by Mary Daheim
“Where’s your sidekick?” Spence asked.
The question yanked me out of my reverie. “What? Oh—maybe she and Astrid haven’t finished their chat.”
Spence looked skeptical. “Nurse Astrid has a patient. I’d go see what Vida’s up to, but if I make her mad, she might threaten to quit her weekly radio show.”
“You’re in a pickle,” I remarked. “A lot of your bread and butter is stored in Vida’s Cupboard.”
Spence nodded. “I’m glad we let her switch from Wednesdays to Thursdays. Too many midweek activities around this town, including some of her church events. That program she did with Roger and his parents after the trailer park debacle practically blew our ratings right over Tonga Ridge. He didn’t say much, but he actually sounded contrite. I wonder how much of it was real and how much was from the drama classes he took during his off-and-on college career.”
“Mostly off,” I murmured. “I hope it was a wake-up call for him, but my evil self tells me he may’ve only been sorry for getting caught.”
Spence leaned back in the chair, long legs extended out onto the durable burgundy carpet. “It’s quiet around here,” he said after a pause.
“It’s Monday,” I pointed out. “A Monday after a holiday, at that. Besides, most people with sudden problems call Doc Dewey or Dr. Sung. Both are very good about seeing patients on an emergency basis—unless the patient arrives by ambulance. Then one of them rushes from the clinic across the street.”
“We could use another doctor around here,” Spence said. “You wrote an editorial on the subject a few weeks ago. Any response?”
I shot him an ironic glance. “Are you kidding? I’m lucky if anyone reads my editorials, let alone takes action, except for the perennial grouches. They jump me for wishing readers a happy Thanksgiving.”
“How was yours?”
I shrugged. “Quiet. What about you?”
Spence looked away, apparently intrigued by the activity in the aquarium. “I took the holiday off and drove to Seattle. I’d done a couple of interviews that played while I was gone and had two college kids do the rest. There’s plenty of canned programming I can use for Thanksgiving, even some of the old radio shows.”
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost two. I’ve got work to do. Maybe I’ll let Vida stay here. If the surgery’s complicated, it’ll take a while.”
Spence stood up before I did. “I’ve got a news show on the hour turn. Let me check.”
Instead of heading back to the ER, Spence went to Bree’s workstation. I followed—at a distance.
“Go ahead, Bree,” Spence said. “If anybody comes in bleeding to death, I know how to make a tourniquet. Just try to get back to me in under four minutes, okay?”
“Well?” I said, after Bree had disappeared from my line of sight. “As Vida might say, have you sent a boy to the mill?”
“Probably not,” Spence said. “Bree’s worked here going on six months. She knows what she’s doing. I think I’ll interview her.”
“Then I will, too,” I said, feeling perverse. “Or maybe I should see if Vida’s learned anything.” I wasn’t just being contrary. My concern for Craig Laurentis was real. I’d seen him only a handful of times, and we’d probably exchanged no more than a few words. Every time I looked at Sky Autumn on my living room wall, his presence was palpable. I felt some kind of visceral connection to the painting. The river rippling over the moss-covered rocks was so authentic that I could almost sniff the fragrant evergreens and the earth’s sweet damp decay.
I abandoned Spence and went into the ER area. Vida was just coming from the nurses’ station.
“Well?” I said. “What’s going on with Craig?”
“I don’t know,” Vida said tersely. “Milo disappeared. He can’t be in with Dr. Sung and the patient, or does he have some kind of medical training I don’t know about?”
“He probably went out the back way to smoke,” I said. “Did you get what you needed from Astrid about her move?”
“Enough,” Vida said, stopping short of the exit doors. “She married Lyndon Overholt when they were both very young. He died a few years later in an unfortunate tractor accident on the family farm. They had no children, so she went to nursing school and has worked for years at Providence Hospital in Everett. She’s temporarily living with her mother, Hertha Sundgren, but the old lady has dementia and Astrid will eventually have to put her in the nursing home here.”
