by Mary Daheim
“I can,” I said. “I’m a native. Not getting rain is bothersome.”
Leo grinned. “Tell me that when we haven’t had any in June.”
“I know,” I admitted. “June can be wetter than May some years. But they’re talking drought east of the mountains.”
“Maybe it’s all a plot to keep me in Alpine instead of going back to sunny Southern California,” he said as we passed the Skykomish Ranger Station. “I’ve never quite adjusted to those endless weeks of gray skies.”
“Stop reminding me that you’re going to retire in the not-so-distant future,” I retorted. “Take a few days for your birthday in May and go see your grandson. What’s his name? I forget.”
“Austin.” Leo made a face. “Liza and I weren’t pleased. All I can think of is Texas, and she bitches because she never heard of a Saint Austin. What kind of nickname do you give the kid? Aussie? Tinny?”
“Don’t ask me. I’ll never be a grandmother.”
“Yes, you will,” Leo said. “A step-grandmother, anyway. One of Milo’s kids is bound to produce some offspring.”
I nodded faintly. “His son, Bran, and his girlfriend are talking marriage, maybe in the fall.”
Traffic was fairly light as we wound our way along what was also known as the Stevens Pass Highway, with its glimpses of the green-colored Sky rippling and rushing westward. I missed the little waterfalls that usually trickled down the steep rocks on the northern side of the road. The snowpack at the higher elevations had already diminished.
Leo slowed to turn off for the bridge that led back over the Sky and into the little community that bore the river’s name. Like Alpine, Skykomish had its own Railroad Avenue. The town’s history was rooted in the building of the Great Northern Railway when one of the surveying engineers, John Maloney, homesteaded on the site in 1892. First called Maloney’s Landing, the original depot had been a boxcar on a siding. The town grew, but even as Carl Clemans’s mill produced the timber for the new Cascade tunnel, the die was cast not only for Alpine, but for Skykomish. The railroad had been Clemans’s major customer. When the tunnel was finished, he was forced to close his mill. Skykomish endured as a railroad town until 1956, when diesel engines replaced the old electric trains. The town’s usefulness was over. Only some two hundred people remained, determined to preserve the spot as a historic landmark.
One of those landmarks was the venerable Cascadia Hotel, with its café and lounge. The bar didn’t open during the week until after five, so Leo and I sat in the dining area. The menu was far more extensive than the Burger Barn’s—and more inventive than the Venison Inn’s. Leo chose the Maloney chicken sandwich, and I asked for the Great Northern hamburger dip.
“Why,” I said, after coffee was poured for us, “do I think you have a reason for coming here other than that it’s a nice change of pace?”
Leo’s leathery face crinkled with amused irony. “The Duchess—what else? As you’ve noticed, she’s off her feed again. Any idea why?”
“I assume it’s Roger,” I replied. “I’m not sure he’s volunteering at RestHaven anymore. I always thought he did that only to be within the proximity of the buxom Ainsley.”
“Maybe the romance is kaput,” Leo suggested. “What does Ainsley do there? I assume she’s not their consulting brain surgeon.”
“She’s an aide in the rehab wing, working for Jennifer Hood, the RN in charge of the unit.”
Leo frowned. “Weren’t there some rumors about Nurse Hood going around a while ago?”
I laughed. “Yes. Remember when Jack Blackwell kept reporting that someone was trying to kill him?” I saw Leo nod, and continued. “It turned out that Jennifer was Jack’s first wife, years ago in California. She’d never quite gotten over him, despite his inclination to beat up on the women in his life. According to Milo, Jack dropped the charges because he was embarrassed. For all I know, he’s still seeing Jennifer when Patti Marsh isn’t looking.”
“He’s a strange guy,” Leo said, but paused as our side salads arrived. “I haven’t dealt with him much over the years, because he runs a standing ad. When I have met with him, he’s all business. If we had two more county commissioners like him, we might not be stalled in SkyCo.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You haven’t read this week’s Advocate.”
“Ah! I plead guilty. Sorry. I’ve been too busy this morning seeking revenue to keep said Advocate in the black. I gather you have a plan.”
