wendy is selling herself to students.”
Ed, halfway to the door, stopped to stare. “Carla—that’s a terrible thing to say! You’re joking, right?”
“No,” Carla answered blithely, “not really. I mean, I don’t think she’s selling herself. Grades, maybe. I’ve heard some of those kids talk about her when I’ve been up at the high school taking pictures and doing stories.”
I had perched on Ed’s desk. “What do they say?” I asked.
Carla was looking vague, a familiar expression. “Oh—it’s not what they say; it’s how they say it. Knowing looks and stuff.”
Disappointed in Carla’s lack of specifics, Ed went on his way. Ginny, carrying the mail, almost collided with him in the door. Carla sought Ginny’s support.
“Wendy Wilson,” Carla said, holding up both hands to halt Ginny, and at the same time, admire her newly filed nails. “What did Rick Erlandson say about her the other night?”
Ginny looked thoughtful. “Wendy … Let me think…. Oh, it was what his sister said to him. About something her husband told her … That Wendy’s students would do anything for her.” Ginny’s high forehead puckered. “Something like that, and that Steve—Rick’s brother-in-law—couldn’t understand it because he said Wendy wasn’t that great of a teacher.” She gazed at Carla. “Is that what you mean?”
Carla nodded vigorously. “Right. We’re trying to figure out what Wendy has going on with the students.”
I was at sea, trying to figure out the source of Ginny’s gossip. Vida noticed and took pity on me. “Rick, who works at the bank, went out with Ginny the other night, remember? Rick’s sister is Donna Erlandson Fremstad Wickstrom. She’s married to Steve, who teaches science and math at the high school.” She folded her arms and waited for me to become enlightened.
“Oh! Sure, and Steve teaches with Wendy. The Wickstroms were with the Wilsons and the other two couples at Café de Flore.”
Smiling benevolently, Vida nodded. The class dumbbell had finally come through with the right answer. It was Ginny, however, who drew Vida’s next comment:
“So Steve Wickstrom thinks Wendy has some sort of hold over her students. That’s interesting.” Vida juggled her thermos of hot water. “Emma, why don’t you assign me to a year-end story at the high school? We can use it in the special edition.”
I glanced at Carla who was already slated for the assignment. Carla, however, didn’t mind. “Go ahead. I’ll do the photos, though, if you want.”
Now that my staff had gotten down to business, I took the mail from Ginny and went into my office. I hadn’t finished the first irate letter when Milo strolled through the door. Somehow, he had gotten past Vida. I assumed she was on the phone.
“Don’t ask,” he said in a glum voice. “There’s nothing new in the homicide investigation.”
“Then why are you here? Did you find out who’s been sending Marilynn Lewis ugly mail? Or who’s been writing me anonymous letters? Maybe you’ve recovered Bucker Swede from those teenaged gangsters in Sultan.”
Milo sat down in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. He looked as if he’d like to put his feet up, but there wasn’t room. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he blew his nose.
“What I don’t get,” he said, ignoring my comments, “is that you can’t scratch your ass in this town without six people knowing it. But blow some guy away in broad daylight—and nobody sees a thing. It’s damned aggravating.”
Idly, I started flipping through the rest of the mail. “If you came here just to bitch, I’ll give you something to do. Check out a convicted murderer named Wesley Charles. He’s down at Shelton, waiting to be transported to Monroe.
Milo jerked forward in the chair. His long face lost some of its color. “Wesley Charles? What about him?”
Puzzled by Milo’s reaction, I put the mail aside. “I told you, he’s a
convicted murderer. Kelvin Greene testified at his trial. Damn it, Milo, do you ever do your homework? Why don’t you hire Vida and me and deputize us? We could use the extra money.”
But Milo wasn’t listening. He had placed one hand on the edge of my desk, and his hazel eyes were riveted on my face. “We just got an APB, Emma. A Wesley Charles escaped this morning as he was being brought to the Monroe Reformatory. Now go over what you just said, and do it slow. You talk too damned fast.”
Milo wasn’t entirely clear about how Wesley Charles had managed his escape. There had been a traffic tie-up involving an accident with an eighteen-wheeler full of produce, a U.S. Forest Service truck, and a school bus from Snohomish County. The first concern was for the children, none of whom had suffered serious injuries. But during the disruption, Wesley Charles had fled, presumably chains and all.
“So you’re saying this Charles guy whacked Marilynn Lewis’s boyfriend?” Milo asked, taking notes.
“That’s right,” said Vida, who had joined us. “That is, he was convicted of shooting Jerome Cole. Charles maintained his innocence. According to Winola Prince, Marilynn’s former roommate, Jerome and Marilynn had been romantically involved for some time. Jerome was a drug addict, I might add, and didn’t treat Marilynn at all well. Kelvin Greene testified at the trial.”
Milo was exhibiting both amusement and admiration. The latter trait seemed strained, but at least it was there. “You two were busy in Seattle yesterday,” Milo remarked. “What was Wesley Charles’s motive?”
If Milo thought he had stumped us, he was wrong. Vida answered promptly: “Jealousy, it would appear. He was infatuated with Marilynn, or so Kelvin Greene testified. Kelvin, if you want to know, and of course you should, was seeing Winola Prince.”
Milo, who had been sitting with one leg propped on the other knee, planted both feet on the floor. “I’ve got to talk with Marilynn Lewis again. Damn.” He glanced at Vida, then at me. “I wonder if this Charles will try to see Marilynn?”
“More fool he,” Vida replied. “But don’t discount it.”