by Mary Daheim
I wandered off to the corridor on the left, where I sighted Derek Norman, who I knew only vaguely from a crisis ten years ago with the parish school board. I hadn’t seen much of him since. The Normans weren’t Catholics, but they believed in private education.
“Ms. Lord,” Derek said, looking older and heavier than I recalled from the last time I’d run into him, “can I help you? It’s lunch hour here, so we’re a bit shorthanded.”
“I’m looking for the sheriff. And Spencer Fleetwood,” I added, lest Derek think I was a snoopy wife.
Derek’s high forehead—which hadn’t been that high a few years ago—furrowed in a frown. “I think they’re still in the woods beyond the holding ponds with Val Marsden and the deputies.”
I didn’t want to admit that I had no idea why any of them would be wandering around in the forest, so I nodded. “I’ll see if I can track them down. Is there a back way out?”
Derek pointed over his shoulder. “Straight down the hall you’ll see a door that goes to the stairs leading outside.”
I thanked him and continued on my way. When I opened the outer door, the wind coming from the south had picked up enough to blow my not-so-tidy brown hair straight back. A few yards ahead of me, small waves ruffled the holding ponds. The tall fir and cedar trees’ branches swayed, sending a flock of noisy crows skyward. I’d gotten as far as just beyond the first pond when I saw Milo, Spence, Val, and Walt coming up the trail that led out of the forest. The sheriff had taken off his hat and Mr. Radio was smoothing his usually impeccably groomed hair.
“What now?” Milo called out. “Did the Bourgettes strike gold in our backyard?”
“I’m here on business, Sheriff,” I replied in my most formal voice. “Given that the other half of the local media is already on the spot, I sensed news.” I shot Spence a dark glance.
Milo and Val had come to where I was standing. Doe Jamison and Dwight Gould moved toward the wetlands, while Spence stopped at the edge of the nearest holding pond. The wind had died down a bit, dampening my hope that he’d be blown away to swim with the fishes.
“No news here,” the sheriff asserted. “Why don’t you and Fleetwood go eat lunch someplace? The ski lodge, maybe. It’s not that far away.”
I glanced again at Spence, who lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. I wondered if Milo was talking in some kind of code, but the hazel eyes looked stern.
“Why not?” I retorted. At least Mr. Radio might have a glimmer of what was going on. I motioned to him. “Shall we?”
Spence shrugged. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”
We both walked around the building to the parking lot. “You can’t know any less than I do,” I said when we were out of earshot. “And don’t you dare suggest that Dodge plays favorites when it comes to news. You just saw how it still works between us when he’s on the job.”
“Amazing,” Spence remarked in his mellifluous voice. “I fail to understand how he resists your obvious charms.”
“Ha! In all the years we’ve been together—off and on as it’s been until now—Milo has kept investigations to himself until he’s damned good and ready to go public. You know that.”
We’d reached our cars. “Admirable of him,” Spence allowed. “I’ll meet you in the bar.”
I led the way, turning off onto Tonga Road and crossing the small bridge over Burl Creek. The rest of the short drive was all uphill. Pulling into the parking lot, I noticed that the clouds had been blown away, so that I could see the top of the now moribund ski lifts.
Spence joined me just before I reached the entrance. His expression was quizzical. “You become the sheriff’s wife and he sends you off to rendezvous with another man? Is this what’s known as an open marriage or some ploy to get rid of us both?”
“The latter,” I replied as Spence opened the door. I looked up at his hawklike profile, which reminded me not so much of a buzzard as some other, less ugly bird of prey. “If you think I’m here to seduce you, guess again. You must know more about what’s happening at the hatchery than I do. You got there first.”
We walked through the lobby, with its high-beamed ceiling, and continued on into the bar. The lodge itself was an architectural homage to the Native American tribes of the region, but the restaurant and bar theme was pure Nordic. Odin and Frigg ruled there, along with other mythical figures out of Europe’s northern reaches.
The usual blond waitress—this one’s name tag identified her as Belinda—seated us at a corner table and wasted no time taking our drink orders.
