by Mary Daheim
“Hey!” I poked Leo's arm. “Am I nuts? It looks like crime-scene tape over there.”
But a long line of freight cars blocked Leo's view. At last, when the train had disappeared and the guards had been lifted, I poked Leo again. “Take a right on Railroad Avenue. Let's see if my eyes are deteriorating along with the rest of me.”
“It's probably construction tape,” Leo said, though he humored me and turned off Alpine Way. “Or maybe it's some kind of warning to trespassers.”
It was definitely crime-scene tape. A couple of kids on bikes had stopped to study the site. Leo and I got out of the car and approached them.
“Hey, guys,” Leo called to the boys. “Do you know why this tape's been put up?”
“Uh-uh,” the taller teen responded. “Isn't this where they found the gold back around Halloween?”
“Right.” Leo was rubbing his chin. “Do you know how long it's been here?”
“Uh-uh,” the boy said. “We just seen it now.”
“It wasn't here this afternoon when Vida and I got back from Snohomish,” I put in. “We'd have noticed it. At least Vida would.”
Leo's brown eyes were fixed on my face. “So?”
I grimaced. “We've got to contact the Sheriff's office.”
“And hope he's not there?”
“That's right.” I sighed. “Maybe you had something there—it could be just another way of warning off vandals and treasure hunters.”
The boys took off on their bikes. From across the tracks and beyond the vacant lot, we could hear the river. On the opposite bank, where ferns grew almost five feet tall and second-growth timber had come to maturity, shafts of sunlight sifted through the trees. It had turned into a perfect spring evening. Except for the crime-scene tape.
“Okay, let's go.” Leo seemed resigned, and I knew he wasn't referring to Cafe Flore.
“Don't worry, I can face Milo if I have to,” I asserted, getting back into the car.
“Oh, I'm sure you can. I just don't want to get in the way when it happens.” Leo gave me his lopsided grin.
The Sheriff was in. He was standing behind the curving counter when we arrived, talking to Dustin Fong and another deputy, Sam Heppner. Milo looked up when we entered, and it was clear that what he saw didn't please him.
“We're busy,” he said.
“We're busy, too,” I replied. “It's called news gathering. What's with the crime-scene tape at the warehouse site?”
Milo's gaze was steady, though it seemed to be focused somewhere between Leo and me. “We're not releasing any information at this point.”
“Milo!” I actually stamped my foot, forgetting that I was wearing pumps. I was lucky I didn't break a heel, like Thyra Rasmussen with the gourds. “Don't be a jackass!” Before he could respond, I dove for the police log. It was on the other side of the counter, about six feet from where the Sheriff and his deputies were standing.
To my chagrin, there was nothing new, except the usual stolen bicycles, prowler reports, a two-car accident at Fourth and Cedar, and a cougar spotted just west of Cass Pond. Then I realized that the lack of information was meaningful. No crime had been reported, which meant that something else was afoot.
“Those bones,” I said. “The crime-scene tape is because of the bones the Bourgettes found the other day. You've been doing more digging. What did you find?”
“Look.” Milo leaned on the counter, his long face more serious than incensed. “We're not letting anything out on this until we know what we're talking about. Stop taking this personally, Emma. Check with us next week.”
The rational response took me aback. I was about to tell Milo that I wasn't the one who was taking things personally when I felt Leo nudge me in the ribs.
“Let's eat,” he said, lowering his voice.
“Do that,” Milo said, not sounding so rational. “You two look like you're going out for a big night on the town.”
“How observant,” I said, and turned my back on the Sheriff. Deliberately, I put my arm through Leo's. “Come on, darling, we're going to be late.”
Leo chuckled all the way to the car, but once we were seated at Cafe Flore and had been served our cocktails, he grew somber. “It's none of my business, but I don't understand you,” he said. “You've got this thing about Tom Cavanaugh, and yet you and Sheriff Dim Bulb act like a couple of feuding teenage lovers. Dare I ask what's going on?”
