by Mary Daheim
“Whoever is filling in for Fleetwood said an arrest has been made in the poaching incident,” Kip said, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. “The suspect is Greg Jensen.”
“What?” I shouted, causing Vida to rocket out of her chair like a sharp line drive to left-center field.
“You heard me right,” Kip said. “The sheriff’s office got a tip. They arrested Greg at the house he and Denise own. He’d come from Brier to collect his dog.”
Vida hovered over me, trying to listen in. “Is he being booked?”
“It’s Friday,” Kip said, “so I suppose he’s stuck in jail until he can be formally charged Monday. Shall I put it on the website?”
“Only after you call the sheriff and verify it,” I cautioned him. “Who made the arrest?”
“Dwight Gould and Doe Jamison. I’ll call right now. I guess this all happened between five-thirty and six.”
“Okay. Keep me posted,” I said, and hung up.
“Who? Who?” Vida repeated like an impatient owl.
“Greg Jensen.”
She was goggle-eyed. “That’s incredible.”
“Maybe. I recall Ginny saying something about Greg being in a band. He may know a guitar maker who wants the wood. Or maybe he wants it for himself.”
Vida had wandered over to the hearth. “Yes. I believe Greg and his chums occasionally played at Mugs Ahoy. I’ve no idea if they were any good. Roger might know. He’s always up on all the bands, local and otherwise.” She gazed at the crèche. “Have you ever wondered if John the Baptist was a hippie?”
“I’m sure he was regarded as such in whatever the vernacular of the day was.”
Vida nodded. “All that strange clothing and eating bugs and such. It’s understandable how he could be misjudged.”
I hoped Vida wasn’t thinking that Alpiners were misjudging Roger. If he became a saint, I might morph into Queen Esther. Or Jezebel.
I suddenly swore out loud. “Goddamnit!”
“Emma!” Vida shouted even more loudly. “What’s wrong with you? You never swear like that.”
“Why didn’t Milo call me? He said he had a lead. I’d like to strangle that son of a—”
“Stop!” Vida took a couple of threatening steps toward me. “I don’t blame you,” she said, lowering her voice. “It’s unconscionable of him. But that’s no excuse for your outrageous as well as blasphemous language, and in front your crèche, too.”
“Sorry.” I held my head while trying to regain my equanimity. “Greg Jensen. Armed and dangerous?”
Vida returned to her chair. “Did Kip say Greg was a person of interest in the shooting?”
“No. I’m sure he’d have mentioned it if it was on the news. Unless Spence’s stand-in omitted that part. As you know, the hour-turn news at seven is a brief update.”
“Sometimes those youngsters have poor judgment.” Vida adjusted her glasses before assuming a resolute manner. “What’s wrong with us? We should be covering this story.”
“It’s not ours to cover,” I said, inwardly cursing myself for not thinking immediately of relaying the news to Mitch. “I hope he’s home.” Ignoring Vida’s annoyed expression, I checked the Laskeys’ number and dialed it. Brenda answered in a wary voice.
“Is Mitch busy?” I inquired after identifying myself.
“He’s not here,” Brenda replied, sounding more at ease. “He left about fifteen minutes ago to follow up on something about that poacher being arrested. We heard it on the news.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s what I was calling about. Do you know where he went?”
“The sheriff’s headquarters,” Brenda informed me. “Did you want to talk to him? I assume you have his cell number.”
I assured her I did. “Mitch is at the sheriff’s,” I said to Vida as I dialed his cell. “The Laskeys listen to KSKY and … Mitch? It’s Emma. Can you give me the details of Jensen’s arrest?”
“Hang on,” he said. “I’ll move where I can hear you. Doe and Dwight are talking up a storm.”
Vida had gotten to her feet again, but at least she wasn’t hanging over my shoulder.
“Okay,” Mitch said at the other end. “Somebody called in here just after five to say Greg Jensen was the poacher. Dwight had just come on duty, but he had to wait for backup.”
“Who called?”
