by Mary Daheim
“No. You need to be in your own kip. I’ll manage. I did it before when you damn near totaled yourself in the kitchen.”
“I’d been in a collision and a fight before that happened. Cut me some slack.”
“Face it, you’re a klutz, a human train wreck about to happen.”
“I’ve got the flu,” I said stubbornly. “Or something like it.”
“Did I say I give a damn if you’re not a ballet dancer? You’ve got some good moves of your own, but walking isn’t one of them.” He reached out and mussed my already disheveled hair. “Drink your pop. I’m going to the can.”
He’d barely disappeared when the phone rang. Startled, I fumbled for the receiver and was surprised when I heard Vida—or a pale imitation thereof—at the other end.
“Billy came to check on me,” she said. “I am better. How are you?”
“Improving,” I replied.
“Good. Billy told me about Greg. Marisa Foxx posted bail for him. She took him back to the house he and Denise bought, but Greg wouldn’t go in. He refused to spend any more time with his ex. I can hardly blame him.” She stopped for a moment, probably to catch her breath.
“Did Greg say anything about Denise being sick?” I asked.
“Pardon? Oh—I’ve no idea. But he asked Marisa to get the dog for him. She wasn’t keen on the idea, but he pleaded with her and she finally gave in. Denise came to the door and then went to fetch the dog. She was up and about, so maybe she’ll come to work Monday. Anyway, while Marisa waited on the porch, Greg got into his own car and roared off.”
I was surprised. “What did Marisa do then?”
“Billy wasn’t explicit, as he has a tendency to omit details and I wasn’t feeling well enough to prod him. He described Marisa as upset. She’s afraid he may be fleeing the county or even the state.”
It took a moment to absorb the news. “Marisa related all this directly to Bill or … who?”
“Billy,” Vida replied wearily. “He took over for Doe at ten. She’d put in a fourteen-hour day and has to get up early tomorrow to help her mother give a baby shower for a cousin in Marysville. Naturally, she wanted to get ahead of the snow before the pass is closed.”
“I wouldn’t think Greg would leave the dog,” I said.
“That’s what Marisa thought, too. But now she thinks that all he really wanted was a ride back to where his car was parked and that he’d already planned to make his getaway. The dog was a ruse.”
“That sounds right,” I agreed.
“Of course,” Vida continued, “I assume he’d intended to take—Doukas? No, no, I’m confusing the name with the Doukas family. How silly of me.”
“It’s Doofus,” I said. “Very apt for Denise. Go on, what then?”
“What? Oh.” Vida wasn’t tracking as well as usual. “I assume Greg did come up here to get Doofus.” “Probably,” I agreed.
Milo had come out of the bathroom. “Who the hell are you talking to at eleven o’clock?” he asked gruffly.
“Vida,” I said, making a face at him.
Shaking his head, he collected his kit. “If you’re going to jaw on the phone all night, I’m heading for bed. Can you make it on your own?”
I’d put my hand over the mouthpiece, but knew that Milo’s deep voice carried to Vida’s house on Tyee Street. “Yes. Good night.”
He paused to kiss the top of my head. “Yell if you need me.”
I nodded. He headed for Adam’s room. Vida hadn’t spoken since Milo had come into the living room. “Are you going to be all right tonight?” I asked her, trying to sound natural.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Amy offered to stay with me, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. Besides, Diddy has croup.”
Now I was wondering if Vida was feverish and delusional. “Diddy? Or Daddy?”
“Ah—I’ll explain when I feel better. Good night, Em—” She hung up so abruptly that I didn’t hear the last syllable of my name.
Unless I’d missed something in the last fifteen years, I’d never heard Vida refer to her son-in-law, Ted, as “Daddy” and certainly not as “Diddy.” There could be an explanation that was suggested by the old-fashioned word “croup” to describe a baby’s cough or cold. Had the Hibberts taken in Roger’s baby by Holly Gross? It was possible, even likely. That struck me as a bad idea. Roger was about to join the Marines, usually a four-year hitch. Amy and Ted were almost fifty. The idea of people in my peer group raising a baby dismayed me. Couples were now waiting much longer to have children, but even in their younger years, the Hibberts hadn’t been shining examples of parenthood. Maybe they’d learned from the Rotten Roger experience, but I doubted it.
