by Daheim, Mary
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He took a quick nip from his drink and leaned forward. “Where is Vida? I don’t think she went to see Roger. She would’ve told Amy and Ted if she had. Have they visited him since he went to Shelton?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “She never talks about him.” Milo’s doubts bothered me. “But where else would she go?”
“Buck Bardeen doesn’t know?”
I shook my head. “It is worrisome.”
“Damn.” Milo reached for his cigarettes, noticed there were no ashtrays, and decided against brazening it out. He was, after all, out of uniform and out of his jurisdiction. “Maybe,” he said, “it’s an attention getter, like a cry for help. You keep telling me she’s not herself, which is sometimes bad enough.”
That idea jarred me. “But where would she go? She can’t be just driving around in weekend traffic.”
Milo ran a hand through his hair. “How the hell would I know? Doesn’t she know people up and down the Highway 2 corridor? You’ve talked about her and the colonel getting together with out-of-towners.”
“I suppose Buck would check with them,” I said. “She hasn’t talked about him much lately. He might’ve criticized Roger and made her mad. He probably still thinks the kid should have joined the military.”
“Maybe I should talk to him,” Milo muttered. “I don’t really know the guy, though I’ve met him a couple of times. He seems like a stand-up type. Typical ex–air force.”
We both were silent again. Vida almost seemed to be in the bar with us—as unlikely as that might sound. But so commanding was her presence, she had that effect even when she was nowhere in sight. When we spoke again, it was of other things, including an equally depressing topic, the Mariners’ seventh loss in a row earlier in the day. Milo had listened to some of the broadcast outside on the radio. No wonder he’d started to nod off by the ninth inning.
After we finished dinner—Alaska King salmon for my husband, clam chowder and a salad for my heat-deadened appetite—we found a phone directory to look up Dean Ramsey’s address. They lived on Elm Street, which struck me as odd.
“Elms aren’t native,” I quibbled. “Do they have a Palmetto Drive?”
Milo shot me a sideways glance. “You’re kind of picky, aren’t you? If somebody plants an elm, they can grow in this climate. At least this far down from the mountains.”
I turned mulish. “I still think it sounds weird. I’ll bet Tricia’s parents live on Orange Blossom Avenue.”
“They’re on Cedar,” my husband replied, taking a sharp left off Highway 2 onto Main Street in Sultan. “Does that make you feel better?”
“I feel fine now. I don’t suppose the Ramseys have AC.”
Milo didn’t comment, obviously preoccupied with finding Elm Street and the Ramsey residence. It was easy to do, with GPS and Sultan being about the same size as Alpine. Their older, frame house was painted a dull red, with a well-kept garden and a brick fireplace.
The front door was open, but we didn’t see anyone inside, so Milo banged the brass knocker. A faintly harried-looking woman with graying dark hair appeared from a room off a short hallway. She regarded us with alarm. “Can I help you?” she asked in an uncertain voice.
Milo didn’t offer his hand, but instead held out his wallet to show his official sheriff’s ID. “I spoke to your husband earlier today,” he explained. “My wife and I happened to be in Sultan so I thought I’d stop by to clarify a couple of things about the body we found.”
Obvious relief swept over Mrs. Ramsey’s plain yet pleasant features. “Oh, gosh, he isn’t here. He just left with our kids for something going on at the fairgrounds in Monroe. Is there anything I can do?”
“Probably not,” Milo replied, putting the wallet back in his pants pocket. “I may be in touch with him later.”
“I’ll tell him.” Mrs. Ramsey’s soft brown eyes widened. “Is this about that Conley person?”
“Right,” Milo said. “Did you know him?”
“No.” She paused. “Would you like to come in? It must be hot out on the porch in the western sun.”
“Sure,” I said, maybe to prove I existed. I was beginning to feel as if I might as well be with Vida, playing the stooge as I usually did when she dominated conversations. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Emma Dodge.”
