by Mary Daheim
After taking a big drink of beer, Wayne shrugged. “That’s down the line. When the kid gets here, I mean.”
“True,” I admitted, “but you and your son-in-law must have been forging a special bond. Fatherhood. It’s such a responsibility.”
“Sure is.” Wayne gulped more beer. “It’s got its ups and downs.”
I supposed Wayne was thinking of the son he and Cookie had lost in the rafting accident. Ringo. The family had had more than its share of tragedy. I said as much. “You must be very strong. I’m sure Tim could have benefited from your advice.”
“I am strong,” Wayne declared after swallowing more beer. “In lots of ways.” He moved a couple of steps closer. “Want to feel my abs?”
“No.” I made an effort to smile. “I believe you. How’s Cookie?”
If I thought mentioning his wife would deter Wayne, I was wrong. He set the beer bottle down on the coffeemaker table and put both hands on my shoulders. His paunch was almost touching me; I could smell sweat—and beer.
“I could use more of a payoff than a couple of brewskis. How about it, Emma? You didn’t ask me here to check your stupid dish. You’re the only dish I’m interested in.”
He’d certainly caught me off guard. Maybe I’d gotten used to being some sort of authority figure in Alpine. Or maybe it was that in middle age, I’d grown unaccustomed to a man coming on so strong so soon. “Hey!” I barked, yanking at the long sleeves of his shirt. “Knock it off!”
Wayne pulled me closer. His face was hovering over mine. “Come on, sweetie. You’re damned cute. You got a good body, too.” He began running his hands up and down my sides.
I turned away, burying my face against my shoulder. “Stop. I mean it.” My voice was steadier than I’d expected. “Do you want Dodge arresting you for attempted rape?”
His hands froze on my hips. Apparently he’d forgotten my intimate connection with the sheriff.
“Shit.” Wayne removed his hands and backed off. “You’re a prick-tease, Emma Lord. Go to hell.”
He grabbed his beer and stalked out of the newsroom.
I gasped for breath. My investigative skills were not only failing, but they were buying trouble. Going into the back shop, I looked through the peephole to see if Wayne was gone. I couldn’t see his pickup from that angle, but a moment later, I heard the engine rev and the sound of the truck pulling away. The vehicle sounded as angry as its owner.
Maybe I should call the sheriff, although it wasn’t because of what Wayne had done. It was what he hadn’t said that bothered me most.
Milo was home, going through his tackle box. “I can’t fish in this weather,” he grumbled. “It’s too damned hot. Even the trout won’t come out of the water when the sun’s beating down on the lakes and the streams.”
I managed—just barely—not to mention Wayne Eriks’s unwelcome attentions. But I did suggest that he talk to Wayne about his relationship with Tim. As I spoke, I realized that my voice was strained. I was more shaken by Wayne’s move on me than I realized.
“Just because they ate dinner together?” Milo responded, apparently not noticing that I wasn’t quite myself.
“Think about it,” I urged. “They weren’t close. So why would they go off to dinner together at the ski lodge unless there was an important reason? Why didn’t Tim and Wayne talk at the Venison Inn or have a few beers at Mugs Ahoy? Instead, they chose a place where there was both privacy and no interfering hassles.”
“How the hell do I know?” Milo retorted. “You’re doing that speculating thing again. That doesn’t work in law enforcement.”
If I wasn’t going to rat out Wayne Eriks, I certainly wouldn’t betray Beth Rafferty. “Trust me,” I said in my most earnest voice. “Something strange was going on between Tim and Tiffany. How does her alibi hold up for the time of Tim’s death?”
“Christ.” The sheriff sounded as if he’d like to take a twenty-pound test line and strangle me with it. “She says she went to the employee break room about that time and ate her dinner.”
“Witnesses?”
“Buzzy O’Toole saw her leave the check stand and come back an hour later,” Milo said in a beleaguered tone. “He was filling in as the night manager.”
Jake’s brother wasn’t the most reliable man in town. His own business ventures had failed. Buzzy was able to cope as the Grocery Basket’s produce manager only because Jake and Betsy watched him like a pair of hawks. “Tiffany ate alone?”