“That’s a good three inches,” I said.
“It’s enough,” Vida said, peering through the door’s window. “Where’s Spencer?”
“Covering for Bree,” I replied. “She’s trying to find out what’s going on before his hourly newscast.”
Vida looked at her watch. “It’s two now. I didn’t see Bree come through here. There’s another way from her desk that comes out into the hall connecting the ER to the rest of the hospital.”
“You’re right,” I said, and explained that I should get back to the office. “Do you mind staying here until Milo shows up with some news?”
“Of course not.” She glanced at the nurses’ station. “Very interesting information in there. I know who the teenaged girl is in the letter I received this morning. She miscarried shortly before seven A.M.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised by Vida’s knowledge, though I felt it best not to ask how she’d obtained it. “Anybody we know?”
Vida grimaced. “Alas, no. The family name is Harlowe and they live between Baring and Skykomish with an RFD address. I suppose the mother mailed the letter while shopping in Alpine.”
“How will you answer her?”
“Oh, with some Pollyanna cliché about how things work out for the best, but meanwhile you—meaning the idiot mother—should set a good example for your children and blah-blah. Not that it will do a bit of good. The advice is twenty years late. So many people have no sense.”
“You can’t do much else,” I said, “since you stated at the start you’d respond to all letters as long as they weren’t salacious, libelous, or obvious fiction. You can’t let on you already know how the pregnancy ended. And don’t forget the pickled herring recipe.” I gestured toward the other end of the hall. “I’ll go out the back way. See you later.”
My guess about where Milo had gone was right. He was stubbing out a cigarette in an empty planter box on the corner across from the clinic. He didn’t seem surprised to see me.
“How long does it take you to shake off Vida and Fleetwood?” he asked. “I’ve smoked two cigarettes and damned near froze to death waiting for you to show up.”
“You might’ve told me,” I shot back. “I can’t read your mind.”
Milo snorted. “Yes, you can. Sometimes, anyway.”
“What’s wrong with Vida? Why couldn’t she come out here, too?”
“Because I had to ditch all three of you to keep Fleetwood from tagging along.”
“You really dislike him that much?”
“I don’t dislike him,” Milo said. “But … hell, I don’t know. He’s too damned slick, and I don’t like being interviewed over the radio. It’s an easy way to make a fool of yourself.”
“So what’s happening?”
Milo waved halfheartedly at one of the Blue Sky Dairy’s truck drivers. “That’s the other problem. I’m still piecing this together. Laurentis was barely conscious when the rangers found him. It was hard to get much out of the guy, but it sounds like he was shot last night or early this morning. He was about fifty yards away from where the maples had been harvested. I figure he caught the poachers in the act and they shot him. He ought to pull through, but it may be several hours before we can talk to him to find out if he can ID the perps. Poaching’s bad enough, but now we’ve got attempted murder.”
A few drops of icy rain blew into my face. I pulled the duffel coat’s hood up further. “Where were these trees in relationship to the other ones that’ve been cut down?”
“Not that far from the last three,
but closer to the road,” Milo said, hunkering down into the turned-up collar of his jacket as the rain started coming down harder. “The other ones were between Burl Creek and the fish hatchery on the other side of town.”
“But all of them have been well out of sight.”
“Right,” Milo responded. “They find maples off the beaten path, but all the cuttings seem to have been done at night. Only somebody like Laurentis who holes up God-only-knows-where would ever see them. The closest private property to those trees is my aunt and uncle’s old farm. Even that’s a good two, three hundred yards away with plenty of woods in between.”
“Who owns that now? I forget.”
“They sold the place to somebody from Kirkland named Holden or Hilton who wanted it for a vacation home. It sure as hell wasn’t much of a farm the last few years that Aunt Thelma and Uncle Elmer owned it.”
“Are the new owners staying there now?” I asked.
