by Mary Daheim
I said that it was. A couple from Everett named Jor-genson had built the log house as a winter ski retreat back in the Fifties when there weren't any other homes on Fir Street. In fact, it had been a dirt road.
“I don't know why the hell you didn't replace the damned locks,” Milo declared. For good measure, he kicked the door shut.
“Maybe that's why I got it cheap,” I muttered. “By the time I bought it, the Jorgensons were half-dead and could hardly stand up, let alone ski.”
“So what's missing?” Milo asked, gazing around the living room.
“Nothing in the living room that I can tell.” I had written down the items and handed the list to Milo. “There may be some other stuff, but I'll probably only find out if I need whatever it is later.”
Milo looked up from the list. “Liquor? Drugs?”
I pictured the cupboard that served as my liquor cabinet. “I didn't notice anything when I fixed my drink. Bourbon, Scotch, gin, rum, vodka—I think it was all there.” I paused and made a face at Milo. “You know I don't do drugs, not even weed.”
“I mean prescription drugs. Painkillers and tranquil-izers. You got any of those?”
“You know better,” I said testily. “Excedrin is my drug of choice. I keep it in the kitchen and it's still there. I took one just before you came.”
“I'll check for prints.” Milo said. “You build me a Scotch, okay?”
“Okay.” Strangely, I hadn't thought about fingerprints. If there were any, no doubt I'd smudged some of them in my frantic search of the house. Surely the burglar had worn gloves. They always did in mystery novels. Besides, it was twenty degrees outside.
I'd built a fire in the grate by the time Milo finished. “I'll have to take your prints,” he said, placing his kit on the coffee table. “Too bad I don't have Adam's.”
“What do you think?” I asked after he'd finished and I'd cleaned my hands.
The sheriff was lounging in one of my matching easy chairs. In bygone days, we would have sat together on the sofa with my head against his shoulder.
“Kids,” Milo replied, sipping his Scotch. “You know the problem. We've had drugs here for years. But now a small percentage of the college students come from bigger towns. They're dealing to the younger kids. To get the money, our local teens are stealing stuff and selling it over in Everett or even in Seattle. We've caught a few who've gotten really careless, but it's tough.”
“It must have happened a couple of hours ago,” I said. “The snow had covered any footprints or tire tracks.”
“Right. I checked. This time of year, it starts getting dark around four, earlier when it's snowing. Did you ask your neighbors if they saw anything?”
I shook my head. “The Marsdens are in Arizona for a couple of weeks. And you know I'm not very friendly with those people on that side,” I said, gesturing to my right. “They're the ones with the awful kids.”
“Who are old enough to do drugs,” Milo remarked. “I'll call on them when I leave.”
The people who lived in the houses across Fir probably couldn't see anything through the snow. I had no neighbors in back, only the forest and the steep incline of Tonga Ridge. Which, I realized, set my house up as an ideal target for would-be burglars.
We drank for a few moments without speaking, not the old, intimate silence that had seemed to suit us both so well, but with a melancholy that filled the room like bitter incense. Briefly, I longed for the happier days when I could have found comfort in Milo's arms. Maybe the urge was prompted by the cozy fire, the snow coming down outside, the fright I'd had, or the booze. But we couldn't go back. That road was closed, and I had put up the DO NOT ENTER sign all by myself.
Before Milo left, he asked if I was afraid to stay alone. In which case, he added hastily, maybe I should call Vida. I assured him I was fine. Burglars, as he well knew, rarely returned in such a short time span.
I watched him lope through the snow to the next-door neighbors' house. He is tall, six-foot-five, and despite his fifty years, hasn't gone to fat. That amazes me, because, like me, he never works out and, unlike me, lives on TV dinners.
There was something forlorn about his lanky form as he disappeared among the snowflakes. The evergreens that towered over my yard seemed to dwarf him. Up close, Milo seemed so big; walking away from me, he appeared much smaller. I sensed that he was lonely.
That was definitely like me.
IN ALL THE excitement over the break-in, I'd forgotten that our bridge club met on the first Thursday of the month. The thought came to me around ten-thirty Friday morning when I was opening the mail, more of which decried my morals and questioned my IQ.
