by Daheim, Mary
“Where’s your camera?” Spence asked after we got out of our cars.
“You know Milo won’t let us take pictures,” I said, noting that the sheriff had entered his domain. “Besides, I’m a lousy photographer.”
“We might as well wait until they get Farrell inside,” Spence said. “What’s with Blackwell? He’s getting out here, too.”
“Ask him,” I suggested. “He probably won’t insult you.”
“I think I will.” Spence moved onto the sidewalk. “Jack, my good man, are you making news or just being another interested observer?”
I felt like gagging at Mr. KSKY’s unctuous approach. Jack turned to speak but didn’t break his stride. I noticed the right side of his face was bruised and swollen. He kept moving. “That bastard Farrell attacked me,” he called to Spence. “I’m filing a complaint. And no, I don’t want to be on the radio. Go comfort your girlfriend. He slugged her, too.”
My media colleague staggered slightly. “What?” But Blackwell had gone inside. “Jesus, Emma,” Spence said. “I should check on Rosalie. Damn, why didn’t I stay put?”
“Can you call her?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, I’ll do that now.” He turned away and got out his cell.
I decided I might as well beard the lion’s den. There wasn’t anything I could do to help Spence. I paused to see if Mitch’s car was parked by the Advocate, but a FedEx truck blocked my view. The news was happening in the sheriff’s office and I was on the scene.
Milo, Mullins, and Farrell were nowhere in sight. Dustin looked bemused as he listened to Blackwell. Lori seemed agog.
“Are you bringing charges?” the deputy asked Black Jack.
“You bet your ass I am,” Jack replied. “Why do you think Dodge busted the SOB? He took a swing at your boss, too.”
Dustin handed over a form. “If you’d like to sit, sir, you can—”
Jack made a slashing motion with his hand. “I can do this standing up.” He glanced at me. “I’ll bet she can do some things standing up, too. But Dodge already knows all her moves.”
That did it. I stomped over to Jack and didn’t give a damn that he was more than half a foot taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. “Thanks, Blackwell. You just inspired this week’s editorial. I’m going to write about how you treat the women in your life. Patti Marsh may be too chicken to complain about you beating the crap out of her, but I’m not. Go ahead, sue me. I’ll see you in court. I’d love to see you try to deny the truth in public. We won’t need a humor piece in this week’s edition. You’ll provide all the laughs from Alpine Baldy to Mount Sawyer.”
The bruise wasn’t the only thing that turned color on Blackwell’s face. He actually bordered on puce. I didn’t care. I was so mad that I was almost shaking. I wished he would hit me. But I knew he didn’t dare. I made a clucking sound and whirled away from the world-class abuser.
Milo entered from the hallway as if on cue. He stopped before coming into the area behind the curving counter. “What’s going on?” he inquired, glancing from Blackwell to me and finally to Dustin.
“Ask Jack,” I said. “He’s the one with a complaint. I feel good.”
But Blackwell had snatched up the form and was storming out the door. Dustin expelled a big breath of relief. Lori started to giggle.
The sheriff, however, did not looked pleased. “Come into my office, Ms. Lord,” he said in a chilly voice.
I obeyed, though I suddenly felt a bit wobbly. I couldn’t recall when I’d been so infuriated. But anger is depleting. I practically fell into one of the visitor chairs. I noticed Milo had left the door open.
“Well?” he asked, looking very business-like.
“Blackwell insulted me—again.” I paused to rub at my forehead. “I told him I was going to write an editorial about how he beats up women.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe.” I felt foolish and self-righteous at the same time. “I should. It’s not right. How many women got beat up around here over the three-day weekend?” I was regrouping and gathering steam. “We did a series on abuse earlier this year. Maybe it’s time to do a follow-up. Dwight mentioned several domestic brawls in the last few days.”
“Four,” Milo said without inflection.
“Four reported,” I countered.
The sheriff just looked at me.
“What?” I yipped. “You expect me to let that asshole say terrible things to me and I should act like mealymouthed Patti Marsh?”
Milo seemed to relax. “Hell, I almost got into it with him at RestHaven. He’s looking for a way to can me before the county commissioners are history. You know Jack and I’ve never gotten along.”
