by Daheim, Mary
“And she married you anyway?”
“She liked the outdoors. She wasn’t a city girl. Like some women I know,” he added archly. “She owned hiking boots.”
“Good for her,” I muttered, checking my watch. “We’ve been wandering around for over an hour. I haven’t seen any sign of human life, let alone of Craig.”
Milo seemed to be drinking in the mountain air. Or maybe he was ignoring me. But when he finally spoke, he asked a question. “Has your recluse ever done a meadow painting?”
“Not that I know of,” I admitted. “You’re right—this is a perfect subject, even better in August when the flora blooms.”
“If you could tell what it was,” my husband remarked. “Didn’t you say his recent paintings were weird?”
“He’s gone to a different style,” I said. “It’s more…abstract.”
“You mean they look like one of Vida’s casseroles?”
“They’re more attractive than that, but it’s not a bad description. Can we go home now?”
“Hell no. We just got started. Move, woman.”
I moved—grudgingly. We went back into the forest where the trail—if it was a trail—was pitched at such an angle that I felt like a mountain goat. I knew we were still at about the same altitude because the trees grew close together. The sun was almost overhead, filtering hazily through the thick, towering evergreens.
Half an hour later, we came upon another creek. “Where are we?” I asked, dragging myself to Milo’s side.
He kicked at some pebbles and looked amused. “Carroll Creek. You’ve never seen it from up here?”
“No. You mean if I followed the creek I’d end up at the dump site?”
“That’s right. We’re about fifty yards from the logging road—but not where we left the Yukon.” He bent down on his haunches. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, standing up. “Take a look at this.” He’d fished out something from the creek. “It’s a penny, dated 1994. Didn’t somebody say Laurentis carried a lot of change in his pockets?”
“Yes, but it could be from a hiker who was here last year.”
He shook his head. “No. It would’ve been washed away in the earlier runoff. We’re on your artist’s turf. You want to keep going?”
I didn’t want to admit I had blisters. “Well…we want to find Craig.”
Milo looked down at my feet. “You’re limping. I think we’ve nailed Laurentis’s usual route—at least one of them. We’ll go back to the logging road, then I’ll get the Yukon and collect you.”
I felt chagrined. “I’m sorry.”
My husband grinned at me and took my hand. “We did what we set out to do. You can’t help being a tenderfoot city girl. Don’t budge after I leave you alone. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes for me to come back to collect my battered bride.”
Five minutes later, I was alone, leaning against a Sitka spruce next to the road, staring at clumps of lavender yarrow. The same species grew on the verge of my street. In town, yarrow was a weed; in the forest, it was a flower. I smiled at the difference.
And heard a voice call my name.
I turned around to see Craig coming toward me. His gray beard and hair had grown out since I’d seen him in the hospital seven months ago. I smiled as he moved in his quick yet stealthy manner.
“You’re trying to find me, I think,” he said with the familiar slight rasp in his voice from lack of human conversation.
“We are,” I confessed. “I’m so glad to see you’re well.”
He nodded. “Nature heals. Why are you looking for me?” The forest-green eyes were probing—and amused.
I couldn’t help myself. “Are you J. C. Peace?”
His expression grew quizzical. “What a peculiar question. Why do you ask? Is this a query for your newspaper?”
“No. It’s personal.”
“Then why is the sheriff looking for me?”
“He’s my husband now. Did you know that?”
Craig hesitated. “I know he lives with you. I didn’t know you were married. Are you content?”
How like Craig to ask not about happiness, but contentment, I thought. “Yes. Very.” I smiled, as if I had to prove it to him.
“I’m glad.” He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and suddenly looked tense. “I must go. Take care, Emma.”
“Craig…” I held out my hand as if to stop him, but he moved quickly on bare feet. There was something wraithlike about him, disappearing behind the first big cedar and evaporating as if he’d merged into the mountain air.
I leaned back against the spruce and sighed. Damn. I’d blown my chance. I was still cursing myself two minutes later when the Yukon appeared from around a sharp bend in the road. Milo came to a stop and I limped around to the passenger side, realizing that Craig had heard—or sensed—the SUV approaching.