What also occurred to me was that no one had phoned with the usual confirmation. Whoever was hosting the get-together always called the day before we met. This time, I hadn't gotten a reminder.
Heading for lunch through the latest flurry of snow, I decided to take a detour via Sky Travel, which was located across Front Street in the Clemans Building. As I'd hoped, Janet Driggers was on the job. She is a fellow bridge player and the wife of Al Driggers, the local undertaker.
Janet is also very outspoken. She looked up from her own stack of mail as I came in and gave me a big grin. “Well, well,” she said, “if it isn't journalism's answer to Jezebel.”
“Thanks, Janet. I needed that,” I replied, sinking into one of the client chairs. “Did I miss something last night?”
Janet's green eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. “Did you? Who was he?”
I wasn't in the mood to play Janet's ribald games. “I'm talking about bridge club. Nobody called me.”
Janet's pretty face sobered. “Oh.” The phone rang. Giving me an apologetic look, she picked up the receiver. I tuned out as she tried to handle a client who apparently had been stranded at O'Hare in Chicago. “Look,” she said in a sharp tone, “it's not my fault you've been sitting on your ass for three hours. If they say you'll be leaving by one o'clock, believe them. We don't give ticket refunds because Mother Nature is having a tantrum. If you're so steamed, complain to the airline.” She paused and gave me a wink. “Have a nice trip, Victor.”
Janet hung up. “Russian descent. They're terrible cranks. You'd think they'd be more placid since their ancestors were brought up under a commie regime. If you bitched, you got sent to Siberia. Now, where were we?”
“Bridge club,” I said. “Nobody called me, and I forgot.”
“Umm.” Janet picked up her Starbucks mug and took a sip. “You want it straight or with sugar?”
I shook my head. “I've had enough coffee for one day.”
“I'm not talking about coffee, though I should have asked.” Janet heaved a big sigh. “First off, forgive me for the Jezebel crack. I was only kidding.”
“I know,” I said. Janet rarely thought before she spoke. “So what's the bad news?”
Janet made a face. “Some of our fellow card fiends have been upset by the comments in that goofy Crystal Clear. The bottom line is that enough of them got their panties in a bunch and felt you shouldn't be included.”
I was stunned. I'd known all the members for almost as long as I'd lived in Alpine. We'd played bridge together for most of those years, and usually got along quite well: Edna Mae Dalrymple, the head librarian; Charlene Vickers, wife of Cal who owned the Texaco station; Darlene Adcock, of Harvey and his hardware store; Linda Grant, high school PE teacher; Francine Wells of Francine's Fine Apparel. There were more, both regulars and substitutes, but none of these women struck me as mean of spirit.
“Dare I ask who?” I said in a hushed voice.
“Honest, Emma, I'm not sure,” Janet said with a sad smile. “I could guess. But that wouldn't be fair. It was Linda's turn to give the party, and she called me Wednesday night to say that she'd been on the phone ever since she got home from the high school. At least four of our set had balked at including you. She was in a bind, and asked for my advice. I told her they could go screw themselves, but Linda didn't want to
create a situation that would break up the club after all these years.”
“So I got screwed instead,” I murmured, then shook my head. “Sometimes I forget how small-minded small-towners can be. Just when I think I've become one of them, I realize I haven't.”
“You never will,” Janet said. “God, Emma, I'm so sorry. But they'll get over it.”
I stood up and gave Janet a bleak look. “Maybe. But will I?”
Getting to Crystal Bird's cabin wasn't easy, especially in snow. There was never much more to Baring than a whistle-stop, though at one time I'm told that a couple of saloons, a boardinghouse, a grocery store, and a barbershop existed to serve the men who worked in one of the two local mills. All are gone now, and Crystal's cabin sits on the site of a former railroad logging spur.
I had to admit that Crystal had fixed the place up rather nicely. I presumed the snow-covered roof was made of cedar shakes, though it could have been tin. The shingled exterior was punctuated with small windows accented with bright red paint. A half-dozen steps led to the front porch, and the steel door sported a handsomely decorated glass oval. Maybe that was Crystal's compensation for not getting a calla-lily window.
