by Mary Daheim
I hurtled out of bed, rushing through the hall, the living room, and into the kitchen. Milo was drinking coffee and taking a last bite of toast.
“What’s going on?” I shrieked. “I never heard the alarm go off!”
“I didn’t set it. I’m not going to work until ten.” He leaned back in the chair and stretched. “How do you feel? Besides pissed off, that is.”
“I’m late for work,” I shot back. “I haven’t ever been this late to the office. Why didn’t you get me up?”
“Calm down. I called MacDuff and told him you wouldn’t be in until ten. If you hadn’t been worn out, you wouldn’t have slept this late. Go pull yourself together and relax.” He calmly lighted a cigarette and picked up The Seattle Times.
I didn’t have much choice. Twenty minutes later, I’d showered, dressed, and made myself presentable despite the hammering that seemed to be coming through the bathroom wall. Now that I was almost fully awake, I realized I felt refreshed. Having lived together for less than three months and been married for only two, I still wasn’t used to having someone looking after me. Not that Milo hadn’t tried over the years, but between my fierce streak of independence and my refusal to realize that I needed him as much as he needed me, I’d often balked at his good intentions. Arriving in the kitchen, the first thing I did was to lean down, put my hands on his shoulders, and kiss his forehead.
“Thanks,” I said.
I felt him shrug. “You were one little beat-up kitten last night. Luckily, you only walked into the bedroom wall once.”
“I vaguely remember that,” I said, pouring a cup of coffee. Oddly enough, I didn’t feel hungry. Maybe I was still full from all the bridge mix Edna Mae had served. “Speaking of walls, what’s happening to the ones on the east side of the house?” I asked as I sat down.
Milo put the paper aside. “Hey,” he said, grinning, “you can talk when you first get up. You usually cuss and make weird noises.”
“You’re not any better,” I retorted. “Maybe both of us don’t sleep enough during the workweek.”
“Could be.” He looked thoughtful. “Oh—the Bourgettes are starting on that side of the house because you haven’t picked out the new appliances. No rush, but it’ll mean the bedrooms’ wall will have to come down next week. They can do some of the framing first because they want to have all the plumbing done at the same time. Cheaper that way. Want to go on a honeymoon?”
I was taken aback. “I … I suppose I could take some time off. But you’ve got a homicide investigation. That means I’ve got a big story. Could we wait to see how everything unfolds before making plans?”
“I wasn’t thinking of going to Europe,” Milo said. “Maybe up to Vancouver. It’ll only take the Bourgettes two, three days to enclose that part of the house. Think about it. We don’t have to decide right now. You always take forever to make up your mind.”
“Where did you go the first time?”
“A dude ranch in southern Oregon.” Milo chuckled. “It was Mulehide’s idea. She was nuts about horses. Luckily, I knew how to ride, but neither of us had done much of it in a long time. Let’s say it wasn’t the most comfortable honeymoon we could’ve had.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh, Milo! I’ve only ridden a horse two or three times in my life, and I was utterly miserable afterward.”
“Tell me about it,” he said. “Remember how Fuzzy Baugh got a notion to have a sheriff’s posse ride in the old Loggerama parade and later in the Summer Solstice shindigs? The first time I did that, I ached for three days. Ever since, I take time out to ride one of the Overholt or Dithers horses, just in case Fuzzy has another crazy idea.”
“That reminds me—I should be getting letters today about the mayor’s proposal. You never told me what you thought about how Mitch and I handled it in yesterday’s edition.”
Milo made a face. “I didn’t have time, but you’d already told me what you’d write. I’ll remember to act surprised when I see Fuzzy.”
“He plans to call you and the county commissioners together in the next day or so,” I said.
“Damn. I’ll have to sit down with those two old coots, Engebretsen and Hollenberg. That I can handle, but it also means I’ll have to be almost civil to that asshole Jack Blackwell. He’s not going to like Fuzzy’s plan.”
“You can do it,” I said. “It may take some time, but I really believe the voters will come around to the idea as long as they can be convinced it’ll save them money.”
