by Daheim, Mary
“This was not a good idea,” I hissed at him. “Where did you go?”
“To find Mullins,” he replied, elbowing his way through the crowd. “He was hiding in the can. I don’t blame him. Where the hell’s the chicken?”
“It’s probably been poisoned by Mary Lou Blatt,” I said, wincing as a beach ball bounced off my rear. “She’s a witch.”
“I can’t hear you,” my husband bellowed.
I shut up. Five minutes later we’d dished up some semblance of food. To my horror, I saw Ed Bronsky driving a golf cart through the crowd and honking a ga-goo-ga horn. He was towing a wagon filled with what I assumed were Casa de Bronska souvenirs. Milo had spotted him, too.
“Holy crap,” my husband muttered, “let’s get out of here.”
Like a couple of burglars, we sneaked around to the other side of the campstove area. The band was taking a break and the noise had diminished a few decibels. My chicken tasted like putty. I marveled that Vida hadn’t cooked it. I was finally able to tell my husband what Mary Lou had said about her sister-in-law taking a one-way trip.
“That’s bullshit,” Milo declared. “Vida would never desert Alpine.”
“I know that, but it bothers me that Mary Lou would pass on that rumor. She’s malicious.”
My husband shrugged. “She’s always been that way. Especially when it comes to taking digs at Vida. I’m surprised she didn’t tell you Vida had run off with Crazy Eights Neffel.”
I gave up on the chicken. It was too hard to chew. “You must’ve found Jake’s take-out kind,” I said.
Milo nodded. “I know my chicken. Yours is better than Jake’s, though. I lived on his deli chicken for the first month after Mulehide left.”
My watch said it was after five. “Will you put out an APB on Vida?”
“No. If Amy had a breakdown, she won’t be bugging me about it.”
“I’m uneasy, though,” I admitted. “Maybe I should go see Amy.”
“That’s the dumbest idea you’ve had since you wore party shoes to go hiking,” Milo declared. “You know damned well Amy will moan and groan about her mother being ass-end up in a ditch somewhere.”
“I suppose,” I murmured. But I was still uneasy.
—
Vida wasn’t in the office when I arrived Tuesday morning.
“Is it her day to bring the pastry?” I inquired of Mitch.
“No,” he replied, pouring a cup of coffee. “She brought those damned muffins Friday. Why? Do you think she quit in a fit of pique?”
I was loath to tell my reporter about Amy’s concern for her mother, so I kept quiet. Instead, I asked about his weekend.
“We went to see Troy on Saturday,” Mitch replied. “Then we spent Sunday in Seattle fighting traffic. We stopped again on the way back to see Troy yesterday afternoon. He’s put on some weight working out in the gym there. He looks good.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.
Mitch, being Mitch, frowned and ran a hand through his thick gray hair. Good news was never good enough. “Brenda worries about how he’ll manage once he’s released from prison. She’s afraid it’ll be hard for him to make the adjustment to life outside.”
“He won’t have been in that long, really,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t he have only a year to go?”
“A year come August,” Mitch said. “No chance of him being released early because of the two escapes. It seems like forever since he’s been locked up. And not just to him, but to Brenda and me.”
“This last year has certainly gone fast.” It was a stupid thing to say, but my brain is never in gear until I’ve had massive amounts of caffeine. I tried to rectify that by pouring myself some coffee.
“I wouldn’t be working here if Troy hadn’t been put away at the Monroe facility,” Mitch reminded me.
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad you are.” That much was true.
“It beats early retirement from the Free Press in Detroit,” Mitch allowed, gazing around the newsroom. “Where is everybody?”
“Kip has the bakery run,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Leo told me he’d be late. He took the red-eye from L.A. Vida went out of town for the weekend.”
“Oh. Leo’s lucky his kids didn’t get themselves into big trouble. Especially since he and his wife were divorced.”
“They had their own problems,” I said. “But you’re right. He counts himself fortunate that things never got any worse than they did.”
Mitch’s spirits were lifted by the sight of Kip carrying the lavender Upper Crust bakery box. “Cinnamon rolls, twisters, and bear claws,” he announced. “I already ate a twister. Chili and I overslept, so I didn’t have breakfast.” He glanced around the newsroom. “No Vida? No Leo?”
