by Mary Daheim
I was taken aback. “You never told me that.”
“You never asked. Besides, Blatt—or was it Fong?” He shrugged. “That came to light while I was away from headquarters, working on my house.” Milo checked his watch. “Damn. It’s going on seven. I’d better go hold down the fort.” He took one last bite of his dinner and stood up. “No dessert for me tonight. Of any kind,” he added ruefully, leaning down to kiss the top of my head. “Good luck with the bridge bunch.”
I started clearing the table. Strange, I thought, how I’d lived alone for so many years and had never minded it. Of course, I’d missed Adam when he went off to college in Hawaii, but he’d only spent a short time with me in my little log cabin after the move from Portland. Now that Milo and I’d been living together—at least off and on, except when he had to stay with Tanya at his house—my home seemed empty without him.
Luckily, there wasn’t much time to dwell on such things. I had to be at Edna Mae Dalrymple’s house by seven-thirty. She lived less than two blocks away, so I didn’t need to drive. As I left my ever-expanding log cabin, I could see the sun sliding down behind Tonga Ridge. The last of the clouds had lifted by the time I’d gotten home, but I’d been too distracted by the Bourgettes to notice. I could smell new-mown grass after I crossed Fir Street. Maybe Edna Mae had spruced up the lawn for her guests.
My hostess greeted me in her usual twittering, friendly manner. “How nice! I was so glad you agreed to fill in for our absentees. Almost everybody is here except Janet Driggers. Do sit and have some wine.”
I exchanged greetings with Mary Jane Bourgette, Dixie Ridley, Linda Grant, and the Dithers sisters, Judy and Connie. I was always a bit surprised that they played cards or did anything that didn’t involve their beloved horses. Maybe at home they honed their bridge skills by having a couple of their mares sit in. I suppose it wouldn’t matter if they had two dummies instead of only one.
I’d just accepted a glass of Riesling that I’d nurse for most of the evening when Janet staggered through the door. “Holy crap!” she gasped. “Wouldn’t you know Al would get horny just as I was changing clothes to come here? When he said he wasn’t getting any lately, I thought he meant dead people at the mortuary. Quick, Edna Mae, hand me a bottle of that stuff you’re pouring.”
Given that we were all accustomed to Janet’s big, bad, bawdy mouth, nobody seemed shocked. Whether or not she was telling the truth about her husband was another matter. Al Driggers looked as if his own veins might be filled with formaldehyde. But if nothing else, nobody could call Janet dull.
She zeroed in on me. “Your big stud’s got a stiff—as in corpse, that is—stashed someplace, but I hear he’s not local. Any way you can coax him into making the dead guy an honorary SkyCo citizen so we can do the funeral? Better yet, can I borrow Dodge for an hour so I can try to have my way with him?”
“The sheriff,” I said calmly, “is on duty tonight. You’re out of luck, Janet. He’s a one-woman kind of guy.”
“You mean one at a time,” she shot back. “Hey, I don’t want to marry him, I just would like to …” She broke off as Edna Mae handed her a glass of wine and announced that we should sit at the card tables in order to draw for partners.
“Partners?” Janet echoed. “I already …”
I kicked her. Not very hard, but at least she shut up. I drew Connie Dithers as my partner, facing off with Linda Grant and Edna Mae. We cut the cards to see who’d deal. Our hostess got the ace of hearts, causing her to flutter a bit.
“I shouldn’t be first,” she declared. “It doesn’t seem right when you’re my guests.”
Linda smirked, her cool blue eyes veering in my direction. “Emma should’ve gotten the ace of hearts. She’s the new bride. By the way, congratulations to you and the sheriff. We were all so surprised.”
I recalled that before I arrived in Alpine, Linda had made a play for Milo after losing Jake Sellers to Tricia Dodge. Apparently, Linda and Tricia had similar tastes in men. I’d never asked my husband about what had gone on with Linda. That had been then, and this was now.
“Thanks, Linda,” I said. “It was a surprise to me, too.”
Linda’s angular face evinced puzzlement. “You mean you were reluctant after all these years?”