“Wes Amundson told me they haven’t been around since late September, but they’ll probably show up on weekends when the ski season starts.” Milo looked up at the gloomy sky. “That could be sooner than usual, if the snow starts this early.” He grabbed my arm. “Let’s get the hell back inside. I should check on Laurentis’s progress before I go back to the office.”
I shook my head. “I’m on my way to the Advocate. Vida’s standing by, though exactly where, I don’t know. She may be assisting Dr. Sung in surgery by now.”
“Okay,” Milo said, but he didn’t let go of my arm. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. Want me to drop by after work and fill you in on what’s happening?”
I wondered if “filling me in” was some kind of Freudian slip. Our off-and-on sexual relationship had been resumed recently after the harrowing trailer park tragedy. Still, I never wanted to get too close to Milo. Years ago there’d been a time when he’d talked about wanting to marry me, but Tom had still been alive—and still tied to his emotionally unstable wife. I’d told myself there was never going to be a second Mrs. Cavanaugh. I’d tried to excise him from my life. I couldn’t. Sandra finally died and eventually Tom and I became engaged. It was like a fairy tale, until a bullet killed Tom and spoiled my “happily ever after.”
As for the sheriff, his desire for a permanent arrangement between us was a stumbling block. Only once had he admitted he loved me. I’d never been able to tell him I returned his feelings. In recent years, neither of us had ever mentioned that scary four-letter word, “love.” Maybe that was because we didn’t know what it meant. “Call first,” I said. “I may be running late.”
He let go. “Right.”
Milo turned away and went inside, leaving me out in the cold.
The first thing I did back at the office was to have Kip put the poaching and shooting story on our website. Spence would still beat me with his radio broadcast, but at least we’d have the news available online. Returning to my cubbyhole, I was hanging my wet coat on a peg above the baseboard heater when Mitch strolled in to see me.
“Turns out we’ve got more than just a poaching story,” he said with that sparkle in his eyes only journalists and other kinds of ghouls get from death and near-death occasions. “Any word on the victim?”
“Dodge thinks he’ll be okay,” I said. “Any word on the poachers?”
“Nothing new.” Mitch sat down. “I’ve got pictures of stumps and piles of leaves. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to the scene until Laurentis was being loaded into the ambulance. I took a couple of shots, but you can’t really see him or the medics. One of those guys is Del Amundson, Wes Amundson’s brother, right?”
“No, they’re cousins,” I said. “Barney, who owns Alpine Meats, is Wes’s brother. They’re a fairly big family.”
Mitch put a hand to his head. “I’m beginning to think I’ll never get all these people straightened out. Are you sure everybody isn’t related to everybody else?”
“Not really,” I replied with a smile. “Just figure most of them are somehow connected to Vida and you’ll be fine. I take it the deputies didn’t find any usable evidence?”
“Dustin Fong told me they had some tire tracks, but they’ve gotten them before. In fact,” Mitch went on, looking up at the ceiling, where we could hear the hard rain pelting the roof, “they’re not even sure the tracks are from last night. The ground up there was frozen.”
“If only they could find out who the buyer is,” I said. “Maybe there’s more than one, unless whoever they’re selling to is fronting for several instrument makers.”
“That’s more likely. Somehow I can’t picture the artisans who craft violins dirtying their talented hands by dealing directly with poachers.”
“True,” I allowed. “At least we have a solid lead story. It’d be a big help if Craig got a look at whoever shot him. Being a painter, he might be better than most at noticing things.”
Mitch cocked his head at me. “You call him Craig? Do you actually know this guy?”
I gave a little shrug. “I’ve run into him a few times. In fact, he rescued me once when I had a bad fall in the woods. On another occasion he helped some people I knew who’d gotten … lost.”
Mitch regarded me curiously. “Lost?”
I let out a sigh. “Lost in more ways than one. It’s a long story.” I wasn’t going to blab about how Tom Cavanaugh’s children had gotten mixed up in an attempted buyout of the Advocate or how they’d avoided being killed by the instigators.
