by Mary Daheim
“Shut up, Leo,” I called over the sound of water running into the coffeemaker. “I have heard all that. It’s sad, it’s true, but it’s over.” Returning to the living room, I gave Leo a wide berth. “You’ve got a chance for a fresh start. Don’t blow it.”
Leo shook his head. “There’s no such animal. There’s just plugging along. The only fresh start we get is the day we’re born. After that, it’s all crap. And it just keeps coming. Did I ever tell you about the novel I wrote?”
God preserve me from advertising people who write novels, I thought. But as I returned to the living room, I gave him a faint smile, which he took for encouragement.
“It was four years ago, before all the rest of the shit hit. I’d been fine-tuning the book for a long time, and it was a great idea. A housewife in North Dakota is bored to the eyeballs with farm life, and along comes this beatnik artist. They fall in love, and have a mad, passionate affair that lasts about three days. Then off he goes, and she’s left with nothing but a portrait of herself in the buff, which she naturally can’t show her old man and the kiddies, not to mention the three other couples in their square-dance club. She spends the rest of her life mooning about the artist, and he does ditto as he goes off to Italy to paint morose pictures. My smart-as-a-whip wife told me it’d never sell, so I sat on it. You fill in the blanks.”
I tried not to smirk. “Dare I ask the title?”
“Cavalier.” Leo was ironic. “It’s a double meaning. Cavalier is a real county in North Dakota. No bridges, though. Not in my book.”
Maybe Leo was fabricating his unpublished novel. If the story was true, I had to sympathize. “Bad timing,” I finally said. “If you could write one novel, you could write another.”
Leo curled his lip. “About what? A broken-down ad man who moves to a small town and makes magic music with the beautiful but lonely publisher?”
“Try sci-fi,” I snapped. “Maybe a Western. Or,” I went on, less flippantly, “a logging saga. Four generations who lived off the woods.”
Leo was still contemptuous. “Hasn’t somebody already done that, too?”
“Maybe. But it’s the kind of story that has plenty of latitude.”
The coffee was done. I went to the kitchen, filled two mugs, and returned to the living room.
“I don’t know shit about logging,” Leo declared.
“This is the place to learn.” Having set Leo’s mug in front of him, I turned toward my armchair. But Leo had a firm grip on the hand that didn’t hold my coffee.
“Relax, babe. I’m not going to ravish you. Sit down, loosen up. You’re stiff as a two-by-four. How do you like that for timber talk?”
Maybe I should have been terrified. For all I knew, Leo Walsh had murdered Linda Lindahl. But Tom Cavanaugh had recommended Leo. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if Leo’s character were deeply flawed. On the other hand, Tom had married Sandra. So much for the love of my life’s perceptions about people.
Still, I resisted the urge to pour hot coffee on Leo. He was my ad manager, and I needed the revenue he brought in. Otherwise, I couldn’t brag about the paper’s solvency.
“Don’t complicate things, Leo,” I warned, trying to free my hand. “You’re nursing a grudge against your ex-wife. You don’t need to get mixed up with your employer. Our staff’s too small to handle an in-house romance.”
In the lamplight, Leo’s careworn face was a map of his tribulations: the furrows in the forehead, from beating his brains out making money for somebody else; the deep grooves around his eyes, evidence of worry and frustration; the lines in his face and the sag of the jaw were marks of erosion caused by a wife who didn’t have enough love left to see her husband through the worst of times. Had the drinking come before or after? It didn’t matter. The result was the same.
“I’m not proposing marriage,” Leo said dryly. “I was thinking about a kiss and a cuddle. Hey, babe, do you like men or am I flushing out the wrong kind of bird?”
That did it. I threw the coffee, but not at Leo. The hot liquid splashed across the carpet, the coffee table, and the armchair. The mug bounced off the front door, just as a knock sounded on the other side.
I jumped. Leo let go. The mug rolled harmlessly toward the hall closet. Trying to compose myself, I went to the door.
“Well!” Vida was wearing a deerstalker and looking vexed. Her expression didn’t improve when she saw Leo on the sofa, coffee spilled all over the living room, and a deep flush on my face. “Well, well!” she repeated. “I didn’t realize you were entertaining.”
