by Mary Daheim
“Maybe not,” I said, “but plenty of moms and dads urge their kids to join the military to help them grow up. Boys in particular take a long time to choose a career. Adam’s a good example of that. He changed his major about five times before he realized he had a religious vocation. The military provides various kinds of training to help young people figure out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.”
“If they get to have them,” Vida retorted. “What happens when Roger is sent off to somewhere like Iraq or Afghanistan? He could be killed or maimed or …” She turned away quickly, no doubt with visions of Roger in a body bag or confined to a wheelchair.
I, however, thought of enemies fleeing in droves at the very sight of Roger. After so many years of suffering through his selfish, spoiled behavior, it was hard to think of him as a victim. To me, he was a one-man weapon of mass destruction.
“Nobody can force Roger to do anything,” I finally said. “Maybe he’ll find the Marines a challenge. He could not only find a career he’d enjoy, but see other parts of the world.”
She stared at me with gray eyes hard as granite. “Such as Kabul?”
“Hey.” I leaned closer to her. “It’s possible he’ll never see a war zone. How far has Roger traveled in his twenty-odd years?” Very odd, I thought to myself, while waiting for Vida’s answer.
“He’s been to Seattle and the ocean and eastern Washington,” she responded. “Before you moved here, Amy and Ted took him to Disneyland and SeaWorld. Oh—he also drove up to British Columbia with his chums a couple of years ago to go camping.”
And the Canadians let him in? The U.S. immigration officers let him come back to this country? “I forgot about that,” I admitted. “I don’t think you ever told me how the B.C. trip turned out.”
Vida sniffed. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“You didn’t mention it in ‘Scene,’ so I assumed it was uneventful.”
Vida’s color rose slightly. “It was young men enjoying themselves. I didn’t want to single out my grandson because of our staff policy to avoid promoting ourselves in the Advocate.”
I almost believed her, but before I could say more, I heard my phone ring. “Maybe I should get that,” I said, rising from the chair. “I’m sorry about Buck causing you grief, but he’s obviously trying to help. Men are sometimes … insensitive.”
I managed to pick up my call just before it trunked back to Amanda. Milo’s voice was at the other end.
“Looks like you’ve got a front-page story,” he said. “Somebody shot that recluse guy, Laurentis. He’s on his way to the hospital. If you need details, meet me there.”
FOUR
CRAIG’S BEEN SHOT?” I EXCLAIMED IN HORROR. “WILL HE make it?”
“Don’t know,” Milo replied. “Gotta go.” He hung up as the sirens sounded again.
Vida had heard my raised voice. She was on her feet when I came dashing out of my cubbyhole with my left arm in the right sleeve of my duffel coat.
“What is it?” she asked, all remnants of anguish and betrayal washed away by what she sensed must be a big story.
“Somebody shot Craig Laurentis,” I said, discovering that I was putting my coat on backwards. “He’s alive and is probably arriving at the hospital right now.” I finally got my attire in proper order. “Did you hear the ambulance?”
“Yes. I wondered, of course. Shall I come with you?”
Vida rarely did hard news, but she needed someone else’s suffering to get her mind off her own problems. “Yes. Bring a camera, just in case. Mitch is at the maple-poaching site.”
“The what?” Vida asked over her shoulder as she reached for her coat and hat.
“I’ll tell you about that later.” The hospital was only two blocks from our office. Amanda was on the phone as we went past her. “Breaking news,” I called out, following Vida through the front door.
“Who on earth would shoot a recluse like Old Nick?” Vida asked as we waited for the light to change at Fourth and Front.
“He does have a name,” I said impatiently. “And he’s not any older than I am. People only called him Old Nick because he had a gray beard. Prematurely, from what I figured out.”
“Oh—yes. I keep forgetting,” Vida said as we crossed the street. “You have one of his pictures.” She sucked in her breath as we walked up the hill past the Bank of Alpine. “Dear me—I think they’re all in shock by now at the bank. I feel sorry for Andy Cederberg and Rick Erlandson. All that old gossip’s bound to resurface. Poor Andy has never felt like a real bank president since he took over from Marv. More like warming the chair for the next Petersen who goes into the business. As for Rick, I hope Ginny isn’t carrying on like a sad sack at home.”