“No,” I replied calmly. “We’d been engaged for almost two months. I merely didn’t expect it to happen at the end of the lunch hour, but it was better than waiting for Tuesday. That’s deadline for the Advocate. I tend to get distracted, especially if we have breaking …”
“Oh, no!” Edna Mae squealed. “I’m short two cards. These decks are new, and I … well, perhaps they may stick together.”
“Hu-u-u-nh,” Connie remarked in what sounded like a whinny. “I had opening points. Shoot.”
If Linda had looked puzzled before, she now seemed downright mystified. “That doesn’t sound very romantic,” she said.
“It was the best we could do,” I responded, moving my feet while Edna Mae got under the table to see if she’d dropped the missing cards. “We had to have Judge Proxmire marry us before traffic court started.”
Linda looked askance. Edna Mae had scrambled back into her chair and was dealing from the unused deck. For the next few hands we all settled into full-fledged bridge mode. It probably helped that everybody but me seemed to be on their second or even third glass of wine. While we were waiting for the other table to finish, I asked Linda if she knew the girls who had originally been reported as runaways.
“Of course,” the high school PE teacher replied, with only a trace of asperity. “I had them in class. Why do you ask?”
“Background for the paper,” I replied. “Tanya Dodge knows the Johnson girl’s older sister, Deanna.”
“Isn’t it up to your husband to find out that sort of thing?” Linda didn’t exactly sneer, but she came close.
“The last time I looked, Milo wasn’t on my payroll,” I said pleasantly. “As you may recall, my reporter, Mitch Laskey, and I did a series on child abuse last February. Vida Runkel also featured the subject on her radio show about that same time. The media has to keep on top of social issues. And that includes runaways.”
Linda tossed her head, making her blond page-boy hair swing. “I already told Deputy Jamison everything I know about those girls. Surely she or the sheriff shared that information with you.”
For some reason, I loathe the word “share” when used in certain contexts. “So,” I said, politely, “you agree that the Johnson girl’s boyfriend is a speed freak?”
Linda bristled. “I’ve no idea. I never saw her boyfriend. I don’t believe he was a local.”
“Rick was attending the college,” I noted—and feigned confusion. “His last name was … oh, drat, I can’t remember.”
“Morris,” Linda said, looking as pleased as if she’d trumped my trick. “I remember it only because that was my mother’s maiden name. No relation, of course,” she added hastily.
“Of course,” I said as the players at the other table stood up and announced that we should shift places.
I was relieved to have Mary Jane Bourgette as my partner, with Janet and Dixie as our opponents. Naturally, Mary Jane’s first question was if Milo and I were pleased with the work her husband and sons were doing. I told her we were. It wasn’t her fault—or her family’s—that so much noise was involved.
But Mary Jane’s pretty face turned puckish. “You haven’t run out of earplugs yet?”
I laughed. “Not quite. But we know it can’t be helped.”
“You could’ve gone to Milo’s house for the duration,” she said.
“We might do that when they start on the bedroom,” I replied. “I’d rather not. My husband’s a poor housekeeper.”
“Hell,” Janet said, dealing the cards, “if I were you, I wouldn’t care if I had to sleep on the frigging floor.” She narrowed her emerald eyes at me. “That’s assuming you two ever sleep once you hit the sheets.”
“Janet,” I said firmly, �
��if you make one more crack like that, I’m going to have to hit you.”
“Damn, Emma,” Janet murmured, assuming a mock-sulky expression, “I thought you’d enjoy a little teasing after playing the first round with the grim and green-with-envy Linda Grunt.”
Dixie sat up very straight and glared at her partner. “Don’t talk that way about a member of our high school faculty. You have no idea how hard teachers work. Every year gets more stressful dealing with students. So many of these poor kids are almost illiterate.”
Janet fluttered her eyelashes. “That’s odd. Not long ago I heard they were reading porn at the high school. Sure, most of it was pictures, which made it easier for your husband’s athletes. Wasn’t a lot of it found in his basketball players’ lockers?” Janet ignored Dixie’s outraged expression and kept on talking. “What the hell. I’m bidding three hearts.”
That took Dixie’s breath away. In fact, I thought she’d pass out when Mary Lou doubled. I felt like I might have a stroke, holding only a lone jack of clubs and even distribution. Janet ended up going set by two tricks. I wondered if she’d done it on purpose to annoy her partner.