I explained again about Leo’s late arrival into Sea-Tac. “Vida should be here soon,” I said, not wanting to set off any alarms. “She took off for the weekend, too.”
Neither Kip nor Mitch—who was scarfing down the first bear claw out of the box—seemed concerned. But I was. I took a twister into my office and realized I hadn’t given my editorial any serious thought. I had to come up with a fresh idea. Realizing that Milo and I had missed the usual speeches at the picnic because we’d arrived late, I didn’t know if Fuzzy had announced the date for the special election. I hurried out to the newsroom, asking Mitch to find out.
“You were out of town,” I told him, “so you have a good excuse not to have been on hand. I don’t. If the mayor did confirm the date, that’s two, three inches on page one.”
Leo showed up a little after nine, catching me by surprise as I stared at my Sky Dairy calendar, seeking editorial inspiration. “Earth to Emma,” he said, grinning.
I jumped. “Leo! How was your visit?”
“Good.” He sat down, but stopped grinning. “Except for Brian threatening to quit his job at Raytheon in Santa Barbara. He doesn’t get along with his superiors. Kids these days…” Leo shook his head.
“How does his fiancée feel about that?” I asked.
“Shannon’s laid-back,” Leo replied. “Being a freelance illustrator, if they have to move, that’s fine with her. She’s an army brat who’s used to living in different places. Liza would hate to see them move out of Southern California, though. Rosemary and her boyfriend are talking about settling in Denver. That’s where he’s from. Katie seems content in L.A. Westwood, actually. She’s finishing her PhD in history at UCLA.”
I felt stupid. “Which one has the grandson?” I asked.
“Brian and Shannon,” Leo said. “That’s why they decided to get married. When they first started living together, Liza was so embarrassed that she told me they were already married. It’s a different world, Emma.”
“You’ve forgotten that Tom and I weren’t married when I had Adam?”
Leo looked faintly embarrassed. “God no! Somehow, that was different. That happened before I knew either of you.” He turned to glance into the newsroom. “Where’s the Duchess? I didn’t see her Buick parked outside. Is she off on her rounds?”
Having seen Mitch leave earlier, I didn’t have to lower my voice. “Vida’s been gone all weekend. Nobody, including her daughter, Amy, knows where she went. In fact, Amy had a meltdown yesterday and is—”
I stopped speaking. Vida was tromping into the newsroom, wearing something on her head that looked like a small bathtub. “Traffic!” she exclaimed, heading toward us. “I thought I’d avoid it by getting an early start over the pass.” She sat down in the other visitor chair. “Really—where do all these people come from?”
“Where,” I asked, relief flooding over me, “did you come from? Amy’s been so worried that she got sick.”
“What?” Vida was dismayed. “Didn’t Ella tell her where I’d gone?”
“Ella?” I echoed as Leo got up, patted Vida’s shoulder, and went off in search of coffee.
“Yes, Ella, that ninny,” Vida said. “What do you mean, Amy’s sick?”
I grimaced. “She�
�s in the hospital. It’s not serious,” I added quickly. “Nerves, I gather. She was so upset about where you’d gone that—”
Vida threw up her hands. “Gracious! I called Amy before I left Friday, but something’s wrong with her answering machine. It has been for the past few months. I told her that a dozen times. I asked Ella to call Amy for me, but she’s so addled that she obviously forgot. I must go see my silly daughter at once. Where is her spunk?” Vida stood up, holding the bathtub in place with one hand. While she was seated, I’d noticed the inside was full of paper forget-me-nots. “I’ll tell you about my weekend with Faith Lambrecht in Spokane when I get back. Most inspiring.”
Leo sauntered in with his coffee and a cinnamon roll. “Missing Mrs. Runkel mystery solved, I take it. Who’s Faith Lambrecht?”
“The mother of the new Bank of Alpine president. Didn’t you catch Vida’s Cupboard last Thursday when she talked about Bob Lambrecht’s wife and his mother?”
