by Mary Daheim
The suggestion sounded good to me. We would have the basic news story for this week’s edition, then follow up next week with the latest developments and an in-depth article on Honoria and her sister-in-law. If possible, I would spare the family any mention of the seamier background details.
“That’s fine,” I agreed. “Unless you want to go tonight after work?”
I could have sworn that Vida blushed. Of course she didn’t, but there was certainly a twitch in her face. “I can’t. I … ah … have an engagement.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Buck?”
Vida nodded once. “We’re going to Everett for dinner at the yacht club. It’s Valentine’s Day.” She actually ducked her head, the slouch hat covering most of her face.
“That’s great,” I said. It was. Vida had been a widow for almost twenty years. She hadn’t dated in all the time I’d known her—until she met Buck last June.
“Let me relate the essence of my phone conversation with Honoria,” Vida put in quickly. “Kay and Trevor live in Pacific Grove, which I gather isn’t far from Carmel, where Honoria came from. They had been married for seventeen years. Kay was forty-three last November. She worked out of the home. I don’t know what she did. There weren’t any children, which is a blessing, I suppose. The Whitmans—Kay and Trevor, along with the mother, Ida—arrived to visit Honoria a week ago Sunday. They’d planned to stay until this coming Saturday.” Vida paused for breath.
I made a face. “They were all staying with Honoria? Two weeks is a long time for four people to be cooped up in that place of hers. Especially this time of year. I’d go nuts.”
Vida appeared to frown. Under the slouch hat’s brim, it was hard to see more than the bottom of her glasses. “You have Adam for weeks at a time when he’s home from college.”
“That’s different. He’s my son. I don’t have to entertain him.” It was true. I merely had to provide unlimited funds so that he could entertain himself and whichever girl he hit on in Skykomish County.
“You have your brother Ben visit for long periods, sometimes with Adam.” Vida now seemed determined to prove some obscure point.
“I don’t feel forced to amuse Ben, either.” Nor did I. Ben was a priest, and often spent much of his visit with other priests—or, these days, ex-priests—in the vicinity. He had also recently taken up skiing, thanks to Father Dennis Kelly, who some parishioners insisted spent more time on the slopes than he did in the rectory. Ben had skied fitfully in our youth, but his previous assignment in Mississippi and his current parish in Arizona hadn’t given him much opportunity to swoosh or schush or whatever skiers do when they aren’t breaking various limbs along with their necks.
“What I mean is,” Vida finally clarified, “Honoria’s houseguests are—were—family. I’m sure they had a lovely time.”
I lifted both eyebrows. “Oh? You mean right up until the brutal murder? Vida, what’s with you?”
“Nothing.” Vida bridled, then stood up. “I must write this story and finish my pages. I’d like to leave a few minutes early tonight.”
Buck, I thought. St. Valentine’s Day. Romance in the air, and spring, waiting somewhere around a four-foot snowbank. “Sure, why not?” I said as Vida made her exit.
The holiday meant nothing to me. I expected no flowers, no candy, no phone calls, no dinner dates in Everett. But that was all right.
And I was all wrong. Milo called two minutes later and asked if I’d like to have dinner at King Olav’s in the ski lodge. I was so startled that I said yes.
“My treat,” he said, further surprising me. “You had a bad shock yesterday, Emma. You could use a break.”
I don’t know whether I was more astounded by the invitation or Milo’s concern for my welfare. Even though our meals together had become more frequent, we usually went dutch. To my amazement I actually felt a flutter of excitement as I hung up the phone. Talking vigorously to myself, I decided that the rush came from the prospect of learning more details about Kay Whitman’s murder. Surely Milo would reveal more than official statements after he had a Scotch or two.
When Vida turned in her homicide story, I discovered there were a few items she hadn’t told me. Perhaps she’d gotten them from Milo or Bill Blatt or even Honoria. Whoever the source, I concentrated on the facts as well as the writing. Unfortunately, Vida had written the piece in a variation of her House & Home section’s style. Before I applied my editor’s pencil, the lead article read:
A woman visiting the area was found brutally murdered in the facial room at Stella’s Styling Salon Monday afternoon shortly after two P.M. Stella Magruder, who has owned the salon since 1967, is married to Richard (Richie) Magruder, Alpine’s deputy mayor and a former bull cook at Camp Two.
