by Mary Daheim
“We’re going to a wedding in Monroe,” Martin explained, sounding anxious, “and I had to run over to the mall and pick up the present at Table Toppings. Jane bought it, but she walked out of the store without it. I was just passing by, so I thought I’d drop in.”
Even with a stretch of the imagination, Martin’s route from the mall wouldn’t have taken him by my house. Since he avoided my eyes, I figured that he knew he hadn’t fooled me.
“Do you mind?” He put one foot across the threshold, then darted a look of apology.
“No, come on in. What can I do for you?”
The implied offer seemed to relax him, though he declined to sit down. “I won’t take but a minute, Ms. Lord.” He smoothed his curly gray hair with both hands. “It’s about this murder case. I appreciate—we appreciate—the fact that you didn’t mention our names in your story the other day. But then Becca Wolfe pulled that disappearing act Friday, and it looks as if everything’s going wrong at the salon. I can’t begin to tell you how important it is to Jane and Laurie and me to keep us out of this.”
I hadn’t yet decided how to handle Becca’s brief disappearance. It had been reported to the sheriff, and thus was a matter of public record. On the other hand, there was no crime involved and she appeared to be safe. Maybe it was a chatty item for Vida’s “Scene Around Town” column.
“We’ll do our best,” I said. “So far there’s no reason to bring in Laurie or you and Jane.”
If I expected Martin to show relief, I was wrong. Instead, he ran a finger under the collar of his stiff white shirt. “It’s not what you think. I mean, we know there’s no connection between us and this Whitman woman who got killed. But it’s the other business.…” His voice faded into misery.
“Toby Popp?” I gave Martin a sympathetic smile. “Your wife told me all about her first marriage. I understand why your family doesn’t want the publicity. Toby probably doesn’t either. He seems to shy away from the media.”
Martin reddened and clenched his right fist. “I don’t give a damn about Toby Popp! All I want is for him to leave us alone! He dropped out for almost twenty years, then he shows up like Santa Claus. I’ve worked hard, I’ve made a decent living for my family, I’ve been a real father to Laurie and a good husband to Jane. Of all the places in the world that Toby could have gone, why did that self-centered so-called genius of a jackass have to come here?”
I didn’t blame Martin Marshall for being disturbed. His question wasn’t merely rhetorical: I was afraid that I, like him, knew the answer.
“He hit middle age and suddenly realized the only thing he had was money,” I murmured. “I suppose he’s in need of family—or at least a daughter.”
“That’s it.” Martin unclenched his fist and waved at the air. “My daughter. He gave her up a long time ago. She hardly remembers him. Then he thinks he can win her over with a bunch of expensive presents and big checks. Imagine, he wants to buy Laurie!”
Martin’s voice had risen again. I tried to speak calmly, hoping to soothe him. “She doesn’t seem to be for sale.”
“She’s not,” Martin declared heatedly. “Oh, I’ll admit, Jane almost fell for the first couple of gifts. She felt Toby owed her—and Laurie—something. But I put an end to that. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Take no part of him, I said. The next thing you know, he’ll want Laurie to live with him in his mansion down on the river. Why else build such a big place for one lousy person?”
“Maybe,” I said, still in a reasonable tone, “he wants to start another family. He’s not too old for that.”
Martin snorted. “He’s too chicken for it. He doesn’t have the guts to court a woman. His ego might be the size of Mount Baldy, but he doesn’t have the heart. He doesn’t have a heart, as far as I’m concerned. It serves him right if it got ripped out thirty years ago.”
“He must have cared deeply for Jane,” I said, wishing that Martin would either sit down or take off. I was getting tired of standing on the hardwood floor.
Martin seemed to have read my mind. His shoulders slumped in the suit coat as he turned to leave. “Jane broke his heart?” he murmured. “No way. She got him on the rebound. You bet it didn’t work out. Even if Toby’d been a normal guy, the marriage would’ve flopped. Thanks, Ms. Lord. I’ve got to run or we’ll be late for the wedding. I don’t know why, but I feel better now.”
I didn’t know why Martin felt better, either. I’d hardly been able to offer much solace. I couldn’t even promise to keep the Marshall name out of the paper. Maybe he just needed to vent his frustrations. Certainly he had them—a wife and daughter who were being courted by a billionaire was enough to threaten any ordinary man.