The query irked me. “You dare, but it should be obvious. It's not me who's causing the problem. It's Milo, acting like a … dim bulb.” Usually, I didn't care much for Leo's disparaging remarks about the Sheriff. I still didn't, but I refrained from making an issue of his attitude. “We've kept our distance since we broke up, but this Ras-mussen case has brought us head-to-head. He's been obstructing our news gathering at every step of the way. That's not fair, and it is personal.”
“In other words, it's none of my damned business.” Leo looked annoyed.
I didn't want to spoil our evening. “I just explained the part about Milo,” I said, putting my hand on his. “I can't explain Tom, because I don't understand it myself. For the past two or three years I thought I'd gotten over him. Finally. But when you told me about Sandra, I realized I'd been kidding myself. It isn't going to be over until he tells me it is.” I swallowed hard and asked the question I'd put off since Wednesday night. “Did you call him about the job offer?”
Leo's weathered face softened. “Yeah, but he still wasn't home. I tried again last night and today. This time I left a message, figuring he's out of town.”
“Will Tom call back?” My voice sounded overeager.
“Probably. He's got decent manners. As I'm sure you recall,” Leo added dryly.
“Oh, yes. Tom's manners are excellent.” I removed my hand from Leo's and drummed my nails on the linen-covered table. As usual, the restaurant was packed, drawing customers from as far away as Seattle. “Why don't you just come right out and tell me I'm an idiot?”
“You're an idiot.” The lopsided grin reappeared. “Feel better?”
I laughed. “Yes.” And then I added in an unusually candid confession, “You make me feel better, Leo. I don't know why, but you always do.”
Leo picked up the big, handwritten menu. It almost looked as if he was hiding behind it. “You'll figure it out someday. Maybe.”
Chapter Eleven
“IF,” VIDA SAID when she arrived early for dinner Sunday night, “I had included Billy in my will—which I have not, with three daughters and five grandchildren—I would write him out. He has failed me yet again. Whatever is the matter with that boy?”
That boy was now over thirty, and, as I tried to point out to Vida, was undoubtedly following Milo's instructions. “I told you when I phoned earlier today that for once, Milo might not be acting like a complete jackass. He may have a reason to hold back. Anyway, he said we could check with him tomorrow.”
“Perhaps someone broke into the Bourgettes' trailer. Tools are always tempting.” Vida gazed around the kitchen. “Let me help. What can I do?”
“Nothing. Just sit.” Vida was not a competent cook, and the table in the dining alcove was already set. “I think there's something odd about those bones. For one thing, I noticed at the time that they were charred. Couldn't that indicate they weren't buried very deep and had been burned in the fire?”
Vida hadn't accepted my invitation to sit, but stood with her back to the refrigerator. “Meaning what, precisely?”
“The metal chest wasn't charred,” I said, sauteing onions in butter. “I suppose it was found on a fluke, maybe while the firemen were digging out some of the timbers. Thus I'm assuming it was fairly deep in the ground. But the bones must have been closer to the surface. I guess,” I went on, putting the onions into a mixing bowl, “I'm saying that the bones weren't as old as we assumed. Milo was really quite cavalier about them.”
“Hmm.” Vida stroked her chin. “That's most intriguing. Awful, really.”
“Perhaps
. But that may be why Milo won't talk. He's waiting for more lab results, probably from Everett.” I stirred ricotta, Parmesan, and Romano cheese into the onions. “Now tell me about your visit to Maud Dodd.” Vida had cut our phone conversation short when her grandson, Roger, turned up the sound on MTV so loud that she couldn't hear.
“Futile,” Vida replied. “Maud's mind is very sharp, and her memory is excellent. Goodness, she's not all that much older than I am. But she only recalls how sweet the Japanese men were, such good workers, and always bringing those lovely little oranges to the other people in Tye. The only helpful information she had to offer was that all of the men except one returned to Japan before World War Two broke out. The fellow who stayed on moved to Seattle, where he had a fiancee. I suspect that they were both interned in that sorry episode authorized by that tyrant, Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”
Vida is Republican to her toes, and any defense of FDR was useless. Though I had been brought up in a working-class family of Democrats, I really couldn't defend Roosevelt's panicky reaction toward Japanese citizens after Pearl Harbor. Indeed, I had frequently heard the story of one of my father's Nisei neighbors, who had been hauled away while listening to a University of Washington-Washington State football game. At the time he thought he was being arrested for being a Cougar fan in a city where the Huskies reigned supreme.
