by Mary Daheim
“Not even close,” I said. “We’re still in the honeymoon stage.”
“I heard you two had been in that for at least ten years,” Spence retorted with a lascivious expression.
“That isn’t exactly true,” I said. “We went through phases of keeping our distance. So how is the lovely Rosalie?”
Spence stopped leering. “Lovely. Maybe I should exercise some restraint in teasing you these days. You’ve always had a knack for putting me in my place. I must confess I’ve found that rather intriguing.”
“Not that intriguing,” I shot back. “What’s on your devious mind?”
“The sheriff, who, I am sure, is always on yours. Do you have any idea what’s going on? Or should I have asked your reporter?”
“We’re as deep in the dark as you are. Mitch and I were discussing that a few minutes ago.”
“I suppose you know the state has been called in?”
“Lori told me that.”
“Then we’re both clueless.” Spence leaned closer and lowered his mellifluous voice. “Is something bothering Vida? She’s not herself.”
“You’re right. Holly Gross is going after joint custody.”
“Damn.” Spence glanced over his shoulder to make sure Vida wasn’t trying to listen in. He saw that she was on the phone. “That’s not good. For the kid, either. Oh, I know Holly is supposed to be living with her sister, who, like Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, is reportedly above reproach. However, I doubt Dippy remembers diddly-squat about his mother.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, “but she has her lawful rights. And let’s face it—Roger strikes me as an indifferent sort of father.”
“That is probably an understatement.” Spence stood up, carefully making sure that the creases in his charcoal slacks were in order. “If you’re free for lunch, we should talk. The ski lodge bar again? And don’t say we’ve got to stop meeting like this. You have more wit than that.”
“I’ll bring my wit and see you around noon.”
Spence made a little bow and took his leave.
As soon as he was gone, Vida came in to query me. “What, may I ask, did Spencer want? Is he upset about my chat with Helena Craig?”
“No,” I replied, surprised that she would ask the question. “He asked if I knew more than he did about what’s going on at the sheriff’s office. I told him I didn’t, which is true.”
“Oh?” Vida seemed relieved. “Well, what is going on?”
“All I know is that it involves cooperation with the state patrol. It could have to do with the murder investigation or even with the accident a week ago. Maybe they’re consulting about replacing the milepost sign.”
Vida wrinkled her nose. “I thought it might be something of interest locally. People who live in California have no idea about how to drive in the mountains. I wouldn’t think it takes two law enforcement agencies to put up a new sign. Isn’t that the highway department’s job? I suppose it’s bureaucracy—more wasting of taxpayers’ money.”
“I suspect it has more to do with the homicide,” I said.
“I’ve never been to … where was the murdered man from?”
“Wapato, Yakima County.”
“That part of the state is rather dreary. My late husband, Ernest, always felt that Washington and Oregon should be re-divided by east and west of the Cascades, rather than north and south by the Columbia River. The eastern halves of both states have much more in common with each other than they do with the western halves. That makes more sense.”
I’d heard the argument before and it wasn’t without merit, but it came more than a century too late. “We’re dependent on their agriculture, especially in Washington,” I pointed out.
“Perhaps, though much of what we get in our local stores comes from California. Oh, well.” She started to return to the newsroom, then stopped. “Goodness, my mind isn’t in full gear today. I was suspicious about those Pedersen girls. I do not trust a person like their mother, who is so unfriendly and evasive. I checked with all of the local high schools in the Maltby area, and the girls are not enrolled in any of them. What do you make of that?”
“Poor record keeping?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so.” Vida ran a hand through her thick gray curls. “I didn’t find a Maltby listing for Mr. Pedersen. Of course, I realize not everyone lists their numbers, especially these days with cellphones. But still … I wonder if the girls have a father. That is, one who lives in Maltby.”
“It’s grown a lot in recent years,” I noted.
“Oh, yes. I believe it’s somewhat larger than Alpine, though I can’t think what’s so attractive about it.”