It wasn’t my problem, I told myself as I finally got off the sofa. I walked gingerly into the kitchen. Milo had cleaned up except for a couple of plates, the cheese knives, and Vida’s tea mug. I put everything in the dishwasher, made sure the stove was off, looked outside at the snow still coming down, and turned off the light.
Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom. Milo had left the door to Adam’s room open. In case, I guessed, I needed help.
I left my door open, too. In case I needed Milo.
It was after nine when I woke up, feeling slightly disoriented. Rolling over, I lifted the shade so I could look outside. The world was white, with drifts almost up to the windowsill. And quiet. Only a few fitful flakes were still coming down. I sank back down, collecting my thoughts and my strength. A few minutes later, I got up, heading for the bathroom. The door to Adam’s room was still open. The bed was made. There was no sign of Milo. Maybe he’d risen early and gone home.
I went into the bathroom, taking longer than usual with my morning ritual. It seemed useless to get fully dressed, so I put the bathrobe back on over my bra, pants, a long-sleeved Jamie Moyer Mariners’ T-shirt, and thick wool socks. I’d already washed my hair in the shower, so I wrapped a big towel around my head. When I finally got to the living room, I already felt worn out. The drapes were still closed. I was about to open them when Milo’s voice startled me from behind.
“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll stay warmer if you keep them shut. The temperature’s dropping.”
“I thought you left,” I said, turning around.
“Why would I? I can’t go steelheading and I don’t feel like shoveling half a foot of snow to get out of your driveway.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “How do you feel, Swami?”
Involuntarily, I touched the towel on my head. “Depleted, weak, but not really sick.”
“You look washed out. Are up to eating something?”
“Not really. When did you get up?”
“A little before eight.” He dropped his hands. “I made some scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. You want coffee?”
I shook my head. “I’ll drink some ice water.” I looked up at him. “You didn’t shave.”
Milo rubbed his long chin. “I forgot my razor. I’m thinking of growing a beard. Maybe I’ll suspend myself for a couple more days and see how it looks before I go back to work.” He frowned at me. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
“I won’t know until I see it,” I said. “It might be … fine.”
“Too scratchy for you?”
I shrugged. “I have limited experience with bearded men. Or bearded ladies, for that matter.”
“Come again? Fisher had a beard.”
“It was more like a goatee.”
Milo virtually sneered. “Whatever. It must’ve scratched.”
“Is that why you’re growing a beard?”
He shot me an exasperated look. “No. I only met the guy once. I forgot what he looked like until you said ‘limited experience.’ Those goatees look silly. If I grow an honest-to-God beard, you can experiment with me.” Milo cocked his head to one side. “You’re still kind of shaky. Sit. I’ll get your ice water.”
I didn’t protest, but I followed him to the kitchen and sat down at the table. The sheriff was putting ice in a glass when
his cell rang.
“Shit,” he barked, “why didn’t I turn this sucker off? Screw it.” He ignored the ringing. It stopped after seven rings. Milo had finished pouring water into the glass. “You sure you’re not hungry?”
“I’m empty, but not hungry,” I said, “if you know what I mean. Maybe toast later on.”
“Sure.” He poured himself more coffee and was about to sit down when his phone rang again. “Who is this asshole?” He picked up the cell and looked at the screen. “Oh, damn! It’s Mulehide.” He kept staring at the screen through the next four rings, finally muttered, “She won’t give up,” and clicked the phone on. “What now, Tricia?”
I could hear a woman’s high-pitched voice rattling away at the other end while the sheriff leaned back in the chair and began to look increasingly annoyed. Finally, his ex-wife stopped for breath.
“What the hell am I supposed to do about it? We’ve got a foot of snow up here. I’m stuck.”
