by Mary Daheim
“It’s grown so,” I remarked. “I haven’t been there lately. I always get lost.” I put a hand to my head. “I need some Excedrin.”
Spence followed me out to the kitchen. “Can you fill me in? You were very discreet on the phone.”
“That’s because I thought you were hoping Milo would get killed in Bellevue,” I said, pouring some water into the glass I’d already used. I didn’t say anything more until I’d gotten the Excedrin bottle out of the cupboard and swallowed two tablets. “Get yourself something to drink. You sound awful.”
“I can’t blow my nose,” Spence said wryly. “I really do have a cold, the first one in three years.”
“Are you going to put this on the news?”
“Not if I can help it,” he replied, opening the fridge. “Where did all this French cheese come from?”
“Oh, God!” I reeled against the sink. “Never mind. It’s probably poisoned. Take anything you want.”
“Henry’s dark ale’s fine with me.”
“Of course it is,” I said. “I’m going to sit down again.”
When Spence came out from the kitchen, he regarded me with a bemused expression. “I think we ought to talk about something other than what’s uppermost in our minds. What did you make of the Petersen brothers the other night?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I can’t figure out if they were going through some kind of catharsis, or it’s just that they don’t really like each other much. Naturally, I’m allowing for typical sibling rivalry.”
“Very different personalities,” Spence said. “Cole called me yesterday to apologize. He also wanted to make sure I got a favorable impression of his mother. I don’t know why—I’ve never met JoAnne, but he insisted that the reason she never visited Larry after presenting him with the divorce papers was because of the children. They were her priority now as a single parent. Larry himself told Cole that. What struck me as odd was that those kids were already raised by the time Larry went to prison. I also got the impression that none of them ever lived with JoAnne after she moved to Seattle.”
“That’s probably true,” I said. “Denise stayed here, Cole had started college in Bellingham, but transferred to Pullman, and Vida thought Strom got his MBA from the University of Oregon.”
“That’s what was on the form he filled out for the program.” Spence drank from the highball glass that held his dark ale. That figured. Milo always drank beer out of the bottle or can. I don’t know why, but I found the difference endearing on the sheriff’s part.
Spence nodded at the TV. “Hit the sound. They’re letting the clock run out. If there’s a wrap-up, it’ll be quick.”
Mr. Radio knew his broadcasting. The final score was barely flashed, the play-by-play announcer signed off, and suddenly a fair-haired young man stood in front of some upper-middle-class suburban homes that were partly hidden by King County and City of Bellevue police vehicles. He held a mike in one hand and an umbrella in the other as heavy rain poured down.
“This is a special report on the tense situation at a …”
“Rookie,” Spence murmured. “They always get stuck with weekend assignments.”
The young man continued: “… after a 911 call to Bellevue police this morning around noon today that family members were being threatened by an as yet unidentified young man thought by neighbors to be the daughter of the family’s fiancé.”
Spence winced. “Please. Sentence structure, kid.”
I bumped up the sound two notches for fear of missing something despite the fact that Spence was keeping his voice low.
“King County and Bellevue police have been in contact with the allegedly armed man, but there’s been no response from inside the house during the past forty-five minutes.” The reporter turned away from the house, the camera following him to the cul-de-sac’s entrance, where a dozen or more citizens stood outside a barricade. “One of the neighbors who lives two doors away is a longtime friend of the family.” He’d reached the barricade and held the microphone in front of a pretty middle-aged woman in a bright red rain slicker. A caption appeared on the screen identifying her as “Elaine Fulke, neighbor.” “Can you tell us what you heard or saw earlier, Ms. Fulke?” the reporter asked.
“I was walking my dog just before noon,” the woman replied, looking at the mike as if it might bite her. “A car came into the cul-de-sac and parked half on the grass and half on the driveway to the Sellerses’ house.” The camera swung around to show a light blue Acura. Milo’s Grand Cherokee was parked in front of the house. I let out a little gasp.
“You okay?” Spence asked.
