by Mary Daheim
Denise’s eyes had seemed to glaze over after my first sentence. “Can you take them? Your regular mail is underneath.”
“Sure.” I waited for Leo to get out of the way. “Thanks, Denise,” I said, unloading everything that seemed to be mine. “Try the apple fritters. They’re Kip’s favorite thing.”
I carted off the foot-high stack of newspapers and dropped them in the sturdy plastic bin next to my filing cabinet. Every week, I vowed to flip through at least a few, but seldom got that far and always felt guilty when I dumped them to make room for the next pile. The only way I could soothe my conscience was knowing that the Advocate probably went unread in other editors’ and publishers’ offices. The rest was the usual promotions, solicitations, and other junk I rarely opened. There were two invitations to holiday media events that I wouldn’t attend. The last piece of mail was a plain white envelope addressed to me. I figured it was a response to my editorial, though there was usually a two-day lag before I heard from readers who took the trouble to write a real letter.
I was wrong. As soon as I saw the typeface on the single sheet of paper, I froze in my chair.
“YOU ARE IN LEAGUE WITH THE SHERIFF. LARRY PETERSEN DIED AN INNOCENT MAN. YOUR STORY ABOUT HIM FAILED TO RECOGNIZE HIS WRONGFUL IMPRISONMENT. YOU WILL BE SORRY FOR THAT OMISSION.”
Like Milo’s letters, the words had been Scotch-taped onto the page. I looked again at the envelope. Another Cloudscape stamp had been affixed to the envelope. The postmark was Alpine, December 1.
I thought for a moment about showing Vida and whoever else was still in the newsroom. Then I decided to call Milo, but changed my mind about that, too. Instead, I dialed the post office and asked for Amanda.
“Hi,” I said when I heard her voice. “This is Emma. How’s it going?”
“Fine,” she replied, sounding surprised. “The big rush won’t start until next week. In fact, they needed me last week. So many people mail their overseas parcels and cards around Thanksgiving.”
“I’ve got a question for you,” I said.
Amanda laughed. “Don’t tell you’ve already fired my replacement and want me to come back.”
“No,” I responded. “She hasn’t done anything ruinous yet. This is a post office query. Do you still have those Cloudscape stamps for sale?”
“Cloudscape,” Amanda repeated, followed by a pause. “Yes, but only two sheets. They came out in October and won’t be reordered. Most people are buying the Christmas stamps. Are you a collector?”
“No, though my son used to be. I’ve got his albums stored away someplace at home. I was just curious. Thanks, Amanda.”
“Sure. Any time.” We both hung up.
I sat motionless for a few moments, trying to make sense out of the letter writer’s intentions. First me, then Milo. Finally I got up, put on my duffel coat, and headed out of the office. Both Vida and Denise were on the phone; Mitch and Leo had already gone on their rounds. When I reached the sheriff’s headquarters, Mitch was going over the log with Lori Cobb and Sam Heppner. Milo was pouring himself a mug of coffee.
“Oh, God,” he said when I approached the counter, “the nursemaid just arrived. You should’ve saved yourself a trip, Emma. Nothing new on Laurentis. I already told Mitch.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” I said. “Can we talk?”
Milo sighed. “Why not?” He waited for me to come inside the area behind the counter before entering his office.
“Hey,” Mitch called after me, “are you stealing my stuff?”
“Not even close,” I said over my shoulder, and closed the door behind me.
Milo sank down in his chair. “This better be good.”
“It’s bad.” I sat down, too, took the mailing out of my handbag, and pushed it toward him. “See for yourself.”
Milo stared at the envelope. “Hell.” He glanced at me in disgust before removing the letter and reading it in silence. “I thought this crap was over.”
“I assume you didn’t get one today.”
He shook his head.
“Have you called the judge or the prosecutor or anyone from the jury to see if they’re getting these?”
He shook his head again. “Maybe I should.” He drummed his long, strong fingers on the desk. “A pain in the ass.”
“I know.”