While Mary Jane dealt the next hand, I asked the coach’s wife why she felt literacy was a growing problem in Alpine. Dixie’s answer was predictable: fewer parents who read books, lack of encouraging their children to read, a decline in literacy across the country. She reminded me—as if I needed to be told—that high school librarian, Effie Trews, had addressed the problem on “Vida’s Cupboard” back in February.
“I wonder,” I said, “if the rise in divorce stats and dysfunctional families has contributed to the situation. For example, we haven’t had two runaway girls within such a short time since I moved here.”
Dixie, who had spent much of her married life trying to shed the Miss Pasco image that had attracted her football player husband, looked genuinely thoughtful. “The family unit isn’t what it used to be,” she conceded. “I don’t know the Ellisons very well because they’re newcomers. Maybe Samantha—that is her first name, isn’t it?” She saw me nod. “Maybe she didn’t want to move. This was her senior year. I can only guess that she wanted to finish school with her former classmates. That’s a big thing for a girl her age. It’s possible she simply rebelled. Anyway, she contacted her family to say she was all right, so I suppose they have to take her word for it.”
“That makes sense,” I agreed, but I couldn’t ask anything else because Mary Jane had finished dealing.
The rest of the evening moved along without much conversation except for the usual griping over poor cards, lashing out at opponents, and outraged exchanges between partners. In other words, there was enough drama to fill the time before the party broke up at ten-thirty. I seemed to be the only one who was sober enough to drive, but I was also the only one who could walk home—unless I counted Edna Mae, who wasn’t exactly sure where she was when we left.
As soon as I took off my jacket, I went into the kitchen to set up the morning coffee while I called Vida. “I hope you learned more from your phone chat with the Ellisons than I did at bridge club,” I told her as I ran water into the coffee-maker.
“You people spend too much time playing cards instead of talking,” she said. “That’s why I’ve never cared for that sort of thing. It’s too distracting. However, Janice Ellison—who did get on as a nurse at the hospital—was reasonably helpful, if vague. She didn’t seem overly concerned about her daughter, saying Samantha’s always been willful. Contrary to what you may have heard, her mother didn’t think the young couple had broken up. A mere tiff, perhaps. Indeed, she thinks they probably ran off together. His name is Cam Frazier. I’ve never heard of him,” she stated in a tone that suggested he probably didn’t exist.
“Nobody else has, either,” I said, though I didn’t want to quote Milo for fear of Vida scoffing at the mere mention of my husband’s name. “Have they met Cam?”
“Once or twice,” Vida replied. “They thought he had very nice manners. He usually picked up Samantha at the high school. She turns eighteen next month, the legal age of consent to marry. That doesn’t faze her mother, who told me, and I quote, ‘If it’s true love, age isn’t important.’ I wanted to gag at that comment, but I refrained.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said as Vida paused for breath. “I wonder if the Ellisons married young.”
“Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “Mrs. Ellison has a rather youthful voice, though you can’t always tell over the phone. The third child is only nine, and is named for his father. I suspect Mrs. Ellison is the romantic type. Frankly, I was put off by her rose-colored view of Samantha’s defection.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Do the Ellisons have any idea where Samantha and Cam may have gone?”
“No,” Vida replied, “though if she had to guess—guess, mind you—it would be back to where the family came from—Chehalis.”
“Chehalis,” I repeated softly and felt a tingling along my spine. Then I realized it wasn’t due to the mention of the town midway between Seattle and Portland, but was caused by the doorbell chiming. It was late for a visitor. I wondered if I’d left something behind at Edna Mae’s, though I couldn’t think what it might be, unless it was my wallet. I’d taken it out to pay my penalty money for going set three times during the evening.
“Got to go,” I said to Vida. “Somebody’s at the door.”
“Who?” Vida demanded, apparently assuming I’d acquired X-ray vision. Why not? I almost believed she had eyes in the back of her head.
“I don’t know,” I replied, heading for the front door.
“Let Milo answer it,” she said. “Oh, I must hang up. Cupcake is carrying on in his cage. Maybe his cover fell off. Canaries can be so capricious. Good night.” She hung up just as I got to the door.