“Where,” Spence mused after we were alone, “does Henry Bardeen find all these nubile blondes whose names begin with B? Or does he rechristen them after they’re hired?”
“I’ve wondered that about the ski lodge manager, too,” I admitted.
“Henry’s never struck me as a lecher,” Spence said, opening a pack of his imported black cigarettes. “Vida told me he was widowed some twenty years ago but never remarried. If he’s serious about finding a long-term woman, he might get rid of that all-too-obvious toupee.”
“The only woman in his peer group that I ever heard he was interested in is Francine Wells, but not long after that, Francine and her ex, Warren, got back together. Maybe Henry’s given up. He must be closer to seventy than sixty.” I shook my head, as Spence produced a small portable ashtray and lighted his cigarette. “Are you and the sheriff the only people allowed to smoke in an Alpine eatery?”
“Probably,” he conceded. “Rank has its privileges. Or maybe it’s sheer gall. Dodge won’t arrest himself, so he can’t in good conscience arrest me. How is life with our peerless law enforcement leader?”
“It’s fine,” I said. “How about you and Rosalie Reed?”
Spence put a finger to his lips. “Please. She’s still a grieving widow. It’s only been two months since her husband’s fatal heart attack. We must observe conventional discretion.”
I didn’t feel like needling Mr. Radio about his longtime liaison with RestHaven’s psychiatrist, so I let the subject drop. Our martinis—his of gin, mine of vodka—had arrived. “Okay,” I said, “unload about why you showed up at the hatchery and what you found out after you got there.”
Spence took a sip of his drink before answering. “Not much. I stopped by your favorite bear’s den to make sure I was caught up on the weekend’s miscreants. Being fiercely loyal to the print media, you may not know that Bree Kendall does an expanded fifteen-minute Monday wrap-up. Noticing that Dodge’s Yukon wasn’t parked outside, I asked where the sheriff might be. Lori informed me he’d gone to the hatchery to meet Gould and Jamison. That was two law officers too many for there not to be something newsworthy going on. When I pressed Lori for details, she didn’t have any—or maybe the belligerent Sam Heppner had stepped on her foot.”
“Gee,” I said, “it’s good to know that Sam doesn’t just pick on women when it comes to a lack of cooperation.”
“Heppner strikes me as a man who doesn’t like the human race in general.” Spence took a drag on his cigarette and another sip from his martini before continuing. “I don’t think I was there more than a few minutes ahead of your arrival. Walt Hanson told me Val Marsden and the law officers were somewhere just beyond the holding ponds. I found them about thirty yards into the forest, where the love of your life announced, ‘Nothing to see here. Beat it, Fleetwood.’ ” He gave me an ironic smile. “You can imagine my response. The comment reeked of news. Except there wasn’t any.”
“And?” I prodded, growing impatient.
“I managed to get an explanation out of the less abrasive Val Marsden. He informed me that a blood trail had been found by the wetlands. Alarmed, he’d called the sheriff’s office. Gould and Jamison showed up but couldn’t find any sign of a wounded animal, wild, domestic, or human. The blood trail grew fainter and fainter until it petered out by Burl Creek. Still puzzled, they checked back in with their boss, who decided to see for himself. Same result. Sheriff baffled. There’s your headline. I d
are you to use it.”
“Don’t kid a kidder,” I said. “I’d rather put an item in Vida’s ‘Scene’ about you and Rosalie groping each other in the psych ward.”
Spence looked as if the idea appealed to him. “Why not? It’s the perfect place to go crazy.”
Belinda returned to take our orders, though neither of us had looked at the menu. I asked for the Aegir seafood salad; Spence requested the Scallops a la Olav. With so few restaurants in Alpine, we both knew the offerings by heart.
“Well?” I said after Belinda had gone off again. “It’s mildly mysterious. What do you think really happened?”
Spence regarded me with feigned dismay. “You’re the one who indulges in solving mysteries. I’ll go with the wounded animal theory.”