“Did Maud remember the man's name?” I asked, adding cooked spinach to my mixture.
“No.” Vida finally sat down at the kitchen table. “She said everyone called him Joe. Whatever kind of concoction are you making, Emma?”
“Stuffed chicken breasts,” I replied, aware that Vida's idea of exotic cooking was macaroni and cheese. “There's a yogurt-and-red-wine garnish, and I'm serving roasted red peppers and rice pilaf with it.”
“Goodness! That's enough to trigger Carla into a miscarriage. Wherever do you get such peculiar recipes?”
“From your House & Home section,” I said. “You ran this one last March.”
Vida merely raised her eyebrows. She knew that I knew she almost never read the recipes, which she obtained from a news service in Los Angeles.
“So Maud Dodd is a dead end,” I said, filling the chicken breasts with spinach-and-cheese stuffing.
“I'm afraid so.” Vida looked defeated, her chin resting on her hands. “Maybe Milo will make an arrest in the next day or so. He must be gathering evidence to make his case.”
“Could be.” I put the chicken in the oven. “You know how meticulous he is. Whatever he does, it won't be impulsive.”
“Plodding,” Vida said. “That's the word that comes to mind. But of course he's thorough. I must give him that.”
Since I'd decided to skip the RUB dedication, I asked Vida if the event had gone off well. She said it was very low-key, with Nat Cardenas and George Engebretsen and someone from the state office of higher education eulogizing Einar Jr. The lieutenant governor had canceled, due to illness.
“Carla tried for some different angles with the speakers,” Vida said, examining a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers I'd bought on my last visit to Ben in Tuba City. “Hopefully, they'll perk up the front page a bit.”
“Was there much of a turnout?” I inquired.
“So-so. The mood was very subdued.”
The doorbell rang. Since I had my hands full of red peppers, Vida volunteered to welcome the other guests. By the time I reached the living room, she had taken Carla and Ryan's jackets, and was insisting they sit on the sofa.
I offered wine, which Carla and Vida declined. Ryan, however, accepted. For the first time I got a close-up look at my reporter's fiance. He was in his late thirties, just under average height, and a bit on the chubby side. His dark hair was already receding, but his face was pleasant, and his brown eyes conveyed kindliness. He had a faintly boyish air, and if not exactly shy, he seemed self-effacing. Cute was the word that described him best, and I could see the attraction for Carla, especially when he referred to her as Little Mother.
“Little Mother tells me I'm about to be grilled,” Ryan said after I'd served him a glass of Chardonnay and brought Diet 7UP and ice water for Carla and Vida.
“Dear me,” said Vida. “That's an unfortunate phrase. What we're interested in are your impressions of Einar Jr. and his relationship with people at the college.”
Ryan's round face grew thoughtful. “I didn't usually see Mr. Rasmussen interact with people from the college. Once, I saw him come out of a board meeting, and he was pretty angry. That was a couple of months ago. But the only other times I ever saw him were public occasions. The opening of the college, a faculty tea, events like that.”
Carla edged closer to Ryan. “Tell them about the sugar bowl.”
Ryan chuckled, a light, charming sound. “Oh, that. It was at the library, a couple of weeks ago. You were there, Little Mother.”
“Of course I was,” Carla said, sounding petulant. “I covered it for The Advocate. But I didn't include the part about the sugar bowl. We don't need to get sued.”
The mere idea of a lawsuit always sends off alarm signals in my brain. Although The Advocate was insured through a group that handled other weeklies and small dailies, the ugly threat of libel is always with us. “What happened?” I asked. “I don't remember you mentioning anything unusual.”
“It wasn't,” Carla answered. “It was just sort of … dumb. Go ahead, tell them, Ryan.”