“I missed it,” Leo confessed. “Don’t tell Vida. Liza phoned just before seven to ask when I’d arrive so she could meet me at the airport.”
I promised not to rat him out. After Leo headed to his desk, I called Milo to let him know Vida had landed.
“Spokane?” he said. “God, I don’t remember Vida going that far from Alpine in the last ten years. Why didn’t she tell Amy?”
“You don’t want to know. It’s complicated. I suspect Roger removed the Hibberts’ phone message capabilities before he went to jail. No doubt there was incriminating evidence involved. I’ll spare you the details now.”
“Keep it to yourself,” Milo responded. “I’ve got problems of my own.”
Any time the sheriff had problems, I smelled news. It was after nine-thirty. Mitch should return soon unless the mayor had launched into one of his long-winded explanations. Vida had recently told me that years ago Marius Vandeventer and former sheriff Eeeny Moroni had an agreement to downplay the seamier aspects of Alpine life. Maybe it was time to put a spotlight on those bad old days, if only to create enthusiasm for a change in SkyCo’s government. I settled in, digging deep to find my most self-righteous stance. I’d gotten as far as three feeble leads—all deleted—when Mitch showed up.
“Just the usual,” he said. “The mayor verified that the vote on his plan will be held Tuesday, September sixth. If Blackwell doesn’t shoot Fuzzy first. Oh—did you know about the breakin at your church?”
“No,” I replied, startled. “Was anything valuable taken?”
“Apparently not,” Mitch replied. “The only way Father Kelly knew someone had broken in was because the lock was jimmied when he returned from his trip Saturday night.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “Maybe it was kids horsing around.” I decided not to mention something might’ve occurred at the sheriff’s office after my reporter had gone over to the courthouse. If my editorial writing skills didn’t improve, I’d pay a call on Milo. For reasons I’ve never understood, the sheriff and his deputies were indifferent when it came to anything that smacked of a headline, big or small.
By ten o’clock, my wellspring of inspiration had run dry. Vida still hadn’t returned from checking on Amy, so I headed off down Front Street, already feeling the sun’s heat.
Dustin Fong was in charge of the reception desk, greeting me in his usual polite manner. “Mr. Laskey was already here,” he said. “You probably already knew about the wrecks and those kids who got lost.”
“Do you have an update on the one who broke his ankle?” I asked.
“No.” Dustin looked apologetic. “You’ll have to call the hospital. After they were rescued, the situation was out of our hands.”
Dwight Gould appeared from the hallway. “It’s not a crime to break an ankle, you know.”
I glared at Dwight. “No kidding. How come you’re not on patrol?”
He returned the glare. “I just got back. We had another wreck out by Cass Pond. Three injured, all taken to the hospital in Monroe. They’re full up here. Damned three-day weekends. Firecracker injuries, domestic brawls, a fight at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Didn’t Laskey tell you?”
I wouldn’t admit he hadn’t. “He’s used to it. He’s from Detroit.”
“Detroit,” Dwight sneered as he headed out the door. “No wonder he moved here.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Dustin inquired.
“I had a question for the sheriff. I assume he’s not too busy?”
“He left,” Dustin said. “I guess you didn’t notice the Yukon’s gone.”
I wouldn’t admit I hadn’t done that, either. “I figured…” Lori had hung up the phone and was staring at me with a puzzled expression. “Okay, I sensed news. What’s going on?”
Dustin glanced at Lori, who shrugged. “Honest, Ms. Lord,” the deputy said, never having called me by my first name in the ten years I’d known him, “we’re not sure yet.” He paused, frowning. “I can only say—since it was logged after Mitch left—we got a call from RestHaven. They have some kind of problem up there.”
I smiled. “Okay. I’m sure Mitch will hear about it later. I’ll go back to the office and drink more coffee. I’m not really awake yet.”
“You can have some of ours,” Lori offered.
“No!” I cried. “I mean, we have plenty of our own.” And ours doesn’t taste like toxic waste. “Thanks, though.” I was out the door, hurrying as if the sheriff’s coffee could follow me down Front Street like a bad dream.