“Guess I’d better read what you and Laskey wrote,” Milo said a bit sheepishly. “Are you going to eat something, or should we saddle up, to borrow a phrase from my ill-fated honeymoon days?”
“I’ll grab whatever pastries are at the office,” I replied. “Unless Ed Bronsky’s shown up, there should be some left. By the way, did you clean up the mess my intruder made out in the carport?”
Milo shook his head. “The Bourgettes did that. They thought we must’ve had one hell of a party here last night.”
“Some party,” I muttered, getting up to unplug the coffee-maker. “Let’s ride, cowboy.”
“You might as well ride with me,” Milo said. “No point taking two cars. I’m not putting in more overtime, even if a bomb goes off at the courthouse.” He put his arms around me. “Hey, we’ve never made love in the morning. Want to try that?”
I looked up at him. “With the Bourgettes playing the Anvil Chorus outside of the bedroom? No thanks, big guy. We have to earn a living.”
Milo kissed the top of my head and let me go. “What the hell. It was worth a shot.”
I smiled at him. “By the way, I like being married.”
He smiled back. “So do I. It’s a lot better the second time around. And somehow I can’t picture you riding a horse.”
Amanda’s greeting was friendly, as usual. Kip was in the back shop, and both Leo and Mitch were out on their rounds. Vida, however, looked fit to spit when I entered the newsroom.
“Well? What on earth happened to make you so late?”
Just to remind her that I was the boss, I ignored the question. My priority was getting a cinnamon roll and a mug of coffee before I sat down in her visitor chair.
“Has Mitch checked the sheriff’s log yet?” I asked.
“Probably,” Vida replied, tight-faced. “He was going to interview Fuzzy about reaction to his proposal regarding our government. Well?”
I felt smug, knowing that Vida wouldn’t have been able to coax even a small scrap of information out of Bill Blatt because he’d been on all-night patrol. “I had an intruder,” I said matter-of-factly. “I had to call 911. You should have stayed on the phone with me instead of tending to Cupcake.”
“What?” Vida squawked, sounding like a much larger bird than any canary. “Where was Milo? Out drinking beer with Doc Dewey?”
“My husband was on duty. They’re shorthanded with Sam Heppner taking a few days off. Surely Bill must’ve told you that.”
Vida looked briefly flummoxed. “He did not. I don’t insist on Billy telling me every whim of the other deputies. I only inquire about more pressing matters, given that his superior is so tight-lipped about the public’s need to know.”
I shrugged and stood up. “You’ll see all about it when Mitch gets back with the log. I have work to do.” I stalked off to my office.
And immediately felt ashamed of myself, though I wasn’t sure why. I was fed up with Vida’s negative attitude about Milo. She’d put our long-standing and close friendship to the test. Did she really expect me to choose between her and my husband? There was no one I could ask about changing her mind. Her three daughters were cowed by their mother, and Buck Bardeen had previously shown that he didn’t dare risk offending her. As long as she would never admit that Roger was a worthless jerk, I was sunk. And so was our friendship.
Over the long years of being a single mother while working in Portland on The Oregonian and later when I’d unexpectedly inherited enough money to buy the Advocate and a u
sed Jaguar, I’d had little time to make close friendships or long-term romances. The only real friend I’d had in Oregon was one of my co-workers, Mavis Marley Fulkerston. Ironically, her reaction was negative when she found out Milo and I were engaged. But she only knew of the sheriff from the befuddled state of mind I’d been in when I’d broken up with him a decade ago. I’d finally managed to set her straight. Vida was a different matter. Thus, I did what I’ve always done when faced with personal problems. I threw myself into my work. It was my armor against an often hostile world.
And there was plenty to do this Thursday morning, in the wake of Fuzzy’s bombshell. The mail had arrived, with over two dozen letters. Phone messages totaled another fifteen, with at least as many emails. It’d take much of the day to respond. Happily, the first four phone calls turned out to be positive. I was about to dial the fifth number when Mitch showed up, a little after ten-thirty. For once, he didn’t look glum.
