by Mary Daheim
Scott made a face. “He was pretty much of a butt. To be fair, though, he was getting ready to check out, and Doc Dewey was putting him through the rehab paces. All I got was some background and a couple of quotes. Six inches, maybe. He wouldn't let me take his picture.”
“Interesting,” I remarked. “Is he afraid somebody will recognize him? Like the cops?”
“Would you want your picture taken in one of those hospital gowns?” Scott asked with a snicker. “Dimitroff hadn't gotten dressed yet while I was there.”
The explanation was logical, but I hung on to my suspicions. “Okay, let's have that story ready by three o'clock. Then I'll give you a couple of other assignments for tomorrow's deadline.”
Scott winced. “Wow, it takes a lot of copy to fill an issue, doesn't it?”
I smiled. “Yes, it does. And you and I are the ones who have to do it. Vida's got plenty of work to do covering her House & Home section.”
“Amazing,” Scott murmured as he got out of the chair. “It's sure different from what I imagined The Washington Post to be.”
“This is Alpine, Washington, not Washington, D.C.,” I said, as if Scott needed the reminder. The tin roof in my cubbyhole had begun to leak again under the accumulated snow. “By the way, tell Kip to see if he can do anything about this.” I pointed to the slow drip that was emanating from somewhere in the low ceiling behind my chair.
Scott gave me his terrific grin and went out through the newsroom, presumably in search of Kip. It was almost one-thirty, and Vida wasn't back yet, so I decided to go over to the courthouse to see if I could find Dean Ramsey.
The clouds were moving in again, gray on gray, with a touch of blue. The lull between snowfalls left Front Street covered with dirty slush. I was crossing Fourth when Vida honked at me. Toot-toot—pause—toot-toot-toot—pause—long toot. It was like a duck call; she never varied.
“Where are you off to?” she shouted after rolling down the window.
I teetered on the curb. “The courthouse. See you later.”
“What's going on at the courthouse?”
“Later,” I repeated. Three cars were stuck behind Vida at the four-way stop.
“Wait.” Vida drove through the intersection and pulled into her spot by The Advocate. In less than a minute, she was at my side. “Don't tell me those county commissioner old fools have actually done something?”
“Of course not,” I said. “Did you know about Dean Ramsey?”
“Dean Ramsey?” Vida looked momentarily puzzled as we crossed Front Street. “Crystal's first husband? What about him?”
I backed up before answering directly, telling Vida about the autopsy report and Milo's interrogation. Somewhat to my surprise, she seemed unruffled.
“It all makes sense,” she said, nodding at an elderly couple I knew by sight but not by name. “Crystal angered a great many people besides you, which might have made her a victim. As for Milo, he's doing his job. You know how he goes by the book. Now what's this about Dean Ramsey?”
We were passing the Bank of Alpine. Rick Erlandson waved at us from his assistant manager's desk. “He's taking over for Hector Tuck. Ramsey's been in town since the first of the month.”
“Well.” Vida probably wiggled her eyebrows, but I couldn't tell. The fur hat had slipped again. “That's very puzzling. How could I not have known?”
We trudged by the Burger Barn, whose aroma of grease made me realize I hadn't eaten since breakfast. “The news release arrived only this morning.”
“That's no excuse. Dean Ramsey has actually been in Alpine for over a week. How could that happen without my noticing him? Why didn't someone tell me?” Vida's annoyance was escalating.
“It's a busy time of year,” I offered. “People get caught up in the holiday rush. Your informants have probably been Christmas shopping.”
“That's no excuse.” Vida didn't wait for the light at the corner of Third but stomped right through the intersection. A goateed man in an SUV honked in protest. I didn't recognize him; presumably, he didn't recognize Vida. “Dean Ramsey's staying at the Lumberjack?” she asked as we reached the corner by Alpine Ski.
“Yes. Toni said his family is coming later, after the holidays. I suppose he's looking for a house.”
“Absurd,” Vida muttered, in apparent reference to not knowing about Dean Ramsey. “I saw Hector and Opal at church Sunday, and he mentioned retiring. But the way he put it, the date was off in the future. Typical. Hector has always been obscure.”