I nodded, though he knew damned well I wasn’t okay. But there was nothing he or I could do about it.
The reporter, whose name now showed on the screen as John something-or-other I didn’t quite catch, asked if Ms. Fulke had seen the driver get out.
“Yes,” she replied. “I’ve seen him several times. In fact, I’ve met him and talked to him. He seems very nice, rather quiet, but pleasant.”
“Did you talk to him this morning?” John inquired.
“No,” she answered, looking worried. “He was in a hurry, and I didn’t want to bother him. Besides, it had started raining quite hard and I wanted to get indoors with Pluto.”
“So you recognized the young man,” John said, stating the obvious. He paused, fumbling with the umbrella as he touched his earphone. “What’s his connection with the family?”
“Instructions from the station,” Spence said softly. “Warning not to name names.”
“He’s engaged to Ms. Sellers’s elder daughter. They’re getting married in August.” Ms. Fulke looked sad. “At least that was the plan.”
“When did you realize there was a problem at the Sellerses’ house?”
“When a police car showed up about fifteen minutes later. I couldn’t imagine what was going on. This is a very quiet neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Ms. Fulke,” John said, turning away. “According to the 911 call, Ms. Sellers was afraid that a volatile situation was getting out of hand and feared for her life and that of her daughter. She reportedly told the dispatcher that the young man had a gun and was behaving erratically. After police arrived at the scene, they weren’t given access to the house. The alleged gunman appeared at an upstairs window and told them to go away, it was a private matter. Phone contact was finally made twice, ordering the suspect to come out with his hands up, but he refused and said he was staying until, and I quote, ‘this problem is resolved, one way or another.’ For now, we’re playing a waiting game here in a usually peaceful Bellevue neighborhood where the threat of violence looms overhead just like the heavy dark rain clouds.”
“Oh, God.” Spence shook his head as John disappeared from the screen and was replaced by a bald, broad-shouldered black man who looked suitably somber.
“Thank you, John. KOMO-TV will remain at the scene while this tense drama unfolds. Stay tuned for further developments and a full report on our regular five o’clock newscast.”
A dog food commercial followed. I turned off the sound again. “They didn’t mention Milo,” I said, sounding overwrought. “I saw his car. Where is he? Didn’t you tell me Tricia’s ex-husband was inside?”
“That’s what I heard earlier,” Spence asserted. “Stop tying yourself into knots. This kind of on-the-spot news isn’t always a hundred percent accurate, especially when the reporter is still on training wheels. We can try one of the other stations later.”
“I’m calling Milo,” I said, starting for the phone on the end table.
Spence grabbed my wrist. “Don’t. If he’s in there with the rest of them, you could stir something up. I’ve covered these situations. They’re a powder keg. You never know what even the smallest thing can do to somebody who’s unstable and is holding a gun.”
I wasn’t convinced. “Shouldn’t the Bellevue and King County police know there’s a law enforcement officer inside the house?”
�
�Listen to me.” Spence’s gaze was so compelling that I didn’t dare lose eye contact with him. “Think this through. Would you stake your life—or Milo’s—on the fact that he is inside that house? You’re making a lot of assumptions, and as a journalist, you know that’s not smart.”
“I saw his Cherokee,” I declared, still mulelike.
“Could you see the license plate? How do you know it’s his? There must be a hundred just like it in Bellevue alone. Furthermore,” Spence went on, no doubt aware that I’d begun to waver, “do you want the guy with the gun to know Milo’s a lawman?”
“He probably already does,” I said. “They’ve met.”
“That doesn’t mean the … what’s his name?”
“Ah …” I made a face. “I don’t know. Milo calls him Buster. I don’t think he knows what the fiancé’s real name is.”
“You see? Not much communication between them. Let it alone,” Spence said sternly. “The cops at the scene don’t need interference. Not only would they resent it, they know what they’re doing. We don’t.”
Spence was right. Reluctantly, I went back to the easy chair and collapsed. “I feel so damned helpless,” I wailed.
