by Mary Daheim
I FELT SICK, physically and emotionally. The weather, the fire, the smoke—and now this. It was the summer from Hell. I’d seen Hell before me tonight, consuming Tim Rafferty. I slouched on the sofa in a stupor, staring at the front door that Milo had slammed behind him.
Finally, I gulped down the rest of my drink and sat up straight. The digital clock read 12:38 A.M. Only a few minutes had passed since Milo had received the disastrous news.
News. If I’d still been working the city beat on the Portland Oregonian as I’d done for years before buying the Advocate, I would have been back at the fire scene, interviewing Sam Heppner and Tiffany Rafferty or on my way to the morgue in the hospital basement or at the sheriff’s office consulting with Milo. But I was in Alpine, and the newspaper wouldn’t go to press until tomorrow night. Maybe that was my excuse for staying in my little log house, even if the odor of death and destruction filled its muggy air. Maybe I was losing my edge. My mind might be next.
I was being ridiculous. I was upset, hot, and tired. And I missed Ben. My brother had spent over six months in Alpine, filling in for St. Mildred’s pastor, Dennis Kelly. Father Den had returned April 1 from his sabbatical, but Ben had stayed for two weeks so that he and Adam and I could spend a few days in Vancouver, British Columbia. We’d had a wonderful time—right up until I had to say goodbye to both of them at Sea-Tac airport’s check-in curb. Adam had gone back to Alaska. Ben had headed for Milwaukee to fill in for yet another priest who was taking a six-month leave, an old buddy from their seminary days. My brother’s intention had been to return to his work in the home missions, but because of the clergy shortage, he was willing to bail out a friend who needed a break. The half year Ben and I’d spent together had been wonderful. It was the first time in over thirty years that we’d lived in the same place at the same time for more than a couple of weeks. The previous occasion had occurred when Adam was born. Because his father, Tom Cavanaugh, was married to somebody else, I’d gone to stay with Ben at his mission parish on the Mississippi Delta. The final trimester of my pregnancy had been a bittersweet three months for both of us.
I tried to stop thinking. If I didn’t go to bed, I’d be worthless the next day. After another five minutes, I emptied Milo’s ashtray, put our dirty glasses in the dishwasher, turned out the lights, and headed into the bedroom. Even the window fan system couldn’t dispel the odor of acrid smoke.
As if I needed a reminder of what had happened that night.
“I SHOULD HAVE been there,” Vida declared the moment she stepped into the newsroom. “When I heard those sirens, why on earth did I assume it was just another grass fire?”
I offered her a weak smile. “Because we’ve had several already?”
She shook her head, which was covered with an enormous orange straw hat. “I should have known. There were so many sirens, though admittedly, they weren’t that close to my house. Poor Tim. Of course, he always was rather foolish.”
I was standing by the coffeemaker, where Ginny Erlandson, our office manager, was placing sweet rolls from the Upper Crust Bakery on a tray. “I sort of liked Tim,” Ginny said. “We were in high school together. He was kind of a show-off, though. But he wasn’t stuck-up like some of the other kids.”
Vida shrugged. “Smoking in bed, no doubt. And drinking. It’s that combination that starts fires. Do you want me to talk to Tiffany?”
I considered the suggestion. My initial reaction was to have Scott interview the Widow Rafferty—when Tiffany was up to it. But I knew Vida was bursting with curiosity. Maybe she could use her coaxing soft-soap manner. It might be better to have a woman handle the story, given that Tiffany was pregnant.
“Yes,” I said, “but she may not be ready to talk to outsiders. She’s lucky if she doesn’t miscarry.”
Vida quickly counted on her fingers. “Four months along. She should be all right. I’ll talk to Cookie Eriks. Or perhaps Dot Parker. She is her grandmother, after all, and I still have to interview the Parkers about their Alaska trip.”
I’d forgotten the Parker-Eriks-Rafferty connection. Even after so many years in Alpine, I still had trouble unraveling all the family ties. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll do the main story, and have Scott handle whatever sidebars we need. You’ll write the obituary, of course.”
“Of course,” Vida agreed.