As we approached the Clemans Building, Janet Drig-gers came through the door of Sky Travel. She greeted us with a windmill wave.
“Late lunch,” she announced. “Hey, remember that guy who got stuck in Chicago, Emma? The Russian? He finally got in and then ran his car off the road and broke a leg. Serves him right for bitching. Now I've booked him on a flight to San Francisco. He'll probably run into fog. Ha-ha.”
“He's leaving town?” I asked.
“Not until Friday,” Janet replied. “I gather he has some things to take care of around here.”
Vida leaned over my shoulder. “Where has he been staying?”
Janet shrugged inside her powder-blue parka. “I don't know. He didn't make any arrangements through us.”
“Interesting,” Vida murmured as we headed across Second Street. “Do you suppose that Crystal Bird offered Victor Dimitroff hospitality?”
“Could be,” I said, wishing I'd paid more attention to my surroundings when I'd been at Crystal's cabin Friday night. The kitchen counter might have revealed a notation of Victor's flight arrival, or a Chicago-area phone number jotted down somewhere that would have suggested his imminent arrival. Of course Milo would have checked for such signs. But would he have known what they meant?
The homely, durable courthouse was built during the Depression. Its two stories of brown brick, with tan trim around the two-paned windows, give it the air of a Depression-era survivor: simple, austere, hardy. There is a rotunda of sorts, or at least an open area with a functional skylight in the roof. Sixty-odd years ago, when county government was new to Alpine, the double staircase and the tile floor must have lent a sense of spaciousness. In the waning years of the twentieth century, several desks and a couple of cubicles all but filled the building's core.
Vida marched right up to Madge Gustavson, who was the longtime receptionist and some shirttail relation. The dressing-down of Madge was brief. Vida rebuked her for not passing on the news about Hector Tuck's imminent retirement and his replacement by Dean Ramsey. Then she asked if the newcomer was in. Luckily—perhaps more so for Madge than for us—the new county extension agent was in his office on the second floor.
There was an elevator, but we took one of the two sweeping staircases. I don't know what I expected Dean to look like, but I hadn't envisioned the small, seemingly meek man who got up from behind a table in what was still Hector Tuck's office.
“Mr. Tuck's at the Overholt farm,” Dean began, his thin, prematurely lined face regarding us with what appeared to be foreboding. “He should be back around four.”
“We're not here to see Hector,” Vida said curtly. “We're here to meet you.” She held out a gloved hand. “I'm Vida Runkel, and this is Emma Lord, editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate.”
“How nice,” Dean Ramsey said in a voice that didn't sound convincing. “I'm flattered that both of you would want to interview me.”
Vida's head swerved around, surveying the crowded room. There were three chairs—the one in which Dean had been sitting, a faux-leather chair behind the desk that still belonged to Hector Tuck, and a spare wooden armchair that was apparently for visitors.
“Here,” Vida said, going behind Hector's desk and shoving his chair closer to Dean's table. “I'll take this.” She nodded at me. “The armchair looks quite comfortable, Emma.”
Like an obedient child, I pulled the chair up to the table and sat down. Dean rather warily reseated himself at the table. “I'm just getting my feet wet,” he said, “b
ut I can tell you about what I did in Marion County. I was there for over twenty years.”
“We're more interested in the personal angle,” Vida said, finally pushing the fur hat up higher on her forehead. “As I recall, you grew up down the highway in Sultan. Have you yearned to come back to your roots?”
“Yes.” Dean nodded several times. His brown hair was thinning and streaked with gray. He wore glasses with heavy black frames that drew attention away from his short chin. I guessed him to be in his late forties, though he looked older. “In fact, I'd applied earlier this year for positions in Snohomish and Chelan counties. You see, my parents moved to a retirement home in Monroe a couple of years ago, and neither of them is very well. They can't make the trip to Salem anymore, so Jeanine and I decided we should move closer. Jeanine's my wife,” he added with a small smile.
“Yes,” Vida said, smiling back. “Your second wife, I believe. Do let us offer our condolences on the loss of your first wife. Her death has been quite a shock to the community.”