I had scarcely closed the door on Martin when Ed Bronsky showed up. He looked frazzled, but as usual, was full of himself. Nervously, I eyed my watch. The late afternoon was being swallowed up by my unexpected visitors.
“I’ve been working all day,” Ed said, barging into the living room and thudding onto one of my armchairs. A hand-tooled leather attaché case dangled from one hand. “I got up to my college career. What’s that line about being in Arcadia? It’s got something to do with a university in England.”
I refrained from holding my head. Ed’s so-called college career had lasted two quarters at Central Washington State. “The quote’s from Evelyn Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited. It’s not about the narrator’s days at Oxford so much as the idyllic life that he and—”
“Whatever.” Ed waved a beefy paw. “I’ve been thinking that I ought to have some references to the classics, maybe begin the book like Dickens did, you know, ‘First of all, I was born.’ Or however it goes. Have you got a copy of A Christmas Carol?”
“It’s David Copperfield.” Trying to control my impatience, I balanced uneasily on the arm of my green sofa. “If I were you, Ed, I’d stick to my own words. The author’s voice, as they call it.” I was choking on the suggestion.
“Hmmm.” Ed looked thoughtful. “I suppose. What about using quotes as chapter headings? Like when I get into my advertising career, I could use what Churchill said about blood, sweat, and tears. That kind of phrase would add class.”
But not accuracy, I thought, unless Ed was referring to me instead of himself. “See how the actual writing goes,” I temporized. It was pointless to argue further.
Ed was still thinking, his pudgy face a mass of furrows and lumps. “That’s the other thing, Emma. I sat down at my computer today and worked on the first chapter. It’s kind of rough, but I thought you’d want to go over it. The editor’s touch, as it were.”
Surreptitiously, I glanced at my watch. It was after five-thirty, and Milo was due in less than an hour. I still had to finish cleaning, get dressed, and start dinner.
“Leave it with me,” I finally said. Getting rid of Ed seemed like the lesser of two evils. “I’ll proof it tomorrow.”
“It isn’t proofing exactly,” Ed admitted. “In fact, we should read it together.” He clicked the attaché case open and extracted a pile of computer paper. “Let’s sit at the dining-room table. We’ll have more room. I don’t suppose you could spare a short one?”
Ed had gotten to his feet, but I stayed firmly on the sofa’s arm. “Ed,” I intoned, “I can’t do this right now. I’m expecting company. Frankly, you ought to rework your first chapter so that it’s all but press-ready. Otherwise,” I continued, practically gagging, “it won’t have that Bronsky touch.”
“Company?” Ed’s gaze darted around the room, as if my guest were hiding behind the furniture. “Who?”
It was none of Ed’s business, but on the other hand, hosting Milo wasn’t a state secret. Thus, I revealed the name of my dinner companion.
Ed’s expression changed from inquisitiveness to disapproval. “Gee, Emma, that’s not a good idea. You’d better cancel. Give Milo a call, and we’ll get started.” To my horror, Ed bustled over to the dining-room table.
“Ed!” I spoke sharply, my patience exhausted. “What the he
ll are you talking about? And don’t you dare sit down!”
Rather than the annoyance I’d expected, Ed exhibited puzzlement. “Hey, I’m only thinking of your reputation! Come on, Emma, you’ve got to know what people are saying. I’m surprised at Milo—I thought he was a pretty smart guy.”
At last, I slid off the sofa. Arms crossed, I approached Ed. “Now what? Have I gone beyond encouraging crime for the sake of circulation? Is Milo doing likewise to keep himself and his deputies in overtime? What’s today’s rumor, Ed? That the sheriff and I conspired to kill Kay Whitman?”
Ed actually looked as if the thought had never occurred to him, but it wasn’t a bad idea. “Gee, not that—though it could work. You see,” he went on earnestly, “most people think that the wrong woman was killed. It was supposed to be Honoria, not her sister-in-law. If you and Milo are seeing each other on the sly, then who had a motive to get Honoria out of the way?” Ed regarded me with genuine curiosity.
