by Mary Daheim
As far I was concerned, Ed was kidding, too. If he’d even gotten us a sixty percent amount of advertising on a regular basis, I wouldn’t have had to scrimp and scrounge for revenue while he remained on the staff. “So, are you settled into your new house?” I asked, deciding to change the subject lest I say something rash.
Ed nodded, chins jiggling. “We got in for Thanksgiving. Really nice, cozy, too. That double-wide was cramped. And of course I quit the restaurant business. But you knew that—Vida put it in ‘Scene.’ ”
Ed, who had squandered his sizable inheritance on the so-called villa he’d built above the golf course, had not only been forced to sell Casa de Bronska to developers, but had become so mired in debt that the family had to move to a mobile home. To keep the wolf from the door, he’d gone to work at the Burger Barn. I’d actually felt sorry for him. But the final payment from the house sale had come through in the past month, enabling the Bronsky brood to buy a small home near the fish hatchery. His wife, Shirley, had renewed her teaching certificate and was substituting for the Alpine school district.
“I understand ReHaven will open its doors not long after the first of the year,” I said, noting that Vida had put on her new plum-colored winter coat and an almost-matching pillbox hat with swatches of long bright feathers.
Ed didn’t look pleased at the mention of ReHaven. “I hate to think of all those drunks and druggies trashing our villa, but I suppose it’s for the best.” He grunted as he stood up. “Better get going. Don’t forget—big news tomorrow night. Will Lashley be there?”
“It’s Laskey,” I told Ed for at least the third time. “Yes.”
“Good.” He stumbled a bit, apparently over his own feet. “Oof. New shoes. I need to break them in.”
“Do that. Bye, Ed.” I’d remained seated. Vida had already left the office. Ed took a detour, and though he was briefly out of sight, I knew he was probably stuffing his pockets with Upper Crust pastries.
Maybe Ed had inadvertently given me an idea for my editorial. Alfred Cobb, and his fellow county commissioners, George Engebretsen and Leonard Hollenberg, weren’t the only public officials who’d outlived their usefulness, if not their ability to pork-barrel. The U.S. Senate and House had several members who couldn’t function much more effectively than an oven mitt. I’d also heard firsthand tales about certain Supreme Court justices who had trouble remaining conscious while hearing arguments on vital national issues. Then there was the judiciary on the state and local level, not to mention Mayor Fuzzy Baugh …
My mind wandered in and around these possibilities until I, too, began to feel drowsy. I might’ve nodded off if the phone hadn’t rung to jolt me out of my lethargy.
“My computer died,” my brother Ben announced. “I can’t e-mail, so I’m calling to see if you survived Thanksgiving all by yourself.”
“I had a wonderful time,” I said with unbridled sarcasm. “It was such fun to not have my brother and my son with me as planned.”
“Hey—we’re priests. We have a higher calling. Besides, the Pilgrims were Protestants. Don’t tell me that in your basic Scandinavian community you didn’t celebrate Martin Luther’s birthday on November tenth.”
“We only do Martin Luther King’s,” I retorted. “Now that I think about it, he wasn’t a Lutheran or a Scandinavian.”
“You always were a little slow,” Ben said with that familiar crackle of humor in his voice. “Seriously, were you too miserable?”
“Well …” I thought back to the previous Thursday, with the promise of sun in the morning, followed by heavy clouds, a brisk wind off the mountains, and stinging sleet before sunset. “Let’s say it wasn’t exactly festive. Even Father Den had taken off for the long weekend. It’s not a holy day of obligation, so I didn’t drag my lonely body to the communion service.”
“Jeez,” Ben said, though I couldn’t tell if he was dismayed or mocking. “You really are a mess.”
“I was, past tense. I’ve recovered. It just happened to be the first time that everybody around here had somewhere else to go for Thanksgiving and I didn’t have you and Adam to keep me company. I’m over it, okay?”
“Okay.” Ben paused. “It’s possible that you may be seeing much more of me in the coming year.”
The sudden heaviness in my brother’s voice alarmed me. “Why?”
