by Mary Daheim
Doe had brought Mitch a visitor’s chair from one of the patient rooms. “You look uncomfortable,” she said. “As long as you’re entertaining your boss, you might as well sit.”
Mitch smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Doe. Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite deputy?”
Doe looked startled. “I thought everybody liked Dustin Fong best.”
“Fong’s great,” Mitch said, “but you’ve got more soul. I know all about soul, being from Detroit. Run along before I start singing to you.”
Doe giggled. I’d never heard her do that before. “You’re funny,” she said before moving away.
“You do have a way with you,” I remarked.
“It’s a sham,” Mitch said diffidently. “Where did I leave off?”
“Did Greg know Denise had a gun?”
“It was his gun,” Mitch said. “He brought it along on those walks because something creeped him out. It took him a while to understand that it wasn’t the woods, it was his wife. When he finally split with Denise, he forgot to take the gun with him. All he wanted was out—and the dog.”
“So what about the letters?”
“Greg felt he had to keep writing but switch to another recipient. You were it.” Mitch shrugged. “In a weird way, his campaign worked. In fact, when he was arrested he thought it was for sending the letters. He thought the stamps had given him away.”
“The stamps?”
Mitch grinned. “He used Cloudscape stamps. By coincidence, that was the name of his band. He bought a bunch of them when they first came out.”
“Oh, good Lord!” I shook my aching head. “I never knew that.”
“Who did, among us aging adults?”
“But guitar notwithstanding, Greg’s not the poacher,” I said, recalling what Marisa had told me when she went to get Doofus. “Denise remarked that Greg was so lame and how dumb it was to poach the maple trees. But Marisa never mentioned why Greg was with her. I’ll bet Denise made that anonymous call accusing her ex of being the poacher.”
Mitch considered my words. “Sounds right. Maybe she thought he knew too much about her. Putting him in jail would get him out of the way. At least she didn’t shoot him.”
“Incredible,” I murmured, shaking my head. “A real sociopath. Does Greg know Denise is dead?”
“He didn’t when I talked to him.” Mitch turned somber. “I suppose he does now. Maybe that’s the best ending for everybody.”
“It stinks,” I said. “JoAnne must’ve been aware of the truth. If she knew all along, she and Larry probably realized Denise wouldn’t last long in prison, and institutionalizing her was an ugly scenario, too. The Laurentis shooting must’ve scared the hell out of JoAnne. I’m guessing that’s why she came to Alpine sooner than she’d planned. It may be the real reason she didn’t want to stay with Denise. No wonder JoAnne looked so haggard when I ran into her the other day. She’s lived her own lie for ten years.”
“If she knew all along, her life must’ve been as much of a prison as Larry’s.”
I paused. “It’d explain why she was so anxious to move away from here. It could also be the reason she didn’t visit Larry. JoAnne probably couldn’t bear to see her husband as a martyr. Or maybe he didn’t want to put her through that torture.”
Mitch looked off into space. “Guilt.” He paused for a moment. “I know all about Jewish guilt,” he finally said wryly, looking at me again, “but I suppose Lutherans can feel as guilty as anybody else. The Petersens must have wondered how they’d created a monster in Denise.”
“The family’s had a history of sibling rivalry,” I said, thinking of Marv and Elmer as well as their two older sisters, who had cut their ties to Alpine long ago. “JoAnne went along with Larry’s lie. Even if she didn’t see him, she knew he was still there. Maybe she didn’t want to live in a world without him.”
“My God,” Mitch said softly. “The things people do for and to each other.” He shook his head. “So we’ve still got a poacher on the loose. And no office manager pro tem.”
“We can worry about all that on Monday,” I said. “I’m tapped.”
A familiar voice reached my ears: “Well now, Ruthie,” Vida said from somewhere behind Mitch, “what kind of ward are you running around here? Didn’t I always say you spent too much time reading charts and not enough time reading people? You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Look at my poor Emma! You’re lucky she’s not dead, too. If she were, I’d have had your head on a silver platter, and it wouldn’t be wearing that funny little cupcake of a cap you have on now!”