“I know. Do you want a drink?”
I shook my head. “My stomach’s still not quite right.”
“Do you have any brandy? A couple of sips won’t hurt.”
I couldn’t remember. I only kept brandy on hand for the holidays, but without Adam or Ben coming for Thanksgiving, I hadn’t been to the liquor store in weeks. “Check the top cupboard across from the sink.”
Spence started for the kitchen. I got up and followed him. “I thought you were going to call Mia.”
“I am,” he said, opening the cupboard. “But not yet. If they know anything more at KOMO, they’d have said so.”
“They know the names of who’s inside, don’t they?”
Spence took out Milo’s bottle of Scotch, a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s, a pint of Crown Royal, and a bottle of Napoleon brandy with less than two inches in it. “Probably,” he finally replied. “Where’s a snifter?”
“For God’s sake,” I said impatiently, “I’ll drink it out of the bottle.” Before Spence could say anything, I grabbed the brandy and opened it. “Call Mia and ask her.” I took a swig of brandy, grimacing as it sent fire down my throat. “Well?”
Spence shrugged. “Okay. Sit down before you drink any more.” He was returning the other bottles to the shelf. I stayed put. I wasn’t taking any more orders from Mr. Radio, no matter how well intentioned.
“Milo’s deputies have to know what’s going on,” I said.
“Why?” Spence asked, closing the cupboard. “You want them to organize a posse and rescue their boss?”
“Milo doesn’t need anybody to rescue him,” I snapped. “It’s a matter of professional courtesy. If it was you, I’d notify your employees at the station.”
Spence grinned, though not nearly as widely as usual with the bandage’s edges almost touching the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. But are you sure you want everybody in town to know what’s going on with the sheriff’s private life?”
“They’ll probably find out eventually,” I said. “Dwight Gould knew Milo was going to Bellevue because there was a family crisis. Lots of people will remember Tricia and Jake. As you might imagine, it was quite a scandal at the time. The current situation is probably already spreading from Mount Baldy to Tonga Ridge.” My phone rang. “See?” I said, hurrying back to the living room. “I’ll bet that’s Vida.”
It wasn’t. “Emma?” Julie Canby said. “I’m about to leave, but you asked me to call if there was anything new about Craig Laurentis. He’s not really lucid, but he keeps saying your name, and it sounds as if he wants to see you. He’s very agitated, which isn’t good for him. Could you come by before we have to knock him out?”
EIGHTEEN
I WAS SPEECHLESS FOR A MOMENT OR TWO. “I …” SPENCE HAD reentered the living room and was staring at me. “Yes, I’ll try. Thanks, Julie. I appreciate the call.”
I took another sip of brandy and shook myself.
“What was that all about?” Spence asked.
I had to tell him, news rival or not. “Laurentis is still gaga, but he keeps asking for me. I’d better go to the hospital and see if there’s anything I can do.”
His bloodshot eyes twinkled—at least it looked like they did. It was hard to tell. “I didn’t realize you had a nursing degree.”
“Oh, shut up.” I set the brandy bottle down on the end table. “Call Mia now before I go. Please.”
He made a little bow. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
I moved out of the way so Spence could pick up his cell from the end table. “Mia?” he said as I stood a few feet away by the coat closet. “I assume there’s nothing new to tell me.” He paused. “Right. That’s what I figured. Do you have names for the alleged hostages?” He paused again, then frowned. “I see. Okay, thanks for now. How late are you working? … I assumed you would. I owe you lunch. Say, does your cousin know about this? … I was just curious. Thanks again.” He disconnected and looked at me. “First, the ex-husband hasn’t been IDed. The only reason they know he’s an ex is because one of the neighbors has seen him at the house before. Not Ms. Fulke, but—”
I interrupted him. “Did the neighbor give a description?”