Mitch took his cue and stood up. “I’ll let you get to work. What’s the deal? I write the poaching story and you write about the shooting?”
“No,” I said, “you can do both. They’re intertwined, and at this point, I don’t know any more about … Laurentis’s condition or any information he may have than you do. We can update that part just before we go to press with a sidebar.”
“Got it.” Mitch stood up and went back to the newsroom.
I decided to do some online research on tree poaching around the state. This latest theft was worthy of another editorial. I’d already published a short one after the first couple of trees were cut down, but we were reaching epidemic proportions. I’d ask readers for any information they could provide, knowing that although most responses would be worthless, there might be something helpful.
Unfortunately, my online talents are limited. I could find plenty of tree-poaching references, and most of them were related to gyppo loggers who cut trees on government or private property. There were a few references to maples as sources for guitars, but many others were for different types of maples that didn’t grow in my part of the world. Certain varieties were desirable for their tonewood, which I learned was especially prized for making wonderful bongo drums.
I was about to wing it when Amanda came into my office. “There’s someone here to see you about the receptionist’s job,” she said, looking on her guard.
“Who is it?” I asked.
Amanda made a face. “Denise Petersen from the bank. Do you want to talk to her?”
FIVE
IT TOOK A MOMENT TO MAKE UP MY MIND. “OKAY, WHERE’S the harm?”
Amanda shrugged. “Maybe she isn’t as dumb as she acts. Denise says Rick Erlandson recommended her.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?”
Amanda blushed. “I should’ve thought of that. Yes, for all sorts of reasons. He’s under the gun, isn’t he?”
“You bet,” I said. “Go ahead, I’ll talk to her. Let’s see if she can find the way to my office.”
The pretty but dim young woman I remembered from the bank scandal didn’t look much like the careworn creature who entered my cubbyhole a couple of minutes later. I’d glimpsed Denise since her return to the bank, but had avoided her teller’s window. I could screw up my checking account without any help from someone as inept as she’d been on her first tour of duty behind the counter. To make matters worse, I’d forgotten that her father had just died in prison. I felt not only stupid but callous.
“Hi, Denise,”
I said, trying to sound friendly. “Have a seat. How are you doing?”
“Okay.” Her face was thinner, with tiny wrinkles on her forehead and around her mouth. The blond and copper foil job on her hair was past its shelf date by at least a couple of months.
I felt sorry for her. “You must be upset about your father’s death. I really don’t know what to say, except I understand. My own parents both died at around the same age.”
Denise barely looked at me. “Thanks.”
I was at a loss for words, but finally cut to the chase. “Are you here about the temporary job opening?”
“Yes.” Denise swallowed hard before continuing. “I never liked working at the bank, but it was the only job I could get after my divorce. It’s not final yet, I mean, it will be,” she went on speaking faster and faster, “but I never realized that a couple couldn’t just split and move on. All these lawyer fees and filings and a bunch of other stuff take forever. Plus Greg has moved away, so he’s in King County now. Or is it Snohomish? I can never remember which one Brier is in.”
“Just inside Snohomish County,” I said. “Have you discussed duties and hours and salary with Amanda?”
Denise nodded vaguely. “She told me what she did and how much she makes. It sounds fine.”
I noticed her address was on Hope Court, a fairly new street on Second Hill near the Dithers sisters’ horse farm. “Are you living in one of those townhouses the Bourgettes built a few years ago?”
She nodded. “Greg and I bought it when we got married. They were brand-new back then.”
“Do you intend to stay now that you’re divorced?”
Denise looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s nice.”
“Often when couples split, they sell the house or condo or whatever and split the proceeds, not just to avoid living amidst unhappy memories, but because Washington is a community property state.”
Denise looked even more surprised. “It is? What if I don’t want to move? It’s such a hassle.”