“Baugh’s getting some positive feedback,” he informed me. “The only negatives are from Engebretsen and Hollenberg. But you’d expect that, right? Why do they care? They’re both way beyond retirement age. They can bow out in a blaze of glory.”
“Ego,” I said. “They’ve been commissioners since before I came to Alpine. Nothing from Blackwell?”
“Not yet.” Mitch had draped his lanky frame over one of my chairs. “He won’t like it. But how do we handle the log? Mullins told me that one of the calls was from you. Is that why you came in late this morning? Dodge wasn’t there when I checked in, but Mullins told me he’d pulled night duty. I gather Heppner’s on vacation.”
“It was no big deal,” I said. “A drunk partying with my awful next-door neighbors barged in and I couldn’t get rid of him. Run it like we always do—no name, just an address and the complaint.”
Mitch looked puzzled. “But the guy’s locked up. Are you intending to file more serious charges against him?”
“No. I hope spending overnight in a cell will teach him a lesson. As far as I know, he doesn’t live at the Nelson house. It’s no big deal.”
Mitch didn’t look convinced. “I know you’re married to the sheriff, but still … it seems like more than a drunken prank. You’ve had trouble with those Nelsons before, right?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Their two younger kids tried to set my house on fire last December while you were gone. But they’re locked up, and so are the father and the eldest son. They were the maple tree poachers.”
Mitch was like a dog with a bone. He didn’t let go easily—an attribute of a good reporter. “Do you know this Moro other than from when he showed up last night?”
“No, but he used to be married to the mother of the missing Johnson girl.” I suddenly realized where Mitch was going with his questions. Or at least in what direction I could steer him. “Moro supposedly left town after Mrs. Johnson divorced him. Maybe you could do some checking. I think he’s being released today. What did Mullins tell you?”
“He was waiting for Dodge. You’re sure the guy’s not a threat?”
I frowned. “I think it was retaliation. Laverne Nelson filed a complaint against me about all the construction noise. I don’t think she knows Milo and I are married. I suspect Vince Moro was showing the Nelson women what a macho stud he is. Maybe he’s more dangerous than I think. See if he’s got a rap sheet.”
Mitch went away with a gleam in his eyes, the kind that serious journalists have when they smell a story. He’d mastered his craft with twenty-five years on the Detroit Free Press. While his moodiness might be irritating, he was the only seasoned reporter I’d ever had on the staff. The others had all been young and relatively fresh out of college. If there was any spare cash in the Advocate account, I’d give him a raise.
As soon as he left, Vida tromped into my office. “I couldn’t help but overhear. I thought I was helping with coverage of the runaways.”
“You are. You’re doing background. Hard news takes away from your House & Home page.” Thinking fast to dig myself out of a hole, I continued: “My intruder last night was Vince Moro, Wanda Johnson’s ex. You mentioned that she and your Meg were close at one time. Now that you’ve talked to Mrs. Ellison, do you have time to call on Wanda?”
To my surprise, Vida didn’t look appeased. “If I do, I’ll phone,” she said. “By the way, I’ve invited Helena Craig, the high school counselor, to be on my radio program tonight. I shall be asking her some questions about the problem of runaway teens.”
I tried to keep my tone light. “Good. Just remember the rule: no news that should appear first in the Advocate.”
Vida’s face was expressionless, but her gray eyes were cold. “I’m not responsible for what the people on my program say.” She turned around and made her imperial exit from my office.
By noon, I was tired of talking to callers and reading letters and emails—even if a slight majority was in favor of the mayor’s proposal. The phone calls had ended up fifty-fifty so far, with several on the fence. Of course, the undecided asked questions I couldn’t answer, so I directed them to Fuzzy’s office. Predictably, the letters tended to be against the idea, while the emails, from computer users, favored change.
At a few minutes after noon, the newsroom was empty. On a whim, I opened the phone directory for Sultan listings—and realized I didn’t know Ruth Heppner’s married name. I recalled that her husband was Phil. Sultan’s population wasn’t much larger than Alpine’s. It didn’t take long to find Philip and Ruth Bowman. The hard part was figuring out what I’d say.