I scowled. “Are you telling me what to write in my newspaper?”
He considered the question. “Yeah, I guess I am. I shouldn’t do that. I don’t like it when you tell me how to do my job.”
“Maybe my threat will make Jack think twice before he shoves Patti’s head into a wall the next time he gets mad at her.”
“Dubious.” Milo drummed his fingers on the desk. “It’s a habit. Hard to break—like smoking.” He reached for his cigarettes. “Want one?”
“Yes, please,” I said meekly. “I didn’t mean to cause you a problem, but I couldn’t stop myself.”
“He ever make a pass at you?” Milo asked after lighting cigarettes for both of us.
“Never.” I shook my head a half-dozen times. “Oh, ugh, what a grotesque thought. Are you mad at me?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I heard most of it. You brought your A game. I hope you never get really mad at me. At least not for more than—what’s your record?”
“Eleven minutes.” I set the cigarette in the ashtray. “Please tell me more about what went down at RestHaven. All I’ve got are bits and pieces. Did Farrell really hit Blackwell and Rosalie?”
Milo ran a hand through his hair. “I’m still not sure what started it. Blackwell came to see Kay Burns. He’s been taking part in some charity deal for the Alzheimer’s-wing kickoff. Kay’s not as fond of her second ex as she is of Dwight. Farrell interrupted the meeting and got into it with Kay—or maybe Jack. Rosalie went to see what was going on. Farrell tried to slug Jack, hit Rosalie instead, and then took another swing at Jack and connected. We busted Farrell on assault-and-battery charges.”
“I’m…flummoxed,” I admitted. “What started the fight in the first place? The mere presence of Blackwell?”
“Lot of ‘he said,’ ‘she said,’ ” Milo replied. “Kay and Rosalie will have to give statements as soon as they get their acts together. Kay was semi-hysterical and Rosalie was in a state of shock. Hell, maybe she always looks like that. I’m guessing Fleetwood went off to comfort her.”
“I assume so,” I agreed. “Is Farrell giving a statement in his cell?”
“He will be, once he calms down,” my husband said. “After he does that, he can post bail and beat it. I don’t want that prick hanging around here. I might end up slugging him. Are you posting any of this online?”
I considered my options. “You’ve officially charged Farrell, but I’d like to wait to see why he hit Blackwell. Jack’s complaint should fill in that gap. There are two sides to any fight.”
“Let’s hope so.” Milo made a shooing motion with his hand. “Now beat it, Emma. I’ve got work to do.”
I stood up. “You will keep me informed, won’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. By the way, if you’re going to Pie-in-the-Sky, why don’t you pick me up a roast beef—”
I didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the sheriff’s order. Frankly, he was lucky I hadn’t slugged him.
—
Mitch felt out of the loop. “I missed all that while I was interviewing Simon Doukas?” he exclaimed after I’d related what had gone on at RestHaven. “I got cheated. Doukas isn’t a lively feature subject.”
I refrained from saying that Simon was dead to me. “He’s an attorney. You were expecting Clarence Darrow or Johnnie
Cochran?”
Mitch shrugged. “He’s dry as dust, but he gave me background on the Doukas clan. Grandpa Deeky—Demetrius Doukas—came here from Greece before World War One. He was seeking gold, bragged he’d found some, but worked as a logger. After Carl Clemans closed the mill, Deeky started buying up land. Maybe he did strike it rich.”
“If I ever heard that, I forgot,” I said. “Oddly enough, an old gold mine was involved in one of the first big stories I covered here.”
“A Golden Fleece theme,” Mitch murmured. “Simon’s aunt converted to Catholicism. He made her sound like a traitor to the clan.”
“What aunt? I never heard that before.” Maybe Simon thought all Catholic women had loose morals.
“Cassandra,” Mitch replied. “She married a Barton. Isn’t that the family that owns the shoe store?”
“Yes, Clancy Barton. He must be Cassandra’s son. The dad was before my time here. His sister, Mimi, works in the office at St. Mildred’s. Kay Burns is the other sister. I don’t recall ever seeing Kay in church.”
“Simon didn’t elaborate on them,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you want me to take on this RestHaven brawl instead of going after the French connection with Buddy Bayard?”