“Father Jim—the priest I’m filling in for—is giving up his religious vocation. He’s fallen in love with a widow and they’re getting married in June. I hope and pray he’s doing the right thing, but meanwhile I’m stuck here in Cleveland until a replacement can be found. When that happens, I’m taking my long overdue six-month sabbatical to sit on my ass, drink beer, and watch sports on TV.”
“Oh! You scared me. I thought you were the one in crisis.”
Ben laughed. “Hell, no. I picked the right vocation. If I’d gotten married, I’d probably have about four ex-wives by now. You and I were never intended for domestic bliss.”
I bristled at the remark. “I would’ve done just fine if I’d finally married Tom instead of having him buried.”
“Death has a way of spoiling fairy tales,” Ben said flatly.
“That’s harsh,” I snapped. “What are you going to say next—that it was all part of God’s plan that I should stay single?”
“You know me better than that,” my brother said with a touch of asperity. “Ever hear of free will? It’s a basic Catholic concept. Hey—got to go. Lunch date with a couple of guys from the chancery to figure out all this mess. Maybe they’ll ask me to give a wedding shower for the happy couple. Stay loose, Sluggly.”
“Yeah. Right … Stench.” I couldn’t resist tossing back my childhood nickname for Ben. “Sluggly” was about as annoying to me as “Duchess” was to Vida.
My production manager, Kip MacDuff, swung into my office. “Any clue about page one?” he asked. “Mitch promised photos of merchants at the mall stringing up lights over the weekend. You got them?”
“Not yet,” I said. “The Laskeys spent the weekend in Seattle.”
Kip rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “You mean Mitch didn’t follow through? That’s not like him.”
“He probably took the pictures before leaving town,” I said. “They spent Thanksgiving with their son in Monroe and then went on to Seattle. I’ll ask him when he finishes his morning rounds.”
“What’s our lead?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Milo found out this morning that Larry Petersen died over the weekend, but that’s not a banner headline. Page one, below the fold, four or five inches, head shot—discreet, dignified.”
Kip looked stunned. “Larry died in the slammer? Was he killed by another inmate?”
“It was a heart attack, according to the sheriff.”
“Jesus!” Kip shook his head. “Larry was fairly young. All those Petersens seem to live forever.” He grimaced. “I mean, unless they …”
“Kill each other?” I suggested.
Kip winced. “Yeah—I guess. But what I’m trying to say is … well, if you get stabbed or beaten to death, your heart stops, right? How can we be sure it was a real heart attack? Wouldn’t the prison authorities just as soon cover up that kind of thing? You know—politics.”
The thought had never crossed my mind. Or, apparently, anyone else’s at the sheriff’s office. “Milo talked to the warden. I suppose the guy could’ve lied, but if so, there’s a much bigger story that goes far beyond Alpine. I wouldn’t think one law enforcement official would do that to another. He’d be more likely to tell the truth, but ask for discretion.”
Kip’s expression was wry. “The Good-Old-Boy Cop Network? Dodge wouldn’t cooperate.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” I agreed. “Milo doesn’t play games. The warden must be on the level. I can’t see Larry in a prison fight. He had no history of violence until he strangled his sister.” I realized I was thinking out loud. “He was driven to that by his father bypassing him for Linda to eventually become b
ank president. Larry always thought he was Marv’s heir apparent, but his father and his sister betrayed him. That’s a crime of passion.”
“Family tradition,” Kip murmured. “That’s how it was with Marv taking over from his dad.”
I nodded. “Larry had been in prison for ten years. I’ve no idea if JoAnne or his kids ever visited him. Or even his parents. I assume he was filled with remorse. That can drastically alter a person’s physical and mental state.”
Kip, who’d remained standing, leaned against my filing cabinet and looked unusually serious. “Maybe. Prison would be worse for a straight arrow like Larry than most perps.” He moved closer to my desk, but still didn’t sit down. “You covered the trial. How did Larry act?”
I thought back to those sessions in the Snohomish County Courthouse. I’d sat in on the trial a couple of times. The rest of the coverage was handled by my former reporter, Carla Steinmetz, who had quit after marrying Ryan Talliaferro, the current dean of students at Skykomish Community College. Carla had been prone to typos and a lack of attention to detail, but she’d flung herself into the drama of a murder trial and, as I recalled, had done one of her best reporting jobs.