The slain woman was identified as Kay Beresford Whitman, 43, of Pacific Grove, California. She and her husband, Trevor, and mother-in-law, Ida Frickey Smith, were visiting the deceased’s sister-in-law, Honoria Whitman, at her charming home in Startup.
The Whitman relatives arrived from California by car February 5. They planned to stay with Honoria Whitman until February 18. Their favorite sightseeing stops on the trip included the Oregon coast, Mount Rainier (though the road to Sunrise was closed due to snow), and Seattle, where they stopped at the Pike Place Market. They also visited the Ballard Locks, where they watched fishing boats, pleasure craft, and other vessels go between Puget Sound and Lake Union.
According to Skykomish County Sheriff Milo Dodge, Kay Whitman’s throat was slit by a sharp instrument. The weapon has not yet been found. The victim’s faux alligator handbag is also missing.
Ms. Whitman, her husband, and Ms. Honoria Whitman, who is an award-winning potteress from Startup with a recent successful showing in Tacoma, had come to Alpine to run errands. Sheriff Dodge and his deputies are investigating the murder, with the cooperation of Snohomish County law-enforcement officials.
Services are pending, probably somewhere in California.
I dashed into the news office, where Vida was laying out her page by hand. She not only refused to enter the computer age, but wrote all her copy on an ancient battered typewriter.
“What’s this about Kay’s handbag?” I demanded. “You didn’t tell me it was missing. Milo didn’t mention it, either.”
“Oh.” Vida pursed her lips. “Well. Milo probably forgot. I may not have said anything, because it seems like an obvious ploy. Do you really think anyone would come into the salon to kill a woman for her faux alligator bag?”
“No,” I agreed. “But it’s pretty stupid of the killer to try to make it look like a robbery.”
“Killing is stupid,” Vida declared. “In any event, Milo isn’t fooled. Not this time.”
I returned to my office before Vida could ask my opinion of her story. Hopefully, she wouldn’t resent my editorial changes. I rarely had to alter much of her House & Home copy, but she wasn’t accustomed to covering hard news. Carla had taken pictures as Honoria and Trevor emerged from the sheriff’s office Monday. I’d let her write the cutline, which was brief and had only required one correction. Carla had identified Trevor Whitman as “Walt.”
On my way home, I stopped at Bayard’s Picture Perfect Photography Studio. Buddy Bayard does all our photo work. Normally, Carla deals with him, but this evening I was finally able to pick up the finished portraits that Adam, Ben, and I had sat for at Christmas. It had been an impulsive idea that hit me on Christmas Eve when I was feeling most nostalgic. Having lost our parents in an automobile crash twenty-four years ago, Ben and I had realized that we’d never had a family picture taken since. I’d made the appointment with Buddy for the thirtieth of December. By the time the proofs were ready, it was the second week of January. My son and brother had returned to Arizona. This meant sending the proofs to Ben in Tuba City, then on to Adam at ASU in Tempe. Ben typically couldn’t make up his mind which pose he liked best, and Adam typically lost the proofs for almost three weeks. But now the finished product was ready.
Buddy was in the darkroom when I arrived. His wife, Roseanna, was closing up for the day. With her blonde pageboy swinging at her wide shoulders, Roseanna went to the filing cabinet behind the antique mahogany desk that served as the reception counter. She presented the three portraits with a certain dramatic flair.
“Well? Aren’t they gorgeous?” she enthused. “Aren’t you and your menfolk gorgeous?”
We weren’t quite that, but I was pleased with the result. Ben had debated whether or not to wear his clerical collar, but to my surprise, Adam had talked him into it. My brother’s sun-bronzed face, engaging grin, and warm brown eyes looked out at me. His features are sharper than mine, and his brown hair crinkles. Ben is just above average size for a man, while I am a bit under for a woman. Still, the resemblance is there, particularly in the mouth and eyes. No, we are not gorgeous, but we do have our charms.
Except for Adam’s eyes, which are also brown, he doesn’t look like Ben or me. As his face grows leaner and becomes more chiseled, he bears a remarkable likeness to his father. Adam is also tall like Tom, six-foot-two at last measuring. The mother in me was proud of my handsome son; the cast-off lover in me was suddenly saddened.
