by Mary Daheim
“What's with these?” I asked, pointing to the heater nearest my visitor's chair.
“We blew all the fuses this morning and killed the heating system,” he replied in a detached voice. “Ron Bjornson's working on it. Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” There was a two-inch story in the blown fuses, but I'd get to that later. “Why am I here?”
Milo set his mug down and riffled some papers on his desk. “Jack and Dwight Gould drained the hot tub at Crystal's this afternoon. They found a pill bottle stuck in the drain. The printing on the prescription label was pretty washed out, but we were able to bring it up under the microscope in the lab.” The sheriff lifted his long chin and stared at me with chilling hazel eyes. “The empty bottle had contained Dilantin, and it was made out to you.”
I ASKED MILO for a cigarette. He held the pack out while I fumbled around. Then he leaned forward again and lighted the damned thing for me. All the while, his gaze never left my face.
“This is crazy,” I finally said in a strange parody of my own voice. “How can that be? Can I see it?”
“The bottle?” Milo shrugged. “Why not?”
He opened a drawer and fished out a plastic bag. In it was the small amber plastic bottle that I'd bought at Parker's Pharmacy, where Doc Dewey had phoned in my sleeping-pill prescription.
“Jesus,” I whispered.
“How many were in there?” Milo asked, putting the evidence away.
“Ohhh…” I held my head in my hands, elbows resting on the desk. “A dozen, maybe. I'd had it refilled once, then I finally went off the blasted things. You remember—I must have told everybody in town how glad I was to be able to sleep on my own again.”
“Alone.” The word slipped from Milo's lips and he reddened. I don't think I'd ever seen him blush before. “Scratch that.” Briefly, he turned away, and I sensed that he was swearing at himself.
“The break-in,” I said suddenly. “Whoever broke into my house stole that bottle.”
“What?” Milo had recovered, and was looking at me again. “Oh.” He tugged at one ear, then picked up his coffee mug. “You think so?” There was no inflection in his voice.
“Isn't it obvious?” The idea had put steel in my spine; finally, there was something I could hold on to besides the cigarette. “Did you ever recover the other things that were stolen?”
“No.”
“Did you try?”
Milo stared at me, but didn't respond.
“I know, I know,” I said hastily. “It's almost impossible to find stolen goods because they go to Everett or Seattle or Damascus. But I don't think petty theft was the reason for the break-in. Come on, Milo. Crystal's murder was premeditated, and somebody's trying to set me up.”
“Who?” There was still no emotion in his voice, and it was beginning to gall me.
“Paula Rubens arranged the meeting,” I said, “though I can't imagine why she'd want to kill Crystal. In fact, I can't imagine Paula killing anybody. But everybody in town knew Crystal and I were at odds, and probably half the population knew I was going to meet her that night. Paula's a nice woman, but she talks. And you know how word gets out around here.”
Milo drained the mug's dregs into a sickly-looking cactus. If it survived only on the sheriff's coffee, the plant's condition was probably terminal. “How well do you know Paula?”
“Fairly well,” I replied, beginning to relax a bit. “I like her. We share quite a few interests. You've known her as long as I have. She lives near Honoria's old place.”
Milo grunted. He rarely liked being reminded of his former girlfriend, who had put him through a fair share of misery. “I know Paula,” he allowed. “She's kind of deep.”
To Milo, that meant Paula read the news before the sports page. “Do you agree with me about the break-in?” I asked, taking the last puff off my cigarette.
“It's possible.” He didn't seem enthused with the idea.
“Don't be a jackass,” I shouted, pounding a fist on the desk. “You know damned well I didn't kill Crystal Bird. Why are you wasting your time grilling me?”
Milo tucked his chin into his chest. “Admit it, it doesn't look good.”
“Screw you.”
He kept looking at me, but a muscle twitched along his jaw. “What?”
Angrily, I waved a hand. “Poor choice of words. I'm sorry. And make up your mind—are you interrogating me or taunting me? I thought we were past all that stuff.”