Mulehide had gotten her second wind. Milo winced and held the phone out from his ear. I could make out only a few words—“meltdown,” “terrified,” and “you coldhearted bastard.” Tricia was bordering on hysteria. In fact, the next sound I heard was of sobbing. Milo finally moved the cell back within hearing and speaking range.
“If it’s that bad, call the cops,” he said. “Or are you exaggerating?”
I could hear Tricia’s blubbering protests, though I couldn’t make out what she was actually saying. I tried to read the sheriff’s reaction, which had changed from aggravation to unease and, finally, resignation.
“Okay, okay, cool down,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get out of here. I don’t know what this section of Highway 2 is like between here and Monroe, but I—”
I could hear her interrupt him. “Yeah,” he responded impatiently, “you already told me it’s forty degrees and raining in Bellevue. Get real. I’m in Alpine. I’ll call you back after I’ve checked my options. In the meantime, pull yourself together, keep the doors locked, and make Tanya unlock her bedroom door.” He hung up. “That really tears it,” he said, clutching the cell phone so tightly I thought he’d break it.
“What’s going on?”
Milo slowly shook his head. “If I can sort through what Mulehide told me, Tanya and her freaking idiot of a fiancé, Buster Van Stoop or whatever the hell his name is, had a huge fight and she’s threatening to kill herself and Buster’s threatening to kill her. Tanya’s locked herself in her bedroom and won’t come out. Buster’s howling at the moon or some damned thing. Mulehide thinks the situation is a tinder box and only good old What’s-His-Name-Besides-Sap Dodge can rescue everybody. If Mulehide hadn’t dumped her most recent ex, she could ask him to handle it. Hell, he’s spent more time with my kids than I have in the last sixteen years. Suddenly I’m not the bad guy anymore, but the Great White Hope. ‘Dope’ is more like it, at least from Mulehide’s point of view.”
“Do you think she’s really exaggerating?”
“Oh …” He sighed. “I don’t know. Tanya and this guy aren’t kids. I mean, they may act like it, and I still think of all three of my kids as … kids, but they’re allegedly grown-ups. Tanya must be … thirty? I suppose Buster’s about the same age.”
“Is his name really Buster?”
“No. I never can remember it. I’ve only met him twice.”
“Tanya must’ve gone through school with the Petersens,” I said.
“All our kids did. Brandon was the same year as Frankie,” Milo said. “I mean Strom. See what I mean? What difference does it make if I call Buster Buster? These kids change their names anyway. Michelle is Mike now. No wonder her marriage didn’t last more than ten minutes. She says she’s a lesbian. Why not? Her mother’s a witch. Some role model for a girl. I’m lucky if any of our three didn’t turn out to be axe murderers. The closest they’ve come so far is Bran getting arrested for a hit-and-run a few years ago. How did he expect not to get caught right in front of Bellevue Square? I still don’t understand where he found the brains to become a vet.” Milo drank his coffee and picked up his cell. “Let’s see if Dwight can do me a favor, even if I’m not his official boss right now.”
“Who is?” I asked, still taking in Milo’s revelations about his offspring. He hadn’t talked about them that much at one time in all the years we’d known each other.
“Sam?” He shook his head as he dialed. “No, Dwight’s got seniority. He’s his own boss.”
“What kind of favor?” I asked.
Milo didn’t answer. He already had Dwight on the line. “This is your non-boss. Does your snowplow still work?” He paused. “Yeah, I need you to get me out of here. Family emergency in Bellevue.” He paused again. “No. I’m at Emma’s. If you say just one word, you’ll end up like Mullins. Get your ass up here ASAP. And thanks.”
“You’re going to Bellevue? What about the highway?”
“It’ll be fine. That Grand Cherokee’s so damned heavy, it couldn’t slide if it wanted to. I’m chained up, too.” He got out of the chair and put his coffee mug in the sink. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”
“Yes.”
He looked uncertain. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He still seemed indecisive. “I could stay. Maybe Mulehide can pull herself together and get everybody straightened out.”
“But you know she can’t.”
