by Mary Daheim
I was annoyed. “No. Don’t be a jerk, Dwight. Just because Milo’s not around doesn’t mean the rest of you are on vacation.”
His small jet-black eyes narrowed for just an instant. “What’d he do, deputize you after he … skip it.” Dwight took a big gulp of coffee. “We can check his alibi. If he was at a pub watching football Monday night, he’d have more witnesses than just his so-called buddy.”
“True.” I tried to be pleasant. “I assume the pub was in Brier.”
“That means SnoCo, too. But Jensen knew the game. He thinks the Patriots will end up in the Super Bowl. I’m not sure about that.”
At last we’d reached neutral ground—or turf. “Who’s your pick?”
“The Chiefs, maybe. They beat New England in that game. Only two points, but KC still looks good. You like football?”
“Not as well as baseball or basketball, but …” I stopped. “The Monday night game wasn’t New England and Kansas City. That was the week before.”
Dwight’s small eyes grew wide. “It was?”
“You watched it, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, but …” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Maybe I nodded off. I’d worked over the weekend. I could’ve sworn … hell, maybe I’m thinking of one of the ESPN highlight shows.”
“The Packers-Rams game would’ve put anybody to sleep this last Monday,” I said kindly. “No contest.”
Dwight took a final swig of coffee and stood up. “I’d better go. Maybe I should do some homework before Dodge gets back on the job.”
“Thanks for the plow job,” I said, getting up to open the door.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Dwight said. “It’s the real deal.” He paused. “I hope you are, too.”
As he walked through the carport, I pondered his last remark. If nothing else, it indicated he liked his boss.
Half an hour later, I finally felt like eating something. I made a soft-boiled egg and two pieces of finger toast. I poured myself some coffee, but the first sip didn’t taste right. I dumped it out along with what was left in the pot. Then I realized that Milo had made it. Maybe Dwight had been kinder than I thought about both his coffee and his boss.
Shortly before noon, the city plows had arrived on my street. Life was returning to normal. I stepped outside to check the temperature. It was hovering under thirty and the wind was blowing. It felt like a Chinook, which meant the weather was warming up. Returning inside, I called Vida to ask how she was getting along.
“Much better,” she replied, sounding more like herself. “Buck says the forecast calls for rain by later today. You must be recovering, too.”
“I am,” I said. “I might even try to get out of the house.”
“My street was plowed earlier. I finally reached JoAnne, but she has to meet with Al Driggers this afternoon to finalize the interment and decide on the inscription. She may come tomorrow after I get home from church. It’s possible that if I feel up to it, Buck and I will have dinner at the ski lodge. That was our original plan for this evening.”
“Don’t push it,” I cautioned. “If I decide to run errands, I’ll drop by to see you. I’ve got some things to talk about regarding the poaching.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” she said hastily. “I’m fine. You mustn’t overdo, either. We can talk tomorrow. I should hang up now. I’m going to have some soup. Take care, Emma.” Vida rang off.
My brain shifted into overdrive. It had crossed my mind that Vida hadn’t inquired about Milo, or made any comment last night when she could hear him in the background. I laughed to myself. Buck had spent the night with Vida. He must’ve shown up after Amy had checked on her mother. And Vida, of course, had forgiven him for his alleged betrayal. Age is no barrier when it comes to matters of the heart. It was a comforting thought.
But I felt at loose ends. Talking through puzzling occurrences such as Greg Jensen’s behavior always helped me find clarity, or at least direction. After ten minutes of mulling, I dialed Marisa Foxx’s number.
For the first couple of minutes we exchanged clichéd conversation. Marisa and I had formed a friendship in the past couple of years, but we both always seemed so focused on our careers that we didn’t see each other very often.
“Okay, Emma,” she said in her droll manner, “you’re not calling to talk about the weather. Go ahead, put me on the witness stand.”
“First of all, how’d you get to be Greg’s attorney?”