“Yeah. They only have three checkers at night and one of them spends most of the time restocking or facing out the shelves or whatever they call it. They close at one in the morning and reopen at six. Don’t you read your own ads?”
If one more idiot asked me that question, I was going to explode. “I know their hours,” I snapped. “They wouldn’t stay open that long if Safeway hadn’t forced them into it. Stick to the issue at hand. I’m serious.”
“What you’re telling me,” Milo said in a condescending tone, “is that you think Tiffany killed Tim and set their house on fire, right?”
The sheriff had backed me into a corner. That brought out the contrariness in my nature. “Yes, I’m saying that’s possible.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“I believe stranger things have happened,” I declared, growing more contrary by the moment. “Tiffany doesn’t act like a bereaved widow. She’s still going to have a baby, she gets the insurance money for the house, she’s being spoiled to pieces by her mother, and all of the nursery items she’s bought were kept at the Erikses’ house. Maybe Tim was just a sperm donor, and after that, he’d outlived his usefulness.”
“Whoa.” Milo sounded taken aback. “What’d Tiffany ever do to you? You really have it in for her.”
“No, I don’t,” I asserted. “I’m hearing things—in confidence. Good journalists never betray their sources. Won’t you take my word for it?”
“You’ve got some bug up your ass,” Milo said, but his tone was thoughtful. “Are you okay? You sound like you’re sick.”
“It’s the heat,” I said, which was partly true. “I get depressed when we don’t get rain.”
“Who doesn’t?” Milo responded. “I mean, if you’re a real native.”
“Our roots need watering, just like the trees. Will you really talk to Wayne?”
“Oh—sure, why not? He lives just down the street. I’ll drop by this afternoon.”
“Good.” I smiled in an evil manner, wishing I could see Wayne’s face when the sheriff dropped by. A little intimidation—real or imaginary—might make the creep talk.
I was driving the car around from the back of the newspaper office when I spotted Vida coming out of the hobby shop across Fourth. She was carrying a huge box.
“Vida!” I called. “What’s that?”
She could barely see over the box. “Meet me at home. I’m parked right there.” She nodded at her Buick Regal, which was pulled in at the curb a few yards away on Front Street.
Why not? I drove straight to her house. Vida arrived a couple of minutes later, empty-handed.
“I left the Destroyer in the car,” she explained. “It’s an incentive present for Roger.”
“What kind of incentive?” I asked as we headed for her front door.
“To study hard fall quarter,” she replied. “And to reward him, too, for his efforts in trying to find Old Nick. My, but it’s warm.” She brushed at the damp gray curls under her green straw hat’s brim.
“Dare I ask what kind of Destroyer you bought him?”
Vida opened the front door. “It’s put out by Lego—over three thousand pieces. Rather pricey. It has something to do with Star Wars. He’s very fond of the films.”
She left the front door open. The house felt stuffy despite the big fan that she’d left turned on in the living room. “I didn’t know Roger liked Star Wars,” I remarked.
“Oh, very much,” Vida replied, removing the sun hat. “I believe that’s how he fir
st got interested in becoming an actor. Not that I’ve seen the movies, but I understand they’ve been very popular. Let’s sit for a minute before we go.”
“Go? Where are we going?”
“To visit Delia Rafferty,” Vida said, collapsing into an easy chair. “Actually, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t blame you. It’s rather depressing at the nursing home. So many addled old people. Of course, most of them were addled long before they went into the home, but it still makes conversation very difficult.”
Coming from Vida, that translated as not being able to get satisfactory gossip. “Why are you going to see her? Didn’t you speak to her at the funeral reception?”
“Yes, but I came away perturbed,” Vida said. “I felt there was something odd about Delia. I can’t explain it, but as if she wanted to talk to me.”
“She mentioned your hat,” I noted, omitting the part about Delia also referring to Vida’s size.
“Yes, yes,” Vida said impatiently. “It was how she looked at me. Searching, perhaps. Or beseeching—that’s a better word. It’s bothered me ever since. By the way,” she continued with an inquisitive stare, “did you ever hear back from Rolf?”