Milo heaved a deep sigh. “So did I. Okay. When did you last see that pill bottle?”
I couldn't remember. My medicine cabinet, which was above the sink, contained the usual assortment of over-the-counter remedies. The only prescription drugs I had were an ointment for a rash, tetracycline to keep my skin from erupting into adolescent zits, the hormone replacements—and the sleeping pills. I didn't take a daily inventory.
“I wish I could remember,” I said, “but I can't. I open the medicine cabinet twice a day. In the morning, when I'm still fogged in with sleep, and at night, when I'm dead tired. My powers of observation are at a low ebb both times.”
Milo grunted. “If you're right about how many pills were left, it was definitely enough to kill Crystal. Especially since she'd been drinking rum. Was she drunk when you were there?”
“I don't think so. But then it's hard to tell with some people, especially when you don't know them.” I paused, thinking back to her demeanor. She had scarcely looked at me the whole time. I had little memory of her face, and almost none of her eyes.
“What do you know about this Dimitroff guy?” Milo asked.
“Funny you should ask,” I murmured, then tried to recite all the facts from Scott's story.
Milo gave a faint nod. “I checked with Janet Driggers. She said Dimitroff made his flight arrangements a couple of weeks ago. But she didn't know where he was staying. Do you?”
I shook my head. “Did she tell you he wasn't leaving until Friday? Surely you can run him down.”
“We've got an APB on the guy. Let's hope he wasn't headed for Seattle.”
“Could he drive with that broken leg?”
Milo shrugged. “Doc Dewey said maybe, if he took it easy.”
“What about Aaron Conley?” I remembered the incident on Front Street where I'd almost been hit by his van. “I could describe his vehicle.”
“Conley's in custody,” Milo replied.
“What?”
“We picked him up a couple of hours ago. He was trying to pass a forged check on Crystal's account.”
“Wow.” I couldn't help it, I reached for another cigarette. Unfortunately, Milo obliged. “What's his story on Friday night?”
“He was in Monroe, jamming or whatever they call it these days, at a tavern.” Milo's expression was dour. “He's got witnesses, but since when are a bunch of drunks reliable?”
I didn't know, either. Impulsively, I grabbed one of Milo's hands. “You don't really think I'm a killer, do you, Milo?”
He gave my fingers a quick squeeze. “No. But damn it, Emma, I have to go by the book.”
I knew that. Milo always does.
Despite a little coaxing and a lot of badgering, I couldn't get Milo to open up about Aaron Conley. On the way back to the office, it occurred to me that Scott might have better luck. The sheriff's office was part of his beat, and he was already developing some rapport with Dustin Fong.
“Here's your first sidebar to go with the homicide story,” I announced.
Scott jumped. “So soon? It's officially a homicide?”
“That's the way Sheriff Dodge is treating it.” And the way he's treating me, I wanted to add, but didn't. “This is a first, I assume?”
Scott nodded. “You don't cover crime when you work for a suburban shopper,” he said in reference to his previous job on an Eastside weekly.
I was giving him the details when Vida sidled over to Scott's desk. “So Milo's convinced Crystal was murdered?”
I nodded. “We can discuss the
details later.”
“When?” Vida folded her arms across her bust. “It's almost five. I have a birthday dinner to attend.”
“Tomorrow, then,” I said with a cheer I didn't feel. “Don't worry. You've got Billy to pump at the party.”
Before Vida could respond, April Eriks entered the news office. “I have a photo of Crystal,” she said. “Mr. Driggers told me I should bring it by for the obituary.”
“That's right,” Vida said, holding out her hand. “I do death notices. Thank you, April. How are you managing?”
April lowered her eyes. “Okay. Fine. Reverend Poole asked if someone from the family wanted to give a eulogy. Our sonThad has volunteered.”
“That's very kind,” Vida declared. “I didn't realize he was close to his aunt.”
“Neither did I,” April responded. Without looking at any of us, she turned on her heel and left.
“Well!” Vida licked her lips. “Now what does that mean?”