Scott appeared from the back shop, where he’d been conferring with Kip MacDuff, our production manager. “I should have hung around longer last night,” he asserted with a scowl. “I left right after you did, so I missed it when they found Tim’s body.”
“Don’t feel guilty,” I said. In fact, I hadn’t driven by what was left of the Rafferty house that morning. It would have taken me only a block out of my usual way down Fourth Street, but I’d doggedly kept to my routine. Seeing the smoking rubble would have been a bad way to start the day. “I wasn’t there, either. Besides, we wouldn’t run pictures of . . . Tim’s remains.”
Scott nodded. “I know. But I could have gotten a shot of the firefighters standing over the place where they found the poor guy. A silhouette, maybe, with their outlines against the sky.”
I smiled appreciatively at Scott. He was an adequate writer, but it was his photographic skills that made him so valuable. His artistic talent was inherent, of course, and his technical expertise was growing. The better he got, the more readily he’d be able to market his skills to a wider world.
I didn’t want to think about that. Besides, I had work to do. I took a mug of coffee and a sweet roll into my office to start the day. But before I sat down at my desk, I called out to Scott.
“What about the county commissioners? Was there any big news last night?”
Scott set his own mug of coffee down next to his computer screen and came to the doorway. “They’re still arguing over whether the county or the city has jurisdiction out by the fish hatchery. The new bridge over Burl Creek that everybody wants may be inside the city after all, if the Peabodys can ever figure out where their property line ends. Right now, they think it’s in the middle of their chicken coop.”
“Anything else?”
“The usual—potholes in the ski lodge road, potential flooding on the Skykomish River, that illegal dump site off Highway 187.” His expression turned puckish. “And Ed.”
I sighed. “I was afraid of that. Did he present his bond issue proposal?”
“Oh, yeah.” Scott shook his head. “That’s why the meeting ran on so long. Ed had charts and diagrams and even clips from that Japanese TV series, Mr. Pig. Leonard Hollenberg—he’s getting really senile—thought Ed was promoting some kind of 4-H thing. Leonard couldn’t figure it out, because hardly anybody around here raises pigs, but he thought it’d be a good idea.”
“What? A bond issue? More pig farms? Japanese cartoons?”
“More pigs, I guess,” Scott replied with a grin. “Leonard said he really enjoyed a nice ham on Sundays. Hams don’t taste like they used to. He insisted that his complaint be put into the record.”
“Was it?”
Scott shook his head. “George Engebretsen voted nay to Leonard Hollenberg’s yea, and Alfred Cobb was asleep. As usual.”
“So what happened to Ed’s proposal?”
“They tabled it.”
“Ooooh—good grief!” Vida, who—naturally—had been eavesdropping, yanked off her glasses and began rubbing her eyes in that furious and infuriating gesture that indicated extreme disgust. “Such a trio of ninnies! It’s a wonder they ever accomplish anything! Not,” she added, putting her glasses back on, “that I don’t think Ed is out of his mind.”
I had to put my own mind on our deadline. I’d already written my weekly editorial, a less-than-sterling piece about the need for arterial stop signs at the intersection of Spruce Street, Foothill Road, and Highway 187—or, as it was better known, the Icicle Creek Road. The high school’s main entrance faced Foothill Road, and in the past three years teenagers driving their cars out of the student parking lot had caused a
rash of accidents. Fortunately, no one had been killed or seriously injured, but it was only a matter of time. I’d hoped that the stop signs would be installed before classes started after Labor Day, but Mayor Fuzzy Baugh was dragging his feet. Progress came slowly to Alpine—if at all.
I had the basics for the fire story, so I began writing the first few paragraphs. Any gaps could be filled in later after I heard from Milo.
The phone rang about ten minutes later. I guessed it was the sheriff—but it wasn’t.
“Are you dead?” Rolf Fisher asked. “If so, where do I send flowers? And is it proper to wear my yarmulke to a Catholic funeral?”
“I’ve never seen you wear it yet,” I replied. “You aren’t Orthodox, are you?”
“I’m very unorthodox, as you should know by now,” Rolf responded, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not religious in my own way. Can you come down this weekend? I’ll show you my yarmulke if you show me your rosary.”