TWENTY-ONE
THE ENORMITY OF WHAT I’D DONE TO DENISE DIDN’T STRIKE me until I was home an hour later. Vida had made tea. Buck had built a fire. I was back on the sofa. All of a sudden I burst into tears.
“Whatever is wrong?” Vida asked, exchanging concerned glances with Buck.
“I killed somebody!” I wailed. “I can’t believe I did such a horrible thing.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Vida exclaimed. “It was self-defense. Would you rather be lying in the morgue with JoAnne Petersen? Besides, Doc told Dwight it was an accidental death. Denise could have fallen down those stairs ten times and not suffered more than a bruise.”
Buck nodded. “Seen it happen many times in the military. Some poor devil takes three, four bullets, recovers, and then gets run over by a messenger on a motorbike. When your name gets called, you go. In any case, your hand-to-hand fighting was combat. I can’t tell you how much of that I’ve seen, even in the air force. Sometimes the fight was between men on the same side.”
“Now, Buck,” Vida said, patting his broad shoulder, “don’t start in on your war stories. Poor Emma’s had enough of that.”
“Okay, Munkie-Runkie. I’ll retire to that easy chair.”
I didn’t object. Somehow it didn’t seem like sacrilege for Buck to take temporary residence there. He was almost as tall as Milo and even broader, at least through the midsection. Buck and Vida made a very imposing couple. “Munkie-Runkie” had not only stopped my tears, but it also made me wonder what rhyming pet name she had for Buck.
Vida had pulled one of my dining table chairs over to the sofa. “You must fill me in on how you concluded that Denise killed Linda. I feel very left out.”
That, of course, was unthinkable for Vida. “I only put it all together tonight,” I said. “The keys to figuring it out were both subtle and not so subtle. From the get-go, I never believed the poacher was the shooter. Milo had to consider they might be connected, if only because of the timing, but that’s how he works a case. Everything has to be considered to see if it fits—and it didn’t.”
“Sound,” Buck murmured. “Dodge served in Nam, right?”
Vida nodded, giving the colonel a fond smile. “Let Emma finish.”
I picked up where I left off. “Looking back at my first visit with Craig in the hospital, I realized he didn’t link the two incidents, either. So what was the motive for the attempt on Craig’s life? He’d also said something I should’ve caught when I heard it, but didn’t until Donna was talking about how artists work. It was the same phrase—“at that time.’ Donna’s remark wasn’t important, but the phrasing was. Craig had been referring to the shooting when he said he hadn’t seen anyone ‘at that time.’ It dawned on me that there must’ve been another time when he had seen someone. I finally realized that the answer was in the painting. There were also bare branches in the scene. They had to be maples because Wes Amundson had mentioned there were no other deciduous trees at the poaching site. Craig might not have seen anyone or recalled exactly how far he’d dragged himself after he was shot, but it wasn’t far from those maples.”
Vida shook herself. “My, my! That was quite clever of you.”
“Devil’s in the details,” Buck said.
“True,” I agreed. “But neither Donna nor I could figure out what it meant. Then—and I reminded Mitch of this when he walked me to my car after we left the hospital—that he’d
given me part of the answer while we were talking about Bree Kendall working for Spencer Fleetwood.”
“What?” Vida shrieked. “Bree is on the radio?”
“Never mind—we can talk about that later,” I said. “I referred to Bree as—excuse my language—a ‘blond bitch.’ Then Mitch made a crack about her moonlighting. Craig’s new painting has two muted golden spots on the ground that might be highlighted by an unseen moon. I should’ve paid more attention to the title, Forest Watch. In fact, he’d originally called it something else, and one of the words was ‘leg’ or ‘log.’ ”
“The log!” Vida exclaimed before turning to Buck. “That’s where poor Roger found her body. Both Linda and Denise were blondes.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Craig repeated the word ‘saw,’ but I thought he was referring to the poachers sawing down the maples—even though he insisted that wasn’t what he meant. It was what he actually saw when Denise hid her aunt’s body in the forest. She must’ve seen him as well, but as a local, Denise assumed—as everybody else did back then—that the man known as Old Nick was much older and probably crazy. It was barely a couple of years ago that we found out his name, his age, and that he might be a recluse, but he was also a talented artist. Even if Denise had wanted to silence Craig, she didn’t know where to find him—until the night he came the same way to deliver the new painting to Donna Wickstrom. I suppose she’d seen him while she was walking Doofus. If she didn’t have the gun with her then, it wouldn’t take her long to go back to the townhouse and get it. All she had to do was lie in wait for Craig to go back the way he’d come—and shoot him.”