“Incredibly enough, it’s Mayor Baugh’s plan. Or his wife’s. But it’s a good one.”
Leo looked bemused. “I’ll check it out when we get back to the office. I take it there’s nothing in this plan that’d set Vida on her ear?”
“Not that I can think of. I’ll stick with Roger being the cause of her current mood. I’d ask her about him, but it’s hard to do without showing my disgust.”
Our entrées were delivered. “Let me tackle that one,” Leo said. “I assume she’s still pissed at Milo, Rosie Bourgette, and Judge Diane.”
“She is. Maybe,” I suggested, “Dippy, as he’s called, is two and he’s probably a handful for Amy and Ted, who’ve both reached middle age. They celebrated the kid’s birthday this week. It should come as no surprise that I don’t think Roger takes fatherhood seriously.”
Leo snorted. “Did that kid ever take anything seriously except drinking, eating, and doing drugs?”
“He did seem interested in acting at one point, but that requires effort and study and focus. None of those things suit Roger very well.”
Leo looked unusually solemn. “Here’s how I see it in the office. Mitch is up and down with his wife’s breakdown and a son in prison. Amanda will be around for another couple of months before she has the baby. With Vida often being a prima donna, the newsroom is not always a pleasant place. You know that, if only from when she makes some crack about the sheriff. Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate what you’ve done to get me out of my drunken stupor. Working on the Advocate has been good. But the ups and downs of the past few months are turning me sour. Santa Maria’s looking better and better all the time.”
I set down the French fry I’d been about to put in my mouth. “Oh, Leo, I hate to hear that!”
He shrugged. “I have to be honest with you. I’d like to stay on for another year or so. Frankly, I’m still not sure if Liza wants me back on a permanent basis. But if she does …” He raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “I may be gone when I turn sixty-two in May.”
We lived in an era where newspapers were an endangered species, just like the loggers and the spotted owls. The food at the Cascadia was very good, but my appetite was ruined. Worse yet, Leo’s defection could ruin the Advocate.
EIGHT
MY AD MANAGER APOLOGIZED PROFUSELY FOR UPSETTING me. I tried to put on a blasé face. He knew me better, though. Of course, I couldn’t blame him for wanting to reunite with his family. But after the disaster that had been Ed Bronsky, Leo had single-handedly turned the newspaper from borderline red into solid black.
“Damn,” Leo said, shaking his head and gazing at a hand-painted wooden train on the nearest wall. “I swear I didn’t intend to dump all that on you now. I only wanted to find out what was up with Vida.”
I nodded faintly. “What’s up with Vida is often what’s up with the Advocate. I’m the editor and publisher, but most people think she’s in charge, just as she exerts her influence on the town itself. She not only loves Alpine, but considers it her fiefdom.” I managed a small smile. “She reminds me of the Dame of Sark, who ruled over the small island in the English Channel. Even when the Germans occupied it, they were forced to respect her. As I recall, she also wore some amazing hats.”
“Good thing we Californians who’ve invaded Alpine keep a fairly low profile,” Leo said.
Our conversation turned to less depressing subjects. I managed to eat a bit more food, though I still felt glum. I didn’t like contemplating life without Leo.
Back at work, I had a mes
sage from Edna Mae Dalrymple, the town’s head librarian. Maybe she’d already seen the Advocate and was calling to cheer or jeer. But the first words out of her mouth pertained instead to our bridge club.
“Emma, dear,” she chirped in her birdlike voice, “we are muddled about which night we play, even if it’s only twice a month. It’s very confusing since we switched dates the first of the year. Anyway, it is this evening at my house. But we forgot that Charlene Vickers and Darlene Adcock have other commitments. Can you play?”
During January, when the night was switched to a Tuesday, I’d bowed out, and not just because it was our deadline. Certain members weren’t numbered among my fans. After what Milo and I had gone through in late December, I didn’t feel like putting up with their intrusive and often snarky comments. I’d played bridge once in February, substituting for one of my detractors, high school gym teacher Linda Grant. In March, the members had become so mixed up that they’d met only once—on another Tuesday. Again I’d begged off. They’d switched to Thursday in early April, but the hostess, Mary Jane Bourgette, had called at the last minute to say their dishwasher had flooded the kitchen. When no one leaped into the breach, the get-together was canceled. As I was trying to think of a viable excuse, I saw Fuzzy Baugh in the doorway. I told Edna Mae I’d play. I’d have to wait until the mayor left to kick myself.