I peered through the peephole, but over the years the little glass had become murky. All I could see was a blurry form. When I opened the door, I didn’t recognize the stocky, dark-haired man on my porch.
“Mrs. Lord?” he said.
“Yes?” I responded, holding the phone more tightly.
He grinned, revealing crooked teeth. “You want to party?”
“I already did that,” I replied, using my free hand to close the door.
But he stopped me by putting his booted foot down to keep the door open. “That’s too bad. We’re gonna party all night over at Laverne Nelson’s place. Hell, why not? All that fucking noise you make during the day gets us in a party mood. You oughta come over. You won’t be able to sleep.” He laughed in a wheezy sort of way. I could smell liquor on his breath. “We got fireworks, too.”
Apparently Dwight Gould hadn’t made any impression on the Nelson gang. My first reaction was to tell him I’d call the sheriff, but I was afraid he’d grab the phone. “Go ahead,” I said, trying to calm my nerves. “It’s a free country.”
I tried to close the door, but the jerk wasn’t budging. “Aw, shit,” he said, “you should come along. You might be kinda fun to party with.” He lurched over the threshold and almost knocked me down. “Well? You wanna party with us or party with me here first?”
“Ohhh …” We were only a couple of feet from the open door. I hoped he couldn’t see the fear in my eyes. “Should I bring some booze?”
The query seemed to surprise him. “Hell, why not? You’re a good sport,” he said after kicking the door closed and walking behind me to the kitchen. “Whatcha got besides a cute little ass?”
I’d left the kitchen light on. “See for yourself,” I said. “Top cupboard to your left.”
As he turned his back, I frantically dialed 911, wondering how close Milo’s patrol deputy was from my now not-so-cozy log cabin. Mr. Party Dude took out a new bottle of Scotch, a half-empty fifth of Canadian Club, a pint of vodka, and the leftover Christmas holiday rum. “Good stuff,” he murmured as I heard the faint voice of 911 operator Evan Singer on the phone.
I didn’t dare respond to Evan. “Let me get my jacket,” I
said.
“Oh, no,” my unwanted visitor declared. “You might take off. We’re only going to Laverne’s. We’ll go this way.” He nodded at the kitchen door.
I shrugged, aware that I could no longer hear Evan. “Okay, but give me the Scotch and the C.C. Go ahead, I’ll lock the door behind us.”
He complied, but his dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You pulling a fast one?”
“Do I look like it? I’m loaded down. Let me turn on the carport light.” I set the bottles on the counter as I reached for the switch plate by the sink.
“I’m not taking my eyes off of you,” he warned.
“Fine,” I said. “Just do it.”
He did—just as I turned off the kitchen light and plunged the area into darkness. Never was a sound so miraculous as that of the heavy thud on the concrete carport floor and the obscenities that erupted from the jerk’s foul mouth. I slammed the door shut and ran to lock up the front. Catching my breath, I leaned against the wall and redialed 911.
“Emma!” Evan Singer exclaimed. “What’s going on? Dodge is on his way. Can you hear the siren?”
“I …” My voice seemed to have been sucked dry by momentary relief. “Yes, I can now,” I finally said. “I had a guy force his way into the house and …” I staggered to the picture window, pushing aside the drapes I’d closed before leaving. “Milo’s here. Thank God. I’ll hang up.”
The sheriff had pulled into the driveway. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him bellow. Apparently, Mr. Party Dude had managed to get to his feet after falling down the stairs that were no longer there. Milo’s voice had grown faint. Maybe he was chasing the would-be perp. Still afraid to open either door, I stood frozen in place until I saw a cruiser pull in behind the Yukon. Dustin Fong got out and immediately headed in the direction of the Nelson house.
The effort to stay calm had taken its toll. Suddenly weak in the knees with a delayed reaction, I managed to stumble to the sofa and collapse. Only then did I realize I was holding the Canadian Club. If I hadn’t been shaking so hard, I’d have tried to open it and slug down enough to quiet my nerves. But I didn’t have the strength to do even that. Instead, I stayed in a half-sitting position until what seemed like forever, but was probably not more than five minutes before Milo came through the front door.