Vida nodded. “So cold-blooded. I wonder if she enjoyed visiting the site where she’d put Linda’s body. A ghastly thought, but perhaps she savored her ultimate triumph over her more accomplished aunt.”
I agreed. “Denise saw herself as a cipher in the family. I remember her alluding to that at the time of the murder. Denise felt like an outsider, despite Larry’s apparent affection for her. I can’t begin to figure how a twisted mind like Denise’s would respond to what she considered being an isolated member of the revered Petersen dynasty. I finally remembered her allusion to that after Linda was killed. She’d told me when she was about to quit working at the bank.”
Buck shifted his weight in the easy chair. “If this Craig hermit saw what was going on, why didn’t he call the police?”
I smiled at Buck. “Recluses don’t always make credible witnesses. Nor do they want any involvement with society, let alone authority figures. Craig’s opinion of human nature is not only low but detached.”
Vida nodded. “Possibly paranoid, too. He may have been afraid of becoming the prime suspect. When the Rafferty house was set on fire, there was talk that Old Nick—as he was known then—had done it.”
“Hmm,” Buck murmured. “I wonder if he was in Nam. Way too many of those vets never did get their heads screwed back on straight when they finished their tours. Lots of dropouts.” He shook his head. “Darned shame. Why did Denise take a gun with her? She had a dog.”
“It wasn’t her dog,” I replied. “It belonged to her ex, and according to Denise, Doofus—the dog—was very timid. She may’ve always carried a gun when she went alone into the woods.”
Buck snorted. “I hope she had a concealed-weapon permit. Irresponsible gun owners make the rest of us look bad.”
“Really, Buckums,” Vida said, “that’s the least of the trouble Denise has caused.”
I tried not to smile. Vida’s pet name could have been a lot worse. She looked at me again. “I can’t get over Denise’s ability to carry out such a plan in the first place. You recall that Larry supposedly set up Linda’s ex-husband, Howard Lindahl, as the prime suspect. Are you telling us that Denise was that ingenious?”
“Yes, strange as it may seem. The break-in to plant phony evidence implicating Howard was staged by her. That’s another reason why I figure Larry refused to testify on his own behalf at the trial. He couldn’t answer many of the questions he’d be asked about the murder, the stashing of the body, and the break-in. The jury might have begun to wonder if he really was innocent.”
“But,” Vida objected, “a man claiming to be a potential customer called Howard to get him out of the house the night of the murder.”
I cocked my head at Vida. “You think Denise couldn’t sweettalk some guy into doing that for her as a harmless practical joke?”
“Well …” She frowned. “Goodness. That happened while Rick was dating Denise. Ginny was in the dumps. In fact,” she went on, “Denise’s alibi for the night of the murder was that she and Rick went to a movie.”
“I think we could ask Rick about that,” I said. “I’ll bet they went to the late show. As for Rick making the phone calls, it could have been Greg or even somebody else. The Rick and Denise thing was short-lived, as you may recall.”
Vida was quiet for a moment or two. “Denise must’ve hated Linda. Been jealous, too. Not that Denise could ever have believed she’d be in line to run the bank.”
“She might have,” I said. “If Larry had taken his father’s place, then in some weird way, maybe Denise thought she’d follow in her father’s footsteps. But if Linda was the heir apparent, there was Denise looking at Alison Lindahl as a future rival. As I mentioned, Denise had already talked about quitting the bank. Maybe she was hedging her bets.” A sudden thought occurred to me. “Oh, my God! I wonder if Denise was pregnant.” The possibility appalled me.