“What’s wrong?” my husband asked after I flopped into the seat. “You looked pissed. I came as fast as I could.”
“Craig was watching us,” I said. “I blew it for both of us.”
Milo darted a quick glance at me, but he had to stay focused on the narrow, rugged road. “You talked to Nature Boy?”
“Yes. Briefly. He realized you were coming to meet me.”
“Shit!” The sheriff started to say something else, but stopped. While I sulked, he didn’t speak again until we were almost back on the Icicle Creek Road.
“What the hell did you talk about? His latest frigging masterpiece?”
“No. I did ask if he was J. C. Peace, but he wouldn’t answer. He seemed…bemused by the question.”
Milo just shook his head.
“He wanted to know if I was content with you,” I said after a long pause as we passed the ranger station.
“Jesus.”
“He didn’t ask about Jesus.”
“You’re un-deputized.”
“Good. I don’t like working for you. You’re a jackass as a boss.”
“You’re damned lippy for a deputy. Worse than Mullins.”
“I’m furious with myself for flunking the test,” I asserted. “You think I didn’t want him to admit he was J. C. Peace?”
Milo was now able to look at me. “Do you think he is? Was?”
I slumped even further into the seat. “I don’t know. Maybe. He didn’t deny it.” I reconsidered the encounter. “The question didn’t seem to surprise him, though.”
“Did you ask him if he was Craig Laurentis?”
“No. I don’t think we talked for more than a minute or two. How are you going to question him about that painting from the dump?”
“Maybe Donna can ask him,” Milo said. “It’d be a natural question coming from her. She might be able to sell it for him.”
I admitted that was a good idea. “But would he tell her the background of the painting, as in who might have owned it?”
Milo shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
We’d reached Fir Street, with our log cabin almost in sight. “I hope Vida gets home this afternoon or early this evening. Otherwise, Amy’ll go nuts. I wonder if she’s checked in again with her sisters. It’s possible that Vida stopped off to call on Beth in Tacoma. It’d be easy to pull off coming from Shelton to see her family.”
“I thought you changed your mind about her visiting Roger in Shelton,” Milo said.
“Well…where else would she go for a long weekend? Buck didn’t suggest she’d visit friends or shirttail relations along Highway 2. I doubt she’d stay overnight with any of them, being so close to home.”
“She’ll show up.” My husband pulled into our garage. “Charging rhinos couldn’t stop Vida.”
After we opened the doors and windows to air out the house, I noticed that the red message light was blinking on the phone. As soon as I heard the words, “Hi, Mom,” I beamed and forgot about my blisters as I immediately called my son back.
“Adam! Where are you?” I cried, trying to kick off my shoes with
out untying the laces.
“Fairbanks,” he replied. “I got in about an hour ago for a big meeting with the bishop of northern Alaska. I’ll be here until Wednesday. We had the longest day of the year about ten days ago. Did you notice?”
“I thought of you. It wasn’t so long here, but it started to warm up about then. It’s probably well over eighty by now.”
“Gosh, it was above fifty when I left the village,” Adam said in mock dismay. “I almost said Mass in shorts. What are you and the sheriff up to for the holiday weekend?”
“Nothing exciting,” I fibbed. “We just got back from a little hike.”
“You went hiking? Where to? Francine’s dress shop?”
“Up on Tonga Ridge above town. What’s the meeting for?”
“The usual.” Adam sounded blasé. “Morale booster, keep the faith, try not to kiss a walrus during mating season. Ever since the Jesuits got themselves into trouble up here, the bishop figures the rest of us need a boost. I talked to Uncle Ben earlier and he told me to go look in the mirror. If I wasn’t wearing prison garb, everything was fine.”
“I’m glad they don’t ask your uncle to speak at those meetings,” I said. “Of course, he’s realistic about his vocation. So are you. Dare I ask if you plan to shop while you’re in the Big City?”
“Funny you should mention that,” Adam responded. “Even funnier that I haven’t lost your spare debit card. I’ll try to keep it under four figures, okay?”