“Let me think how much client confidentially I can contravene here,” Marisa said dryly. “It’s a matter of record that I’ve represented other Petersens in the past few years. When Simon Doukas retired, Jonathan Sibley and I took over all but a few of his clients. As you probably know, Simon’s mother was a Bergstrom, as is JoAnne Petersen. Marvin and Cathleen Petersen were very gracious to both Jonathan and me when we joined the Doukas firm ten years ago. I represented Denise in the divorce, though. It was uncontested by Greg.”
“I don’t know about you,” I said, “but all these family connections still sometimes mystify me. Now, don’t take this wrong, but how come you were the one who posted bail for Greg?”
“I didn’t,” Marisa replied. “That is, I handled the bail through the bondsman I use in Monroe. Again, as a matter of public record, it was Reba Cederberg who put up the money. She’s his aunt.”
“That I know,” I said. “And I won’t bother you about the intricacies of bail amounts or that Greg hasn’t been arraigned or any of that until we see how this plays out. I’ll also refrain from asking if you think he’s guilty or even if you think he’s the kind of guy who’d do such a thing. But because you know you can trust me and vice versa, I admit I’m curious about your reaction to his decision to take off without his dog.”
Marisa laughed. “I’d hate to have to question you as a witness. Your interrogatory style’s enough to make me request a sidebar.”
“Just answer the question, Ms. Foxx,” I said in a mock-stern voice.
“It really surprised me,” Marisa admitted. “I understood why he didn’t want to face his ex. I’ve had plenty of divorced clients like that. But I had no inkling that Greg intended to bolt. I almost wonder if he did. I mean,” she went on hastily, “Greg waited in my car until Denise came to the door. Then, when she went to fetch Doofus, he got out and took off in his VW, which he’d parked a few feet away when he originally came to get the dog, but got arrested instead. I didn’t see Greg until I heard him gun the engine. It was too late to stop him.”
“How was Denise?”
“You mean her attitude?”
“That, too, but did she seem sick? Denise is filling in for Ginny,” I explained. “Denise was sick before she went home Thursday, then Vida and I both got the flu yesterday, or something like it. I wondered if she’d be able to come in Monday.”
“Denise did look pale,” Marisa said. “But otherwise, she seemed okay. I only saw her for a couple of minutes. How do you feel now?”
“Better. So’s Vida. I couldn’t believe she got sick, having the constitution of an ox. I guess it just proves she’s human.” I didn’t want to get sidetracked. “How did Denise react when Greg drove off?”
Marisa laughed again. “She just sighed and remarked something like ‘There goes your poacher. Greg’s so lame. Now I’m still stuck with the dog and his stupid guitar.’ Then she excused herself because Doofus was barking his head off. If Denise hadn’t had a leash on him, I suppose he’d have run after Greg. I’d think she’d like the company up there on Second Hill. Except for the other two townhouses, it’s still not very populated that high up.”
“Apparently Doofus isn’t much of a guard dog,” I said. “That’s it?”
“Yes. I had to leave to notify the sheriff’s office.”
“I assume you haven’t heard from Greg since?”
“No. I don’t expect to.”
“How did Reba take it? She must be responsible for the full bail money if he’s actually fleeing justice.”
&n
bsp; “Reba’s very upset. I don’t blame her. She can’t believe … oops. Time to remember I’m an attorney.”
“I get the picture,” I said. “Thanks, Marisa.”
“I’m not much help, really. We have to get together soon. In fact, poker night is Wednesday at my place, potluck dinner at seven. Can you come? Somebody always begs off this time of year.”
I’d played poker with Marisa’s group of far-flung professionals on a half-dozen occasions. I’d enjoyed myself, but didn’t want to become a regular, because two players lived in Monroe and another was in Mukilteo. The drives were too long after a workday.
“I might do that,” I said. “I’ll let you know by Monday, okay?”
“Fine. And I’ll call you in case we’ve got a full house—so to speak.”
On that note, we hung up.
My idea of running errands faded when the rain started thirty minutes later. Driving would be relatively easy, but I wasn’t up to slogging through slush and mud. Instead, I retrieved my holiday mailing list and the four boxes of cards I’d bought at Parker’s Pharmacy for half price after last Christmas. I’d written five notes and addressed twice that many envelopes when I suddenly remembered to call the hospital to find out if Craig Laurentis’s condition had been upgraded.