“Emma, darlin’.” Fuzzy greeted me in his Bayou baritone as he gingerly sat down in a visitor chair. “Your editorial has stirred my very soul. I had to come in person to congratulate you.”
“It was your idea,” I said. “All I did was run with it. Have you heard from any of the county commissioners?”
“Not yet,” Fuzzy replied. “Due to the consideration of your predecessor, the venerable Marius Vandeventer, I am always the first to get a copy of the Advocate.”
Somewhere along the way I’d forgotten about that courtesy. The mayor was mainly a figurehead, while the commissioners ruled supreme. “You might not like what you hear from Engebretsen, Hollenberg, and Blackwell,” I warned him.
He ran a hand through his thinning dyed red hair and chuckled. “I’m a product of Louisiana politics. I remain unafraid. How can they protest too much when I’m eliminating myself?” He chuckled some more.
“I’m prepared for some flak,” I said. “Not just from the commissioners, but readers, too. You know how people around here dislike change, even if in this case it’s intended to save them money.”
“Ah,” Fuzzy responded, with a sly look, “that’s where we have them by the short hairs. In the long run, they’ll come ’round. If not, I shall request a bond issue and perhaps a levy or two just to show them the alternatives. I’m anxious to hear what your stalwart husband will have to say about all this.”
Fuzzy didn’t know that I’d broken my word to him and blurted out the whole plan to Milo only hours after the mayor had confided in me. “He’ll back you,” I replied. “The sheriff knows what’s best for SkyCo.”
“I’m grateful for his support,” Fuzzy declared, taking his time to rise from the chair. At eighty, or close to it, he moved as slowly as a southern breeze. “The only fierce opposition I expect would be from Blackwell. But I must take the liberty of saying I would have the redoubtable sheriff on my side. I’m from Louisiana, but I don’t want to end up like Huey Long. I was only a lad when he was gunned down at the capitol in Baton Rouge, but I remember it well.”
“I don’t think Jack would shoot you,” I said, getting up to walk the mayor out through the newsroom. “I’d worry more about him wanting to become the county manager. He does have business experience.”
For a split second, Fuzzy’s faded blue eyes seemed to snap. “He wouldn’t. He may operate a fine mill, but that’s very different from running a government. If my aging memory serves, your valiant mate gave him a sound whopping in his futile attempt to become sheriff when that position was an elected office.”
“True.” I glanced at Vida, who was on the phone, but her posture indicated that she wanted to hang up and pounce on the mayor. “Let me know what you hear from the voters.”
Fuzzy assured me he would, paused to make a courtly bow to Vida, and went on his way. It was another five minutes before she tromped into my office to interrogate me about the mayor’s visit.
“Hey,” I said, “don’t tell me you haven’t read Mitch’s front-page article or my editorial.”
She looked somewhat taken aback. “I saw the headline indicating Fuzzy had done something, but knowing him, I assumed it was self-serving. It often is.”
“Not this time. In fact,” I went on, hoping to placate Vida for whatever fault she was mentally accusing me of now, “you can be a huge help making Fuzzy’s plan work. I assume you’re still at the top of the Presbyterians’ telephone tree?”
“Well, of course! You’d think I’d abdicate that responsibility?”
“No,” I said with a straight face. “Someone has to spread the news down the line, and you are a journalist.”
“Well now. I must learn what this is all about.” I could almost hear a blare of trumpets as Vida marched off to her desk.
My phone rang a few minutes later. “Do I want you or Mitch?” the sheriff asked in a beleaguered voice.
“Gosh,” I said in a mock-injured tone, “I never thought you cared that much for my reporter. I’m jealous.”
“Cut the crap,” Milo barked. “I mean in terms of handling the ID on the body. It’s tricky.”