Dean turned toward the window, where icicles had formed like clear plastic swizzle sticks. “Oh, yes,” he said in a virtual whisper. “To me, too. The worst part is that I hadn't had time to call her. I only arrived in Alpine a week ago Sunday.”
Once again, I had to assert myself in Vida's presence. “How did you find out about her death?” I asked.
“Hector told me,” Dean replied, fiddling with a key chain on the table. “This morning. I couldn't believe it.”
“That she was a suicide?” Vida put in.
Dean nodded. “That's not the Crystal I remember. Of course I hadn't seen her in several years.”
It appeared that Crystal's ex hadn't yet heard about Milo's suspicions. The word would spread quickly enough. Dean was probably still undergoing the isolation that newcomers experience when they arrive in a new town.
“But you remained friendly?” Vida's smile looked like the Cheshire cat's. In fact, with that goofy fur hat, all she needed was a set of whiskers.
“Well…” Dean grimaced and set the key chain aside. “She moved to Portland after we split up. I didn't have much contact with her, really. But I'd run into her a couple of times when I was in Portland. We didn't hold any grudges. It was just one of those things. Too young, maybe.” He was looking away from us, out the window toward the snow-covered slopes of Mount Baldy. Perhaps he was recalling a pair of teenagers in love, and how it had all gone sour.
“I understand you and Crystal have a daughter. Have you any idea where she might be?” I asked.
Sadly, Dean shook his head. “I heard from her twice after she ran away. She was in Reno, then Vegas. She told me not to worry, she was fine. That's all, both times. It was years ago.” Tears had welled up in Dean's eyes.
“Do you know why she left?” I asked.
Dean shook his head. “Only Crystal's side of it. Amber was resentful of authority.” His face hardened. “Why wouldn't she be? Crystal had one of those blasted ‘Question Authority' bumper stickers on her car. Amber had been raised to resist being told what to do. Crystal never realized it could backfire on her.”
“Foolish,” Vida remarked. “Shortsighted.”
Dean didn't respond, but kept staring at the icicles. Maybe he thought they were small daggers, piercing his heart.
“Will you be looking for a house?” I asked, feeling a need to back off from Dean Ramsey's regrets.
“What?” He turned, staring at me through the heavy-framed glasses. “Oh, yes. We have two children, one in high school, the other in middle school. I've looked at a couple of places around Sultan. It's closer to Monroe and my folks, but not that far from Alpine.”
Vida's smile had faded. “If you're working for the county, wouldn't it be more suitable for you to live here?” There was disapproval in her tone. Vida didn't favor the idea of people living anywhere but Alpine.
Dean looked surprised. “Does it matter whether my residence is in Snohomish or Skykomish County?”
“Legally?” Vida sniffed. “I don't know. But it's much more pleasant here. Sultan is becoming very spread out.”
This didn't seem like the moment for a debate on the amenities of Sultan versus Alpine. “Will you be attending Crystal's services?” I asked.
Dean grimaced again. “Yes … yes, of course. Do you know when they're scheduled?”
“No,” Vida admitted, “but we'll find out by tomorrow. We have a deadline.”
“I'm having dinner tonight with April and Mel,” Dean said. “I hadn't called them, either, until I heard about Crystal. They very kindly asked me over.”
“How thoughtful,” Vida said, getting out of Hector's chair. “By the way, did you know—and this is certainly a coincidence—that Crystal's other ex has also been in town?”
“Aaron?” Dean clutched at the edge of the table. “No. I thought he'd fallen off the face of the earth. What's he doing here?” There was anger in his voice, as if his successor had no right to be anywhere, least of all in Alpine.
“Apparently,” Vida said in her most casual voice, “he came to see Crystal.”
“Came to mooch is more like it,” Dean growled. “He probably wanted money for his drugs.”
“That's possible,” Vida allowed, never turning a hair, though the fur hat had begun to slip again. “I'll be by later to take your picture. Will you be here?”
Dean said he would. He didn't bother to show us to the door, but remained seated, again staring out the window.
“Drugs.” Vida sighed as we trudged back down the stairs. “I should have guessed. A musician. Wouldn't you know it? And that Victor also has something to do with music. I don't recall Crystal ever being interested in any of the arts.”