Crystal was wearing a white terrycloth robe when she opened the door. “Emma Lord?” she said with as much enthusiasm as she would have had for a termite inspector.
“Yes,” I replied, then added with a touch of perversity, “Crystal Bird?”
She nodded. Her sideswept bangs were a shock of white; the rest of her hair was golden. The short curls looked damp, and her skin glowed a healthy pink. Without makeup, her small features were bland, except for the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “Come in,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “I've been in the hot tub. Would you care to join me?”
“No, thanks,” I said, following her through the small living room which was filled with old furniture that could charitably be described as antique. “I didn't bring a bathing suit.”
“You don't need one,” she said, her back still to me. “It's only four steps from the kitchen to the hot tub on the deck.”
Crystal didn't need a suit, either. Without embarrassment, she slipped out of the robe and stepped into the steaming tub. Her slim body was in good shape; I suspected she worked out. I eased myself onto a bench and huddled inside my duffel coat. The meeting wasn't off to a good start.
I glanced at my surroundings. The snow had almost stopped except for a few fitful flakes. The deck on which the hot tub sat was small, with the two open sides encircled by evergreens. Candles were placed at intervals on the redwood flooring, and in an alcove where the exterior walls met, I saw a figurine of Merlin, complete with wand and pointy hat. Tiny crystals flickered in a cave behind him. It took me a few seconds to make the connection with my hostess.
“Care for something to drink?” Crystal asked as she immersed herself up to her neck and rested her head against a blue rubber pillow.
“No, thanks,” I said, feeling that it would sound silly to ask for hot chocolate. I assumed Crystal only served magic potions, à la Merlin. There was already enough poison flowing between us. I stared at the back of her head and realized I hated her. I couldn't remember when I'd harbored such a strong emotion for another human being.
“I insist you have something,” said Crystal in a languid tone. “There's rum fruit punch heating on the stove. Here,” she went on, nudging at a yellow mug sitting on the deck behind her. “You can refill mine while you get some for yourself.”
Obediently, I went back into the kitchen, where I noticed other crystal motifs as well as allusions to various goddesses. I also took in the anti-men slogans plastered on the refrigerator. MEN SUCK—IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. GOD IS A WOMAN—AND IS SHE PISSED. And that old standby: A WOMAN WITHOUT A MAN IS LIKE A FISH WITHOUT A BICYCLE. I'd never quite figured that one out. Fish have no feet.
The kettle in which the punch had been heating was empty when I finished filling the mugs, so I turned off the stove before going back outside. Crystal thanked me without looking in my direction.
“Paula Rubens thought we should get together,” I finally said, holding the mug in both hands to help warm my chilly person. “She thinks there may be some misunderstanding between us that we could iron out.”
“There's no misunderstanding,” Crystal replied calmly. “In fact, I think I understand you very well.”
“Oh? Then I guess I don't understand you.” I tried to keep my tone light.
“You should.” Crystal still didn't look my way. “You've read Crystal Clear. The publication is aptly titled. How do you think I haven't made myself clear?”
The condescending amusement in her voice rankled. “Your views are clear,” I replied, wishing that Crystal would at least have the courtesy to look me in the eye. “It's the reason behind them that stumps me. Your attacks have grown personal, rather than professional. Why?”
“Isn't it obvious?” Crystal splashed at the water with one bare leg. “You're the only woman in this area who has any influence. You don't use it to benefit other women. Why shouldn't I get personal? You've earned the wrath of women all over Skykomish County. I'm merely their spokesperson.”
It was true that I'd gotten more angry letters from the female population since Crystal Clear had started coming out. But most of them had been from women I wasn't closely acquainted with, if at all. The bridge club was another matter.
“That's still no excuse for personal attacks in print,” I asserted. “Good journalism never lowers itself as you've done. I resent it, and if I have to, I'll take legal action.”
Crystal laughed and finally turned her head. “Oh, I'm so scared! Emma Lord is going to sue me. Shall I pack up and run away?”