“What next Petersen?” I asked, pausing for an SUV to go by at the corner of Fourth and Pine.
“Larry’s sons,” Vida replied, moving along briskly. “I assume at least one of them will return to Alpine eventually. Neither of the boys is as dim as their sister, Denise. I suppose Elmer and Thelma know what they’re up to these days. If Milo doesn’t inquire about them, I will.”
We passed the medical and dental clinic, then crossed Third. It was still cold and windy, but so far there was no sign of rain or snow. “I don’t remember the names of the Petersen boys,” I said. “Were they at Linda’s funeral?”
“Yes, but I never had a chance to speak to them,” Vida replied. “Later they both came back to Alpine on winter break. Then they helped their mother move. That was in the spring, as I recall.” We’d reached the hospital entrance. Vida pushed open the swinging doors. “Is Milo here?” she asked as we entered the lobby with its carved-wood panels of local flora and fauna.
“Probably at the ER entrance,” I said, trying to smile at the pale-faced young woman behind the desk.
“Oh!” Vida exclaimed, revealing her toothy grin. “Jennifer, isn’t it? Aren’t you a Bjornson?”
The young woman smiled back. “Yes, I am, Mrs. Runkel.”
Vida needed no introduction. “I understand your father still works part-time as a repairman for Sheriff Dodge. My, my, you’ve grown up since I last saw you. Jenny, I should’ve said. Have you been away?”
Jennifer—or Jenny, or both—nodded. “I spent two years at Edmonds Community College.”
Vida’s smile disappeared. “Oh. Isn’t your mother still working at the college library here?”
“Yes,” Jenny said, a trace of color rising in her cheeks, “but I thought it might be fun to go somewhere else to college.”
“I see.” Vida paused. “But you came back to Alpine. How nice.” She didn’t miss a beat. “We heard that Old Nick … I mean Mr. Laurentis, the artist, has been shot. Is that true?”
Jenny nodded again. “It must’ve been an accident. A hunter, probably. He hasn’t been officially admitted, but I understand the ambulance pulled in about five minutes ago.”
“You know Ms. Lord?” Vida said, waving a hand in my direction.
Jenny gave me a fleeting glance. “Yes, I remember from the time when Mr. Rasmussen was murdered at the college and my folks were both working there then.”
As was often the case, I found it necessary to assert myself as something other than Vida’s stooge. “Sheriff Dodge called and asked if I’d meet him at the hospital. Is he in the ER with Mr. Laurentis?”
Jenny’s blue eyes widened. “I doubt it. Nonmedical personnel aren’t usually allowed in that area. Maybe he’s in the waiting room.”
“The sheriff has a habit of doing what he needs to do,” I said. “Come on, Vida, let’s find Milo.”
We went down the corridor to the ER. “You certainly made a point of being on intimate terms with Milo,” Vida murmured. “Is that wise?”
The comment irked me. “I’ve known Milo for fifteen years. I also know you and Ginny and Kip intimately.”
“It’s not the same,” Vida said.
“Why? Because I left out Ed?”
We turned the corner, follo
wing the arrows to the ER. “You know perfectly well what I mean,” Vida said.
I had no chance to argue. A white-coated orderly I didn’t recognize opened one of the double doors for Vida and me to pass into the waiting room. There were no patients in sight nor was there any sign of the sheriff, but I knew the receptionist, Bree Kendall. We had a rocky history, going back to her former job with the local orthodontist, Carter Nystrom. For once, I was more than willing to let Vida take the lead.
She marched up to Bree’s post and placed both gloved hands on the counter. “Sheriff Dodge told us to meet him here,” Vida said. “Where might he be?”
Bree shot me a baleful glance before responding. “Dodge might be anywhere. He’s not here.”
Vida was unfazed. “Then tell us what’s going on with Mr. Laurentis. The sheriff informed us he’d been shot and was being admitted. Has he already been taken into surgery?”
Bree folded her hands in her lap. She would’ve been pretty if disdain hadn’t puckered her face like a prune. “I’m sorry. That information is confidential. You’re not family, are you?”