“No rush on the ethnic feature. I want to detach myself from Blackwell and Farrell for personal reasons. I don’t get along with either of them. You can take a neutral stance.”
“I’ll wait for Dodge to get things sorted out.” He nodded at Vida’s vacant desk. “The Duchess hasn’t come back since she left earlier this morning. She must be making up for lost time.”
“Probably,” I murmured. “It is deadline day.”
Mitch returned to his desk. I headed for the rest room. When I came out, Vida was entering the front office. “Emma!” she called. “We must have lunch. Let’s leave early to get a window seat at the Venison Inn. A quarter of?”
I joined her and Alison at the front desk. “Sure. How’s Amy?”
“Doc sent her home,” Vida informed me, adjusting the bathtub on her head. “Nerves, worrying about me. Ella’s mind has deteriorated since her fall. She’d forgotten I was visiting Faith. No wonder Amy was upset. I must finish all those advice letters. Dear me!”
I smiled at Alison as Vida tromped off to her desk. She’d described her visit as “inspiring.” Maybe the minister’s widow had miraculous powers. The Spokane trip seemed to have cured our House & Home editor of her irascible mood. It was too bad Faith’s influence couldn’t sail across the state and over the Cascade Mountains to stop some of our bellicose Alpiners from declaring war on each other.
I was still smiling when I heard the phone ringing in my office.
“Emma?” Milo said.
“Hey—I am not going to Pie-in—”
“Glenn McElroy’s body was found this morning near Grotto. He’d been shot. I’ll get more details later.”
TWENTY
I’d shoved Glenn McElroy to the back of my memory. Of course he was the federal marshal looking for Aaron Conley, but only Milo and I knew that. Maybe I should cover this latest blast of bad news. Peeking into the newsroom where Mitch was hunched over his keyboard, I realized I’d have to alert him if he was going to see the sheriff after lunch.
I stuck to the bare bones, however. Milo wouldn’t want me blabbing about McElroy’s reasons for being in SkyCo. The marshal’s search for Conley had never been made official. Mitch would have to handle the story on a need-to-know basis. I didn’t tell him that the murdered man was a U.S. Marshal.
But of course my reporter was curious. “Another out-of-towner gets whacked?” he said in surprise. “That’s not good for the tourist trade.”
“It helps fill up the front page,” I said.
Mitch nodded. “In Detroit, it’d take up about an inch. I’ll call on the sheriff after I have lunch with Brenda.”
I returned to the conundrum of my editorial. Violence. That was always a solid topic. I could weave in criminal and domestic violence. I considered tying in the Fourth of July by leading off with how our country had been conceived in a violent revolution. But tossing a bunch of overtaxed tea into Boston Harbor didn’t suit the modern era. I cut to the chase, trying to avoid clichés. By eleven-forty, I’d finished a rough draft. Very rough. I winced as I hit SAVE.
“You may not believe this,” Vida said. standing in my doorway, “but after Spokane, it feels quite cool in Alpine. It was over ninety there! Faith has window fans, but they can only do so much. Are you coming? I didn’t take time for breakfast and I’m famished.”
I grabbed my purse and followed Vida like a good little stooge. “I’m so glad you’re back,” I said as she led the way out the door and to the Venison Inn. “I was worried, too.”
“Ridiculous!” Vida exclaimed, her gray eyes darting every which way as if to absorb each nook and cranny of her beloved hometown. I wondered if she’d gone through withdrawal in Spokane. “If only Ella had a brain.” She paused at the restaurant entrance, sniffing the air. “So fragrant. So refreshing after the smell of a city.”
By the time we’d made the usual Runkel Royal Progress through the VI’s front section, we settled into a window booth that looked out onto Front Street. Nicole, a dark-haired member of the Gustavson branch of Vida’s family, hurried to greet us.
“Aunt Vida!” she cried. “We thought you’d run away from home!”
Vida put a hand to her imposing bust. “Oh, good heavens! Such a fuss! I was only gone two full days. Spokane seems like another world, but it is in the same state. Now tell me what the special is. I haven’t eaten since last night. My old friend Faith is frugal when it comes to preparing meals. A Presbyterian virtue, of course.”
