by Mary Daheim
When I'd hung up, Tom asked me more about the break-in. “It was over a week ago,” I told him. “But I'm not sure that's when the sleeping pills were taken. Any number of people had been in the house since I last took them. In fact, I think the burglary was kids. They took the kind of things that kids take.”
“It could have been a cover,” Tom pointed out.
I admitted that was possible. Despite the cardboard, the living room still felt chilly. Going over to the fireplace, I threw in another log.
“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked, standing between Tom's chair and the sofa.
“I was going to take you out,” Tom said, then added wryly, “if you didn't throw me out first.”
“It's snowing too hard to go anywhere,” I said. “I've got plenty of stuff in the freezer. Steak? Chicken? Pork chops?”
“Pork chops,” Tom replied with a wistful smile. “Do you know how long it's been since I had home-cooked pork chops?”
“I thought you and Sandra had live-in help,” I said, perching on the sofa's arm.
“We do. We did,” he corrected himself. “Sandra had a full-time nurse, a housekeeper, and a cook. Only the nurse lived in. We had gardeners, too.” He lifted his head, giving me a glimpse of that profile that looked as if it had come off an ancient coin. “I sold the house this summer and bought a condo on Nob Hill. I don't need servants. I don't want them. It was never my style.”
It probably wasn't. Tom had come from a very middle-class family. His father had worked for the Burke Mill in Seattle. Entering the newspaper business had never been a way to get rich. But marrying money was, and Tom was sufficiently human to be impressed by wealth. Still, I'd always believed that wasn't Sandra's main attraction. Sandra had been beautiful and smart as well, the whole package. She had also been crazy as a bedbug.
“I didn't realize you'd sold the house,” I said.
“The kids were gone. Why would I want to rattle around by myself in that big place in Pacific Heights? Besides,” he added, “I travel a lot. It didn't make sense not to sell it. At least at the time.”
I eyed Tom quizzically, but he didn't say anything more. For a long moment, we were both silent. He was gazing into his almost empty glass; I was staring at the fire. The reality of his presence in my living room had only begun to sink in. Why had he come? Why didn't I ask?
“Pork chops it is,” I said, getting up and heading for the kitchen. “You want a refill?”
“Half,” he replied, getting up to join me. “I'll fix it.”
While I made dinner, we spoke of other, ne utral things. He was intrigued by Crystal's murder. I was interested in his newspaper empire, which was still thriving despite competition from other media.
“It won't stay that way,” Tom said as we finally sat down in my little dining alcove. “If I were smart, I'd start selling off and buying up TV or radio stations.”
“Why don't you?” I asked, glancing out the window to see that the snow hadn't yet let up.
He gave me a cockeyed grin. “You know why. It's not the same. I've still got printer's ink in my veins. So do you.” Abruptly, he grew serious. “How's The Advocate doing financially? Have you ever considered selling?”
I uttered a strange little laugh. “No,” I gasped. “Never. At least not seriously. I mean, as long as we're showing a profit, why would I?”
“That's when you sell,” Tom said in the tone of voice that he must use in high-powered business meetings. “You don't wait until you start losing money, or even flattening out.”
I shook my head. “With any luck, we can hang on until I'm ready to retire. Alpine's growing, Tom. The college has meant a lot to this area in terms of the economy.”
“That's good,” he said between bites of pork chop. “But you're talking about initial impact. Over time, that growth may level off. Let's face it, college students aren't big spenders. Once the plant has been built, money injected into the community comes mainly from faculty and staff. What's the projected growth pattern for the next five years?”
I passed Tom the mashed potatoes for a second helping. “I don't know exactly. But they expect quite a bit of growth. In the next couple of years, they'll be adding at least three new programs.”
Tom gave a single nod. “That's fine, too. But what does that mean? Four, five new faculty members? Another forty or fifty students? And where will they go after they get their two-year degrees?”
I put my fork down next to my plate. “What's your point?”
Tom waved a hand. “Nothing. I was trying to offer some friendly counsel.”
“It doesn't sound as if you're taking it yourself,” I pointed out as I resumed eating.
