by Mary Daheim
“Whatever. Anyway, I still haven’t talked to the guy. In fact, I’m going over to the Venison Inn and grab some lunch. I’ll call you whenever I’ve got something that isn’t fleas or lice or whatever Laurentis might still be able to pass on to me.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. “It’s deadline day.”
I changed my mind as soon as I hung up. Now that the rest of this week’s edition was almost wrapped up and we were playing a waiting game to finish the front page, I grew curious about the mysterious package Viv Marsden had seen on my front porch. It probably wasn’t from Ben, who never Christmas-shopped until the last minute. Besides, if my brother had sent something, he would’ve mentioned it when we spoke on the phone. As for Adam, his teachers at the seminary apparently had never taught him that Catholic dogma didn’t prohibit the shipping of parcels both ways. Except for sending some knitwear that his native parishioners had made, my son believed that it was better to receive than to give, at least when it came from his mother.
I dialed Viv’s number and asked if she’d had time to retrieve the package. She had, remarking that it was fairly heavy and bore a PERISHABLE sticker.
“Food?” I said. “Where was it sent from?”
“Ooh-la-la, Emma,” she said, laughing. “It’s from a shop in Paris.”
Damn. I thought I’d heard the last of Rolf Fisher. My former so-called lover, for lack of a better term, had taken early retirement from the AP, exchanging his Seattle condo for a cottage in the Loire Valley. Or something like that. I was never sure what to believe with Rolf, which was probably why he intrigued me enough that I slept with him. Maybe I kept hoping I’d actually fall in love with the exasperating yet attractive and eligible jerk. He’d invited me to join him at his oh-so-charming petite maison in château country, but I’d repeatedly turned him down. I hadn’t heard from him for at least six weeks, so I figured he’d finally decided I was a lost cause. But typical of Rolf, he didn’t take no for an answer. Or so I assumed.
“No actual name on the package?” I asked Viv.
“Just the shop it came from,” she replied. “I don’t speak French, so bear with me. I can’t pronounce the name, but the address is 27 Place de la Madeleine. Does that mean anything to you?”
It meant more to me than Viv could guess, since Tom and I’d planned to spend our honeymoon in Paris. “All I know is it may be close to the opera house, which means it’s in a fashionable part of the city.”
“It’s too big to put in the fridge,” Viv said. “Maybe I should keep it on our back porch until you get home.”
“No, keep it inside. I’ll collect it when I get home from work. Thanks, Viv. Whatever is in it, I’ll give you some for your trouble.”
“No need,” she insisted. “It isn’t every day that I get to touch something that came from Paris. It’s kind of exciting.”
Speak for yourself, I thought. How about “annoying” instead?
“Do you know who it’s from?” she asked before I could say anything I might regret.
“Not really,” I replied, realizing that it was possible Rolf wasn’t the sender. “These days anybody can order anything from anywhere. Maybe Ed Bronsky sent it as one last lavish gesture now that he has to live from paycheck to paycheck like the rest of us.”
Viv laughed again. “You mean Shirley’s paycheck. But I’m glad they finally got back into a real house. That big family of theirs must’ve been jammed like sardines in the mobile home. See you later, Emma.”
Just after two o’clock, Mitch and I were going over the copy he’d already written for the lead story. “Maybe,” I suggested, “you should go over to the hospital and see if Milo’s ever going to talk to Laurentis. It’s been almost two hours since I heard from the sheriff. Sometimes he forgets what the word ‘deadline’ means to us newspaper types.”
“Will do.” Mitch got up and headed out to the newsroom. Before he could put on his jacket, my phone rang.
“I could use some help over here,” Milo declared in an irritable tone. “Laurentis won’t talk to me. In fact, he won’t talk to anybody, including Doc Dewey or Dr. Sung or the nurses.”
“Won’t or can’t?” I said, wondering if Craig was suffering from some kind of trauma.
“Won’t. He can sure as hell say ‘no,’ ” the sheriff all but shouted.