“No,” I said. “I told you he had to go to Spokane.” I hadn’t yet sat down, and now I felt as if I should keep on my feet, perhaps to elude Vida’s perceptive eyes.
Vida sighed. “I’m still not sure about him.”
“You hardly know Rolf,” I challenged.
“I know enough to know I’m not sure.” She shrugged. “You never mentioned your weekend once after he made the original call. I think you forgot. Perhaps on purpose. You don’t want to get in too deep. That’s wise, of course.”
I should have known Vida would see through me. “It’s not quite like that,” I argued. “I got so caught up in the Rafferty case that everything went out of my head.”
“Then Rolf wasn’t lodged there very solidly in the first place. I’m the last person to give such advice, I suppose, but I do think you should occasionally consider how closely wedded you are to your career. I’ve been fortunate in that Buck has his own interests and keeps busy when I’m not available. But at our age, that’s different. I’m not urging you to become besotted. On the other hand, you need some time for yourself as a woman. You have no family close by. You have very few friends. I think you’re lonely, Emma. You don’t think about it because you make sure your brain is otherwise occupied. That’s too bad.” Vida stood up. “Come, we must go.”
I had been standing a few feet away from her, ostensibly to take in the benefit of the fan’s cooling breeze. But her presence in the easy chair had reminded me of a teacher lecturing a dull-witted student. Maybe that’s what I was.
“You’re my friend,” I asserted. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I was quite dumbfounded.
“Of course.” She put the straw hat back on her head. “I wouldn’t speak so frankly if I weren’t.”
I lingered in the living room as Vida collected her purse and got out her car keys. “I’m not sure I want to go with you,” I said. “Nursing homes are so bleak.”
Vida peered at me through her big glasses. “They’re also air-conditioned.”
“Oh.” I decided to join her.
THE LUTHERANS HAD done their best to make the facility homelike. Three years ago, they had bought the small block across Seventh to build a nursing and hospice addition. The fact that the other side of the block was on the service road in back of the cemetery had struck some people as morbid and others as practical.
Delia Rafferty lived on the first floor, officially called the assisted-living residence. The top three stories were individual apartments, added over the years as the retirement population grew. According to Vida, they were very nice units, complete with kitchenettes. She had said at one point that she might consider moving there someday—if the facility were run by Presbyterians.
The lobby resembled a pleasant boutique hotel, with fresh flowers on the main desk. Vida approached a fair-haired middle-aged woman and asked to see Delia.
“You’re a Peterson,” Vida said. “Which one?”
“Margaret,” the woman replied with a stiff smile. “My sister-in-law, Constance, is a nurse at the hospital.”
“Of course.” Vida nodded sagely. “How is Delia today?”
Margaret tipped her head to one side. “Well . . . you know how it is. She’s in her room, watching TV. She’s not one to mix with the other guests.”
“She was never particularly social,” Vida noted. “Which room?”
“One-thirty-four,” Margaret replied.
Vida nodded. I trotted along, feeling, as I often did, that I was her stooge. Margaret had scarcely looked at me. I could have been a terrorist with a suicide bomb attached to my head.
The hotel atmosphere was quickly dispelled as we walked down the corridor. Instead of stargazer lilies, the air smelled of disinfectant. Several old people sat in wheelchairs, some of them asleep, a few moaning pitifully, and a couple of the others eyed us as if we’d come to rob the place.
Delia Rafferty’s room was small and crowded. Apparently Beth—and possibly Tim—had wanted their mother to keep many of her own possessions and trinkets. The TV was turned on to a cable news program, but there was no sound. Delia stared at the screen as if hypnotized.
Vida was undaunted. She tromped over to the wheelchair where Delia was sitting and put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Delia,” she said, “it’s Vida. See my hat?”
Delia’s gaze slowly moved from the TV screen to Vida’s looming presence, and she spoke quite firmly. “Vida. Big woman. Big hat.”
“That’s right,” Vida replied. “Emma is here, too.” She motioned for me to come forward. “Emma is a friend of Beth’s.”