I almost expected Vida to claim that she was. Half of Alpine seemed related to her by blood or by marriage. Bree wasn’t a native, so she might have believed the lie. But my House & Home editor kept to the truth. “No,” she said after a long pause, and began to peel off her gloves with the tantalizing finesse of a seasoned stripper. “I understand Mr. Laurentis has no family around here. But you probably know that.” Vida paused to look at Bree—and drop one glove on the counter. “However, it appears that a crime may’ve been committed, which is why we were summoned here by the sheriff.” She paused again and turned in my direction. “We, as you know perfectly well,” Vida announced rather grandly as she dropped the other glove, “are The Press.”
“Oh, crap!” I said under my breath as Spencer Fleetwood crossed the ER threshold from the street entrance.
Bree beamed at the sight of Mr. Radio. “Spence!” she cried. “I’m so glad you could come in person.”
Spence flashed his big smile at all of us. “I’ll break a leg for breaking news,” he said. “Thanks, Bree, for giving me a heads-up.”
Bree had the grace to look askance and blush—or maybe she was overcome by the attention from Spence. “Are you going to do a live broadcast from here?” she asked.
“That depends,” he said, finally gazing at me before looking back at Bree. “What’s happening with our recluse?”
“Well …” Bree cleared her throat. I sensed she would’ve loved to take Spence aside and share her knowledge only with him. “The ambulance brought him in just a few minutes ago. I can’t leave my desk, so that’s all I can tell you. Now.” She gave him a meaningful look. “The hermit’s condition is probably being evaluated before they decide to proceed with medical treatment.”
I couldn’t stand it. Shoving Spence aside, I stomped up to the counter, where Vida had moved off to one side. “What else would they be doing with someone who arrives in the ER by ambulance? And don’t give me any of that ‘triage’ bunk. It’s a battlefield or disaster term, and one patient doesn’t require sorting through priorities. That’s bullshit.”
“Emma …,” Vida said softly.
I ignored her. “Furthermore, the victim has a name—Craig Laurentis. Give him some dignity as a human being. He’s a brilliant artist, and how or where he lives is his business, you little twerp.”
Bree’s blue eyes widened in shock; Vida sucked in her breath; Spence let out a strangled sound between a laugh and a groan. I turned on my heel and practically ran to the door that led to the ER area.
Vida was right behind me. “Your language, Emma! Really. Quite shocking.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “You know what a pain Bree is.”
“That’s no excuse for—” Vida didn’t finish her lecture. We were accosted by a tall, raw-boned nurse wearing the traditional white uniform both Old Doc and Young Doc Dewey insisted upon. “Excuse me,” she said in a tight voice, “but you can’t come in here.”
Vida glanced at the nurse’s nametag. “Astrid Overholt. I thought you lived in Everett.”
Astrid peered at Vida through rimless bifocals. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I haven’t seen you in years. I just moved back over the Thanksgiving weekend. My mother can’t live alone anymore and there was a job opening at the hospital.”
“How wonderful to see you,” Vida enthused. “I’m glad I found out. I’ll put it in this week’s paper. We must have a chat. But business before pleasure, Astrid. I don’t think you’ve met Emma Lord, the Advocate’s editor and publisher.”
“I haven’t,” Astrid said, shaking my hand. “I’ll bet you two are here about that poor soul who got shot. Is he homeless?”
“No,” I said, making sure Astrid knew I could talk. “He lives out of town. Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know,” Astrid replied, a frown creasing her high forehead. “The wound didn’t strike anything vital, but apparently he lost a great deal of blood. I understand he was found in the woods by—” She stopped as Milo and Spence came into the hallway.
“… not a damned freak show,” Milo was saying angrily to Spence. “There you are,” he went on, approaching the three of us. “Any news?” The query was for Astrid.
“Not yet,” she replied. “Dr. Sung is with him. I believe his main concern is blood loss before he removes the bullet.”
“Right,” Milo said, taking off his tall regulation hat. “I think Laurentis had been lying where the park rangers found him since last night. He was lucky anybody got to him before it was too late. Damned poachers. Hacking down trees is bad enough, but shooting people is worse. Make sure Sung gives me that bullet.”