I shrugged. “My guess is that April's resentful because her son wants to put in a good word for his aunt. Let's see the photo.”
It was a five-by-seven black-and-white glossy, probably taken in a studio at least ten years ago. “A corporate photograph,” Vida said, “no doubt for the bank's files.”
“Yes.” I studied the face closely. Frankly, I hardly recognized it as belonging to the Crystal Bird I'd seen in the hot tub at Baring. This version was not only younger, but considerably softer. The shoulder-length fair hair was styled in thick curls, a very Eighties look. Crystal wore makeup—lipstick, eye shadow, liner, mascara, and, if the photo had been in color, blush would have shown on her cheeks. Despite the severity of the no-nonsense suit and severe blouse, she looked almost beautiful.
“What changed her?” I mused aloud.
“Life,” Vida replied. “It does that to people.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but it's both style and substance. She was thinner when I saw her, harder, plainer.”
“Older, of course,” Vida noted.
Scott was looking over my shoulder. “She's pretty, but she doesn't look very friendly. That smile is bogus.”
Scott was right. The smile didn't go past her nose.
Vida took the photo over to her desk while Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “There's no point in getting started on this Aaron Conley story, is there?” he asked. “It's five to five.”
Technically, there wasn't. But at his age, I had always been willing to work past the hour if I felt even the slightest sense of urgency about deadlines for The Oregonian.
“That's okay,” I said, submitting to a different time, place, and generation. “B ut get on it first thing tomorrow.”
I, too, decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped by the Grocery Basket to replenish the larder. The owner, Jake O'Toole, was up at the front end of the store when I checked out. Juggling two bags of groceries, I approached him with a smile.
“Confide in me,” I said in my most winsome manner. “Did Aaron Conley try to pass a forged check here?”
Jake wrinkled his aquiline nose. “Aaron Conley? Oh—you mean that ex-husband of Crystal Bird's? No, why?”
I explained about Aaron's arrest. Grimly, Jake shook his head.
“He's a piece of work, all right,” Jake said. “If it's true that Crystal was murdered, I figure he did it. That guy's got trouble written all over him.”
“Tell me,” I said, wishing I hadn't bought five pounds of potatoes and ten pounds of sugar on this expedition, “were you here when Crystal came in with Aaron?”
“You mean after we went through that rigmarole about him charging on her account?” Seeing my nod, Jake continued. “Yeah, I was here. When am I not here?” His eyes raked the store, though his expression conveyed affection as well as resentment. For Jake, the Grocery Basket was like a much-loved but demanding mistress.
“How did they interact?” I inquired.
Jake shrugged. “Nothing special. If I hadn't known better, I would've figured them for a big sister-little brother act.”
“No show of affection? No harsh words? No tension?”
Jake passed a hand over his face. “Well … Maybe there was kind of a strain between them. You know, the way people act after they've just had a fight, but they've patched it up.”
I appreciated Jake's insight. He ought to know: Betsy and Jake O'Toole were famous for bickering in public, despite the fact that they were a devoted couple.
“Did you get the impression that Aaron was staying with Crystal?” I asked as Jake's brother, Buzzy, approached with a clipboard in hand.
“Yeah, I did,” Jake answered, giving Buzzy a high sign. “They were buying stuff for dinner. Hey, Emma, got to go. Buzzy needs some help with tomorrow's produce order.”
My arms were about ready to fall off by the time I got home. After dumping the grocery bags on the kitchen table, I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. As far as I could tell, the only missing item was the bottle of sleeping pills. It had sat between the estrogen and the cortisone ointment, but whoever had taken it had moved the remaining bottles closer together so that I wouldn't notice a gap.
Milo had checked for prints and found none that didn't belong. It figured. The thief had worn gloves. I was angry all over again, not only at being set up—or so it appeared—but because the staged robbery had included Adam's possessions. What, I wondered, had the intruder done with the jar of coins and autographed Mariners baseball?