“They don’t know. The caller ID showed only ‘security screen.’ Doe said it was someone who sounded as if he or maybe she was disguising his or her voice. Very low, very hushed. Whoever it was only said, and this is a quote, ‘Greg Jensen poached the maples.’ Doe called Denise to find out if she might know where he was. Denise said he was at their house on Second Hill. That’s where they found him and made the arrest.”
“Okay, but I’m confused,” I said. “You told me Dwight had to wait for backup, but Doe was there, filling in for Lori. If she was still on the job, why didn’t they leave right away?”
“Doe was about to leave,” Mitch replied. “Her shift was over. Jack Mullins was due for the night shift, but he’s on suspension.”
I tried to hide my surprise lest Vida wrest the phone out of my hand and take over. “That’s odd,” I said as calmly as possible. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “Doe saw his pickup pull in a little before five, but he never officially reported for duty.”
“Where was the sheriff?”
“He’d just left.” Mitch paused. “You’re not going to believe this, Emma. Dodge not only suspended Mullins, but he suspended himself, too. Is that crazy or what?”
SIXTEEN
I WAS TOO STUNNED TO SPEAK. VIDA MUST’VE THOUGHT I’D had a stroke or something. She snatched the phone out of my hand.
“This is Vida,” she said. “Emma seems to be having a spell. The weather, no doubt. Now tell me everything we need to know.”
I was too upset to be angry. Sitting on the sofa, I could only stare into space and vaguely hear what Vida was saying to Mitch. It seemed as if she was on the phone forever. I actually did feel sick. Maybe it was the flu, passed on from Denise. But JoAnne hadn’t mentioned that her daughter was ill. I’d assumed Denise was pregnant. Maybe she was. I didn’t know what was wrong with her. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me, except that the world seemed to have slipped off its axis. Nothing made sense. I hoped I was dreaming. It certainly felt as if I was in some kind of nightmare.
Finally Vida hung up. “Well, that beats all.” She looked at me with a worried expression. “You’re very pale, Emma. I think you should lie down. I’ll make tea.”
As she bustled out to the kitchen, I curled up into a ball on the sofa and started to shiver. Before Vida returned, I realized I was sick. I got up and staggered into the bathroom, where I threw up several times. Damn, I thought miserably, it is the flu. Terrible timing. I heard Vida on the other side of the door.
“Do you need help?” she called to me.
I managed to eke out something that sounded like “No.” Vida apparently went out of the hall, probably to the kitchen to check on the teakettle. I sat on the bathroom floor for a long time, leaning against the cupboard under the sink.
A half-hour must have passed before I could get up, clean the bathroom, and wobble out to the living room. Vida was flipping through the new issue of Vanity Fair I’d bought to read Christopher Hitchens’s article on the recent election shenanigans in Ohio. Maybe I thought I’d get some ideas to perk up the locals the next time they went to the ballot box.
“Oh, my word!” she exclaimed when I flopped onto the sofa. “You look absolutely dreadful. It’s the flu, isn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“I’ll stay with you,” she declared, “but I’ll have to dash home and check on Cupcake and fetch some night things.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t want you catching it. We both can’t be incapacitated. Besides, I feel a little better.”
“If I haven’t caught it from you by now, I won’t,” she insisted. “Do you feel like drinking
some tea?”
“Not just yet. Tell me what you found out about what’s going on with the sheriff’s gang.”
“Greg Jensen claims he’s innocent,” Vida said, after taking a sip of tea. “They did ask him about the shooting and he swears he’s never shot at anyone or anything in his life. He claims he was in Brier Monday night watching football with a friend at a local pub.”
“Friends can lie for friends.”
“They can also perjure themselves if it comes to a court case,” Vida noted. “Dwight, however, asked him about the football game—Dwight had watched it, too—and said Greg sounded as if he’d seen the game, but pointed out that he—Greg, I mean—could have read about it later.”
“True.” I was less interested in Greg and maple trees and Monday Night Football than I was in Milo and Jack. “So what about the suspensions?”
“Neither Dwight nor Doe would discuss that,” Vida said in disgust. “Closing ranks, of course. But it’s certainly news. I haven’t heard of such a thing since Eeeny Moroni was sheriff.”