Neither my name nor Beth’s seemed to register. But Delia did stare at me curiously. I hadn’t seen the woman up close in years. She was much younger than I’d realized—perhaps no older than Vida. Delia’s skin was virtually unlined, though her short-cropped hair was almost white. She had big blue eyes and probably had been a pretty young woman. The bone structure was good—though her body was petite. I couldn’t guess accurately because she was seated and slightly hunchbacked. I figured she probably wasn’t much over five feet tall. Her late husband, Liam, had been a six-footer with red hair going gray.
“Eggs,” Delia said.
“Eggs?” Vida was wearing her Cheshire cat smile. “What eggs, Delia?”
“Brown eggs. For omelets.” Delia was looking down at the afghan that covered her lap. Apparently, her circulation was poor. Even with the air-conditioning, the room’s temperature felt like eighty degrees.
“You raised chickens during the war, didn’t you?” Vida inquired, sitting down on a straight-back chair while I remained standing by a curio cabinet filled with ceramic figures.
“My parents did,” Delia responded. “We had a victory garden.”
“So did we,” Vida replied. “Many people did, even in the city.”
“Tim died in the war,” Delia said.
“Did he now?”
Delia nodded. “In Italy. Or was it Idaho?”
“I don’t know,” Vida said. “What happened?”
Delia’s lips trembled. “He was burned up.”
“Gruesome,” Vida remarked with a sharp glance at me. “So sad.”
Delia didn’t respond.
“Would you like to talk about Tim?” Vida coaxed.
Delia shook her head.
“What about Tiffany?” I asked, venturing to include myself.
Delia shook her head again.
Vida wasn’t giving up. “How is Beth?”
Delia was still staring down at the afghan. “Beth didn’t break the eggs.”
“That’s good to know,” Vida said. “Beth’s a nice girl. Who did break them?”
Delia’s blue eyes gazed around the room. There were several photographs, showing Tim and Tiffany’s wedding, Beth and Tim’s high sc
hool graduations, Delia and Liam in middle age, and various babies.
“It’s cold in here,” Delia finally said. “Tell the boy to turn up the heat.”
Vida moved about in the chair, obviously pondering her next move. “You’re going to be a grandmother,” she said at last. “I’ve had grandchildren for years. They’re such a joy. Are you excited about your grandbaby?”
Delia’s gaze shifted to the baby pictures. “That’s my baby. That other one, too.”
“Yes,” Vida agreed, though her patience was becoming strained. “I mean the baby that’s on the way.”
Delia didn’t respond.
Vida sighed and stood up. “We must go now, Delia. Thank you for having us.”
To my amazement, Delia struggled to her feet and put out the hand that wasn’t clinging to the afghan. She shook Vida’s hand, then reached for mine. “Thank you both.” Her grip was surprisingly strong. She looked back at Vida. “I want your hat. I can put eggs in a hat.”
Vida seemed uncharacteristically flummoxed. “Oooh . . . here.” She removed the hat and carefully set it on Delia’s white hair. “There. It looks very nice.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.” Awkwardly, Delia sat back down in the wheelchair.
We left, Vida shaking her head all the way down the hall. “Hopeless,” she declared as we reached the lobby. “Is it Alzheimer’s or dementia? Goodness, the woman’s not as old as I am!”
“That surprised me,” I admitted as Vida waved farewell to Margaret Peterson, who was talking on the phone at the main desk. “I remember her as always being elderly.”
“She’s two years younger than I am,” Vida said as we stepped out into the midday sun. “She has osteoporosis and her hair started turning gray when she was in her early thirties. Living with Liam did that, no doubt. He was poor husband material. Oh, good grief! My head feels like it’s on fire without my hat!”
“That was very generous,” I declared. “I’ve never seen you part with a hat before.”
“I almost never have,” Vida replied as we got into her Buick. The Lutheran home was only a block and a half from her house, but we didn’t want to walk in the heat. “That straw hat was very cheap. I have four others just like it, three dollars apiece at a street fair I attended in Bellingham with my daughter Meg.”