“It’s odd,” I said after a long pause, “but what I remember most was that Larry remained stoic, almost statue-like. He never did testify. I sat through most of voir dire because the case was being tried outside of SkyCo and I wanted to get a sense of who was on the jury. Even Vida couldn’t help me. I don’t remember anything unusual about Carla’s account other than what she included in her articles.” I paused again and smiled. “She did wonder why the courthouse had been built in Mission style instead of something more fitting for our woodsy world.”
Kip grinned, a sign that he was rallying from the news of Larry’s death. “Sounds like Carla. I wonder what Rick thinks about this. I suppose he’s heard by now.” He glanced at my wall calendar. “Gosh, Ginny’s due back next Monday. It seems like she just left.”
“It seems the same way to Ginny,” I said. “She isn’t ready to come back. I talked to her this morning.”
Kip’s brief cheer evaporated. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
“Ginny claims she hasn’t regained her strength yet.” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “I told her she either had to come to work as planned or find someone to take her place.”
“Oh, crap!” Kip slapped his hand against the filing cabinet. “Maybe she should just quit. Three kids must be a handful. Now that Rick’s the bank manager, they should be able to get by on his salary.”
“That crossed my mind,” I admitted. “The Erlandsons aren’t big spenders. The only vacations they’ve ever taken have been to visit relatives in Oregon and eastern Washington.”
“Hey,” Kip said, snapping his fingers. “Got a thought. Why not ask Carla to fill in? Won’t she be on break from advising the college newspaper during most of December?”
It wasn’t the best idea Kip had ever had, but it wasn’t the worst, either. “Let me think about that. I gave Ginny a deadline to come up with somebody besides Denise Petersen. I mean, Jensen.”
“Oh, no! Denise is a total airhead. She screwed up the last two deposits we made and put them into my brother’s account.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said as I walked out of my office with Kip. “By the way, our lead story may be Alfred Cobb’s resignation.”
Kip looked vexed. “We won’t know that until deadline. That’s it?”
“At the moment,” I said. “Would you like me to go out and assault the first passerby so Milo can arrest me?”
Kip’s ruddy complexion grew even redder. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you. Spence hasn’t had much today, either. I guess we’re going through a news lull.”
Kip’s reference to Spencer Fleetwood’s local radio station gave me an idea. “Milo mentioned how quiet it is around here after Thanksgiving. Maybe I should write a feature on what media moguls like the two of us do when there’s nothing much to report. It might be interesting.”
Kip looked dubious. I didn’t blame him. He returned to the back shop while I pulled out the bound volume of Advocates containing our coverage of the Petersen trial. It wouldn’t hurt to refresh my memory. If nothing else, I might find a recyclable editorial. My mind was still blank.
A half-hour later, I remained unenlightened. There was nothing in the trial coverage that provided anything to suggest Larry’s conviction wasn’t justified. Nor did any of my largely outdated editorials inspire me with fresh ideas. By eleven-fifteen, I felt frustrated.
“Are you awake?” Mitch asked from the newsroom doorway.
I’d been sitting at his desk, which happened to be closest to our bound archives. “Barely,” I confessed, picking up the volume I’d been perusing. “I still don’t have an editorial. By the way, have you got those photos from the merchants’ light-hanging shoot?”
Mitch clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my God! I forgot all about that.” His narrow shoulders sagged. “Brenda and I planned to come back to Alpine after we’d seen Troy in Monroe, but we decided we were more than halfway to Seattle and kept going. I’m sorry, Emma. What do you want me to do to fill the space?”
I’d moved away from his desk. “Fake it,” I said, more harshly than I’d intended. “Get Clancy Barton and Cliff Stuart and whoever else you were thinking of to pretend they’re putting up the lights at the mall. We have to run some kind of art on the front page.”
Mitch looked so contrite that I felt sorry for him. In the few months that he’d worked for me, I’d found him totally reliable. Spending Thanksgiving with a jailbird son was enough to fog anybody’s brain.