“You have an ID?”
“Yeah, in a way. Maybe you better get your cute little butt down here. I’ll let you figure out how to do this in the paper. You are the boss.”
“Don’t say that in front of Vida,” I said in almost a whisper. “Okay, I’ll be there ASAP.”
I walked casually through the newsroom, not wanting Vida to pick up even a faint scent of urgency. Nevertheless, when I turned to exit through the front office, I could feel her eyes boring into my back like laser beams. Once I hit the sidewalk, I moved faster. By the time I reached the sheriff’s headquarters, I was out of breath.
A frazzled-looking Lori gestured at Milo’s closed door. “Enter at your peril. He probably won’t try to take your head off.”
“If he did, the cook would quit.” I went through the swinging gate and didn’t bother to knock. Milo was on the phone, acknowledging my arrival with a raised hand. I closed the door and sat down.
“No,” he said, “I don’t need to mix it up with the Feds. That’s your call, not mine.” He grew silent, listening to whoever was at the other end of the line. “Okay. If that’s the way it is, you handle it.” He started to slam down the receiver, thought better of it, and carefully set it in the cradle. “Freaking red tape,” he muttered, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “You want one?”
“No thanks. I’ll just watch smoke come out of your nose, mouth, and ears.”
“Fire and brimstone should be more like it,” Milo muttered. “Okay.” He leaned back in his chair. “The deceased may or may not be José Carlos Fernandez of Wapato. He may, in fact, be an undercover agent for the Feds or he may be a crook. You and I are both in a bind.”
“You mean,” I said after absorbing Milo’s revelation, “that the Yakima sheriff’s office doesn’t know? Or that they won’t tell?”
“I don’t think they know.” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and fingered his long chin. “Yakima’s a hell of a lot bigger county than SkyCo, but when it comes to a federal issue, a local sheriff doesn’t have much clout in D.C.”
“I guess not.” I paused, trying to wrap my head around the situation. “No word yet from the SnoCo ME?”
“No. I’ll call later this afternoon if I haven’t heard by then.”
“Can I use the victim’s alleged name online?”
Milo shrugged. “Why not? It’s what’s on his driver’s license. I’ll have to release it to Fleetwood, but without filling in the background. Same with Laskey. I’m only telling you because …” He grimaced.
“Damnit, I guess I had to tell somebody. Why not my wife? You’ve liked calling me ‘baffled’ over the years. Now I am. So’s Yakima.”
I smiled. “I’ve never called you ‘baffled’ in print. But you know we can’t use it in the paper anyway. Does your Yakima contact believe the license may be phony?”
“We’re not supposed to know that.”
“Have you found a vehicle?”
Milo shook his head. “The only thing I know is that he didn’t walk here from Wapato. If he was ever there in the first place.” He took a last drag on his cigarette.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why does your vis-à-vis in Yakima think Fernandez could be a crook? I mean, why would anyone think he was a crook just because he isn’t some kind of federal agent?”
“I asked that question,” Milo replied. “It appears there is an agent by that name, but he’s not supposed to be anywhere near this state. He operates out of Southern California. If he’s undercover, I suspect they can’t find him. That’s not unusual. Those types go deep into their roles.”
“So we can ID him?”
“Sure.” Milo stood up and stretched. “It might bring somebody out of the woodwork. I doubt it, but it can’t do any harm.”
I got to my feet, too. “By the way, I’m playing bridge tonight.”
The sheriff didn’t look pleased. “How come? I thought you decided to bail from that bunch.”
“I resigned from Marisa Foxx’s poker group. I can’t afford playing with her fellow well-heeled attorneys. Besides, some of the games are too far out of town. Edna Mae Dalrymple caught me in a weak moment.”
“Would she yank your library card if you turned her down?”
I laughed. “No. Why don’t you round up a poker game with your own crew? You’ve only played once in the last few months.”
“I know. I’ve been too damned busy and Doc Dewey is as overworked as I am. Gerry and I are usually the ones who get the rest of them together.” He looked a bit chagrined. “Maybe I’ll give him a call. Now go away before I start messing with your face.”