“What’s wrong?” Roseanna asked in obvious disappointment. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, forcing a big smile. “It’s great. I was just thinking how Adam has … changed.”
Roseanna uttered a small laugh. “Babies one day, grownups the next. Don’t I know it?”
The Bayards had three children, all but one now out of high school. Their own family portrait was proudly displayed in a gilt frame on the opposite wall.
Since Wednesday was payday, I felt safe writing a check for the pictures. Roseanna would mail Ben and Adam’s copies to their respective residences in Arizona. I was putting my checkbook back into my purse when Ed Bronsky burst through the front door.
“Hey, hey!” cried my former ad manager and Alpine’s newest millionaire, courtesy of his late aunt in Cedar Falls, Iowa. “Just in time! I’ve been having cocktails with Mayor Baugh at the country club.”
“Ed,” I said, “we don’t have a country club in Alpine.”
Ed pulled back, creating three chins where there were usually only two. “Well! That’s what you think, Emma Lord! We do now. Fuzzy Baugh and I have decided to turn the caddy shack into a country club.”
If it was true, that was news. If it was news, I didn’t want to hear it. Not just now, thirty minutes after The Advocate had gone off to be printed in Monroe. Besides, Ed’s pretentious manner irked me these days. I actually preferred his preinheritance sloth, pessimism, and obsequiousness.
“We’ll have to do some fund-raising,” Ed went on, whether I wanted to hear it or not. “Oh, sure, I’m willing to fork up some big bucks as seed money. But what’s a golf course without a country club? Where can you go for a couple of drinks and maybe a big steak after you finish that last hole?”
For Ed, the last hole was probably on the fifth green. I couldn’t imagine him playing a full round of golf, even with a caddy. Furthermore, Ed was the only man I knew who had broken three ribs in a head-on collision with a golf cart. He’d run into Durwood Parker last September, which wasn’t entirely Ed’s fault. Durwood is the worst driver in Alpine—nay, in the world—and has had his license pulled by Milo Dodge.
I was determined not to discuss Ed’s plans. “I must run,” I said, glancing at my watch. It was shortly after five-thirty. Milo wasn’t picking me up until seven, but nobody, especially Ed, needed to know that.
“Now hold on, Emma,” Ed said, putting a pudgy hand on my arm and suddenly looking serious. “I need some advice. You’re a publisher, you must have some contacts in the book business. How should I go about getting my autobiography published?”
It was all I could do to keep from screaming. I know I didn’t do a very good job of hiding my dismay. “Your autobiography? Why, Ed?”
Ed’s round face frowned at me. “What do you mean, why? It’s a Horatio Alger rags-to-riches story. Small Town Boy Makes Good. People love that stuff. It inspires them.” He and his cashmere overcoat turned to Roseanna. “Where’s Buddy? He was supposed to have those prints ready by five.”
“He’s working on them now. I’ll go check.” It was to Roseanna’s credit that she kept a straight face and a businesslike demeanor.
“You see,” Ed explained even as I edged toward the door, “I’ve had Buddy blow up several photos from my early days. Baby pictures, first tricycle, altar boy, high-school football, the prom, graduation, wedding—you know, a retrospective. That would go in the middle of the book.”
I was still trying to envision Ed in a football uniform. He was shaped more like the football. Perhaps he’d been slimmer then.
“That sounds … swell,” I said, trying to smile. “Listen, I’ve got to scoot. As you know,” I continued, appealing to Ed’s ego, “Tuesday is always such a wild day at work. And this week, with that homicide at Stella’s …”
“Yes.” Ed grew confidential, moving closer and pinning me with my back to the door. “I don’t like saying this, Emma, and I wouldn’t, except that … well, you and I go way back. But people around here are beginning to talk.”
My eyes grew wide. “About what?” Surely no one was gossiping about Milo and me. We hadn’t done anything yet, except eat.