“She was interested in men. Or was in the past,” I said, recalling the anti-male slogans on the refrigerator. “Maybe their backgrounds weren't the attraction.”
We had reached the lobby, where Vida nodded briskly at Madge Gustavson, but didn't speak. I suspected that Madge was probably going to be in the deep freeze for at least a couple of days.
“Billy has also been remiss,” Vida murmured as we exited through the revolving door. “He didn't call me this morning about the autopsy report. What do you know about Dilantin?”
Before I could answer, Bill Blatt pulled up to the curb in his deputy's car and called to his aunt. “Could I treat you to some ice cream this evening?” he asked in a humble voice.
“Why, Billy,” Vida replied, “how nice. In fact, let me treat you to dinner. The ski-lodge coffee shop at six? I lunched there with your dear mother today, and the food seemed especially good.”
Bill Blatt slapped a hand to his head. “Ohmigosh! It's her birthday, isn't it? I forgot.” His florid complexion deepened. “We'll have to get together tomorrow night. Butyou're coming to the house after work, right?”
“Oh.” It was clear that Vida had also forgotten, at least the part about the family birthday celebration. “Of course. How silly of me. We'll talk then, all right?”
Bill assured his aunt that it was. I had the feeling that he'd lost out on a free meal. Vida would wheedle everything she could out of the poor guy before the candles were extinguished on Nell Blatt's cake. The dinner date would be superfluous.
Al Driggers had called while we were gone to say that the funeral services for Crystal Bird would be held Thursday at eleven A.M. at First Baptist Church. There would be cremation, because that was what April Eriks thought her sister would have wanted. It may have been, but second-guessing the dead has always seemed self-indulgent to me.
Shortly after four, Scott turned in his brief story on Victor Dimitroff. There wasn't much more in it than we'd already learned from April: Victor's parents were political dissidents who had fled to France shortly before World War II. Their son had been born during the German occupation, and after the war, the Dimitroffs had moved to Vienna for a time, and then back to Paris. Young Victor had studied the tuba in both cities, and had eventually been hired by the Paris Opera.
In the mid-Seventies, he had joined the New York Philharmonic, remaining with the orchestra for almost twenty years. During that period, he had begun to compose, and finally chucked his career as a performer to create his own music. He had not bragged about successes, so I assumed he was still struggling.
“Scott,” I said, standing in the doorway to my cubbyhole, “this is fine, except that you didn't include why Victor was in the Alpine area.”
Laboriously, Scott looked up from his next assignment, covering ski enthusiasts' reaction to the new backside runs and lifts at the pass. He had a habit of making every story look like an onerous task, and maybe it was or else it wouldn't have taken him so long to produce his copy.
“Dimitroff didn't say,” Scott replied.
“Nothing? Not a skier, not a tourist? Was he headed for eastern Washington?” Nobody simply passes through Alpine, though they pass it by when heading across the pass. “Why would he have Janet Driggers making his travel arrangements if he didn't have a reason to be in the area?”
“I don't know. He didn't say,” Scott repeated with a shrug.
“Didn't? Or wouldn't?”
Scott gave me that terrific grin. “The latter, I guess. I did ask. But he was kind of in a rush to get out of the hospital.”
“Okay.” I went back into my office, cursing myself for not having sent Vida in the first place. At the time, I had believed there was no real importance in Victor Dimitroff's visit. But I was wrong. Now that murder was a possibility, his relationship with the dead woman loomed large.
The phone rang, and I picked it up in a distracted manner.
“Can you come over right away?” the terse voice asked.
“Milo?” He sounded very strange, alarmingly harsh. “Yes. Why?”
“Just be here, ASAP.” He hung up.
Not only had I barely recognized Milo, I suddenly felt afraid of him. But I obeyed. After all, I was a suspect.
It was icing up underfoot, and I almost fell twice in my rush to reach the sheriff's office two blocks away. Milo was sitting in a haze of blue smoke, drinking yet another mug of his vile coffee. He had two space heaters going, one aimed at his chair, the other in the middle of the room.