Leo spoke up before I did. “She’s not as entertaining as you’d think. But she’s sure clumsy. Don’t slip on the java, Duchess. Our boss had a little accident.”
Bristling, Vida closed the door behind her. The shrewd gray eyes took in the empty Chardonnay bottle and the highball glasses. But it was my high color that seemed to interest her most.
“Perhaps I should have called first,” Vida said stiffly. “But I had to drop Roger off at his parents’ house, so I stopped here on my way home.”
Roger’s benighted mother and father lived off the Burl Creek Road on the west side of town. My home is more or less on the route back to Vida’s.
“It’s no problem,” I said hastily. “Leo and I were sorting out the bank situation.”
Now Vida’s expression grew hostile as well as curious. “You and Leo?” She glanced at him as if he were no more significant than your average earthworm. “Well! I suppose you’ve solved the case! Strong drink often induces brilliant ideas. Among other things.” Again her gaze swept over the empty wine bottle and the equally empty cocktail glasses.
“Sit down, Vida,” I urged, finally regaining my composure. “We haven’t solved anything, but there are some gaps that may have been filled. I didn’t bother you today because of Roger.”
The hostility ebbed, replaced by incredulity. “Roger! What has my dear grandson got to do with it? You haven’t found another corpse, have you?”
Wheedling and placating, I finally got Vida to remove her coat and deerstalker before sitting on the sofa. She scooted as far away as possible from Leo, as if he had a contagious disease. Then I began my recital, starting with Milo in the morning, Rick in the afternoon, and the evening with Leo. In spite of herself, Vida was impressed. More than that—she seemed shaken.
“Embezzlement! At the Bank of Alpine! It’s unbelievable! Frank Petersen must be rolling in his grave!”
Since Vida already had suspected as much, I figured her performance was aimed at Leo, the latest newcomer. He must believe that, contrary to facts, Alpine was conceived without sin.
“We tried to call the sheriff,” Leo explained, “but it seems he’s gone a-wooing.” The fuzziness had disappeared from Leo’s voice. Or maybe my hearing wasn’t as hazy.
Vida shot Leo a withering look. “We don’t need Milo.” She stood up and went over to the desk. A moment later, she had her nephew on the line. “Billy? … Yes, yes, I know you’re not on duty tonight…. Yes, yes, I know Milo’s off gallivanting in Startup. I trust you to use sense, Billy. Now, here’s what I want you to do….”
Leo and I exchanged bemused glances as Vida gave Bill Blatt his instructions. He was to keep Christie and Troy Johnston in town until Monday at least. He could use the murder investigation or the bank inquiry as an excuse. Vida wasn’t interested in legalities; she brooked no constitutional arguments from her nephew.
“Just do it,” she demanded, “and call me back at Emma’s when you’re sure the Johnstons are staying put.” Vida returned to the sofa and dug in. I offered coffee; she requested hot water. “It shouldn’t take long,” she asserted. “Billy’s going to go get Sam Heppner first.”
It was already almost nine-thirty. The long day and the drinks had made me very tired. The coffee hadn’t helped much. After heating Vida’s water in the microwave, I slumped in the armchair.
“Do you agree that Andy wasn’t the intended rundown victim?” I asked Vida, trying to keep
my voice from sounding weary.
Vida blew on her mug. “That’s possible. But does it mean that the driver and Linda’s killer are one and the same? I suppose so, but once Dan Ruggiero discovered the embezzlement, or whatever it was, there was no need to kill Linda. The cat was out of the bag.”
Leo had run out of cigarettes, which didn’t improve his disposition or his deductive reasoning. “Spite. Revenge. The seam’s blown, so why not whack somebody who was responsible for the discovery? People aren’t logical.”
Vida frowned at Leo. “That may be true in Los Angeles. This is Alpine. We aren’t inclined to behave like maniacs. Even when we kill, we have our reasons.” Vida’s defense seemed bizarre, even by local standards, but the strangest part was that I had an inkling of what she meant: Alpiners didn’t commit wanton crimes; their motives were always rational.
It was to Leo’s credit that he didn’t guffaw out loud. Instead, he shrugged. “I gather this Christie hadn’t been around too long. Maybe she’s still suffering from her out-of-town ways.”