“True.” His smile was ironic. “Maybe I should. I've been thinking that it's time to pare down. That idea came along after I sold the house.”
Tom was fifty-four. Perhaps he was looking down the road at retirement. I suggested as much, but he shook his head.
“I can't imagine retiring,” he declared. “That's one thing about owning newspapers—if you hire the right people, you can assume a hands-off role. That's why I was trying to steal Leo a while back.” Tom's expression was faintly sheepish.
I recalled the incident, which had resulted in Leo delivering the fateful news about Sandra, and me losing it in the middle of the bar at the Venison Inn. The whole story of my relationship with Tom had come out then, and Leo had been a comfort. But he couldn't explain why Tom had never contacted me in the ensuing months.
“Leo likes it here,” I said lightly. “Why didn't you call me? Why did I have to find out about Sandra from him?”
Tom hesitated before spearing a second pork chop from the oval platter. “I suppose that made you mad,” he said.
“You bet.” I'd finished eating and folded my arms across my breast. “Not an unreasonable reaction, you must admit.”
“Probably not.” Tom didn't seem disturbed, however. “I intended to, of course.”
“And?” I prodded.
He gave a shake of his head. “I didn't do it.”
“Why not?”
He chewed for a moment, then lifted one shoulder. “There was a lot to do after Sandra died. Not just the estate, but because of the way she died. It took me months to get through all the details and red tape. Six months later, when I finally put the house on the market at the end of June, I felt I was out of the woods. As it turned out, I wasn't.”
“How come?” I had a feeling I wasn't going to like the answer.
“Kelsey got herself into some trouble,” he replied, the blue eyes solemn. “She had a boyfriend in New York, where she'd gone to work after she dropped out of college. He fancied himself a writer, but was making ends meet by working for a messenger service. It turned out that he was delivering more than messages.”
“Drugs?” I put in.
Tom nodded. “Anyway, Kelsey got pregnant. To my horror, she wanted to marry this moron. It killed me to interfere, but I had to. Oh, I went back to meet him—his name was Thor, for God's sake—and he was everything I'd dreamed of—in my worst nightmares. I'll be damned if I know how she could have picked such a loser.”
I could hazard a guess, but I didn't. Kelsey had grown up mothering her mother. Sandra's death had left a hole in her life. I suspected she'd been looking for someone else to take care of. But I wouldn't rub that in.
“Anyway, I talked her out of it,” Tom continued, putting his plate aside. Maybe just talking about Thor had caused him to lose his appetite. “I tried to be reasonable, and to my amazement, it worked. God, she's only twenty-four—why should she screw up the rest of her life?”
I'd been twenty-one when I'd gotten pregnant with Adam. Had that event screwed up my life? Maybe. Through the misty vista of twenty-six years, I wasn't sure. If it'd been screwed up, I'd done it myself.
“So what happened?” I asked.
Tom uttered a heavy sigh. “That was the hardest part. If she wasn't getting married, Kelsey decided she'd have an abortion. I
hit the roof.”
I winced. “Oh, Tom,” I said, “that must have been rough.”
“It was. We spent two days arguing about that.” He gave me a wry smile. “It only took six hours to talk her out of Thor.”
“And?” I felt like I was watching a soap opera and had come to the end of the Friday episode that leaves viewers on the edge of their seats.
“She finally gave in,” he said, “but not on spiritual or moral grounds. Kelsey began to see the baby as a replacement for her mother.”
“So how's she handling it now?” I asked with a sense of relief.
Tom made one last foray into his second pork chop. “The baby's not due until mid-February. She quit her job the first of December, and is moving back to San Francisco next week. Graham will be home around then for Christmas, too.”
Graham was Tom's elder child, the boy with whom Sandra had become pregnant while I carried Adam. In her case, fertility and stability hadn't gone hand in hand.
“Well,” I said, with an uncertain smile, “you're going to be a grandfather.”
Tom ran a hand through his hair, which, I realized, didn't come quite as far down on his forehead as it used to. “Yes. Strange, huh? You wish you could be a grandparent, and I'm not quite as enthusiastic over the prospect.”