“Not the letters.” He stood up, went around the desk, locked the door, and took two steps toward me. “What you said last night. Did you mean that?”
I had to crane my neck to look up at him. “About what?”
“You know damned well what I mean.”
I tried to recall exactly what I had said. “I was worried about Craig. Who wouldn’t be? The guy had been shot, he didn’t have warm clothes, and you haven’t found any suspects or leads.”
“How am I supposed to do that without any help from him and no evidence from the shooting site?” He’d raised his voice to a near shout. “Hell, Emma, with this lousy weather, we can’t figure out where he was shot—and neither can he. All we know is where the rangers found him. It sure as hell doesn’t help that now the sonuvabitch has taken off. Even when he’s not wandering around in his hospital rig, we haven’t a clue where he holes up in maybe twenty square miles of mountain forest.”
I was getting a kink in my neck from looking up. “Okay, okay, but I still don’t know what I did or said to make you mad at me.”
His hazel eyes sparked with anger—at least that’s what I thought I saw. “You should know unless your brain went south.” He reached down and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll spell it out for you. I’m talking about not scoring with you anymore.”
I sucked in my breath and knew my eyes had widened in shock. “Oh, Milo … I …”
He had to lift me off the floor to kiss me. In all the years that we’d made love, he’d never kissed me like that. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. When he finally slackened his grip, I was gasping.
“Well?” His intense gaze seemed to singe my face. Or maybe I was blushing.
I sighed and laid my head against his chest. “It was just a figure of speech,” I finally said. “I don’t even remember saying it. Maybe it was because you were talking about basketball.”
I felt rather than heard him laugh. “Maybe I should’ve been watching hockey. What would you’ve said if I’d mentioned ‘puck’?”
“Goalie gee whiz?”
“That sounds like you.” He let me go, but not before he kissed the top of my head. “I’ll make some calls.”
I didn’t sit back down. “Do you still think it’s a screwball?”
“You were the one who kept saying that,” he reminded me. “After yesterday, I decided you were probably right. But not now.” He nodded at the letter that was still lying on the desk. “This isn’t good.”
“I agree. Did you know that both Petersen boys are in town?”
“I found out from Bill Blatt,” Milo replied. “He ran into Cole at the mall.”
“Vida had dinner at the Cederbergs’ last night. Strom—who used to be called Frankie—was there. I haven’t had time to talk to her this morning.” I picked up the envelope. “This distracted me.”
“Bill told me she’s having both Petersen kids on her radio show tonight,” Milo said. “Did you know about that?”
I was flummoxed. “No. I thought Vida’s Cupboard was going to focus on Mary Jane Bourgette and her antique Christmas decorations.” I stood up, discovering my knees were a bit wobbly. “I’ll talk to her as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Hold it,” Milo said. “You look like you were mauled by a bear. Put some lipstick on while I unlock the door.”
“Some bear,” I remarked, digging around for my lipstick.
The sheriff was at the door. “Want to listen to Vida together tonight?” he said as I heard the lock click. “I could pick up some steaks.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we shouldn’t be in the same place at the same time if we’re being stalked. Harder to hit moving targe
ts.”
For a split second, Milo looked wounded. Then he realized I was teasing him. “You look good, with or without lipstick.”
“I need a haircut.”
“I like your hair. I don’t have to worry about messing it up.” He opened the door. “See you around six?”
“Sure. Let me know what you hear from SnoCo.”
“Will do.”
Mitch was still jawing with Sam Heppner and Lori Cobb. All three of them stopped talking long enough to stare at me. “What?” I said, annoyed—and embarrassed. The sheriff’s office wasn’t soundproofed.
“Nothing,” Mitch replied, trying to look innocent. “Don’t worry, boss. I’m not malingering. In fact, I’m on my way.” He left before I could reach the swinging half-door in the counter.
I, meanwhile, pretended to behave naturally and paused to ask Lori a question about her grandfather. “Is he or is he not retiring from the county commissioners?”
