by Mary Daheim
Jackie collapsed into the footstool that seemed to devour her small frame. The flannel shirt she wore over her jeans concealed any signs of pregnancy. Running a hand through the natural waves of her taffy-colored hair, she sighed.
“It’s going to take forever. I hope we get the roof replaced before winter sets in. The baby’s due at the end of December.” Jackie had turned pensive. The topsy-turvy emotions she’d displayed earlier over the phone seemed in abeyance. “We’ve already spent a fortune on making the house livable. Paul can do some of the work himself, but not the major stuff.”
I tried to remember what Mavis had told me about Paul Melcher. She and Roy liked their son-in-law, I knew that much. It seemed to me that Paul was some sort of engineer. I fished a little, hoping not to show my ignorance.
“Paul was lucky to get a job here,” I remarked, thinking that the bare green walls cried out for a framed print or two.
Jackie nodded enthusiastically. “It was a near thing. We thought we’d have to move here and wait it out for a while, but then that opening came along at Rayonier. In fact, he actually started work right after New Year’s, before we got married. That’s why we couldn’t go on a honeymoon. He didn’t have any vacation yet.”
ITT Rayonier was the big pulp plant down on the water. I’d seen its billows of smoke from the tow truck. Like Alpine, Port Angeles was still dependent on the timber industry, though it had been able to diversify over the years. Fishing and tourism also contributed to the town’s economic base.
“He gets off at four,” she said, glancing at her watch. I did the same. It was just three fifty-five. I postponed asking the inevitable and switched to baby-related inquiries instead. Jackie beamed and glowed, discussing plans for the nursery upstairs and promising to take me on a tour of the house when I finished my wine.
The phone rang as she was listing potential names for both girls and boys. Jackie heaved herself out of the cushioned footstool and left the den. A moment later, she shouted for me. It was the Chevron station. Jake had finally returned from the West End. He didn’t have the foggiest notion what was wrong with my car. Could I have it towed over to Dusty’s Foreign Auto Repair?
I could, of course. I’d have to. I wondered if my towing insurance covered two trips in one day. I sought the Yellow Pages and called a local tow company. Then I turned glum.
“They can’t possibly fix it before evening,” I moaned out loud.
“Big deal.” Jackie shrugged and led us back into the kitchen. “Have some more wine. We’ve got tons of room. Five bedrooms, take your pick. Except ours.” She showed me her dimples.
I started to make the usual demurs about not wanting to impose, but Jackie ran right over me. “Hey, why not? We haven’t told you about our body yet. I’ll send for pizza.” The light behind her eyes went out. “I usually do lately. I get sick every time I look at the stove.”
She was pouring my second glass of wine when Paul Melcher came home. A stocky young man in his early thirties, he sported a neatly-trimmed blond mustache and a faintly receding hairline. His handshake was firm and sincere.
“I’ve heard Mama Mavis talk about you,” he said with a diffident grin. “You two used to get into a lot of trouble at The Oregonian, right?”
If trouble was sneaking out for a beer and a burger while working after hours, then I guess we qualified. But I merely laughed and tossed my head as if Mavis and I were indeed a couple of scamps.
Jackie poured wine for Paul, another mineral water for herself, and we adjourned to the den. Paul seemed mesmerized by the sad story of my Jaguar. He speculated upon its problems.
“Those Jags—they’re a wonderful piece of automobile,” he said with a serious expression on his face, “but they don’t call the head of their engineering department Dr. Demento for nothing.”
“Really?” I winced. But I had been warned. In fact, it was Mavis who had told me that if I couldn’t afford the price of a new Jag—and I couldn’t, not even with my unexpected inheritance which had also allowed me to buy The Advocate—then I probably couldn’t afford the repairs. It appeared that I’d been lucky. So far.
My eyes glazed over as Paul presented a litany of possible cause. The starter. The stick shift. The electrical system. I wondered what kind of pizza Jackie would order. Pastrami sounded good to me.
“… With parts. Now over in Victoria they’d probably be able to get …” Paul seemed unusually talkative for an engineer, rambling on while carefully piling the magazines and stacking the videocassettes. He finally shut up. Jackie was weeping. “Sweets, what’s wrong now?” He reached over from his place next to me on the small sofa and patted her knee.
Jackie wiped her eyes and sighed. “All this talk of fancy cars. How many people live in an old beat-up Volkswagon van? It made me think of the homeless. Why do they have to live under bridges? Do you think anybody is living under a bridge in Port Angeles? We have so many of them, with all these gullies.”
Gently, Paul soothed her. There weren’t that many homeless people in town. It was July, and while the summer weather had been cool and uncertain, nobody would take cold even if they had to sleep under a bridge. Shelters were provided. The churches were helping out. The United Way was doing its best. Jackie shouldn’t worry. The baby would get upset. Paul’s arguments were logical, orderly.
Wanly, Jackie smiled at her husband. “You’re right, Lamb-love. Let’s talk about something cheerful. Like the body.”
Paul rubbed her knee. “That’s my Sweets.” He gave me another big grin. “Emma would like to hear about that. It’s pretty interesting.”
“I’ll bet it is,” I said, bracing myself. “When did you find this … ah … body?”
Paul’s grin faded only a mite. “Yesterday.” He stood up. “We’re keeping it in the basement. Want to see it? Afterward, we can order pizza.”
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A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1994 by Mary Daheim
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 94-94193
eISBN: 978-0-307-76012-8
v3.0