“You have no choice,” I declared. “I’m never too far from being maxed out. You have needs, not merely wants, correct?”
“Dodge isn’t covering you in diamonds and furs? Wait—it’s eighty degrees in Alpine. You’d pass out. Say, one of my needs is a new cell. This one’s practically ready for the Smithsonian.”
“Okay,” I agreed. “Try not to buy one that can reach Jupiter in bad weather.”
“Mars is closer,” Adam said. “Or is it? Did I take astronomy in college?”
“I never really knew what you did in college,” I replied, thinking back to my son’s irresponsible younger years. “Other than taking out girls and taking in half-racks to your dorm.”
“Long time ago.” Did he sound wistful? I couldn’t be sure. “Hey, here comes Paul McMillan from Barrow. He tells the worst anti-Catholic jokes, but half the time he forgets the punch line. Love and peace, Mom. You’ll be able to tell what I’m up to when you get your VISA statement.”
With a bittersweet feeling, I set down the phone. It rang before I could get off the sofa. “Yes?” I said assuming, it was Adam who had forgotten to mention one of his needs.
“Emma?”
“Kip?” I said.
“Right. Are you okay?”
I laughed in a strangled sort of way. “Yes, I thought you were Adam calling me back. We just hung up. What’s going on?”
“No work-related problems,” he replied. “Chili and I went to see her sister, Jenni, in the hospital. She had an emergency appendectomy last night. She’s fine, probably coming home tomorrow, but Amy Hibbert was admitted last night, too. Do you know what’s wrong with her? We didn’t want to ask the nurses. They looked busy.”
I leaned back against the sofa. “Nerves, I’ll bet. She’s made herself sick worrying about her mother, who’s been gone since Friday after work. You didn’t hear Vida mention taking a trip, did you?”
“No,” Kip said. “I didn’t talk much to her Friday. She’s been kind of grim lately. I keep my distance when she’s like that.”
“Did you see Ted while you were there?” I asked.
“I didn’t even see Amy,” Kip replied. “Chili saw her on the way out, but didn’t stop. She doesn’t know the Hibberts that well. Heck, I don’t either, except through Vida.”
“Same here. Amy lacks her mother’s spunk. I’ll call Ted or the hospital to check on her. Thanks for the heads-up.”
We rang off. I’d managed to remove my shoes, wincing at the blisters on both heels. After applying Band-Aids, I went barefoot to join my husband on the patio.
“Want to eat out again tonight?” he asked.
“I thought you might have to work crowd control at the picnic in Old Mill Park,” I said. “We probably should show up for the sake of our public images.”
“Hell. I suppose you’re right. They should have some decent fried chicken. Potato salad, too.” He looked at my feet and laughed. “Serves you right. Why don’t you buy some real shoes?”
“Because I don’t like what you consider ‘real’ shoes. They’re ugly and clunky.” I changed the subject and told him about Amy.
“I’m not surprised,” Milo said. “It’s too bad, though. Amy always was the nervous type. She was a year behind me in school. She got kidded a lot because she had such big feet.”
“Did you tease her?”
“I wasn’t into teasing girls. They scared me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I was. Kind of. In seventh grade, Amy was taller than I was. She’s damned near as tall as Vida.”
“All the Runkel girls came within an inch of their mother—and a foot shorter on spine, as far as I can tell. Not as imposing, either.”
“Not even close.” Milo mussed my hair. A twig fell out. “Good God, woman,” he said, “did you bring back part of the landscape with you?”
“I left enough so Craig could paint it.”
“How will we be able to tell what it really is?” My husband turned serious. “I don’t like the idea of tricking the guy, but I have to talk to him. He must know who had that painting. Too bad he won’t stop in for some free food at the park.”
I cringed at the thought of Craig socializing, especially on a federal holiday. His anti-government stance would erupt all over the hot dogs. As the lazy afternoon meandered on to the picnic’s start at three, we could hear more fireworks going off. Some of them sounded annoyingly close.
Around four, I poked Milo, who had somehow managed to doze off despite the noise. “Are those firecrackers over at the loathsome Nelsons’ place? I thought their awful kids were still locked up.”