Lori’s usually placid face registered impatience. “Who knows? One minute he says he is, and the next, he’s talking about reelection. Somebody told him that Ed Bronsky wants to replace him. Grandpa doesn’t like that. He thinks Ed’s … unqualified.”
I was in a bind, unable to defend Ed, yet frustrated by the trio of aged commissioners whose only current ability was to stall. SkyCo deserved to be represented by somebody, almost anybody, who could come up with fresh ideas and implement them.
“Why don’t you take your grandfather’s place?” I blurted. “Wouldn’t he like to see the family tradition carried on?”
Lori seemed astonished. But Sam spoke up first. “Why not? You’re smart, Lori. You could do that in your sleep.” He grimaced, apparently realizing that was exactly how Alfred Cobb was doing it now. “I mean, you wouldn’t have to quit your day job here.”
“Think about it,” I said to Lori, and on that note, I left, hoping that I had restored some of my dignity.
During the short block-and-a-half walk back to the office, I could still feel Milo’s hungry kiss, the new coat of lipstick notwithstanding. I felt kind of silly. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t made love before. Sometimes it felt routine, and almost never impassioned. We were comfortable with each other, and that was good. But it wasn’t enough.
When I came through the Advocate’s front door, Denise was talking on the phone. I smiled at her and kept going, but she called out to me before I could reach the newsroom.
“I need help,” she said, her hand over the receiver. “What do we do about personal classified ads? I mean really, really personal.” She made a face and pointed to the receiver.
“You mean something sexual?”
“I think so,” she whispered. “This guy may be drunk. He talks kind of slurred.”
“Tell him to call later and ask for Leo,” I said. “He’ll handle it.”
It wasn’t the first time we’d been asked to run explicit ads in the personals, though it didn’t happen often. I waited while Denise got rid of the caller, which took longer than I expected.
“Total head case,” she said. “Why doesn’t he put an ad in one of those weird Seattle papers or on Craigslist?”
“I guess he wants to buy local. How’s your morning been going?”
“Okay.” She gave me a vague smile. “Everybody here is nice. At least nobody’s yelled at me yet.”
“We try not to do that,” I said. “You should take a copy of yesterday’s paper as a souvenir. Or did you save it at home?”
Denise looked embarrassed. “I’m not a subscriber. I mean, I read the paper if I see it somewhere, but …” She shrugged. “I figure I know what’s happening around town without having to read the news. Does that sound dumb?”
“Ah …” I had trouble answering her directly. “Not ‘dumb,’ but now that you’re working here, it’d be a good idea to go through the paper when it comes out. You’re the first person anyone sees when they walk through our front door. Sometimes readers stop in with some question about an item in the paper or why another item was left out. Ginny was always able to give them an answer so they didn’t have to bother the rest of the staff. Sitting in the front office makes you the face of the Advocate. So to speak. Like a public relations person.”
She giggled. “That’s funny. I never thought I’d ever be in PR.”
“It’s not unlike your teller’s job. You represented the bank to the customers.”
“Huh. I guess that’s right. I’ll read the paper when I have time.”
“Good idea.” Trying not to feel discouraged, I continued on to my cubbyhole. At least Denise’s muddleheaded attitude had made me stop thinking about the sheriff.
Vida was absent from the newsroom, but returned around a quarter to twelve. I suggested we eat at the Venison Inn. She demurred briefly, then agreed but warned me she would order only a light lunch. Reba Cederberg had served a lavish meal the previous evening, and my House & Home editor was afraid she’d gained at least two pounds.
We arrived five minutes before most of the crowd showed up, so Vida was pleased that we could sit at a window table near the front to provide her with excellent visibility of Alpiners’ comings and goings during the lunch hour.
“Tell me about the Petersen boys,” I said, even before we ordered. “I heard you’ve asked them to be on your radio show tonight.”
“Yes,” she replied, securing the faux ruby and rhinestone brooch on her navy beret. “I had qualms, but Strom was very open to my idea, so I thought it might be cathartic for him and for Cole to talk about their experiences with a father who was in prison while they were maturing from adolescence to manhood.”