“So what will Kelsey do?” I asked, never having met the girl and only having seen a high-school graduation photo that had depicted a pretty blonde with an air of innocence. I wondered what she looked like six years later with innocence lost.
“She'll stay with me,” Tom replied. “The condo has two bedrooms. Three, really, if you count the den. We'll work out the rest of it after she gets there.”
“I see.” Unfortunately, I thought I did, and my heart sank. Like Kelsey, Tom couldn't seem to free himself from caring for someone else.
Maybe he read my mind. Tom reached out and grabbed my hand. “You understand the position I'm in, don't you?”
“Do I?” The words sounded shaky.
“It doesn't change my feelings for you,” he said quickly, squeezing my fingers. “I swear it, Emma. I still love you.”
“Great.”
“Shall I go?”
“Where?” I started to laugh. “Poor Tom, wandering in the blizzard. We'll find him curled up against a western hemlock, frozen stiff as a two-by-four.”
“Please. Don't be a smart-ass.” Tom stood up, pulling me with him. In the process, I knocked my knife on the floor and upset the salt-and-pepper shakers.
“Don't,” he commanded, and his voice was gruff. Then he was kissing me and I wasn't laughing anymore. The hysteria was gone; so were the tears that had threatened to spill.
We were in my bedroom, where all the anger and bitterness and resentment floated away as softly as the snowflakes that fell outside my window. December surrounded us, but inside, it felt like May, and we were young again.
I'M STILL NOT sure exactly how or why Tom decided he'd call on Marisa Foxx the next morning, but I think it had something to do with his status as a newspaper baron. Over breakfast, he had conjectured that libel was a viable motive for murder. Somehow, he'd gotten it into his head that if he talked to Marisa, he might find out more about the possible suits that had been filed against Crystal.
“I don't get your reasoning,” I admitted as he prepared to walk through the two feet of new snow that had blanketed Alpine during the night. “Isn't it the other way around? Wouldn't the defendant, Crystal, have more of a motive than the plaintiff? I know how much of an estate she had. It wouldn't make for a very big settlement after legal fees and court costs.”
“Were you going to sue for money or satisfaction?” Tom asked, putting on a heavy pair of boots he'd gotten out of his luggage.
I admitted that money hadn't been foremost in my mind when I'd gone to see Marisa. “Do you think she had some serious dirt on somebody in Alpine?”
Tom allowed that might be possible. “I was thinking that an aggrieved party could get more satisfaction out of murdering Crystal than being awarded a paltry monetary settlement. Not to mention that it would end her harassment and provide swift revenge.” Then he kissed me and headed off into the quiet morning.
He got about two feet before he sank up to his knees in the snow. “I tried to warn you.” I laughed. “It's far too deep. We have to dig our way out.”
Judging from Tom's expression, I surmised that he hadn't shoveled snow since moving out of his parents' home thirty-odd years ago in Seattle's Fremont neighborhood.
“I don't have hired help,” I reminded Tom as he got back onto the porch, “but I do have two shovels.”
Hands on hips, Tom surveyed the front yard and the street beyond. The snow had dwindled to a few drifting flakes, but it was very cold, fourteen degrees on the thermometer outside my kitchen window. At least three feet of snow had accumulated over the past week with drifts against the house reaching almost to the eaves. The hole in the front window was no longer a problem, since it was packed with driven snow.
“What do you people do in weather like this?” Tom asked.
“We shovel,” I replied as I led the way into the house. “It takes me about half an hour. Usually, the plows are out by now, but it's Saturday. The Peabody brothers like to sleep in on the weekends.”
“I take it the Peabody brothers are the snow-removal crew?” Tom asked dryly.
I nodded. “That's it. Come on, have another cup of coffee. Why don't you just telephone Marisa back and talk to her over the phone?”
Apparently, that idea appealed more to Tom than shoveling did. But coffee appealed to him even more. “Okay, so who do you think might have sued Crystal?”