“Meat loaf,” Nicole replied. “Very hearty, with a side of mashed potatoes and a small salad.”
I tried not to blanch. The special didn’t strike me as warm-weather fare. Vida, however, was undaunted.
“Hmmm,” she murmured. “With gravy?” She saw her niece nod. “Good. But a small salad? That’s doesn’t sound right for a hearty entrée. Could you bring a regular salad portion? And the bigger boat of ranch dressing. Tea, of course. Oh—a roll with an extra pat or two of butter?”
Nicole promised to fulfill her aunt’s requests. She started to hurry off, apparently forgetting my existence. Obviously embarrassed, she backtracked and apologized.
“Sorry, Ms. Lord,” she said. “I haven’t worked the lunch shift since I enrolled in night classes at the college during summer quarter.”
“No problem,” I responded. “I’ll have the prawns and chips with the small salad. Roquefort dressing. And a Pepsi, please.”
Nicole dashed away. Vida watched her go, smiling fondly. “I do hope she carries through with her journalism major, though I don’t understand why she wants to blog. Whatever is the purpose?”
“It’s sort of a cross between a journal and an op-ed piece,” I ventured. “People have a chance to air their views on life.”
Vida looked skeptical. “Most people have very little to say that’s worth knowing. That is, in terms of their life philosophy. If anyone should blog, it’s Faith. Of course her view is that of a sincere Christian woman. She certainly opened my eyes this weekend.” Vida paused, looking a trifle sheepish. “I’ve been rather cross lately. With Amy, especially, fretting about Roger being away for a while. But it’s a good lesson for him to learn about associating with wicked people. Youngsters can be very naive.”
I realized that was how Vida was coping with Roger’s jail term: the innocent lamb had been led astray. Why not, if it made his grandmother feel better? He still had to serve his sentence. Maybe it’d help him grow up.
“Or,” Vida continued, “perhaps it’s the unseasonable weather. But after the heat of Spokane and the wisdom of Faith, I feel quite rejuvenated. I hope I convinced her she must move here. I also hope you’ll dismiss my silly ramblings of last week.”
“Of course,” I asserted, smiling. “I’ve been off my feed, too. I assume Amy fe
els better now that you’re home?”
“My, yes! My daughters tend to overreact.” Vida paused as Nicole showed up with our salads and beverages. “Oh dear—I was hoping there’d be hard-boiled eggs in the salad. So slimming, you know. Do you think you could find some in the kitchen?”
“I’ll try,” Nicole said, no longer smiling so brightly. Maybe she’d have to dash out to the Overholt farm and find a couple of eggs to boil.
Vida, however, hadn’t seemed to notice her niece’s change of expression. She leaned toward me. “Now do catch me up on the news.”
“We’ve got a dead body,” I said. “Milo called about a half-hour ago to report an apparent homicide.”
Vida almost dropped the three sugar packets she was dumping into her tea. “No! Who is it?”
“Someone from out of town,” I replied.
“Oh.” Her interest level plummeted. “A vagrant, perhaps.”
I didn’t elaborate. Instead, I asked if Miriam and Bob Lambrecht were coming to town today. If so, we’d need a photo and a brief article.
“No, alas,” Vida replied. “They won’t arrive until the weekend. They have so much to do winding up things in Seattle. You can imagine how difficult it is to deal with business and personal matters in the city.”
I thought back to my leave-taking from Portland sixteen years ago. The worst part had been wresting Adam away from his current girlfriend, Coco Crawley. They’d only gone together for six weeks, but Coco had insisted she couldn’t live without him. I’d been afraid she might follow my son to Alpine, but instead, she’d eloped with her yoga instructor a month later. To my relief, Adam had forgotten about her by the time he heard the news. In fact, only then did he reveal that her name wasn’t Coco, but Cordelia…or Cornelia. He wasn’t sure which.
As soon as Vida and I returned to the office, I got a phone message from Mitch saying he was going directly from his lunch at home to see the sheriff. Even without the Lambrecht coverage, the front page was filling up. I conferred with Kip about the color fireworks photo. It was, he assured me, really eye-catching since we’d hired Buddy Bayard to take it. We hadn’t had much choice with Mitch and Vida gone for the weekend.