“Wait,” I said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve got a better idea. Mountain View Gardens has an attractive display up and a ton of Christmas trees for sale. See if you can get a shot of a family buying a tree or a wreath or … just being … festive. The Hedstroms can help. They’ve taken out a quarter-page ad this week.”
“Hedstrom,” Mitch murmured, making a note. “First names?”
“Jerry and Mary Beth. Nice couple.” I kept smiling.
Mitch still looked chagrined. “I feel like a dumbshit. If I have to dress up like Santa Claus, I’ll get something good. Color, too.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m still in Monday-morning mode. Not quite with it, for some reason.”
“A common condition,” Mitch murmured. He grabbed his camera and saluted. “Back in a flash. Or as soon as I can find a happy family.”
I figured that could take some time. But Mitch already knew that.
THREE
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I’D FINISHED A BRIEF EDITORIAL saluting Alfred Cobb for his service to the county. If he didn’t step down at the commissioners’ meeting, I could save it for later. At least I felt as if I’d accomplished something. I was considering lunch options when Vida burst into my office.
“I found out from Al Driggers where the guest book from Linda’s funeral is,” she announced, looking pleased with herself. “It didn’t go to Marvin and Cathleen Petersen after all. Linda’s daughter, Alison, has it. Would you be interested in seeing it?”
I was puzzled. “Doesn’t Alison live with her dad and stepmother in Everett?”
“She did,” Vida replied with a smug expression, “but she’s in Alpine now. She started teaching cosmetology at Skykomish Community College fall quarter.”
“Oh!” I laughed wryly. “I haven’t seen Alison since her mother was killed. I still think of her as a distraught twelve-year-old. She must be in her early twenties. How did Alison show up at SCC without us knowing about it?”
Vida’s expression soured. “That’s what I wanted to know. Or didn’t Mitch tell you?”
“No.” I made a face. “He didn’t have time to tell me anything about his interview with the new science prof.” I didn’t want to tattle on my reporter’s dereliction of duty regarding the mall lighting. “Mitch went to Mountain View Gardens for a photo op.”
&nbs
p; “Oh?” Vida seemed to sense my lack of candor, but apparently dismissed it. “Well now.” She set her black leather purse on my desk and removed her kidskin gloves. “When the college listed the returning and incoming faculty for fall quarter in their news release, they neglected to mention instructors who didn’t have an advanced degree. You might guess who wrote the story.”
“Carla?”
Vida nodded, her hat’s feathers swaying to and fro. “I ran into Mitch just before I went to the bank. I hadn’t yet put in my paycheck over the weekend. He told me about the omission, but I’d already heard about it from Al Driggers. I’d suggest a feature on Alison and her new job, but the timing would be unfortunate, given that her uncle just passed away in prison.”
“Definitely,” I agreed. “Besides, she may be involved in the funeral. Does Al know if there’ll be one?”
“No, but he’s making discreet inquiries.”
“Of course he is,” I said, tongue in cheek.
Vida didn’t respond in kind. “Why wouldn’t he? The Petersens have always been buried here. I must dash,” she said, putting her gloves back on. “I have a luncheon date. I may be a trifle late getting back.” Vida whipped around, tromped out through the newsroom, and headed for the exit.
I was curious. It was only a quarter to twelve, and my House & Home editor seldom took extra time for lunch. In fact, she often stayed at her desk, working while she ate from a paper bag that held the same items—a hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese, celery, and sometimes carrot sticks. It was her diet menu, despite the fact that I could never tell if Vida had gained or lost weight. Her tall, broad frame disguised any added or lost pounds.
My own lunch involved a brisk trek to Pie-in-the-Sky Sandwich Shop at the mall. I had to wait at the stoplight on Alpine Way, where I felt a chill wind blowing down from Tonga Ridge. More snow coming, I thought, gazing up at the heavy gray clouds lurking overhead. Both Tonga and Mount Baldy were partially hidden from view. Next to the mall at Old Mill Park, I could swear that the statue of town founder Carl Clemans was shivering. The stoplight changed just as I felt a nudge at my back.