“Oh, God,” I moaned, putting a hand to my head, “I hope Spence doesn’t hear about this. Maybe he won’t if he’s out of commission, too.”
Vida took another sip of tea and stood up. “Will you be all right if I go home now? I should be back in twenty minutes.”
“Go ahead. But you really needn’t—”
“Hush,” Vida said firmly, picking up her mug and heading for the kitchen. “You can’t stay alone,” she added, raising her voice after leaving the room. “I’ll clear away our supper things after I get back.”
As ever, there was no point arguing with Vida, even if I’d had the strength to try. Two minutes later, she was out the door. I lay on the sofa like a lump, but I was starting to feel better. Maybe I had a twenty-four-hour variety and the worst was over. After another five minutes had passed, I sat up, wondering if I could clean the kitchen. The phone rang before I made the effort.
“Emma,” Vida said in a weak voice I hardly recognized, “I’m sick, too. I’m sorry. I’ve already … oh, dear …” She hung up.
I sank back on the sofa. At least it was the weekend. Hopefully, Mitch, Leo, and Kip would stay germ-free. Vida and I had two full days to recover. I felt sleepy, but I wanted to change my clothes. I finally got up, surprised at how shaky I still was. Moving slowly, I went into the bedroom and took off my sweater and slacks. I was slipping into my robe when I heard the front door open. I froze with my hands on the bathrobe’s ties. Had Vida left the door unlocked? Of course she had, I thought stupidly. She had no key. I started to call out, but my vocal cords were paralyzed.
“Emma?”
It was Milo. I still couldn’t utter a sound.
A moment later, he was in the hallway. “You can stand up, but you can’t talk?”
I stumbled toward him, tripped over my own feet, and started to fall. He caught me before I hit the floor. “Where should I put you?” he asked.
“Sofa?” I finally managed to say.
“You sure?”
I nodded, my head against his chest.
“Okay. Vida called. She’s sick, too.”
I nodded again. He carried me into the living room. It was only then that I noticed his lower lip was cut. “Oh,” I said, barely audible even to myself. “You’re hurt.”
“You ought to see the other guys,” he muttered, setting me down on the sofa.
I stared at him. “Guys?”
He stood up, thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt. “Yeah, guys. You need a pillow?”
It felt like I was smiling. “We did this before.”
“Right. You managed to fall over your own feet, sprain your ankle, get drunk and then high on Demerol. Pillow or no pillow?”
“No. Tell me what happened with those guys.”
Milo sat down on the floor next to me. “I can only take so much crap about certain things.” He didn’t look at me but off toward the far end of the living room. “Fleetwood opened his big mouth once too often. Then Mullins did the same thing. I decked both of them. End of story.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes. Did you eat the rest of that pie?”
“No.”
“Maybe I will.” He turned back to look at me. “How do you feel?”
“Better. Really.” My voice was almost normal. “What about the suspensions?”
Milo rubbed the back of his head. “I suspended Jack after I hit him. Then I decided it was only fair to suspend myself, too. I was officially off duty, but Jack was just coming on.”
I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t have the strength. “Oh, Milo! For how long?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Dare I ask why you …?”
He reached out and put a big hand over my mouth. “No. And don’t even think about licking my hand. You’re sick.”
My eyes widened. His hand stayed put.
“Damn, but you’ve got pretty eyes,” he said. “Soft, like fur on a brown bear.” He stared at me for another moment or two before taking his hand away.
“Brown bears don’t have soft fur,” I said after taking a couple of breaths. “Couldn’t you say ‘kitten’?”
“I could’ve said ‘pit bull.’ ”
“Speaking of dogs, what do you make of Greg Jensen’s arrest?”
“Not much. I’m on suspension, remember?” He stretched out on the floor, leaning on his elbow.
“Why didn’t you call me today?”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Are we really fifteen?”
“You’re fourteen, I’m seventeen.”
I shifted around on the sofa, trying to get into a more comfortable position. I still felt stiff and sore from our impassioned adventures the previous night.