I shrugged. “If the animal was looking for fish, we can rule out a seal or a shark. A bear’s most likely. What about paw prints?”
“Not much ground in that area to find prints, especially since it rained today. Obviously, whatever it was that bled was there before anyone came to work this morning. I assume Dodge will try to figure out how long the blood has been on the ground. If there weren’t so many trees around there, this morning’s drizzle might’ve washed the trail away by the time the hatchery workers came on the job. Of course, they’ll also determine whether the blood belonged to man or beast.”
I didn’t say anything for a few moments. “It does sound odd. I’ve never been that far down Burl Creek. What’s the terrain like where the blood disappeared?”
“More forest. The creek joins the Skykomish River just after the fork in the Tye and the Foss Rivers. Another fifty yards at most.”
Our entrées arrived. Several other patrons had now entered the almost empty bar, apparently needing a hit to get them through the rest of the workday. Among them were Trout and Skunk Nordby, owners of the local GM dealership. They had two men in business suits with them that I didn’t recognize, though Spence and I both nodded a greeting.
“Their companions look like bankers,” Spence murmured. “Do you think the Nordbys are suffering these days?”
“Doubtful,” I said. “Recession or not, this is a GM kind of town. But I do wonder if we’ll ever get a permanent president at the Bank of Alpine. Andy Cederberg holds the title, but the buzz is that it’s a temporary situation. It hasn’t been six months since the last disaster struck the Petersen family and both of the banking heirs announced over KSKY that they weren’t interested in following the family tradition.”
“Ah, yes, courtesy of ‘Vida’s Cupboard,’ ” Spence sighed. “Would that all your House & Home editor’s weekly programs were so full of drama as that one was. Not that she still can’t command the attention of SkyCo listeners with even the most mundane of topics, including last week’s interview with Harvey Adcock about how not to dismember yourself with the latest Weed Eater from his hardware store.”
Our conversation turned to other topics so we could avoid being overheard discussing touchier subjects. We adjourned just before one and went our separate ways. Spence and I were rivals in one sense and comrades-in-arms in another. We had seen each other through our own private nightmares, though that didn’t mean we were friends. But we had mutual respect as professionals. That meant a lot to both of us in a small town where smaller minds could denounce us for preying on the misfortune of others.
Back at the office, we all engaged in the usual process of our jobs. Mitch’s interview with Fuzzy Baugh meshed nicely with my editorial. Vida had her standard roundup of engagements, births, and a wedding between two people I’d never heard of who were older students at Skykomish Community College. They’d been married in Everett, but Vida gave them five inches of copy because they were making their home in Alpine until they graduated. Leo announced that he thought we’d meet the desirable sixty-forty split between advertising and news copy. Amanda had three and a half columns of classified ads so far. And most importantly, Kip assured me that nothing had gone wrong in the back shop—yet. I had to take his word for it. My expertise when it came to anything involving technology was virtually nonexistent.
It was after four-thirty when the sheriff called. I’d just finished conferring with Vida about which of the retirement home birthday party pictures was the least blurry. They’d been taken by one of the residents who suffered from a form of palsy.
“I’ve got something for you,” the sheriff said, though he didn’t sound enthused. “Dwight took off an hour early to make up for overtime he put in this weekend. He wanted to check the Sky where it comes in west of Blackwell’s mill. He’s getting antsy for trout season.” Milo paused, apparently to answer a question from someone about an accident report. I impatiently tapped my fingernails on the desk. “Okay, where was I?”
“Dwight being antsy. So am I. Dish, big guy.”
“He found a corpse. Is there anything else you want to know, or can I go help untangle three vehicles and their passengers from a wreck by the Deception Falls Bridge? The sports car involved took out the Milepost 55 sign.” He didn’t wait for an answer but banged down the phone just as I heard the first of the sirens heading for Highway 2.
THREE
I ALERTED MITCH IMMEDIATELY. “THE SHERIFF’S GONE OFF to deal with a wreck, so you may have to wait until he gets back,” I told my reporter. “There’s a chance, of course, that one of the deputies might have more information so we can post the bare facts online.”