Silently, I counted to ten as I took a sip of punch. It tasted bitter, but maybe my mood had infected my senses. “Okay. I'm willing to compromise. Contrary to what you may think, I feel very strongly about the women's shelter. You may not have done your homework, but we had one for a short while. The old Doukas house on First Hill was used for that purpose, but there wasn't enough room for more than a dozen women and children at one time. Then the plumbing went out, and it wasn't deemed worthwhile to renovate. As you may know, the house is now closed up, awaiting demolition.”
“For six new homes,” Crystal said with disgust. “Which, I might add, you wrote a laudatory editorial about because the builder happened to be from your church. I believe that's known in the business as self-serving journalism.”
Crystal was partially right about my endorsement. Dick Bourgette, a semiretired contractor from Everett, had bought up the property and planned to erect a half-dozen modest homes on the site. The Doukas house had been vacant for almost five years before the shelter had opened, and was already in disrepair. The churches had banded together to plug the leaks and replace broken windows, but there had never been enough money for serious improvements. It was a losing battle to try to keep the place going.
None of those facts had impressed Crystal. “The Advocate is never as self-serving as your handout,” I retorted. “Crystal Clear is nothing more than you riding all your hobbyhorses.”
Crystal ducked under the water, then bobbed up and began blowing bubbles. “Blah-blah-blah, yakkity-yak. Etc. I'm getting bored.”
“Then may I finish my proposal?” I snapped, no longer patient.
Crystal gave a toss of her head, drumming her short fingernails on the side of the hot tub.
“I'll write an editorial insisting that the local clergy make a decision by January fifteenth,” I said as the snow began to fall harder. “Every week until then, I'll keep after them, in shorter pieces. We'll also run some case histories, like you did with… Zippy.”
Crystal splashed water over her head, then leaned back against the rubber pillow. “Why January fifteenth? Why not sooner?”
“Because of Christmas,” I replied, regaining my reasonable tone. “The pastors will all be busy.”
“Christmas.” Crystal's voice held a sneer. “I ce
lebrate the winter solstice. It's not nearly as commercial. Go ahead, do as you please. But that's not the only issue at stake.”
“I take things one at a time,” I replied. “I zero in on issues. The blunderbuss approach doesn't work, especially in a small town. You have to keep everybody focused.”
“If you say so.” Crystal reached around for her drink. The hand that covered the yellow mug reminded me of a big pink spider. “Your next edition comes out on the tenth of December,” she said in a crisp, businesslike tone. “You'd better hit those pious pricks hard, Emma Lord. I'm not a patient woman.”
“No kidding,” I murmured as I stood up. “However, I'd appreciate a respite. You've been very mean, petty, too. It doesn't become people who have goals.”
“Oh, bullshit!” Crystal laughed again. “You're kind of a wuss, aren't you, Emma Lord?”
I didn't respond. As I headed for the kitchen, the phone rang.
“Can you grab that?” Crystal called after me. “I forgot to bring it outside.”
The portable phone was on the counter. I set my mug down and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” I said, starting back for the deck.
“Crystal?” The voice sounded puzzled. It also sounded familiar.
“Milo?” I said, equally astonished.
“Who is this?” Milo asked. There was a nervous note in the question.
“It's me, Emma,” I replied. “Do you want to talk to Crystal?” I swallowed hard. “She's right here.” Without waiting for him to answer, I handed the phone to Crystal.
Then I left. Fast.
It's a miracle I didn't wreck the Jag on my reckless return from Baring to Alpine. The trip was short and I knew the road by heart. What I didn't know was why Milo had called Crystal. Had she also been burglarized? Did she have a complaint about a Peeping Tom watching her nude immersions in the hot tub? Or was I missing the point?
I remembered to enter my house with caution. I also remembered that my father's Colt .45 was hidden in my closet. Unless, I thought with sudden panic, it had been stolen. Making sure that everything in the rest of the house looked undisturbed, I went into the bedroom and hauled out the old jewelry box in which I'd hidden the gun. It was still there. With shaking fingers, I loaded it before I went back into the living room. It was a silly gesture. If the burglar hadn't returned last night, he wouldn't come now.