I had no intention of going back to the Advocate, however. Seeing that Vida’s Buick and Mitch’s Taurus were both gone, I got into my Honda and headed for RestHaven. Reminding myself that I wasn’t fully alert, I exercised caution on the route to River Road. Traffic—such as it is in Alpine—was light. Maybe some people were still on vacation. Or they were in the hospital. That was a story in itself. I couldn’t recall a time when they’d run out of beds in all the years I’d lived in the Valley of the Sky.
I spotted the Yukon and a cruiser parked by RestHaven’s main entrance. The sheriff wouldn’t be glad to see me, but we both accepted the adversarial nature of our jobs. I got out of the car, took a deep breath, and marched into the rotunda.
I didn’t get far. A lean man of average height with hollows under his cheekbones blocked my way before I took a half-dozen steps inside. “Ma’am,” he said in a soft voice, “may I see your RestHaven ID?”
He wasn’t in uniform, but despite the gray slacks and navy blue summer shirt, I guessed him to be Sid Almquist. “I’m Emma Lord from the Advocate. I don’t think we’ve ever met, Sid, but I know who you are.”
Sid flinched. “This isn’t a good time to visit, Ms. Lord.”
“That’s why I’m here. I just came from the sheriff’s office.”
He looked puzzled. “You work for the sheriff and the newspaper?”
I felt like saying I certainly did, since I had to feed Mr. Law Enforcement. Briefly, I argued with myself: Truth or Dare? “I’m here to see Ren Rawlings. I know where her room is. I’ve visited her before.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible right now,” Sid said. “We’re in the middle of a patient reorganization.”
“You mean you’re moving patients around?”
Sid looked uncomfortable. “It’s an internal process. Tomorrow might be a better time to call on your…friend.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “As long as I’m here, is Kay Burns free? I have some PR-related queries for her.”
“She’s in a staff meeting,” Sid replied, not looking me in the eye. “Sorry. Maybe you can phone her this afternoon.”
I had no choice but to surrender. “Thanks, Sid. See you later.” I left the building. But I had no intention of leaving the premises. I got in the Honda and drove from the parking area to where Milo had left the Yukon under the porte cochere. Unless he wanted to move the cruiser and then reverse all the way back down to River Road, he wasn’t getting away without telling me what was going on. I almost laughed, an indication
that I was finally waking up.
But ten minutes later, I was growing impatient. Seeing Fleetwood’s BMW pull in, I got out of the Honda. “You’re late,” I called to him. “If you get past security, I’m going with you. Or has Rosalie already told you all?”
Spence looked as irked as I felt. “The lovely Rosalie is incommunicado,” he declared, checking his Movado watch. “I’ve got twenty-five minutes before the hour-turn news at eleven. I’d better get something by then. Sleeping with our sources isn’t doing us much good. Maybe we should deny them the pleasure of our company.”
“I can’t,” I responded. “I’m legally wed.”
“Alas, you are. I don’t understand your taste in men. You’re a woman of culture. Don’t you long for a night of Verdi or Brahms or—” Mr. Radio stopped speaking as the sheriff hauled Iain Farrell out of the building while Jack Mullins rushed to open the cruiser’s back door.
“What the hell?” Milo yelled, spotting Fleetwood and me. “Move those vehicles! Now!”
“See you at headquarters,” Spence murmured, hurrying to the Beamer.
I got into the Honda, waiting for Spence to get out of my way. Milo and Jack were behind their respective wheels. I could practically feel sparks flying out of my husband’s hazel eyes. But my foot almost slipped off the accelerator when I saw Jack Blackwell exit RestHaven. Without a glance at any of us, he strode toward the parking lot.
Spence had pulled onto the verge at the bottom of the sloping driveway. Maybe he figured Milo and Mullins were going to turn on the sirens. I followed Mr. Radio’s lead, but there were no warning sounds as the Yukon and the cruiser went by us.
As we reached the arterial at the Icicle Creek Road, I noticed Blackwell’s new silver Lexus was behind me. To my surprise, he followed us to the sheriff’s instead of heading for his mill. When we all arrived at once, several curious pedestrians stopped to gawk.