“I’m Jeanine,” she informed us as we entered a small but well-furnished living room. She gestured at the blue-and-white plaid sofa; I wondered if it was the Ramsey clan tartan. “Dean told me about your call,” she explained, sitting in a matching armchair by the hearth. “He remembered he had a photo of Crystal and Aaron that was taken after they were married. My husband and Crystal parted amicably. It was a youthful marriage between people who hadn’t yet found themselves. Very hard on their daughter, Amber. At least she finally settled down and is doing quite well. Would you like to see the picture?”
“Yes,” Milo said in a more relaxed tone. “Is it handy?”
Jeanine virtually sprang out of the armchair. “It’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right back. May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” the sheriff replied. “We just had dinner in Monroe.”
Jeanine went off through the dining room and disappeared. Milo pinched my nose—gently. “Having fun?”
“It could be a story,” I retorted,
“But you’re Mrs. Dodge.”
“I’m versatile. Watch me turn into Lois Lane.”
Jeanine returned with a standard black-and-white snapshot. “I think this was taken in Portland,” she said, handing the photo to Milo.
“It is,” I agreed, leaning closer to take a look. “That’s the Japanese Garden at Washington Park. It’s a wonderful place. They have an international rose test garden there along with the zoo and a children’s museum. I lived in Portland for many years.”
“I’m from Salem,” Jeanine said. “I met Dean there after he took a job with Marion County. I worked for the state health department.”
I sensed that Milo was growing impatient. “Could I borrow this picture?” he asked in what I knew was feigned deference.
“Well, I suppose so,” Jeanine replied. “I don’t think Dean would mind. After all, it’s been a long time since Crystal meant anything to him. Of course he didn’t really know Aaron at all.”
The sheriff stood up. “I’ll have a copy made and give the original back to Dean. Probably Tuesday, with the holiday.”
“That’s fine,” Jeanine said, seeing us out. “I’m sorry Dean wasn’t home. He’ll be disappointed to have missed you.”
We left. “Sorry, my ass,” Milo grumbled after we were in the SUV. “I bet Dean’s glad he was gone. He might’ve been hiding in the bushes.”
“Is the picture any help?” I asked.
My husband shot me a sharp glance as he made a U-turn in the middle of Elm Street. “If you hadn’t turned into an ad for the Portland Chamber of Commerce, you’d have noticed more about Conley. Take another look, Lois Lane. He’s wearing that hippie belt.”
“Gleep,” I said weakly, staring at the photo. “Hey, I was going for camaraderie, getting Jeanine to loosen up. It works for Vida.”
“You’re not Vida. Thank God,” Milo added under his breath.
I put the picture aside. “Crystal’s smiling, but she still looks mean. Will you make an official ID now?”
“I can’t base that on a buckle. We’ll have to try for family members. I’ll put Mullins on it. Holiday weekends screw up everything official. What I’d like to know is who the hell is impersonating Conley. And why?”
“Can you use the Internet to track down relatives?” I asked.
Milo turned a corner; I noticed a sign for Cedar Street. “Conley isn’t an uncommon name. But we’ll give it a shot. Too bad we don’t know who played in his band. Do you remember what it was called?”
“I don’t recall the original name,” I replied, “but there was a flyer in the drawer at the cabin. Aa
ron had changed it to Tye Dyed after he moved into the cabin. For the river, I suppose. That suggests he intended to stick around.”
We’d stopped in front of an older, two-story dark green house. Milo smiled faintly. “I guess the Stanleys aren’t ready for a retirement home yet. They painted the place since I was here last winter. It used to be white. Let’s do it.”
Unlike the Ramsey house, the front door was closed. My husband pushed the buzzer in the door frame. No response. He pushed again. Still nothing. He swore under his breath, then muttered, “They must be out.”
“Clever deduction, Sheriff,” I remarked, following his long, loping strides as he went around to the side of the house.
“Their Nissan Maxima’s gone,” Milo said—and grinned. “I’ll be damned—Ralph bought himself a new red Frontier pickup.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“He ran a truck repair business,” my husband replied, taking my hand as we walked back to the Yukon. “He made a good living off of it. Let’s go home. I’m tired of talking to people. You can tell me more about the Portland zoo while I nod off.”