Vida took the comment seriously. “I believe she and her husband have lived in several different cities. The last was Everett. UPS keeps transplanting Troy, it seems.”
I’d forgotten about the Everett connection. The Johnstons and the Lindahls—had they known each other? Had Linda been acquainted with Christie before the divorce? A new avenue of speculation opened, but I was too tired to read the road markers.
The phone rang. Vida and I both jumped up, but she reached it first. Her initial briskness plunged into irritation: “Can you be sure? Why would they do such a thing? Check back, say around midnight. Maybe they went to a movie. Call me at home.”
Resuming her seat, Vida whipped off her glasses and rubbed furiously at her eyes. “Ooooooh! Billy says the Johnstons are gone. The house looks closed up. Why would they leave today if their flight wasn’t until tomorrow?”
The answer could be innocent enough. “Maybe it’s an early departure and they were afraid of snow,” I suggested. “They may have driven down to spend the night in a motel at Sea-Tac.”
Replacing her glasses, Vida wore her most owlish expression. “Maybe pigs will fly and Hitler has a hat shop in Cleveland. It sounds most peculiar. Dare we call Janet Driggers and ask her?”
Before Leo or I could reply, Vida was back at the phone. As with most Alpine numbers, she knew the Driggerses’ by heart. But no one answered.
“They’re out cavorting,” she said with contempt.
I tried not to think of how Janet and Al Driggers might disport themselves on a Saturday night in Alpine. Somewhere, I hoped, in between Janet’s lurid fantasies and Al’s moribund demeanor.
Vida was still standing, her statuesque body twitching with frustration. Leo also got to his feet. “We’re at a dead end. And I’m dead tired. Thanks, Emma, it was fun. Especially the part where we played coffee-toss. Sorry I didn’t get to take my turn.” He gave me an amused look and a chuck under the chin. I endured both, then showed him to the door. Leo went out into the rain, which was now sleet, then paused halfway down the walk.
“I know you’re a girl,” he said, keeping his voice down. “I just wish I knew what guy made you so scared of other men. I’d like to kick his ass. ’Night, babe. See you in the classifieds.”
I wondered if I’d ever get the nerve to tell Leo the truth about Tom Cavanaugh. Certainly not until I had to. Turning back in to the living room, I saw Vida already in her coat and grappling with the deerstalker.
“I must head home, too, now that you’re safe. Roger led me on a merry chase today. The video-game parlor, the hobby shop, the fish hatchery, and snacks all along the line.”
I ignored Roger’s adventures. “I was safe before you got here,” I insisted. “Leo is harmless.”
The deerstalker all but obliterated Vida’s eyes. “Is he now? You can’t be sure. You don’t really know him. I’m surprised you didn’t have Milo run him through the National Crime Information Center database.” With a flip of her flaps, Vida departed.
She was right about Leo; she was wrong about Leo. I knew him, at least as a type. He’d take what was offered, making only a minimal effort to get it. If he was rejected, as he expected to be, he’d crawl away and nurse his wounds. Failure was his friend; he knew it well.
But it was Linda who preyed on my mind as the sleet punished the windows and splattered down the chimney. Had Linda dated Leo? She’d probably slept with Mike Brockelman. Who else had she taken into her empty bed? Had Linda died because she was a savvy bookkeeper or because she’d picked the wrong man as her playmate? Nobody deserved to end up with a log for a shroud in a deserted forest clearing. Linda wasn’t likable, but she’d needed to be loved. We all did, and I was the last to criticize her for falling into a stranger’s arms. She was prickly, she was difficult—but she’d given enough of herself to find comfort with another human being. Meanwhile, I hung back, not a wallflower who never gets asked to dance, but a vestal virgin, too detached, too aloof to say yes to a few turns around the floor. And too frightened.
The house was dark as I stared through my bedroom window. The sleet splashed against the glass like tears. Linda had been a pain, but she wasn’t inhuman. I, however, was beginning to feel like a robot. Plug me in, I go to work. Switch me on, I communicate with my peers. Program me for the day, I try to meet everybody’s needs.
Everybody’s, except Emma’s. My batteries were wearing down, and those funny little thuds in my breast signaled the need for recharging. I wasn’t in the mood to admit that what kept me going was called my heart.