“It’s rural, yet closer to Seattle and Bellevue.”
Vida scowled. “That’s an advantage? I think not.”
Arguing was futile. “Face it, if their mother isn’t concerned about them, then there’s no reason we should be.”
“I suppose,” Vida said dubiously and shrugged. “I’d still like to get to the bottom of this.” She stalked off to her desk.
I tried to put her worried state of mind out of my own to focus on the weekly guest op-ed piece. The current contributor was forest ranger Bunky Smythe, whose real first name was Baylor. Bunky wasn’t a bad writer, but he was prone to peppering his article with statistics, mainly about the number of campers, hikers, and other interlopers who would visit our part of the world come summer. Taking his cue from the governor, who had already sounded the alarm about the possibility of drought and forest fires, he issued stern warnings, including to locals. Given that it had started to drizzle in the last half hour, his timing was unfortunate. However, if the recent weather pattern persisted, the light rain might be gone by afternoon. I corrected a couple of punctuation mistakes and zapped the column off to Kip in the back shop.
By eleven-thirty, there was no word from the sheriff’s office, though Mitch had checked in only a few minutes earlier. The sheriff was still out. So, my reporter gathered, were most of the deputies. Maybe they were all looking for Heppner. I finished going over the letters to the editor and headed to the ski lodge to meet Spence.
I was pulling into the parking lot just before noon when my cell rang. “Breaking news,” Mr. Radio said in an unusually excited voice. “Did you hear the sirens?”
“No,” I replied. “Where were they? I’m already at the ski lodge.”
“They were out on the highway. Some idiot in a sports car was trying to outrace the state patrol and went into the river. Sounds bad. I’m going to the scene. Care to join me?”
“Yes,” I said. I’d try to get hold of Mitch, though, so he could bring a camera. I rarely bothered taking one with me, being utterly inept as a photographer. After Spence hung up, I dialed my reporter’s cell, assuming he’d probably gone home to have lunch with Brenda. To my dismay, he didn’t pick up. I’d try him at home after I got to the accident site. Maybe he’d left his cell in the Taurus.
As I headed down Tonga Road, the rain began falling harder. The wind had picked up and the dark clouds were moving south, obscuring Mount Sawyer just below the five-thousand-foot level. I kept my eyes on the road, knowing that even a little rain after a dry spell could make the asphalt dangerously slick. Maybe that’s what had happened to the car that had gone into the river. I said a quick prayer for the driver and any passengers.
By the time I reached Alpine Way, traffic was already backed up to just beyond the railroad tracks. It appeared that nobody was moving across the bridge in either direction. I pulled over onto Railroad Avenue and parked in the Heartbreak Hotel Diner’s lot. Apparently some gawkers already had done the same thing. There were at least two dozen people standing on the west side of the bridge. I spotted Spence’s Beamer by the Alpine Falls Motel. As I drew closer to where the emergency vehicles were parked, I saw Milo among the official onlookers. He was easy to spot, being the tallest person in the group.
A state trooper stopped me as I tried to join the law officers, the emergency personnel�
�and Spence. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the solemn young trooper said, “but this is as far as you go.” He pointed to a cordon that roped off riffraff like me from the scene of the accident.
Before I could plead my case, Milo strode over to where I was standing. “Let her through. She’s mine.”
The trooper looked embarrassed. “Sorry, sir. She’s not in uniform.”
“No problem,” Milo said, grabbing my arm. “She’s undercover.”
“What cover?” I whispered as he led me off to join the rest of the official group.
“The one on our bed. Now shut the hell up.”
Fleetwood was obviously trying not to smile. I waved at him discreetly before asking my husband what was going on, which seemed to be nothing, as far as I could tell.
“We’re waiting for the divers.” Milo gestured at the river, which, I realized, was running murky and faster than usual. “They got a lot more rain up at the summit, so there’s runoff. The car, the driver, and the passenger are still down there.”