“Might want to, as opposed to actually doing it?” I queried, and saw Tom nod. “Not Nat Cardenas. He'd try everything else before going public. The man's a real politician.” I paused, thinking about the people Crystal had excoriated in her newsletter. “None of the clergy. They're all pretty decent, and would try to avoid scandal.”
“Scandal?” Tom looked curious.
“Not in that sense,” I amended. “The attacks weren't personal. I meant that some of the issues could cause rifts in the congregation, especially among the women who favor the shelter. As for the county commissioners, they probably never read Crystal Clear. I'm not sure if they can read.”
“What about Milo?” Tom asked.
“Good question.” I turned slightly as a Steller's jay perched on the windowsill, eyeing me hopefully. “I should feed the birds. Milo won't tell me if he knew Crystal in any way except in an official capacity,” I went on, going to the bread box and getting out several crusts. “If there was no personal involvement, the sheriff may have been giving Crystal advice on burglar-proofing her cabin. It's isolated, and a perfect target for troublemakers.”
Tom was looking thoughtful. “I take it you haven't heard any rumors linking Milo and Crystal romantically?”
The phone rang before I could respond. It was Paula Rubens, sounding not quite like herself. “What's the weather up there like?” she asked in a worried voice.
Startup was just a few miles down the highway, but far enough west and considerably lower in altitude. We didn't always share the same kind of weather. “There was a blizzard last night,” I replied. “Have you checked the radio? They ought to be giving pass reports.”
“Stevens Pass reopens at eleven,” she said. “How is it in Alpine?”
“Bad,” I said. “My street's a mess, but they may have plowed Front and Alpine Way by now. What's wrong, Paula?”
I heard her take a deep breath. “It's probably nothing. One of my students called a few minutes ago to say that he was cross-country skiing through town and saw the sheriff go into Nat Cardenas's house. Benjy—the student—said he was sure it was Dodge because he's the only one in town with a new red Grand Cherokee. I called Nat, and Justine answered. She sounded very upset, and said she couldn't talk. Do you have any idea what might be happening?”
“None,” I replied, glan
cing at Tom's curious face. “If I hear anything, I'll let you know.”
“Please do,” Paula urged. “I figure that if the weather up your way is really bad, it must be something important to send Dodge over to Nat's.”
Paula was right. Milo's Grand Cherokee had four-wheel drive, but even that had its limitations in a hilly town like Alpine. However, Nat and Justine lived in the upscale development known as The Pines, where they could probably pay or bribe someone to plow the streets.
“It must be urgent to get Milo out on a morning like this,” Tom remarked.
I agreed. “I'll try to call him in a little while. Do you want to talk to Marisa first? I'll get you her home phone number.”
Not surprisingly, Marisa was in. While Tom wandered into the living room with the gypsy phone nestled between his ear and his shoulder, I tidied up the kitchen. I felt as if I were in a dream. The fresh snow piled outside, the birds in the feeder by one of the big Douglas firs that grew in my backyard, the two of us doing everyday things, like a real couple. But the snow would melt, and so would my dream. Reality was Kelsey having a baby and a two-foot hole in my front window.
Tom's conversation with Marisa was relatively short. Just as I was turning on the dishwasher, he returned with the phone and placed it on the counter.
“Marisa takes client confidentiality seriously,” he said. “I gather you haven't found any cases on file at the courthouse?”
“That's Scott's beat,” I said, then, seeing Tom's puzzled expression, I quickly explained how Scott Chamoud had been hired to replace Carla. “He definitely would have mentioned anything about Crystal that was a matter of public record.”
“Scott didn't miss anything,” Tom said, pouring yet more coffee. “Marisa Foxx was able to tell me that no one had gone as far as to file a suit, and that, in her expert opinion, no one would now that Crystal is dead. However,” he went on, the blue eyes twinkling, “she did say that there had been at least three inquiries. One was somebody in the timber industry, and another was a member of the clergy. Which pastor has the most clout in this town?”
“Nielsen,” I answered promptly. “He's the Lutheran pastor, and they're definitely a majority. The timber-industry person could be Jack Blackwell, who owns a logging company and has never met trouble that he didn't want to make worse.”