A bemused smile on his face, Ryan cleared his throat. “Cynthia Kittikachorn was pouring coffee at one end of the table and Shawna Beresford-Hall was in charge of tea at the other end. Mr. Rasmussen was standing behind Maylene Bjornson in the coffee line, and Maylene knocked over the sugar bowl, which contained cubes. Mr. Rasmussen bent down to pick up some of the cubes that had fallen onto the floor, and he …” Ryan paused, revealing dimples as he smiled at Carla. “He dropped one down Maylene's dress, which was rather low-cut.”
“Right in her cleavage,” Carla said. “I was about to take a picture, so I got a good view. I couldn't believe he'd do such a gross thing. But both Einar and Maylene laughed their heads off. Cynthia and Shawna didn't think it was so funny.”
“Did you take the picture?” I asked, remembering my editor's role.
“No.” Carla made a face of remorse. “I was too startled. If I had, I could have blackmailed Einar.”
Ryan laughed uproariously at Little Mother. “Isn't she something?” he said, hugging Carla's shoulders.
“Yes, she is.” Vida's voice held a touch of irony. “This is most intriguing. Does anyone else here feel that the incident implies a certain intimacy between Einar and Maylene?”
Ryan leaned forward on the sofa, his expression now quite serious. “Possibly. But nobody knows for sure that Mr. Rasmussen was having an affair with Maylene. We just assumed it.”
Vida's jaw dropped. “What?” She whirled on Carla. “Did you know about this?”
“Ummm …” Carla looked more vague than usual. “I guess I forgot. I've had other things on my mind.”
Surprisingly, Vida clamped her lips shut. Perhaps she remembered her own pregnancies, and was not without sympathy. Or maybe she was wondering how such a juicy piece of gossip had eluded her. In her defense, the college often seemed more like a world of its own than part of the town.
“Has the alleged affair been going on for long?” I asked.
Carla and Ryan exchanged glances. “A few months?” Ryan finally said. “Maylene didn't start working at the library until January.”
“What gave rise to these rumors?” Vida inquired.
Ryan looked sheepish. “A couple of faculty members live out on the Burl Creek Road. They saw Mr. Ras-mussen's Cadillac parked at the Bjornsons' a few times when Ron was working the night shift at the college. They couldn't figure out what he'd been doing there unless …” He lifted his hands. “You know.”
“Does the Sheriff know about these rumors?” I asked, getting up to head for the kitchen.
Ryan shrugged. “Somebody m
ust have told him. Dodge and his deputies have been going around asking all sorts of questions.”
I glanced at Vida. “Someone must have mentioned it.”
Vida nodded. “There's always one tattletale. Dear me, this doesn't look well for Maylene.”
Carla's black eyes grew wide. “That was her lipstick on Einar's shirt?”
“Possibly,” Vida said. “She'd be the right height.”
I let them speculate as I put the rice-pilaf water on to boil and slid the pan of peppers into the oven. Upon my return, I refilled Ryan's wineglass and added a splash of bourbon to my highball.
The conversation had expanded to include other evidence of Einar's philandering. Ryan pleaded ignorance; Carla said she'd once heard something about Einar and Amanda Hanson, who worked at the post office; Vida pooh-poohed that notion by saying that when Walt Hanson was out of town, Amanda carried on with Dave Enge-bretsen and Earl Haines, though certainly not at the same time. Amanda had no morals—her skirts were far too short and must be in violation of the U.S. postal workers' code—but she wasn't weird.
“However,” Vida continued, sucking on an ice cube from her water glass, “I wouldn't put anything past Einar Jr., if only because his wife is such a dud.”
I recalled that Vida had mentioned her intention of visiting Marlys. “Have you paid your condolence call yet?” I asked.
“Too soon,” Vida responded. “Tomorrow evening. That makes two days since the funeral, but before the family realizes I didn't send a memorial. I wouldn't want them to think me a piker. They might not let me in.”
I'd resumed my seat in one of the two matching green armchairs. “You were teaching Monday night, weren't you, Ryan?”
Ryan dimpled at me. “Is this an official inquiry, Ms. Lord?”
“Hardly. And please call me Emma.” I gave him a self-deprecating smile. “Carla mentioned that you taught a class on Monday nights. I was wondering if the Sheriff had asked if you saw or heard anything unusual.”