I shuddered. “That’s awful! How did it happen?”
“We’ll talk about that later.” The sheriff turned away from me to consult with one of the other state patrol officers.
I quickly called Kip on my cell. His wife usually made him lunch, so I assumed he’d be in the back shop. When he answered on the first ring, I gave him a quick rundown so he could post the news online and told him I’d get back to him via phone or in person, depending on how events played out.
“Darn,” he said. “I’d kind of like to be there.”
“You’d have to walk. Frankly, there isn’t much to see right now.”
“Just a thought. I know where I’m not wanted.”
“You know where you’re needed—and that’s posting news online.”
As soon as I rang off, Spence joined me. “Where’s your camera?”
“You know I can’t take pictures. I could use my phone, I suppose. It’s the one I got for my birthday from my brother, Ben.”
“I’ve got a camera. You now owe me lunch. Don’t ask if I know what’s going on other than what Dodge told you. The media is being kept in the dark. I can, however, conjecture.”
“So do that,” I said, as Spence nudged me a few feet away from the others. I couldn’t take my eyes off the river, horrified by the fate of the two people inside the sunken car.
“It would appear—notice I use journalist-speak,” Spence began, “that the sports car was possibly involved in a high-speed chase that probably started somewhere west of SkyCo, so we’ll assume it was the state patrol. I also presume that the driver turned off to Alpine but misjudged road conditions and was probably going at a high rate of speed. Ergo, he or she missed the bridge and went into the river.”
I winced. “That’s horrible. Who’s in charge?”
“That burly guy your favorite bear is talking to. He’s a captain, given that he has two bars on his uniform. I trust he’ll show respect for the sheriff. I wouldn’t want to see his nose get broken.” Spence touched his own hawklike beak in a deferential gesture. Milo had done just that in retaliation for Mr. Radio’s unsavory remark about our relationship.
“Milo usually plays well with other cop types,” I said. “Where are the divers coming from?”
“Paine Field, via helicopter.” Spence checked his Movado watch. “It’s twelve-twenty. They should be here in ten, fifteen minutes.”
“I’d better check in with Mitch,” I said. Stepping away, I dialed his home number. This time he picked up. Explaining the situation, I told him he needn’t rush, but to get to the river before one.
“Wouldn’t you know news would break during the lunch hour,” he said in a glum voice. “Oh, well. That’s the curse of a reporter.”
I felt like telling Mitch I hadn’t yet had lunch, but didn’t. For all I knew, he was saying it for Brenda’s benefit. I wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. My better half wasn’t an emotional basket case. He was, however, looking grim as he stayed by the state patrol captain.
Spence called my attention to some of the emergency vehicles trying to move off to clear traffic. “They won’t need the firefighters or medics. Maybe they can open the road once the trucks are out of the way. The backup must be pretty bad by now. I’ll do a quick remote broadcast.” He moved away as far he could without falling into the river.
The sheriff finally loped over to join me. “The rain’s starting to let up,” he said, squinting skyward.
“Skip the forecast. Why was this car being chased?”
“Damn. I knew I should’ve ignored you,” he said, adjusting the hood of my jacket. “But I have to pretend you’re official.”
“I am official,” I said. “I’m the press. What’s Spence supposed to be? An FBI agent?”
“I didn’t see him arrive. Oh, hell, I don’t give a shit, but Godfrey over there is a stickler for keeping out anybody who doesn’t belong.”
“The press always belongs,” I said in my most formal voice.
“Tell that to Godfrey. He thinks the press is a bunch of ghouls.”
“Then I won’t give him credit for this. Whatever this may be, which I sure as hell don’t know because you’re being a jerk.”
“No, I’m not. I can’t tell you anything because the ID on the accident victims hasn’t been verified. You think I’d take the word of the state troopers just because they’re law enforcement types?”
“Yes.”
Milo sighed. “The real problem is that they don’t know who the second victim is except that it’s a woman.”