“I tried to call you last night,” I said. “You didn’t answer.”
“That’s because some moron hit a utility pole with his SUV,” Rolf said. “My home phone’s still not working. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh.” I paused to double-check my calendar, though I don’t know why. I knew it was empty. “When’s the concert? Friday or Saturday?”
“Saturday,” he answered. “But come Friday anyway. We can go someplace really grand for dinner. There are a clutch of new restaurants I haven’t tried. In fact, there are even more old ones I’ve never been to. I don’t get out much.”
I smiled into the receiver. I could picture Rolf, lounging in his chair at his desk, looking dark and lean and alarmingly attractive. “I hate driving in Friday-night traffic,” I said. “But maybe I can make the sacrifice. At least your condo is air-conditioned.”
“We’ll heat it up in any event,” he responded. “Oh, darn the world and all its worries! Here comes breaking news out of yet another place I can’t pronounce. I’ll talk to you before Friday.” Rolf rang off.
However earth-shaking the big news might be in Seattle, it wouldn’t get into the Advocate—unless it had a local connection. While we subscribed to the AP wire service, we used its material only if there was a Skykomish County angle. Sometimes, when we needed to fill space, it was a stretch. A logging story, an environmental piece, state and national parks—all could somehow be tied in to our readers’ interests if we could get a local comment. Otherwise, SkyCo residents got their news from the outside world via TV, radio, the Internet, and the daily newspapers. The Advocate’s audience cared more about one of Grace Grundle’s cats getting lost in Old Mill Park than a man-eating tiger on the prowl in Calcutta.
“I’m fighting an uphill battle,” Vida announced from the doorway. “I may be losing. I wonder if I should.”
It was unlike Vida to surrender on any issue. “What is it?” I asked.
“It’s Elsie Overholt at the Alpine retirement home.” Vida paused, sticking a couple of loose hairpins into her scattered gray curls. “She’s pestering me again about writing that column.”
“You mean the old-timers’ thing?”
Vida nodded. “Elsie’s ninety-five if she’s a day, and I must admit, she has all her faculties. Or at least as many as she ever had. I suppose it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard, especially as people in general live longer.”
Elsie, whose family owned a farm run by her grandson Ellsworth, had contacted Vida earlier in the year about writing a column that would appeal to the older generation. Vida had rejected the suggestion, insisting that there wasn’t room on her page. That was true enough, but we could squeeze it in elsewhere if we had to, and Elsie had recently stepped up her campaign to become a regular Advocate contributor. For free, of course.
“We might find room on the editorial page,” I said. My weekly piece filled less than two columns. Letters to the editor took up another column or so, depending on who wanted to nail me to the wall. The rest of the page featured whichever spokesperson had the time to put together an article about the community college, the public schools, the park service, the timber industry, the local churches, or any other general-interest topic.
Vida looked resigned. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to call Elsie back and tell her we’ll try it. When we have space.”
I nodded. “It might work out. Can she write?”
Vida shrugged. “She taught in grade school eons ago. She must be at least literate.”
“Okay.” I saw Milo coming into the newsroom. “Go ahead. Here comes the sheriff.”
Vida moved only enough to let Milo enter my office. If he had something to say that was worth delivering in person, it must be important. My House & Home editor wouldn’t miss it for the world.
I looked up at Milo with an inquisitive expression. He didn’t sit, but stood looming over my desk, his long face grim.
“Doc Dewey had to ship Tim’s corpse over to the medical examiner in Everett early this morning,” Milo said in a tired voice. “Doc couldn’t handle the autopsy on . . . what was left. For once, the Snohomish County MEs weren’t real busy, so we didn’t have to wait in line.” He stopped, removed his regulation hat, and ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. I sensed that he was stalling, that he hated to say what was going to come next. But he forged ahead. “Tim died before the fire started.”
Milo stopped again. Vida, who was standing just behind him, looked impatient. “Well?” she said.
The sheriff kept his eyes fixed on me. “Cause of death was a blow to the head. It looks like we may be talking about a homicide.”
THREE
EVEN VIDA WAS shaken by Milo’s bombshell. “Does Tiffany know?” she asked in astonishment.