“No ID on the body?” Mitch asked, putting on his raincoat.
“I was lucky to get what I got,” I replied. “Be thankful today isn’t our deadline.”
“What about the wreck? Worth a photo?”
My nose for news seemed dull. “You’re right. The stiff’s not going anywhere. Try to get a shot of the milepost sign that got knocked over.”
Mitch nodded, grabbed his camera, and left just as the last of the sirens faded out of hearing range. Vida, who had been on the phone, motioned for me to come over to her desk.
“Did I hear you say something about a dead body?” she asked, looking owlish behind her big silver-framed glasses.
“Yes,” I said, “near the fork where the Foss and Tye Rivers meet before they go into the Skykomish. It’s just this side of Alpine Falls.”
Amanda wobbled a bit as she entered the newsroom. “You mean down from the hatchery?”
I paused to mentally reconstruct Burl Creek’s path. “Yes, a quarter mile or more away. Have you talked to Walt in the last hour?”
She shook her head. “Not since early afternoon when Val got back from checking out everything with Dodge and the deputies. Everybody at the hatchery figured it was a bear, a cougar, or some other animal.”
“That still may be the case,” I said. “The sheriff didn’t mention that the body was wounded.”
“Very negligent of Milo,” Vida remarked with a sniff of disapproval. “The least he could do is let you know that much.”
I ignored the comment. “It’s going on five,” I said, heading to my office. “I’ll stick around until Mitch gets back. Everybody else might as well go home.” I paused at my ad manager’s desk. “Where’s Leo?”
“At the Grocery Basket,” Amanda replied. “Buzzy O’Toole overordered strawberries and raspberries from California. I guess the younger O’Toole brother has a little trouble with math, so Jake has to put them on special before they spoil. He called Leo a few minutes ago to ask for a change in the weekly ad.”
I nodded and kept going. Maybe I’d stop at the Grocery Basket to get some strawberries—if Jake had already marked them down. The store still had chicken breasts on sale. I had no idea if Tanya would be joining us. She was finally able to stay at Milo’s house most nights on her own—unless she had a panic attack. Then her father had to abandon me in case his daughter suffered one of her recurring nightmares.
It was almost five-thirty when Mitch returned to the office. “Three out-of-area vehicles, road conditions not that bad, just too much speed for that stretch of highway. One po
ssible fatality, four injured, three treated at the scene, and one downed milepost sign. Even I’ve been here long enough to respect the hazards of driving Highway 2.”
“Same old story,” I said as Mitch loaded his photos onto the computer. “People who aren’t from around this part of the state don’t know that starting outside Monroe on 522, it’s called the Highway to Heaven. Oh, you got some good stuff.” I gaped as the image of an overturned red sports car appeared on the screen. “Oh, my God! How did that thing land upside down?”
“Ask the driver—if he makes it. He’s the possible fatality. Erinel Dobles from Visalia, California. No seat belt. I guess he didn’t know it’s a law in this state. He almost landed in Deception Creek.”
“So what did you learn from the sheriff?”
Mitch looked faintly amused. “I don’t get it. You’re his wife and he doesn’t tell you anything?”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “As I’ve explained, nothing changed after Milo and I got married. You know that law enforcement and the media are often at odds. We have to maintain distance in our respective workplaces. He’s as tight-lipped about his operation when he’s at home as he is at headquarters.”
Mitch still looked faintly incredulous. “I have to admit I’ve never talked a lot about work with Brenda. But so much of what I covered in Detroit was borderline ugly, especially on the police beat. She didn’t want to hear it and I tried to leave it back at my desk.”
“How is she doing?” I asked, not wanting to bring up the delicate subject too often since Brenda’s late December breakdown.
“Better, I think,” Mitch replied, though he frowned. “She’s weaving again. That helps. Of course, I try to go home for lunch every day. It just … takes time. And Dr. Reed seems helpful.”