I was flabbergasted. While the twisted concept had crossed my mind earlier, it had never dawned on me that anyone would take it seriously. My initial reaction was to lash out at Ed, at Fuzzy Baugh, at whichever other so-called mover and shaker had bandied such an idea about over a third martini. Instead, I curbed my temper and tried to be reasonable.
“Okay, Ed—who’s the suspect? Milo or me?”
Ed flushed and held up the hand that wasn’t holding Chapter One. “Hey—I didn’t come up with it. But you found the body. You were there. What’s a person to think? Especially people who don’t know you as well as I do?”
Under my breath, I uttered several words that would have uncurled Vida’s gray locks. “This is ridiculous, Ed,” I finally declared, feeling hopelessly at sea. “It’s more than that—it’s scurrilous. If I find out who’s been saying such things, I’ll sue his—or her or their—pants off. So will Milo, if he’s implicated. These kind of rumors damage our professional credibility as well as our personal reputations.”
Ed, who had been gulping a bit, began jamming the computer sheets back into the attaché case. “Don’t blame me for idle gossip, Emma. You know what this town is like. You’ve got to admit, a triangle is always a motive for murder. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. A man and a woman who spend a lot of time together are bound to get talked about. Nobody can believe that they don’t … well, you know.” Ed lowered his eyes.
“And you know that they don’t.“I bit off the words.
“As I said, don’t blame me.” Ed had bumbled his way to the door, colliding with the vacuum cleaner en route. “I’ll go home now and do some rewriting. See you in church.”
I was so angry after Ed left that I practically reinvented my living room. Not only did I clean and dust, I threw out two wastebaskets full of accumulated items that I’d been saving for reasons that now eluded me.
While getting dressed, I called Vida to ask her if she’d been hearing any of Ed’s so-called rumors. If they were real, I couldn’t imagine that my House & Home editor’s pipeline had failed her.
But Vida wasn’t home. Vaguely, I recalled that she’d mentioned going to her daughter’s for dinner. Or, if Buck had recovered from the flu, they’d eat out. It had all seemed up in the air, which was probably why I’d forgotten.
Finally calming down, I tried to deal with Ed’s gossip in a rational manner. Except in the beginning, when the local citizenry learned that I had borne a child out of wedlock, I had never been the subject of ugly talk. If I backed away to give the current tales some journalistic objectivity, the rumors weren’t as preposterous as they seemed. The public knew only what had appeared in the Wednesday edition of The Advocate. Any other information that had leaked out since was strictly hearsay, and a matter of speculation. If people discovered that Honoria had given Kay her facial appointment, it was natural that some would think the killer did in the wrong woman. Certainly that idea had been considered by the rest of us. There seemed to be no more motive for murdering Kay than for killing Honoria. If no one in Alpine or the rest of Skykomish County knew Kay Whitman, why did she die? It was more plausible to believe that Honoria was the intended victim. Honoria had dated the sheriff for three years; they were said to be on the outs. Who was Milo seeing since then? Emma Lord, that’s who. It made sense, in a simplistic, weird, Alpine kind of way.
On the other hand, who was Honoria seeing? I liked that question better. Was it Toby Popp? Was it someone else? Was it anybody? Paula Rubens hadn’t thought so. But except for Wednesday’s phone call, Paula hadn’t spoken with Honoria since New Year’s.
I was still mulling and making a green salad when Milo arrived. He didn’t bring Scotch, but he had a bottle of Drambuie.
“You like this stuff, right?” he said, delivering the gift in its brown paper bag. “It’s kind of sweet, but the warming part is good.”
“It costs the world, you goof,” I said, grinning as I relieved the liqueur of its packaging. “Thanks, Milo. I’ll save it for after dinner. I can drink to forget Ed Bronsky.”
For starters, I limited my recital to Ed’s autobiography-in-progress. I’d save the rumor mill until Milo was sitting down with Scotch in hand. He listened attentively as I made our drinks.
“Who’d want to read about Ed’s life?” the sheriff asked when I had finished in the kitchen and we’d returned to the living room. “Ed’s got too much time on his hands these days. Can’t your priest keep him busy doing good works?”