“Hang on,” I said, putting the phone down and calling to Mitch just as he was about to leave. “Change of plans.” I relayed Milo’s message. “Let me go over there, you hold down the fort, and then I’ll call you if you’re needed. Okay?”
“Sure.” He started to take off his jacket. “I gather you can communicate with him.”
“I have talked to him, but very briefly and not often,” I admitted. “Still, it’s worth a try.”
After telling Milo I was on my way, I put on my coat, hoisted my handbag over my shoulder, and thanked God that Vida wasn’t at her desk. She’d want to go with me and that might not be a good idea. In fact, trying to talk to Craig under any circumstances might not be a good idea, but I had to give it my best shot.
Once inside the hospital, I took the elevator to the second and top floor where the patient rooms were located. Debbie Murchison, a plump and pretty RN, was on duty.
“The sheriff sent for me,” I informed her. “He didn’t know the room number, but did say Mr. Laurentis had been moved from the ICU.”
“Second door on the right,” Debbie replied. “The patient has been fumigated.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
I tried to put on a sympathetic face, but for some reason, I felt protective about Craig. I thanked Debbie for pointing me in the right direction and went down the hall, where I found the door was closed. I knocked twice. Milo appeared a couple of seconds later, no doubt waiting impatiently for my arrival. He didn’t say anything to me, but turned to the patient. “You’ve got a visitor. It’s Ms. Lord from the newspaper.”
I walked across the room, trying not to show the shock I felt. I didn’t recognize the gaunt, pale, clean-shaven man in the bed. “Hello,” I finally said in an unnatural voice. I had to clear my throat. Maybe it was the strong odor of disinfectant that was affecting my vocal cords. “How are you feeling?”
He gave a little shrug.
“Here,” Milo said, shoving the visitor’s chair at me. “Take a seat. I’m going out for a smoke.”
I waited until the sheriff had left us alone. Craig seemed fixated on the blank screen of the TV set hanging from the wall. I took off my coat, stalling for time to figure out what I should say next.
“I saw your new painting last night,” I finally announced, settling into a rail-back chair that looked as if it had been part of an old kitchen set. “You’ve altered your style.”
He regarded me with those forest-green eyes I remembered so well from our first close encounter. “Well?”
The single word was raspy, another thing I remembered about Craig. Unless he talked to himself, I doubted that he used his voice very often. “I was surprised,” I admitted. “It struck me as very different from Sky Autumn in terms of atmosphere.” Maybe that wasn’t the right word, but I was no art expert and lacked the proper vocabulary.
He shifted uncomfortably in the bed. There were three IVs running into his left hand, but I couldn’t see any bandages, so I assumed he had been shot somewhere below his chest. “You hate it,” he said at last.
I shook my head. “No. I just don’t understand it. Your other paintings—and I have only seen two or three besides my own—were all about primeval beauty. I can bond with that. I guess I was just put off by the difference in … Forest Watch.”
Craig didn’t comment. To break the awkward silence, I asked another question. “The original title was something else. Why did you change it?”
“It suited the final work better.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to. You either respond or you don’t. Titles aren’t important except to the artist.”
Feel
ing his dismissal for my lack of artistic understanding, I waited a few moments before I spoke again. “Where were you shot?”
He gestured with his free hand at the left side of his abdomen. “The doctor told me the bullet missed anything vital.”
“That’s good news. Are you in pain?”
“Yes.”
“What are they giving you for it?”
He shrugged—and winced. “Morphine, I think.”
I figured the medication was in one of the IVs. “Can you regulate the dosage?”
He stared at me. “Why would I do that?”
“To ease the pain.”
“Pain is part of life.” He looked away, toward the window with its view of the Clemans Building and the foothills that rose above the town.
This was no ordinary chat. I cut to the chase. “Who shot you?”
He waited for what seemed a long time before turning his gaze back on me. “I don’t know. I never saw anyone at that time.”