“Oh. That does make a difference, I suppose. Are they local?”
Milo hesitated. “No. That … stop asking questions, okay? You’re being a pain in the ass.” He looked up at the sky again. “That copter should be here in a few minutes.”
“I can’t help being a pain. I’m hungry.”
“So am I. What’s for dinner?”
“Leftovers.”
“Left over from what?”
“The chicken from Leavenworth.”
“Shit. More chicken?”
The sound of copter rotors could be heard, though we couldn’t see anything. The landing strip was out of sight. With all the trees along the highway, we probably wouldn’t be able to watch it land. It’d take the divers a few minutes to cover the ground between there and the accident site. If the traffic didn’t move faster, they might have to walk.
“As long as we have time to kill,” I said, “so to speak, tell me what you learned from Yakima County.”
Milo shot me an annoyed look. “Not here. Stop nagging. Go pester Fleetwood. I have to make sure Fong and Mullins are still awake.” He headed for the cruiser parked on the verge not far from the bridge.
I couldn’t hear the copter, so I assumed it had landed. The unneeded emergency vehicles had headed back into town. The young trooper I’d talked to first was directing traffic in one direction at a time. The vehicles, which included cars, trucks, and a couple of RVs, crept along, either because of the backup or the curiosity of their drivers, who had been caught up in the drama. I thought of the old saw about watching a train wreck: no matter how ghastly it was, onlookers couldn’t stop staring. Human nature is fascinated by horror. Otherwise, there’d be no TV audience for gruesome celebrity murder trials.
Spence had rejoined me. “You’re short,” he said.
“I know that,” I retorted. “So what?”
He grimaced. “May I finish? You probably can’t see over the gathering, but a state patrol car has gone to fetch the divers.”
“Oh.” I offered him a faint smile. “Will they jump right in?”
“I assume so. Not that there’s any rush,” he added grimly. “How squeamish are you?”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
He nodded once. “I recall that your beastlike husband let you off the hook at viewing a heart attack victim not long ago.”
“And you stood in for Rosalie because she was on the point of collapse. Ve
ry gallant of you and the sheriff.”
“May I remind you that the corpse was Rosalie’s husband?”
“I didn’t know that at the time,” I said.
“Here come the divers.” Spence took my arm as we retreated a few yards from the river. It had almost stopped raining. A glance at the road revealed that traffic was beginning to move—if slowly—in both directions. I saw Mitch’s lanky figure crossing the bridge and waved at him.
“Your minion,” Spence murmured. “Deal with him as you will while I do another quick remote about the divers’ arrival.”
I brought Mitch up to speed. “That’s all Spence and I know. Law enforcement is being tight-lipped. As usual.”
Mr. Radio had strolled back to join us. “Ever done this before?” he asked my reporter.
Mitch uttered a short laugh. “Often. Ever heard of the Detroit River or the Great Lakes?”
“By Jove, I have,” Spence replied. “I spent some time in Chicago.”
We were standing close to the north end of the bridge, having moved farther away from the official onlookers so that Spence could hear himself think while he did his brief update.
“There they go!” The cry came up from one of the cops. I guessed it might be the young trooper who had accosted me. I knew it wasn’t Milo. Calling attention to himself was taboo under any circumstances.
Spence was back on the air; Mitch had snapped several photos in rapid succession; I stood like a dummy in the window of Francine’s Fine Apparel. Except that I wasn’t nearly as well dressed. I did, however, notify Kip that the divers were in the river. Now we’d play the waiting game, except for the young trooper and Jack Mullins, who were hustling the gawkers off the bridge. Maybe they were afraid it’d fall down. To my dismay, I saw that one of them was Ed Bronsky. He could cause an overload all by himself. Naturally, he was protesting to Jack, but he lost the argument.
After dispersing the pedestrians, Jack stopped when he saw me. “Ed claimed he was part of the media. What’s the deal with Sheriff Pig?”