To my surprise, the nurse on duty was Julie Canby, wife of Spike Canby, who owned the Icicle Creek Tavern. “Julie,” I exclaimed when I immediately recognized her voice, “when did you go back to work?”
“Emma?” There was a smile in her voice. “Last weekend, for Thanksgiving relief. After our little October adventure going to the trailer park, I realized how much I missed nursing. Spike can get kitchen help easily enough with the food service program at the college, and I wanted to go back to the work I really love, instead of frying burgers and making onion rings. What can I do for you?”
I told her how I knew Craig Laurentis. “What’s his status?”
“Improving, but still out of it,” she said. “They transferred him out of the ICU to a room a couple of hours ago. Dr. Sung was here this morning and thought Mr. Laurentis would pull through, but that’s one nasty infection he’s got. Did he really sleep in a dumpster?”
“Donna Wickstrom thought he did,” I said. “How soon will he be able to talk and make sense?”
“He can talk now,” she responded, “but he’s not making sense. Sort of in and out. That’s perfectly normal after what he’s been through.”
It suddenly dawned on me that I’d forgotten about asking Milo to have a deputy keep an eye on Craig. So much had happened, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I must’ve figured that as long as Craig remained in the ICU, he was safe. Now Milo was gone and the sheriff’s department was shorthanded. Maybe I was worrying unnecessarily. None of the patient rooms were far from the nurses’ station. “If Craig starts to make sense, would you let me know?”
“I will if I don’t get stuck going over charts before I leave at four,” Julie responded. “Frankly, I figure it’ll be tomorrow before he’s rational. I’ll be on duty again, so feel free to give me a buzz.”
I thanked Julie and hung up. By the time I’d finished another dozen cards—without notes—I was hungry again. Vida had chosen soup. That sounded good to me, so I opened a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle and was pouring it into a kettle when the phone rang.
I hardly recognized Spencer Fleetwood’s voice. “Emma,” he said, sounding like a ghost of Mr. Radio, “have you got the radio or TV on?”
“No.” Oh, damn, I thought, I’m about to get scooped again. “Why?”
“KOMO-TV broke into a football game a few minutes ago with a story about a hostage situation in Bellevue. The family’s last name is Sellers. Does that ring any bells?”
Offhand, it didn’t. “No. Should it?”
“Well …” A long pause followed. “The reporter identified the home owner as Tricia Sellers. A few years ago I was seeing a woman who worked for one of the classical music FM stations and taught at Interlake High School. There was a Jake Sellers on the faculty, and she mentioned that he’d taught in Alpine before moving to Bellevue. Anyway, the reporter said that Ms. Sellers, her daughter, her daughter’s fiancé, and the woman’s ex-husband were in the house. I wondered if it could be Dodge’s family. Have you talked to him today?”
The name had come back to me. Milo always called Tricia’s second husband Jake the Snake. He’d been a teacher at Alpine High when he swept Mulehide off her feet and carried her all the way to Bellevue. But that had happened before I moved to town.
Those thoughts were muddled fragments in my brain as I struggled to take in what Spence was saying. I couldn’t speak for so long that he had to call my name three times to get my attention.
“Yes,” I finally said, breathless. “But not since he went to Bellevue.”
“Dodge went to Bellevue?” It was Spence’s turn to sound startled.
I cringed, wishing I hadn’t confided in the man that Milo had put in the ER. But I couldn’t take the words back. “Tricia wanted his help with a family problem. I assume he went to Bellevue.”
“You’re hedging,” Spence shot back. “Look,” he went on, “I assume you know what went down between Dodge and me yesterday. I was out of line and misjudged his feelings. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” I said quietly. “That doesn’t matter now. Can you find out what’s happening with the hostage situation? I’ve lost my AP contact in Seattle.” I wouldn’t confess that I’d also lost the strength to act like a professional journalist.
“I know a couple of people at KOMO,” Spence replied. “They may not work Saturdays, but I’ll give it a try. Do you want me to come over?”
The offer stupefied me. “No, I’m fine.” Liar, liar, liar …
“It’d be easier than calling back and forth.”