“What’s wrong?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re a load, Dodge.”
He stopped just short of smirking. “I haven’t gained more than twenty-five pounds since I was twenty. If you’re hurting, it’s the flu.”
“You outweigh me by a hundred pounds, big guy. I can tell one ache from another. Which,” I went on, “reminds me. Have you considered that the poaching and the shooting could be two different incidents?”
“I don’t like coincidences,” he said, “but given that Laurentis hasn’t been much help telling us what he saw or where he was when he was shot, I’m sticking with the obvious—for now, anyway. We can’t get a blood trail in this weather.”
“Maybe something will come back to him later,” I said.
“Maybe.” Milo got up. “I’m going to get that pie. You want anything?”
“Yes. There’s some 7-Up in the fridge. Ice, please.”
He ambled off to the kitchen. A moment later I heard him swear. “For chrissakes, did you and Vida eat this French crap?”
“Yes,” I called back as loudly as I could manage.
“No wonder you’re both puking. That Fisher bastard probably tried to poison you in revenge for not traipsing after him to France. I’m tossing the stuff you opened.”
“Milo …” I gave up. He could be partly right. The food might’ve spoiled in transit. I heard him sweep off the table, open the garbage can, and dump the offending delicacies. “Adieu, Rolf,” I murmured. My only regret was for the truffles. I would’ve liked to try one. Feeling sleepy, I closed my eyes. I could hear the sheriff rummaging around in the kitchen. Then I heard the faint ring of a phone. Not mine—it was on the end table next to the sofa. My cell? I wondered vaguely. But it wasn’t the same ring. Maybe my ears were buzzing.
I heard Milo’s voice. “I’m on suspension, damnit. I don’t give a rat’s ass if Jensen calls the attorney general. Tell me on Monday.”
Silence. A few moments later, he was back in the living room, pie in one hand, a Henry Weinhard’s dark ale in the other. He sat down in the easy chair. “You asleep?” he asked.
“With my eyes open?” I turned onto my side to get a better look at him. “Greg asked for a lawyer?”
“Marisa Foxx,” he said. “She’ll probably get him bailed out.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“Hell, no. Don’t tell me you forgot I’m suspended?”
“No. But I know you pretty well, big guy. You don’t take off the uniform and stop being a lawman.”
His expression was droll. “You sure about that? If I didn’t, I’d have arrested both of us last night for indecent behavior.”
I flung a hand to my forehead. “Oh, Milo! Stop!”
He didn’t say anything. Suddenly he seemed preoccupied with his pie. I dozed off and on for what seemed like a long time. Then I realized I was thirsty. I stretched my neck and sat up. “Where’s my 7-Up?”
Milo was thumbing through the Vanity Fair Vida had been reading. “Oh—I forgot.” He tossed the magazine aside and stood up. “Ice, right?”
“Yes. What time is it?”
He glanced at his watch. “How would I know? I never got around to getting a new battery. Maybe I’ll just buy another watch. I kind of like the time this one stopped.”
The sheriff went out to the kitchen.
I was speechless. Milo was not sentimental. Not ever. I tried to look at my watch, but I hadn’t turned on the end-table light.
“Ten-forty-seven, according to the clock on your stove,” he called to me.
I’d managed to sit up and turn the lamp on. “That’s right. What’s the weather doing?”
“Six inches and still snowing,” he answered after a brief pause. “We could have a foot by morning.”
“You’d better get home,” I said as he came into the living room and handed me a glass with 7-Up and ice.
“I’m not going home,” he said, nodding toward the front door. “I brought my stuff with me in that kit.”
“Do I dare ask where you plan to sleep?”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be better off alone? I can bunk in Adam’s room.”
My bed was a double; Adam’s was a single. My son was six-three, the same height his father had been. But Milo was six-five and more big-boned than either Adam or Tom. “You can sleep with me,” I said.
The sheriff shook his head. “Can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I realized it was a stupid question as soon as it came out of my mouth. “Never mind. I’ll sleep in Adam’s bed and you can sleep in mine.”