I tried not to look flabbergasted. “They agreed?”
“Cole wasn’t there,” Vida explained, “but Strom assured me his brother would be willing to join him. I’d already mentioned having Roger and his parents on my program after the problems at the trailer park. By the way, Spencer told me the ratings for that show were exceptional. He remarked at the time that it was very courageous of all of us to speak so freely about the situation and that what he termed ‘edginess’ of the content was the kind of programming that KSKY usually doesn’t broadcast.”
That was putting it mildly. Vida’s Cupboard always had a huge listener base because it was the only live program that was all Alpine, all the time. Controversy was usually avoided, given that Vida stuck to local personalities, hobbies, recipes, gardening, and travel. Such topics were indeed tame, compared with Roger’s involvement with drugs and the town hooker. Even so, Vida had trodden delicately with her daughter’s family. It hadn’t quite turned into an apologia, but the damage to the family’s reputation had been minimized and no doubt the interview had squelched some of the more reprehensible rumors that had raced through the town in the wake of the trailer park tragedy.
“Not,” Vida emphasized, “that I’ll let the program become maudlin. I didn’t do that with my own family, because I wanted to avoid being pitied. If my judgment about Strom and Cole is correct, they’re quite bright and self-possessed. I intend to keep my questions to such things as acceptance, forgiveness, and family ties. Very appropriate for the Christmas season, don’t you think? In a way, Larry’s incarceration wasn’t all that different from, say, a father who is serving abroad in the military or one who is no longer living under the same roof as the mother and rarely sees his offspring.”
Vida sounded convincing. “I suppose,” I allowed, but didn’t elaborate. I’d intended to ask Lori Cobb about Cole’s visit, but I’d been so rattled when I came out of Milo’s office that I forgot they were an item. I was about to broach the subject of the young couple when Jessie Lott plodded down the aisle to take our orders.
“Jessie,” Vida said, “I can tell your bunions are acting up. The cold weather, I suppose.”
Jessie nodded. “Every winter, the same nuisance. The damp’s even worse for my arthritis.”
“Dear me, I can’t imagine how difficult it is for you to keep working,” Vida said. “Let Emma go firs
t. I must mull.”
I smiled at Jessie, who was only a few years younger than Vida. Like my House & Home editor, she’d been a single mother for many years and had stayed employed for the sake of her children and now for her grandchildren. “I’ll have the pastrami and Havarti on light rye,” I said. “Toasted, please, and a small salad with blue cheese dressing.”
Jessie nodded and scribbled on her pad, plump fingers swollen at the knuckles.
Vida sighed. “Maybe the Cobb salad—with a bit of extra shredded cheddar. If you don’t mind, I’d like the ranch dressing on the side, perhaps more than the usual amount as it seems skimpy with so much lettuce. Oh—does it come with one of those nice plump rolls?”
Jessie assured her that it did. She made her weary way back down the aisle just as Richie MacAvoy and another young man sat down across from us.
“Richie!” Vida exclaimed. “I don’t believe my eyes. Is that you, Cole?”
Richie smiled. “Cole and I are getting caught up. We went through school together.”
Cole Petersen came over to shake Vida’s hand. “Mrs. Runkel, it’s great to see you. Do we have to rehearse for your show?”
“I never rehearse,” Vida responded. “Do you remember Emma Lord, the Advocate’s publisher?”
Cole looked dubious. He was taller but not as broad as his brother, Strom. “I think so,” he said, and shook my hand, too. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has,” I agreed, accustomed to being in Vida’s shadow. “You were still a teenager when I saw you last.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “I haven’t been in Alpine much since my freshman year in college.”
“We’ve been reminiscing,” Richie said as Cole returned to his seat. “I worked at the bank not long after I got out of high school.”
“So you did,” Vida said, while nodding to an older couple who had just entered the restaurant. “My, but that seems like such a long time ago. How is your new baby? Chloe, isn’t it?”
“Chunky little monkey,” Richie replied, “keeping Cindy and me up half the night.”