“Fine. I’m going to think about Conley. He had a beard back then.”
“So? No way the ME could tell that,” Milo said. “He might’ve shaved it later.”
I was quiet until we were past Gold Bar. “Maybe whoever killed Aaron wanted the cabin,” I remarked. “Who kills for a roof?”
“Are you kidding?” my husband shot back. “That’s not a bad motive these days. Especially in Seattle. Ever look at the real estate ads in the Times?”
I nodded. “It’s crazy. But you’re right. Especially with the kind of people Conley probably hung out with. Musicians, mainly. The Hoods!”
“Not all musicians are druggies or troublemakers,” Milo said.
“No, I mean Aaron’s band,” I explained. “That’s what it was called when he met Crystal in Oregon. It was named for Mount Hood, not for crooks. But that band broke up then. I think.”
“That’s not a lot of help,” my husband muttered as we followed the Skykomish River and began to gain altitude.
I decided to shut up and enjoy the AC. And the scenery. It was that golden time of evening when the sun filtered in misty shafts among the vine maples, alders, and evergreens along the highway. As traffic diminished, Milo exceeded the speed limit. I figured he could drive the often hazardous road in his sleep. I glanced at him to make sure he wasn’t doing just that. He was wide awake, but frowning slightly.
“Why the pensive look?” I asked.
“We just passed Baring a couple of miles back,” he replied. “I suppose Rosie and Des are getting better acquainted.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “He seems like a decent sort.”
“I hope so,” Milo allowed. “She’s a nice woman. Good-looking, too.”
“Oh?”
My husband grinned at me. “No, I’m not lusting after her. Jeez, Emma, stop fussing.”
“I’m not. Really. You could’ve gone after her a long time ago.”
“Not my type.” He reached out to muss my hair. “She’s too nice. I knew what I wanted and it was you.”
“Keep both hands on the wheel,” I warned him. “You’re going almost seventy-five. We’re not in SkyCo yet. Do you want to get busted by a SnoCo patrol officer?”
“They know me,” Milo replied complacently. “I could always put on the flashing light.”
“So what were you thinking about besides Rosemary and Des’s budding romance?”
He sighed. “Ellerbee. He’s an L.A. type. He forks out a few grand for a place he’s never seen to somebody he’s never met? It doesn’t matter that he wouldn’t know Aaron Conley if he fell into that hot tub. Even if Conley’s still alive and drugged up in Edmonds, it sounds damned odd.”
I explained what Des had told me about choosing Crystal’s—and Aaron’s—former home. “I think you’re naturally suspicious of Californians. You’re almost as bad as Vida.”
Milo shot me another glance. “What did California ever do for you?”
“Okay,” I admitted, “Tom was based in San Francisco for years. But being dead, he’s not uppermost in my mind anymore. Thank God. Leo is from Southern California and I like him.”
“As much as I like Rosie?”
“Yes, that’s about right. Now we’re even.”
“Leo didn’t always wish otherwise, did he?”
“He did not. But he got over it. The last thing I needed was a romance with one of my employees.” I gritted my teeth. “Are you really going to pass that truck?”
“Yeah. Watch me. How the hell do you think I chase down speeders on this stretch of highway?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I retorted, closing my eyes. When I opened them, we were passing by Skykomish. The little town was bathed in the mellow setting sun as a half-dozen people strolled between the old Skykomish Hotel and Maloney’s Store. The river ran low, Prussian blue, with white riffles over the big boulders. A moment later I could see Mount Sawyer, rising above Tonga Ridge.
It took only five minutes before we turned off to Alpine. I could sense my husband relax. And slow down—which was a good thing. Just as the old green truss bridge was in sight, the railroad crossing bells rang and the safety bars started to lower.
“Damn!” Milo cussed, looking at the dashboard clock. “The Empire Builder’s fifteen minutes late. It’s eight o’clock. Where did we pass it?”
“We didn’t. It probably went by while we were in Sultan.”