“How long did you lie there before you were found?”
“I kept going in and out, night and day, black and light.”
“Did you know there were tree poachers in the woods?”
“Yes. They’re plunderers. They’re always around, in one form or another, despoiling Nature with their greed.”
The more Craig talked, the less he rasped. I had a sudden vision of Dorothy pouring oil into the Tin Man’s suit in The Wizard of Oz. “Have you ever seen any of these pillagers in the act?”
He shook his head. “I see what they leave behind. Stumps. Sawdust. Chunks of tree bark. Holes in the ground. Beer cans. Empty junk food bags. They left their consciences somewhere else a long time ago.” He leaned toward me. “Are you putting this in the paper?”
I gave a start. “No. This isn’t an interview.”
“Then why are you here?”
The piercing green eyes seemed to bore a hole in my brain. “You wouldn’t talk to the sheriff. He needs your help to find out who shot you and cut down the trees.”
Craig lay back down on the pillows, the faintest of smiles at the corners of his mouth. I wondered how often he smiled. Except for his forehead, his face was curiously unlined. “You’re the sheriff’s stooge?”
“He knows we’ve met. He thought you might talk to me.”
“He was right.”
“He hoped you might be able to identify the shooter.”
Craig shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t.”
“Maybe something will come to you later.”
“I doubt it.”
I didn’t know what else to say. “You must be tired. I should go.”
“I should go, too,” he said. “I want out of here.”
“You’ll have to stay until the doctors are sure you can manage on your own.”
“I always do.”
“But you usually aren’t recovering from a bullet wound.”
“What difference does that make? I’ll mend.”
“You’ll mend faster if you stay here for at least a couple of days.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Arguing with Craig was useless. I stood up. “I have to tell you how much I love Sky Autumn. I never tire of looking at it.”
“That’s good.”
“Please take care of yourself,” I said, hoisting my purse back over my shoulder.
He didn’t respond. I was almost at the door when he spoke again. “Maybe I’ll see you somewhere another time.”
I swiveled around to look at him. “Yes. I hope so.”
He nodded and shifted his gaze back to the window, probably looking not at Alpine’s buildings, but the snow-dappled foothills that rose up the face of Mount Baldy.
SEVEN
TWENTY MINUTES IN THERE AND YOU GOT NOTHING?” MILO practically shouted at me when I joined him at the nurses’ station. “What were you doing, talking about the Mona Lisa?”
“Hey,” I said irritably, “he didn’t see the shooter. I don’t think he’s even sure when he was shot, let alone who pulled the trigger. What did you expect? A video of the crime?”
The sheriff let out a long, weary sigh. “I take it he talked to you.”
“Yes.” I avoided glancing at the eavesdropping Debbie Murchison, who was trying to look as if she were studying a patient’s chart. “Why wouldn’t he? He was my date at the Blanchet High School senior prom.”
“I could almost believe that,” Milo muttered. “If you gave him your frigid act, maybe that’s why he became a hermit.” The sheriff picked up his regulation hat. “I might as well go back to work.”
It was all I could do not to say something waspish, but the conversation had already deteriorated enough. “Me too,” I mumbled, refusing to look at Milo. Instead, I turned to Debbie. “How long will Mr. Laurentis be in the hospital?”
“That’s up to the doctors,” she replied primly.
“Of course,” I said, ignoring Milo’s departure. “How much of his stay is covered by welfare?”
Debbie blushed. “I wouldn’t know. That’s up to the billing department. Are you saying he has no health insurance?”
“I’ve no idea,” I replied. “He’s self-employed, of course.”
Her blue eyes widened. “He is?”
I couldn’t help but give her a withering look. “You didn’t know he’s an acclaimed painter?”
“No,” she said. “Does he paint any of the places around here?”
I was still in perverse mode, enjoying Debbie’s discomfiture. “You mean his subjects?”
“I mean, like buildings or houses or … you know.”