Chapter Fourteen
FATHER DENNIS KELLY was going to change the world. At least that was the impression some parishioners got when Father Den announced that the Social Causes Commission had created six new ongoing committees.
Unemployment, domestic abuse, youth activities, the elderly, single adults, and addiction were included. Not all were new areas of concern for St. Mildred’s. Father Fitzgerald, in his autocratic, erratic manner, had addressed a number of these issues during his long pastoral tenure. But not only had Father Fitz operated out of a time warp, his efforts were often hit-and-miss. Thanks to a dedicated core of parishioners, the church had consistently helped stock the ecumenical food bank and, in a joint venture with the Episcopalians, had provided used clothing for the poor. The rest of the community’s needs had gone unheeded except on an emergency basis, or left to the Lutherans.
Fearing that I might be corralled into joining one of the committees, and excusing myself on the grounds that publishers by definition exercise great public responsibility, I didn’t linger in the vestibule. The rain had turned to snow during Mass, but it wasn’t yet sticking. I was about to duck into my car when I heard Ed Bronsky’s jarringly cheerful voice.
“Emma! Have I got a dynamite promotion for you or what?” Ed barreled his way between cars, waving snowflakes out of his eyes. “This is hot! It’s civic pride, it’s anticrime, it’s economic hustle! Now, listen up, here’s the way it works….”
Ed had me backed up against the Jag. The Bayards’ Volvo sedan was parked close to my car. There was hardly room between the two vehicles for Ed’s paunch and my bulky duffle coat. Buddy and Roseanna Bayard had to enter their car on the driver’s side.
“Emma!” Roseanna called. “Why don’t you head up the single-adult group? Otherwise, we’ll get stuck with some old drip like Annie Jeanne Dupré.”
Forcing a smile, I shook my head. “Annie Jeanne Dupré’s fine with me.” Better a sixtyish spinster who played the church organ as if she were wearing boxing gloves than Emma Lord. I waved the Bayards off.
“Okay.” Ed’s cheeriness had been chipped around the edges by the Bayards’ interruption. “What we do is get everybody involved in this murder case. Linda was a Petersen, right? One of Alpine’s first families. We owe it to her—to them—to bring the killer to justice. Milo’s in over his head. He’s understaffed, he’s underequipped, and he can’t rely on Snohomish County anym
ore. They’ve gotten too big, with too many problems of their own. So we get the local merchants to sponsor detective teams. Sort of like deputizing the whole town, the way they used to do it in the Old West. The chamber of commerce will offer a reward. Clues that are uncovered will be posted at the stores. That’ll bring in customers. And you get yourself a special insert every week until the killer’s behind bars.”
Ed was bursting with enthusiasm. He was so caught up in his outrageous plan that he didn’t notice the snow accumulating on his eyebrows. Nor did he take in my stupefied reaction.
“We’re having a special chamber meeting tomorrow,” Ed continued. “Noon, the banquet room at the ski lodge. You’d better come.”
“Ed …” I didn’t know where to begin in stemming the tide of bad taste. “Have you talked to Milo?”
Ed spurned the mention of Milo. “Why bother? Like I said, he’s overwhelmed. Think how pleased he’ll be when he finds out what we’re doing for him.”
I could envision Milo exploding like two tons of TNT. Ed’s idea was dynamite, all right. It would make the sheriff blow sky-high. Maybe there was a way to circumvent Ed.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” I promised, my face stiff with cold. Giving Ed a stilted smile, I dove into the Jag. The getaway was easy enough, since the parking lot was paved. But instead of going home, I drove down to the sheriff’s office. I had many things to discuss with Milo, including Ed’s harebrained scheme.
The sheriff took everything in stride, except Ed. “What’s that moron up to? I ought to bust his big butt for impeding justice! Jeez, Emma, why didn’t you tell him to screw off?”
“Because I’d rather tell the chamber of commerce to back a bond issue,” I replied, enduring yet another mug of Milo’s weak coffee. “Harvey Adcock and Francine Wells and Henry Bardeen and the rest of them aren’t stupid. They won’t go along with Ed’s dopey idea. But they won’t want to offend him, either. Now that Ed’s rich, he commands respect. It’s silly, but it’s true. My task is to rechannel Ed’s proposal into something productive.”