Vida looked stunned. “You mean about her being sick before she left work Thursday?”
“Yes. Doc’s autopsy will …” I stared at Vida. “No. There was a different reason. Denise got sick because she read the paper Thursday.”
Vida stared right back. “What are you talking about?”
“Denise didn’t know Craig was still alive until she read about it at the end of the workday. She mentioned she hardly ever looked at the paper. I told her she should start ASAP to stay informed about the town’s happenings in order to deal with subscribers. When Kip came to work Friday, he had to clean the front office because Denise left in a rush after throwing up. A copy of this week’s Advocate was under her chair. She hadn’t known until then that the man she’d shot had survived. The revelation literally made her sick. Craig was still a threat.”
Vida nodded. “A terrible shock to her, I’m sure. Denise lived in a world of her own. And a very twisted world it was. Even if she’d heard any of us talk about Craig Laurentis or an artist, she wouldn’t realize who he was and make the connection. In fact, she was so wrapped up in herself that she was the type who probably didn’t bother to listen in on other people’s conversations. I find that very hard to understand.”
“Takes all kinds,” Buck remarked, looking not at Vida but at the ceiling.
“Indeed,” Vida said, before changing the subject. “I had a chance to speak with Olga Bergstrom at the hospital. Debra Barton had called JoAnne right after my program was over. Naturally, JoAnne was alarmed by what Larry had told Cole on that last prison visit. When I heard JoAnne had decided to come to Alpine sooner than expected, I considered something like that. Of course Olga feels terribly guilty for having those sleeping pills on hand, especially when she began to realize that JoAnne’s emotional state was precarious.”
“Did JoAnne tell her any specifics?”
Vida shook her head. “But Olga’s smart. She’d always sensed there was something wrong about Larry’s conviction, but couldn’t figure out what it might be. She’d even speculated that somehow JoAnne had been involved in Linda’s murder.”
“But not Denise?”
“No. Like everyone else, she dismissed Denise as too brainless to do such a thing.” Vida sighed. “No one should ever assume anything about other people.”
“Brains are one thing,” Buck remarked. “Scheming, cunning, conniving—they come from some dark place in the mind. I’ve seen plenty of that in the military with the enemy. And,” he added more quietly, �
��sometimes with our own.”
“Oh, yes,” Vida agreed. “Even in Alpine we’ve had some very odd ducks.” She stood up, studying me for a long moment. “Will you be all right if we leave you? Buck has to drive back to Startup.”
I assured her I’d be fine. Vida dithered a bit, but Buck finally managed to haul her away. I saw them to the door, trying to act as normal as possible despite the pain I felt after the battle with Denise.
Denise. I still couldn’t fathom the depths and intricacies of that poor creature’s warped mind. Evil isn’t an easy concept to understand, but it exists. I sat back down on the sofa. It was going on eleven. Now that I was alone, the events of the past twenty-four hours came crashing down on me like a sudden spring avalanche. It was too late to call Ben. I couldn’t contact Adam except by e-mail, because of the often faulty phone connection between Alpine and St. Mary’s Igloo. And Milo was in his own private hell at Harborview Hospital.
Mitch? He was still dealing with the Petersen saga, having returned to the hospital to await Doc Dewey’s postmortem results. Leo? I’d have to unload the whole story on him, and I didn’t have the strength to do that. Kip? He’d never called back. Maybe he and his wife, Chili, had gone out for the evening. My production manager had earned a night off, especially on a Saturday.
Then there was Spencer Fleetwood. I no longer cared how or if he broke the story. Spence wasn’t a bad person. He was a professional who just happened to be in the same business. On top of that, he was about as screwed up in his own way as I was. He’d shown me kindness even as he’d milked every bit of information he could get out of me. “Payback,” he’d called his offer of help. I believed him at the time. I still did. After his own tragedy, I’d made that story the centerpiece of the Advocate’s front page for two weeks. Now we were even.