Milo shrugged. “That’s up to Doc Dewey. He’s got her at the hospital, making sure the baby’s okay. Her folks are there, too. I’ll tell Beth when I go back to headquarters. She’s tough. She came to work despite Tim’s death. She said it’d be too hard to find a sub on short notice.”
“Very brave.” Vida glanced at her wristwatch. “I have an appointment with Dot and Durwood at eleven. Goodness, it’s a quarter to now. I wonder if they’re home. I must call.” She dashed out to her desk.
I wished Milo would stop looming. “How was Tim killed?” I asked.
“Blunt instrument,” the sheriff replied. “The ME’s findings aren’t complete. He may not know—if he can know—what it was until later today.”
I frowned. “Robbery?”
“Could be. Classic setup. The house is dark, burglar figures nobody’s home. Maybe somebody who knew the Raffertys and their schedule breaks in, Tim wakes up, they get into it, and Tim gets his skull smashed in.” Milo fiddled with the collar of his regulation tan shirt. I noticed that he was already beginning to sweat under his arms. It was supposed to hit ninety by afternoon.
“Where was the body found?”
“In the bedroom,” the sheriff replied. “This is going to be hard to reconstruct with so much of the house burned. We’re calling in somebody from the state to help figure out how the fire was started. Assuming it was done to cover up the murder.”
“I suppose,” I said grimly, “that Fleetwood will have this on the noon news.”
“I haven’t told him,” Milo said. “I don’t know if he’s back in town. He was taking a long weekend.”
I shook my head. “It won’t matter. KSKY will still beat us. I should be used to it. You’ll have to make a formal announcement today. It’s going to be all over town in an hour anyway. A murder might get buried in the second section of the Seattle Times or P-I, but it’s the biggest story of the year in a town like Alpine.”
Milo was backing out of my office. “Aren’t you being kind of crass?”
“Yes.” I had the grace to look sheepish. “But it’s the curse of the weekly newspaper. Hell, it’s the curse of the dailies, too. Everything is broadcast as soon as it happens these days. No wonder print journalism is dying.”
Milo lifted
a hand in a semiwave. “Bitching doesn’t help. See you.”
“Let me know when you find out anything new,” I called after him.
The sheriff kept going. As he closed the newsroom door, Vida hung up the phone. “Dot and Durwood are terribly upset. I’m going to their house right away. The Alaskan cruise story will have to be put on hold, I suppose.”
As Vida left, Scott came in. “I just saw Dodge outside. Was Tim really murdered?”
“That’s what the medical examiner says.” I got up from my chair and met Scott halfway. “I need a coffee refill. I also need some ventilation in that damned cubbyhole. It’s beginning to feel like a sauna again.”
“You should drink more water,” Scott commented in a detached voice. He was looking worried. “Who’d want to kill Rafferty?”
I paused with my hand on the coffeemaker. “How well did you know him?”
Scott considered the question. “Not very well. But once in a while I’d meet Tammy at the Venison Inn for a drink after work. She tends to be late.” His grin was apologetic, maybe for her tardiness, maybe for confessing that his beloved had a flaw. “Sometimes I’d sit at the bar until she got there. Then I’d talk to Tim if he wasn’t real busy.”
“Did he ever say anything of interest?”
Scott shook his head. “We’d talk sports, mostly. Sometimes he’d get off on his E-trading and try to convince me it was a good way to make money. I always told him I didn’t have any spare cash to invest. Tammy didn’t, either.” Again, Scott looked apologetic. “No offense, but you know—journalism and teaching don’t make people rich.”
I smiled reassuringly. “Nobody knows that better than I do,” I said, although I figured that Tamara Rostova probably made almost half again as much money in her job at the community college as Scott did working for me. “When was the last time you talked to Tim?”
Scott grimaced. “It’s been a couple of weeks. Maybe closer to a month. Tammy and I haven’t hung out much at the Venison Inn lately. During summer quarter, she usually gets done with work a couple of hours before I do. Besides, she’s knee-deep in wedding plans. I didn’t realize how complicated all that stuff is. And expensive.” He was looking worried again.