There was one call on the answering machine, and it was from Paula Rubens. “I just heard that Crystal was poisoned. Good God, Emma,” she continued in an agitated voice, “I can't believe it. Is there any chance we can get together tonight after I'm done with my final? Call me, please.”
Since it was going on six, I assumed she'd be on campus. I dialed her number there and she answered on the first ring.
“Class doesn't start until six,” she said, sounding somewhat calmer. “All I have to do is collect the term project from each student, ask a few questions, and get the hell out of there. Could you meet me at the bar in the ski lodge at seven?”
I could. Dinner consisted of macaroni and cheese, a hamburger patty, and an ear of corn that tasted as if Jake had grown it in his basement. No wonder Buzzy needed help with his produce order.
The bar at the ski lodge has a handsome Viking motif, featuring various figures from Norse mythology. Rough stone and stained wood provided a perfect setting for the big glass panel that evoked the northern lights. The first time Paula and I had met at the lodge for drinks, she had commented on the glass, informing me that the Seattle artisan who had designed it was one of the most outstanding and underrated craftsmen in the country.
Now, however, Paula didn't even glance toward the bar itself, where the glass glowed and a small waterfall trickled off to one side.
“Tell me everything you know,” she demanded before she'd even sat down. “I had to hear about this from Nat Cardenas himself. Do you know he seemed pleased to deliver the bad news? The man's a skunk.”
The college president no doubt had reason to feel a certain amount of satisfaction. Or relief. Certainly he had taken his lumps in Crystal Clear. I reminded Paula of the attacks on Cardenas.
“So what?” Paula retorted. “That doesn't excuse his attitude. The least he could do is put up a good front. Nat does that very well. He strikes me as a first-class phony.”
We hadn't met to argue about Nat Cardenas. “I imagine there are quite a few people around here who aren't weeping and wailing over Crystal's demise,” I said in a mild tone. “Me, for instance.”
“But you're not gloating,” Paula countered. “Okay, give me the lowdown.”
Before I began to relate what I knew, we gave our drink orders. Then I lighted a cigarette from the pack I'd purchased in a weak moment at the lodge's gift shop. Paula made a face.
“Must you?” she asked, though there was amusement in her tone.
“Yes, I must. It's b
een a rough day.”
“Okay, so I'll indulge you.” She laughed. “Now talk.”
I told her almost everything I knew, though I reserved the part about the pill bottle. Milo wouldn't make that public, and neither would I. Newspaper publishers don't need to incite the readership any more than is necessary.
When I had finished, we were halfway through our drinks. Paula sat back on the banquette and frowned. “So Conley's in the slammer,” she remarked. “Is it just the forged check or is Milo holding him as a person of interest?”
“I don't know. Both, maybe.” I lighted my second cigarette, careful to blow the smoke as far away from Paula as possible. “What do you know about the guy?”
Paula fingered the stem on her martini glass. “Crystal didn't talk about him much, unless she'd been drinking.” Pausing, she met me with her level gaze. “Don't get me wrong. Crystal was no boozer. But, as some of us do once in a while, she'd get a little tight and feel sorry for herself.”
“I can do that sober,” I remarked.
Paula gave a faint nod. “Can't we all. Anyway, that's when she'd go off on her exes, husbands and lovers.”
“Lovers, such as Victor Dimitroff?”
Turning quickly to catch our server's attention for another round, Paula wagged a finger. “I don't know much about that one,” she said, “because he must have been a newcomer. But there were a couple of guys in Portland who'd given her a hard time. One of them was a married coworker from the bank. The other taught at Reed College. Frankly, I don't remember their names.”
“And Aaron?” I prompted.
“Aaron.” Paula inclined her head. “She met him in Portland when he and his band were performing at some tavern on Burnside. I think they were called The Hoods—for the mountain, not the criminals. They hit it off, and were married just a few months later. In fact, the ceremony was held on a barge under the Burnside Bridge. Let's call them an ill-starred couple. It didn't last long.”
I put out my cigarette and promised myself I wouldn't smoke any more for the duration of the evening. “The age difference was a factor, I suppose.”