“It’s like this,” Ed said, lowering his voice another notch. “You see, I’m in a position now where I hear things. That happens when you hang out with the top dogs. No offense, but this was a quiet, peaceful little town until you came along. There were maybe two, three murders in the ten years before you bought The Advocate from Marius Vandeventer. Since you moved to Alpine, we’ve had—what?—eight, nine killings in six years? And this time I hear you even found the body! How do you expect people to react to those kind of statistics?”
While I didn’t quite understand Ed’s insinuation, his words were still appalling. “Ed, you aren’t seriously blaming me for the increase in homicides, are you? Violence is growing all over America; everywhere, for that matter. All I do is report it. You know that.”
Ed gave me a helpless look. “All I know is what I hear. People—important people—are beginning to wonder.” Clumsily, he patted my arm. “Just a word to the wise, Emma.” He turned as Roseanna and Buddy entered the reception area.
Fuming, I left. I was still irritated when Milo picked me up more than an hour later. He wasn’t in a much better mood, so I let him gripe first.
“This case is a pain in the ass,” he announced before we got as far as the turn onto Alpine Way. “Honoria and her brother and mother insist Kay didn’t have an enemy in the world. The woman was a saint, if you believe her husband.”
“Do you?” I asked, turning just enough to observe Milo’s profile. It was long, particularly the chin, but otherwise undistinguished. The sandy eyebrows grew almost together, and the nose was rather blunt. Still, it was an agreeable face, especially when Milo smiled. He had good teeth, even great teeth, big and strong and white. I checked myself, wondering why I felt like Leo Walsh, trying to sell a double-truck ad to the Grocery Basket.
“I never believe anybody, let alone the spouse of a murder victim,” Milo said in answer to my question, which I had actually forgotten in my perusal of his features. “Trevor Whitman seems like a stand-up guy, but he’s an ex-con, and never mind how he got that way. Oh, sure, I’m sympathetic as hell, on a personal level. If I had a sister, instead of that stuck-up biologist brother of mine in Dallas, I might have whacked her lout of a husband, too. But I can’t let emotions run my job. I’m trying to keep with the facts.”
Milo always did. It was his greatest strength—and sometimes his worst weakness. I didn’t make any comment, since we were now turning off Tonga Road for the ski lodge.
The lodge is over fifty years old, but Rufus Runkel and the Norwegians had built for the ages. The solid log-and-granite exterior, soaring lobby, and flagstone floors almost seemed to gro
w out of the mountainside. Over the years there have been renovations and additions, including King Olav’s itself, which opened only about four years earlier.
While the lodge’s basic decor is Pacific Northwest natural embellished by Native American masks, totem poles, blankets, and carvings, the restaurant itself evokes the blue and white of Norway’s fjords, mountains, and valleys. The overall theme is Scandinavian, and so is most of the menu. Milo chose meatballs. I went with the salmon. But first we ordered drinks.
“We didn’t get much information out of you regarding the crime scene,” I noted after our waitress took the bar requests. “Can’t you do that in-house now?”
“We can, but we had to wait until this afternoon,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette. “Dale Quick had to come over from Wenatchee, you know.”
I did know. Quick was the part-time forensics pathologist who worked for Skykomish, Chelan, and Douglas counties. His surname didn’t suit him. As Jack Mullins once put it, “Quick may not be fast, but he sure is slow.” He was, however, thorough.
“So? Has Dale come up with anything yet?” I inquired, trying to sound artless, and failing. It didn’t matter. Milo was rarely fooled by my clumsy attempts at subterfuge.
“Nothing startling,” Milo replied. “There’s quite a bit of foot traffic in and out of that rear area, including the facial room. Becca had six other clients already that day. Stella figured another six had used the rest room, and eleven in all had traipsed back to the changing area. That doesn’t count anybody from the optician’s, the travel agency, and the medical supply who might have used the women’s room. And in this weather, with snow and slush and water getting tracked in, footprints are hard to come by.”
“The facial room is carpeted, isn’t it?” I hadn’t really noticed, but somehow assumed it must be so.
Milo nodded. Our drinks arrived, and he waited until the waitress was gone before speaking again. “It’s that indoor-outdoor stuff, the same thing Stella’s got in the rest of the salon. We’ve got it, too, since the remodeling. It’s made to not show dirt or prints. The most we vacuumed out of it was the usual, including a bunch of cosmetic gunk.”