“Ed does volunteer at church,” I admitted. “But you’re right—he needs a real project. God knows there’s plenty to do in this community. The Food Bank is always crying for donations, and we haven’t got a multipurpose shelter. Maybe I’ll mention it to Father Den.”
After Milo had downed some of his drink, I related Ed’s latest, crazy rumor. I expected the sheriff to be angry; I had not anticipated his amusement.
“People are saying you’d kill for me? Hell, Emma, that’s wild!” The hazel eyes sparkled with pleasure as the sheriff edged closer to me on the sofa.
“People are wacko,” I retorted, my annoyance returning. “If we’re going to talk about nonexistent love triangles, let’s zero in on you, Honoria, and Mitch Harmon.”
Milo didn’t exactly recoil, but he definitely pulled away. “Mitch Harmon? You mean Honoria’s late husband? What about him? What’s he got to do with me?”
The perplexity on Milo’s long face was so apparent that I took pity on him. But if my tone softened, I didn’t mince words in relating Paula Rubens’s account of Honoria’s abiding love for her spouse.
Milo continued to look bewildered. “Honest to God, Emma, I never heard that. Honoria hardly talked about Harmon at all, and when she did, it was about how he banged her around and finally crippled her. Are you sure this Paula is reliable?”
“I told you, Honoria unloaded all this after a few drinks. Paula may have some eccentricities, but she strikes me as an honest, open person. Why would she lie?”
Naturally, Milo couldn’t answer that question. He sat in silence for a few moments, swigging Scotch and shaking his head. “This is weird. I don’t get it.”
Nor, when I told him, did Milo get the part about Kay dumping Trevor. “Self-delusion, maybe,” I suggested. “Honoria and Trevor and their mother may have put on a front. They wouldn’t want to admit that Trevor’s wife walked out on him while he was in prison. Mrs. Smith seems like the type who’d worry about what the neighbors would say. That’s why she came to Alpine before she left for California—to apologize for her children. Her own marital track record is so patchy, she’s ashamed of it. I think she feels guilty, too, for setting a bad example. Ida Smith is the kind of person who does exactly what she wants, but is always apologizing, as if saying ‘I’m sorry’ makes up for her flaws.”
Again, Milo was quiet, apparently thinking through what I’d said. “Well, at least Kay came back to Trevor,” he finally remarked. “She was willing to try for a fresh start. That’s to her credit.”
I regarded Milo over the r
im of my glass. “Did it get her killed?”
The sheriff had finished his drink. Instead of waggling his glass at me in his usual way of asking for a refill, he set it down on the coffee table.
“It may have,” he allowed, looking glum. “That triangle idea could work another way.”
I tried not to look too pleased as Milo’s thinking seemed to be following the same route as my own. He might not be inclined to detours on his straight and narrow path to Truth, but his slower starts usually led him to the finish line. “You mean a former lover of Kay’s?”
But Milo shook his head. “No. I mean of Trevor’s.”
Admittedly, I hadn’t looked at the case from that angle. Milo theorized that after Kay left Trevor, another woman could have entered his life. A former girlfriend, a well-meaning neighbor, even a stranger might have visited Trevor in prison.
“We’re back to the beginning,” I said with a sigh as we sat down at the dining-room table. “In fact, we seem to be going in circles. So is this former love in Alpine, or did she follow the Whitmans? If she’s here, who is she? Nobody I know fits into the time frame, not even Jane Marshall, who married Martin and moved here before Trevor went to jail.”
The comment reminded me of Martin’s visit. Milo listened with an air of mild interest. In between big bites of steak, he chuckled.
“You like that part about the woman who broke Toby Popp’s heart, I’ll bet,” Milo remarked. “Who was she? Kay Whitman? Or one of four million other California girls?”
“You know, Milo,” I said, passing my guest a second baked potato, “it might not hurt to dig into the Mitch Harmon case. Why did Paula insist that Honoria didn’t blame him for her handicap? And by the way, did you ever talk to Honoria again last night?”
“No.” Milo looked sheepish. “By the time I got around to it, it was almost ten. I figured Honoria and her mother would turn in early to get a good start on the road this morning. They had to drive through the Siskiyous and the stretch by Mount Shasta. It could be dicey this time of year.”