My husband sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Isn’t there a younger kid living there with Grandma Nelson?”
“That kid,” I said, “is a toddler. Don’t you remember when the older one you busted showed up at headquarters with his wife and baby? Her name’s Chloe.”
“Oh, right. Was that when I slammed you with the door and you ran away because you thought I did it on purpose?”
“That’s not exactly what happened, but yes, that was Chloe. She’s still too young to set off fireworks.”
“Not if she’s a Nelson. They get started young.” Milo got up to amble over to the property line. “Not them. They’re coming from across the street. Or in the street. You want to head for the park? I’m hungry.”
“I have to change. Why didn’t you get dirty on our hike like I did?”
“Because I wasn’t walking on my knees. Did you fall down when I wasn’t looking?”
I didn’t deign to answer the sheriff. But flouncing off indignantly wasn’t easy with blisters.
—
It was hotter in Old Mill Park than it had been in our backyard. Milo and I traded beleaguered looks as we prepared to mingle with the over two hundred people who were laughing, talking, and, judging from some angry expressions, arguing.
“Where’s the food?” my husband asked, dragging me by the arm. More firecrackers went off, almost drowning out the high school band.
“It may not all be out yet.” I gestured with my free hand toward the area where the cookstove was located. “It’s usually over there.”
“Where’s Mullins?” the sheriff asked, using his height advantage to survey the gathering. “He’s supposed to be on duty here.”
I spotted Jack’s wife, Nina, talking to fellow parishioners Buddy and Roseanna Bayard. As usual, Nina was the epitome of calm amid the semi-frenzied Fourth. She saw us and smiled sweetly just as someone threw a firecracker at B
rendan Shaw, the local insurance agent, who jumped out of the way. The big man thumped into Darla Puckett, knocking off her glasses. A fox terrier raced over to pick them up in his teeth and headed for the river. Darla screamed.
“Shit,” Milo muttered. “Nina!” he called. “Where’s Jack?”
The deputy’s wife looked like a startled doe. “I’m not sure,” she replied, never one to raise her voice. At least it sounded like what she said. It was hard to tell with all the noise going on around us.
“Stay put,” my husband said. “I’ll find Mullins so he can find the damned dog.”
I intended to join Nina and the Bayards, but several young children got in my way. I guessed them to be Bourgettes, since Rosemary and Des seemed to be chasing them.
“Hi, Emma!” Rosemary shouted—and kept going.
I was about to join Marisa Foxx and a couple I recognized from the poker group I’d joined for a short time. I’d soon discovered I couldn’t afford to play Texas Hold ’Em with well-heeled attorneys. But my path was barred again by the majestic figure of Mary Lou Blatt.
“Well,” she began, looking smug, “I understand my self-righteous sister-in-law’s done a disappearing act and put her idiot daughter in the hospital. Complete nervous breakdown. Tsk, tsk.”
“Is that an official diagnosis?” I asked.
“Close enough,” Mary Lou replied, all but smacking her lips. “Nancy Dewey is the source. I know how to translate medical mumbo-jumbo. Doc’s wife told Lila Blatt, who told me. She’s Episcopalian, like the Deweys. Other than that, Lila’s a sensible person, unlike you-know-who. In any event, I say good riddance.”
The spate of words from Mary Lou’s acid tongue was hard to follow with nearby firecrackers going off, the crowd’s raucous chatter, and the band playing the rousing finale of John Philip Sousa’s El Capitan march.
“What,” I shouted, “do you mean by ‘good riddance’?”
“I mean,” Mary Lou responded with evil glee, “Vida’s gone for good. I thought you knew.”
NINETEEN
I didn’t know what to think about Mary Lou Blatt’s statement. I wanted to ask, but the Bourgette children and a half-dozen other little ones had marched straight toward us. I’d seen them coming, but Mary Lou’s back was turned. She was almost toppled by a chubby toddler who tromped between her legs. Naturally, she charged after the offender. In an attempt to escape whatever mayhem was about to ensue, I sought sanctuary with Milo, who was heading for the food table.