“Oh!” I feigned surprise. “Not that kind of painter.” I sounded even more condescending than I’d intended. “An artist—like Childe Hassam or Mark Tobey.”
Luckily for Debbie, a patient’s light went on. “Excuse me,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “I must check on Mrs. Stuart.”
On the way back to the Advocate, my less evil side surfaced and I felt guilty for my shabby treatment of Nurse Debbie. She probably did more to comfort and help other human beings in a day than I did in a month. I wondered if Ben would hear my confession over the phone. I suspect he’d tell me to get off my butt and go see Father Den at St. Mildred’s. He knew I was long overdue for a confession session. Part of the reason for my reluctance was that I was always sure whoever was waiting in line outside could hear me, even if I whispered my sins into the screen that separated me from my pastor. Small towns have no anonymity. The other reason was that like so many Catholics, I dreaded the sacrament of penance, despite the fact that when I did go, I always felt much better after receiving absolution.
I was still dwelling on this conundrum when I reached the corner by the Bank of Alpine. Rick Erlandson was standing on the sidewalk talking to a husky young man who looked vaguely familiar. I nodded in their direction.
“Emma,” Rick called, “got a minute?”
“Uh—sure.” I walked over to join them, smiled a brief greeting at the man whose name proved elusive, and asked Rick if he wanted to talk about Ginny.
“I thought you were all squared away with that problem,” Rick said. “You’re not mad at Ginny, are you? Honest, she’s really worn out. I try to help, but she insists on getting up at night to feed the baby.”
“It’s okay,” I fibbed. “I’m just disappointed. We’ve got a replacement, thanks to you. How relieved are you to get rid of Denise?”
Rick looked stricken. “I don’t …”
“Never mind,” the other young man said grimly and offered me his hand. “I’m Frankie Petersen, Denise’s older brother. Call me Strom. It’s short for my middle name, after my mother’s dad, Alf Bergstrom.”
My hand was limp in Strom’s firm grasp. “I don’t know what to say. I made a terrible gaffe. I’m sorry.”
He let go of my hand. “Denise is an airhead,” he said, “but she can follow simple commands. Just don’t try to make her do numbers.”
“We can handle that pa
rt of the job,” I assured him. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time. By the way, may I please offer my condolences on your father’s death.”
Strom made an indifferent gesture. “Thanks. Maybe he’s in a better place now.”
“True,” I acknowledged.
“That’s why Strom’s in town,” Rick said. “We still have some family accounts at the bank. He’s looking after them for his mom.”
Strom nodded. “I haven’t been to Alpine in almost ten years. It’s changed a bit. Rick tells me it’s grown since the college opened.”
Rick put a hand on Strom’s shoulder. “This guy’s got an MBA from the University of Oregon. He works for an investment firm in Seattle. I could take lessons from him.”
I noticed that despite wearing his suit jacket, Rick was shivering slightly. The wind had suddenly come up again and the blue sky was disappearing. “I’ll let you two go back inside,” I said. “It’s getting chilly again and I’ve got a deadline to meet. Nice to see you, Strom.” I gave him the friendliest smile I could offer and hurried across the street.
“I put my foot into that one,” I told Vida, who was the only staffer in the newsroom.
She shot me a dark glance. “Interrogating Craig Laurentis?”
“No,” I responded, taking off my coat. “Insulting Denise in front of her brother, Frankie. I mean Strom, as he likes to be called since he got his MBA and is working in high finance in the big city.”
Vida eyed me even more keenly. “I heard he was in town,” she said. “Where did you run into him?”
“Outside the bank, where he was chatting with Rick Erlandson. I didn’t recognize him, and immediately opened my big mouth to criticize his sister for being a pinhead.”
“An easy thing to do,” Vida murmured. “I must talk to … Strom, you say? Well, why not? He should aspire to be like his grandfather. JoAnne Bergstrom’s father was a fine man.” She rested her chin on her hands. “Well now. I wonder if this is the point at which Strom takes over the bank.”
“How old is he?”