Inspiration struck when I scanned the latest edition of The Monroe Monitor. I dialed the number and, as I hoped, a woman answered. “Ruth?” I said. “This is Emma Lord at The Alpine Advocate. I don’t suppose your husband, Phil, is around, but I have a question for him that maybe you can answer. How close to being done are they on Highway 522 outside of Monroe?”
“Well … about halfway, I guess.” Her voice was wary. Maybe she’d never heard of me. “Phil’s not working on that. He’s tied to a desk these days. Do you want his number?”
“Yes, thanks,” I replied. “There was another big pileup here this week. We keep hoping the state will make this stretch less hazardous. Did Sam mention the wreck?”
“No,” she said. “I haven’t talked to Sam lately.”
“That’s okay. Say, I heard he took some time off. Do you know what his plans were? We always do a feature on Alpiners who take trips out of town. Last month one of the other deputies went to Cabo San Lucas.” That was an outright lie, but Ruth wouldn’t know it.
“Sam didn’t tell us what he was going to do.” She paused, and I suspected she was about to ring off. “He hardly ever leaves the area,” she said to my mild surprise, “but I guess he’s gone somewhere this time. I tried to call him last night and he wasn’t home.”
“So I understand from the other deputies,” I said. “That makes his vacation story all the more interesting. Is there any chance he went back to Toppenish to visit old friends and family?”
“No!” Her voice had turned sharp. “That’s the last place he’d go.” Another pause followed. “There’s someone at the door. Sorry I can’t help you.” She rang off.
Ruth wasn’t half as sorry as I was.
I decided to eat lunch after all, so I headed for the Burger Barn. Once inside, I wondered if the sheriff had nipped across the street from his office to refuel. As usual, the restaurant was busy during the noon hour. My husband was nowhere in sight, so I got in the take-out line behind three teenaged boys—and suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you doing, little Emma?” Milo asked.
I slumped against him. “You scared me. I was looking for you.”
He put his arm around me. “I ate a late breakfast, so I wasn’t hungry until now. Let’s grab a booth.”
We found one toward the rear that had just been vacated. “I did something on a whim,” I said a bit sheepishly.
Milo waited for the pretty redheaded wait
ress whose name was Cindi to bus our table. “Okay,” he said. “Will it make me mad?”
“Well …” I took a deep breath. “I called Ruth Bowman.”
The sheriff looked puzzled. “Ruth …? Oh, you mean Sam’s sister?” He grimaced. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because I was tired of dealing with responses to Fuzzy’s plan and fighting an urge to can Vida’s ass, that’s why.”
Milo paused again, this time for Cindi to bring mugs and pour our coffee. “Jesus,” he said after we were alone again, “maybe you should fire her. That’s about the only thing you can do that’ll make her stop acting like a horse’s ass. She’d have to finally choose—between the Advocate and Roger. If there’s one thing she loves as much as that jerk, it’s having her own platform in the paper.”
“She’s got ‘Vida’s Cupboard’ and she’s hosting the high school counselor tonight about the runaways,” I said. “I already warned her to make sure to avoid hard news that should go in the Advocate before it’s broadcast over KSKY. She was snarky about that, too.”
“It’s your call,” Milo responded. “Vida’s always acted as if she runs the paper. I don’t know how you’ve put up with her all these years. Sure, I know you like her, but lately …” He shook his head. “I don’t give a shit what she thinks about me. I know you two have been friends from the get-go. Do what you have to. I shouldn’t give advice. I’ve got my own crew to run. Tell me why the hell you called Ruth. That is my problem.”
I couldn’t answer right away because Cindi returned with our cutlery and napkins to ask for our orders.
“I told you,” I said as Skunk and Trout Nordby, the GM dealership owners, acknowledged us from across the aisle. “It’s a story. I mean, if Sam doesn’t show up.”
Milo leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It’s not a story. It’s an internal problem. Now Ruth may figure I put you up to it. The last thing I want is for Heppner to think I’m prying into his private life. That was a damned stupid stunt for you to pull.”