Unlike the long BNSF freight trains, the Empire Builder was relatively short. I envied the passengers who sat in comfort, gazing out the windows, especially the ones in the two sleeper cars and the dining car. “Let’s take a train trip this fall,” I said.
Milo was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where?”
“Across the country. Or Canada.”
He thought for a moment. “Canada. I’ll bet the scenery’s better.”
“Well…parts of it, maybe. Do you really want to go?”
Milo mulled again as the train moved out of view. “It’d take over two weeks to go both ways. That’s a long time to be away from the job.”
“We could fly one way and go by train the other way,” I suggested.
The safety guards began to lift. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Newfoundland and Nova Scotia,” the sheriff said, waiting for a VW and a panel truck to move. “There’s supposed to be some good fishing there.”
I envisioned downtown Halifax with quaint shops. “How far east have you ever been?” I asked.
“Montana,” Milo replied as we crossed the tracks. “It was after the divorce was final and I wanted to get away. I fished the Jefferson River south of Bozeman. Got some nice cutthroat and rainbows.”
“Did the trip make you feel better?”
“Not really. But at least it was a change.”
“I wish I’d been there,” I said as we continued up Alpine Way.
Milo chuckled. “I wish you had, too.” He sobered just before turning off onto Fir. “No, I don’t. I needed that time to figure out how to live on my own. Even at that, it took me another five, six years to really recover. By then, you showed up. That helped.”
“You were so low-key when we met, very different from—” I stopped, staring at our front yard, where four figures stood by the porch.
“Damn!” Milo grimaced. “It’s those kids from the Burger Barn.” He pulled into the driveway, stopped short of the garage, and all but exploded out onto the lawn. I scrambled from the SUV to join him.
“Slow down,” I heard the sheriff bark at the teens. “One at a time.”
“Like Jeb just said,” the dark-haired boy with the mullet asserted. I assumed he was Alex, who had been blocked from my sight at the Burger Barn. “What we found at the dump site is an old painting in a frame with glass over it. Is there a reward for that?”
“No,” Milo snapped. “Somebody tossed it. It’s a dump site.”
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br /> “Hey, wait,” the ginger-haired girl protested. “Me and Danielle seen on TV where a lady found a picture at a garage sale done by some famous guy and it was worth megabucks. What if this one’s like that? Shouldn’t somebody check it out? It’s in the car.”
The sheriff started to say something, thought better of it, and turned to me. “Is Donna’s gallery open this weekend?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “She’d be closed now, but she might open up for part of tomorrow because of tourists coming through town.”
My husband mulled briefly. “Show it to Mrs. Dodge,” he finally said. “She knows something about art.”
Jeb and Josie took off down the drive. For the first time, I noticed an older dark green sedan parked on the verge halfway between my property and the Marsdens’. It took them only a minute to come back with a Safeway grocery bag.
Milo addressed Alex. “Did you kids get permission from my office to search the dump site?”
“No,” Alex replied. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” Milo said curtly. “Didn’t you see the crime scene tape?”
“Sure,” Alex responded. “That’s why we went there. I mean, like if we’re supposed to solve a puzzle, that’s why we wanted a look.”
Danielle’s dark eyes were wide. “We saw the hole where the body was found. That really creeped out Josie. But we did some digging of our own. Let Jeb show you what we got.”
Jeb offered the grocery bag to Milo. “Here. Take a look.”
The sheriff removed the framed picture. I stood at his side—and gaped in amazement. The glass-covered painting of a river or creek was crude yet realistic. It appeared that the artist had been experimenting with rudimentary style. It also looked very much like an early rendering of Sky Autumn. Somehow, I stifled a cry of shock.
SIXTEEN
Apparently, Milo also saw the similarity and ordered the teens to come inside. He went ahead to open the front door; I followed behind him. The kids straggled in, the boys trying to show some bravado while the girls tried not to giggle. Maybe it was suppressed nervous laughter. Or they thought they’d really unearthed a gold mine.
“First,” Milo said, having commandeered the easy chair, “don’t ever tamper with a crime scene again. You got that?”