He sighed even more heavily. “You’re right. I’m going to go out and make sure the Cherokee’ll start. I don’t usually leave it outside in this weather.” Milo went into the living room to get his jacket. After I heard the front door close, I got up and went into the bedroom. I might as well get fully dressed. A heavy sweater on top of the T-shirt and wool slacks would be warmer than my bathrobe. My hair was still damp, so I made a haphazard attempt at finishing the job with the blow-dryer and a brush. By the time I was finished, Milo was back inside.
“Dwight’s here,” he said. “Offer him a cup of coffee after I pull out. He’ll do just about anything for decent coffee. He used to bitch all the time about the coffee at work before we hired Lori.”
“He had a right to,” I said, recalling the dismal dark dishwater that had been dispensed at the sheriff’s headquarters for years. “Did the Cherokee start?”
Milo nodded. “I thought it would.” He took a step forward and enveloped me in his arms. He was holding me so tight and for so long that I could hardly breathe. It scared me. I felt as if he didn’t want to let go because if he did, he’d never hold me again. Worse yet, I was thinking the same thing. At last he eased up on his grip. “I’m not going to kiss you good-bye.”
I nodded. “Save it to kiss me hello.”
Without another word, he released me and went out into the cold, white mountain morning.
SEVENTEEN
THE SHERIFF WAS RIGHT ABOUT DWIGHT GOULD. AS SOON as the deputy finished plowing all the way up to my Honda, I came out into the carport and asked if he’d like some coffee.
“You didn’t have to do the whole driveway,” I told him as he entered the kitchen.
“The plow’s fun, better than a horse,” he said. “Horses are too much like people—unpredictable and a damned nuisance.”
Dwight wasn’t the most affable of Milo’s deputies, running a close second to Sam Heppner when it came to a cynical view of human nature. He’d been married once many years ago, but it hadn’t lasted long. His wife, Kay, had left him for mill owner Jack Blackwell, who later dumped her. Jack, whose oily charm eluded me, had a serious history of discarding wives and girlfriends. I’d lost count over the years.
Dwight lived alone in a small house off the Burl Creek Road and seemed to enjoy his own company. He was at least five years older than Milo, and I always wondered if he resented having a boss who was younger. But Dwight was a hard and thorough worker, traits much appreciated by his boss. They weren’t actual friends, though they’d occasionally gone hunting and fishing together. I assumed the sheriff preferred Dwight’s tacitu
rn company to more talkative types. Milo liked to fish alone, but if he had to have someone with him, only certain words were permissible, such as “Got anything yet?” “Nice fish,” or “That a snag or a bite?”
I poured coffee into a mug for Dwight. “You’re off duty, I gather.”
He nodded. “Fong and Heppner are on. Poor bastards.”
“Sugar? Cream?”
Dwight shook his head.
“Take a seat,” I offered.
“Well …” He eyed the chair suspiciously. “Okay.”
“I hear your poaching suspect took off last night,” I said, sitting down across from Dwight.
“Damned fool. Now he’s really in for it.”
“Do you think he cut the trees?”
Dwight shrugged. “I’m not on a jury. I just follow orders.” “His alibi sounded credible.”
Dwight scowled at me. He was short and stocky, with a pugnacious bulldog face. “Who’s telling tales?”
“Vida.”
He snorted. “That figures. Bill Blatt should stand up to that bigmouthed aunt of his.”
Making conversation with Dwight wasn’t easy, especially when my strength was depleted. “Was Greg a troublemaker growing up?”
He shook his head. “No more than most teenagers. They’re all a pain in the butt.”
“Maybe he just wanted to go home to his place in Brier.”
Dwight didn’t comment.
“Do you think he had help cutting down the maples?”
“Maybe, but he could do it with a decent gas chainsaw.”
“Does he own one?”
Dwight scowled again. “How do I know? That’s up to Dodge to get SnoCo to check out his place in Brier.”
“The sheriff says you’re in charge while he’s on suspension.”
“He does?” Dwight looked shocked. “That’s crazy. How can he expect me to run his operation?”
“You might start by getting a warrant for the house Greg and Denise own here.”
“Hey,” he said, clenching his hands into fists on the table, “are you trying to make trouble?”