“No. Just hold on. Mia’s staying with the story as long as it takes to unfold. She hasn’t talked to Dustin because she couldn’t think of any reason why she should. Ergo, no apparent Alpine connection unless they’ve done a deep background on Tricia and Jake Sellers, which I doubt they have. Now I wish I hadn’t asked. If Mia’s as sharp as she sounds, she’s probably trying to figure out why I’m interested in the first place and why I’d ask about her cousin.”
“I’m beyond caring about that part,” I said, taking my car coat out of the closet. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Grabbing my purse, I started to go out the front door.
“Hold it.” Spence was putting on his parka. “I’m coming, too.”
“No. You have to stay here and watch for breaking news.”
His expression was typically sardonic. “How will you get your car out with my Beemer in the way? My BlackBerry can’t pick up TV, but it has other remarkable functions. Your cell’s a dinosaur. Let’s go.”
“BlackBerry,” I muttered. “I never heard of that. Is it edible?”
“Ah. The brandy did you some good,” he said as we crossed the slushy grass to the driveway. “I can find a TV at the hospital, probably in Laurentis’s room.”
“Okay, okay, but,” I warned him before we got in the car, “Craig may not talk if you’re there. He wouldn’t when I was with Dodge.”
“Oh, God, Emma,” Spence said in mock dismay, “how many men are madly in love with you in this town?”
I didn’t answer him. In fact, we didn’t speak during the five-minute drive to the hospital. He kept the radio turned to KOMO-AM, but there was no news, only talk, talk, talk. To my amazement, Spence pulled into the area reserved for the doctors and other staff.
“Hey,” I said, “how can you do this?”
“I have friends in high places,” he replied. “Elvis Sung gave me a special permit to park here when I interviewed him on the radio after he first started to work up here.”
“Scott Chamoud didn’t get one when he interviewed him for the Advocate.”
“That’s probably because Elvis put some moves on the future Mrs. Chamoud before she married Scott and they moved away.”
“I never knew that,” I said before getting out of the car. “My former reporter kept that to himself.”
We got into the same elevator Doc Dewey had used. Spence clearly knew his way around. Reaching the second floor, he stopped short of the nurses’ station. “You check in to see Craig and I’ll have my way with …” He glanced at the prune-faced woman who was studying patient charts at the desk. “Well, we all have to make sacrifices,” he
said resignedly.
I approached Prune Face, whose nametag identified her as Ruth Sharp, RN. I recalled her from an encounter in the ER a few years back. “I’m here to see Mr. Laurentis,” I said. “He’s been asking—”
She cut me off. “I know. You’re Ms. Lord. Go ahead. He’s the last door down on the left. If you can shut him up, I’d be grateful. That man’s a nuisance.” She went back to reading her charts.
The location of Craig’s room struck me as symbolic of his recluse’s reputation. Or maybe whoever was in charge of bed assignments believed that such a strange human being should be kept out of sight. Eccentricity trumped talent in the minds of most Alpiners.
Craig was moaning when I entered the room by the stairwell door. He looked better than when I’d last seen him at the gallery. That wasn’t much comfort. Despite Doc Dewey’s and Dr. Sung’s prognoses, I wondered if he’d ever regain the strength and vigor of the man I’d come to know. If he’d been agitated when Julie called, he was merely restless now. I assumed he must be exhausted. I hauled a chair over to the bed, sat down, and put my hand on the one of his that wasn’t pierced with IVs. “Craig,” I said softly “it’s Emma.”
His eyelids flickered. The moaning stopped. But he didn’t look in my direction. In fact, his eyes had closed. I waited, patting his hand. The TV in his room was off. I fought an urge to get up and turn it on. I wondered what Spence was doing. I wondered if Craig had gone to sleep. Most of all, I wondered what was happening with Milo.
Finally, after several minutes had passed, I tightened my hold on his hand. “Craig,” I said softly but urgently. “It’s Emma.”
His eyes fluttered open. He seemed to focus, but I couldn’t be sure. I could also feel him relax.
“Long … saw … not sure … but knew … wasn’t …”