Astrid nodded. Spence, who had pinned a microphone on what looked like a top-of-the-line ski parka, moved closer to Milo. “Are you saying, Sheriff, that Mr. Laurentis was shot by someone who was poaching trees on forest service land?”
The sheriff scowled at Mr. Radio. “What did you think I said? They weren’t kidnapping mountain goats on Mount Sawyer.”
Spence retained his usual broadcasting aplomb, mellow voice and all. “This is for our KSKY listeners in the greater Highway 2 corridor.”
“I don’t care if it’s for the Congress in Washington, D.C.,” Milo retorted. “And it better not be live. I’ve got an attempted-murder case on my hands, Fleetwood. Hold your damned water and shut off that mike.”
I’d managed to edge closer to the sheriff. “Will Craig make it?”
Milo turned his scowl on me. “How the hell do I know? Do I look like Dr. Kildare? Go back to the waiting room—all of you. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
At least the sheriff wasn’t playing favorites. Vida, however, balked. “I need just a few minutes to talk to Astrid. She’s a news item, too.”
Milo regarded the two women warily. “Then do it at the nurses’ station,” he said, nodding toward the area by the ER entrance. “But don’t get the nurse distracted if she’s needed.”
“I won’t,” Vida promised in a firm voice. “Come, Astrid, I must get caught up with you for my page.”
Spence opened the door for me. “What do you know that I don’t about the tree poachers?” he asked.
“Not much more than you do,” I replied, noticing a teenaged boy in a wheelchair with a woman I assumed was his mother. “You’ve reported the earlier thefts. Wes Amundson phoned to tell me about two more just before he was apparently called away by whoever found Craig.”
We sat down by the waiting room’s aquarium, out of Bree’s line of sight. “I was coming from Monroe when I got word about the shooting,” Spence said, keeping his voice down. “I’ve got some co-op Christmas ads from the local merchants there. That should cheer you up.”
“It does,” I said, pleased that Spence was keeping his word about sharing some of the ad revenue in east Snohomish County after KSKY’s signal had been upgraded to reach beyond the county line. “And no,” I went on, “we haven’
t had a chance to post anything about the shooting or the poachers on our website yet.”
Spence flashed one of his almost-sincere smiles. “You can’t complain much anymore about getting scooped by me. I think we’ve managed to put the rivalry to bed, don’t you?”
The mischief in his brown eyes unsettled me. “Maybe.” I craned my neck to make sure Bree couldn’t see or hear us. “Speaking of bed, are you sleeping with the cranky Kendall?”
Spence chuckled. “Because she let me know about a possible news item? Has it occurred to you that she did it because she doesn’t like you as well as she likes me?”
“That’s what I meant,” I said. “I thought she was dating the dashing young CPA, Freddy Bellman,” I said, reminding Spence that he’s in my peer group and old enough to be Bree’s father.
“You’re not making sense.”
“About what?”
We both noticed that mother and son were staring at us. Apparently I’d raised my voice. “I meant,” I said quietly and slowly, “that she has the hots for you and maybe the feeling is returned. A simple yes or no will do.”
“Yes. No.” He paused. “How’s that?”
I turned away. “Forget it.”
Astrid Overholt appeared in the ER doorway. “Logan Brooks?”
“Here, Nurse,” the woman said, wheeling the boy across the waiting room. “I think Logan broke his ankle playing basketball.”
Astrid smiled. “Let’s have a look,” she said. “Room Two is vacant.”
The boy, who appeared to be about fourteen, didn’t seem to be in pain. Maybe he was a stoic. Maybe his mother was overly protective. An old pang of guilt resurfaced. When Adam was eight, he’d fallen off some apparatus at the neighborhood playground. Two of his buddies had helped him limp home. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had a deadline on the first of three articles for The Oregonian about the start of construction on Portland’s light rail system. It was a complicated assignment, requiring most of my weekend to write the kick-off story for Monday’s edition. I looked at Adam’s foot, told him it was only a bruise, and went back to work. By Tuesday, he couldn’t walk. I finally took him to the ER that evening, where he was diagnosed with a broken bone. Needless to say, I felt like the worst mother in Rip City.