Spence was right about that. “Oh …” I didn’t know what to say.
“Emma,” he said solemnly, “do you remember how you had to prop me up when I was on the edge a few years ago? It’s payback time.”
Hazily, I recalled the horrific incident that had practically destroyed the Spencer Fleetwood I thought I knew. In fact, that was when I found out he wasn’t Spencer Fleetwood. It was his radio name. Somewhere at the back of my brain, I heard Ben’s voice lecturing me about charity. It was a sin not to be charitable; it was also a sin—a lack of humility—to reject charity when offered.
“Okay.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up.
I turned on the TV to KOMO on Channel 4, the local ABC affiliate. A college football game was on, but I didn’t bother to see who was playing. It could have been a Ping-Pong match for all I cared. I kept waiting for an update on the Bellevue situation, but the teams kept running, passing, fumbling, punting. I switched to KING, KIRO, and a couple of other local stations. Nothing. Just more football, situation comedy reruns, and a cooking show.
I suddenly remembered the soup. Had I turned on the stove? I hurried into the kitchen. The burner was off, but I’d lost my appetite. I put the soup kettle in the fridge before going back to the living room to wait for Spence.
He was as good as his word. Ten minutes later, at three-twenty, he pulled his BMW into the driveway. I let him in through the front door and tried to conceal my shock. There was a big bandage on his nose and his eyes were bloodshot. The usually debonair Spencer Fleetwood looked like a wino who’d gotten into an alley brawl over the dregs in a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.
“Go ahead,” he said, still not sounding like himself. “Say it. I’m a mess.”
I shook my head. Spence could look like a werewolf for all I cared at the moment. “Did you find anybody at KOMO?”
He took off his expensive ski parka, which appeared undamaged. “I got lucky. One of their marketing guys who worked with me twenty-five years ago in Milwaukee happened to be in. He’d left his homework at the office yesterday and was collecting it. He gave me the name of one of their people who is working on the story at th
e station. Her name’s Mia Fong, and guess what?”
“She’s Dustin’s sister?”
“Cousin. Small world, huh?”
“Dustin’s on duty today,” I said. “Have you talked to Mia?”
He’d gotten out his state-of-the-art cell phone. “I waited until I got here. Mind if I sit before I call her?”
Somehow, I couldn’t offer Spence the easy chair that was Milo’s favorite seat. I waved at the sofa. “Please.” I sat down in the easy chair.
I’d already muted the TV, but I used the remote to switch channels and see if there was any coverage from Bellevue. There wasn’t. While Spence waited to have his call put through, I wondered if Buck watched football when he was at Vida’s house. Even if he did, though, the hostage situation in Bellevue wouldn’t mean anything to him. And despite Vida’s fondness for Buck, I couldn’t quite see her sitting down with him to watch college football. The only team she’d ever followed was the Alpine High School Buckers. It also occurred to me that at least one of the sheriff’s deputies might have seen the breaking news story. But would any of them except Dwight realize their boss was involved?
My fretful musings stopped when I heard Spence speak to Mia, inquiring about the latest from Bellevue. He listened for some time before speaking again. “So basically,” he said, glancing at me, “nobody knows what’s going on inside the house except that the fiancé of the younger woman who lives there is threatening to shoot her and the other family members?”
I wondered if Milo was armed. I wondered if Buster was crazy. I wondered if I could endure the suspense without going to pieces.
“When was that?” Spence asked Mia. A moment later, he spoke again. “But nobody’s heard gunshots, right? What’s the SWAT team doing? … That’s good. Staying out of sight is smart. It’s lucky they’ve got that kind of landscaping for cover. When will you update the story?” He leaned forward to look at the TV screen. “A little over three minutes to go. Not close, so the game should end about three-forty. Mind if I check in with you again? … Good. Thanks. By the way, your cousin’s on duty today … Right, he’s a good guy. You’ve got my number … Yes, that’s it. Bye.” He put the cell on the end table. “As soon as the game’s over, they’re cutting straight to the Bellevue situation. The house is in a cul-de-sac of an older development. In Bellevue terms, that means it’s probably at least ten years old.”