by Mary Daheim
Ed's persistence was making me cranky. “No, I can't. The last I heard, he was on his way to Everett to claim the body. See if Henry has an L.A. number for him, then call tomorrow. I'm not your business agent, Ed. I've got to run—Tuesday is deadline day, remember?”
If Ed did remember, he obviously didn't care. His sour expression brightened, however, when his cellular phone rang into his well-padded ribs. “Bronsky here … What? Listen, Shirley, you knew we were out of toilet paper when I left this morning. I'm not an errand boy …”
Ed had turned away, which was the perfect cue for my exit. I didn't catch up with Henry Bardeen until he was entering his office.
Henry was about as happy to have me pester him as I was to put up with Ed. “Emma, this is a bad time. I should have ducked out on the Chamber meeting early. Everything's gone wrong around here in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Like the break-in?” I said, trying to sound both sympathetic and astute.
“Nobody broke into the lodge,” Henry declared with a scowl. “A window latch was forced and some dirt got on the floor. But Mr. Fannucci didn't see anything suspicious. It might have been a raccoon. You know what nuisances they can be. They're around all the time, trying to get at the garbage. The guests think they're cute, so they feed them, which is a huge mistake. They can be vicious.”
I knew all about raccoons. The Advocate featured at least one photo of the annoying little darlings every year. I had mixed emotions about feeding anything but seed to the birds who frequented my backyard. The raccoons devoured bread crusts, then boldly marched up to the back door and demanded another course.
Still, I was having qualms about raccoons climbing fire escapes and opening latched windows. “But you reported the incident to Sheriff Dodge, didn't you?” I persisted.
Henry was blocking the door to his office in an effort to discourage me. “Yes, and I wish I hadn't. Mr. Fannucci overreacted—not that I blame him—so I did, too. Later, when we talked it out, we both realized there was no real cause for concern. The air-conditioning, the laundry facilities, the fruit and produce deliveries, are more important to making this place run smoothly. I don't have time for errant wildlife or broken hair dryersor missing wing tips or a misspelled word on the dinner specials menu. If you don't mind, Fd appreciate it if you wouldn't blow this window thing out of proportion. The lodge's reputation will get enough negative publicity just because Mr. Levine stayed here.”
Henry dismissed me with an abrupt nod that threatened to dislodge his toupee. My patience began to slip away, then I reminded myself that there was a deadline to meet. I couldn't indulge my temper.
By the time I got back to the office, I was willing to placate Henry Bardeen. I gave Vida the item about the window latch, asfcing her to include it in “Scene.”
“Make it cute,” I suggested, “but add a caution about people in general egging on the raccoons. Henry's afraid one of them will bite a guest.”
“They will,” Vida replied. “When Roger was only about six and didn't know any better, he got nipped badly. The poor little fellow was trying to put one in a grass skirt. His parents had just gotten back from Hawaii.”
While wondering if Roger had taken the first bite, I really didn't want to hear any more grandmotherly anecdotes. “Henry's a wreck,” I remarked, changing the subject.
Vida shrugged. “He always is. No doubt that's why his hair fell out when he was so young. Now what is this idiocy about Ed?”
The question caught Leo's attention. “So Ed wants in,” his successor mused after I had finished recapitulating. “You know, it's not as nutty as it sounds. Putting a local name on the project just might give it the seal of approval. Are you sure Fannucci's left for L.A.?”
I nodded. “On my way out of the lodge, I asked Heather Bardeen if Blake was coming back today. She said he'd called from Everett and was headed for Sea-Tac. He asked her to store his things—and Stan's—untilhe returned. He didn't know when that would be. And no,” I added for Vida's benefit, “the Peabody brothers didn't go with him.”
Despite constant telephone interruptions from people asking for confirmation of the homicide rumor, I finally finished the front page. I'd left six inches for coverage of that evening's city council meeting, which I'd decided to let Carla attend. The agenda was short, and while I usually sat in on the monthly meetings, I figured the assignment might boost my reporter's self-confidence. Her story on Skye Piersall was predictable, with quotes along environmental party lines. I felt Skye had more to offer, but Carla had only skimmed the surface. What I wanted to know most, however, was Skye's whereabouts. Since hearing of Stan's death, she seemed to have fallen off the edge of the earth.
By four-fifteen we were waiting on a couple of ad corrections and Carla's inside picture feature on Dutch Bamberg's pet skunk. With the rare luxury of time on my hands, I decided to stroll down to the sheriff's office. Maybe Milo had some late-breaking information.
Jack Mullins was alone on duty. He looked up from his computer screen with a sheepish smile. “Hi, Ms. Lord. Boy, these things are tricky! I'm not looking forward to learning the upgraded system we've got on order.”
“You'll manage,” I said with a reassuring smile. “Where's Milo?”
Jack all but pressed his face into the screen. “He's out. Say, do you know anything about speadsheets?”
“Absolutely not.” With growing suspicion, I watched Jack ply the keyboard as if he were playing Chopin. “Where did Milo go?”
Jack was biting his lip, shaking his head, apparently wrapped up in concentration. “Heck, I lost something here. Maybe if I hit Insert, it'll come up again.”
The phone rang, and Jack grabbed it as if it were a life preserver. “Yes? … I've got it, Toni … Hi, Mrs. Barton … You don't say … Kids, probably … No respect for private property … Hold on, how do spell zin-niaV He glanced up, gave me a helpless shrug, then buried himself in the receiver again. “Two n's?& Okay. What else did they pick?” Jack was scribbling away; I knew when to quit.
But only temporarily. It was four-thirty, and if the sheriff had a secret, I needed to know before The Advocate closed shop. Crossing Front Street, I entered The Upper Crust Bakery and ordered coffee and a twister. I positioned myself at one of the tiny tables closest to the window opposite the Skykomish County Sheriff's headquarters. There was still no sign of Milo when I finished my snack.
Brushing off my skirt, I glimpsed Beverly Melville entering the bakery. She recognized me and smiled wanly.
“I'm beginning to think we made a big mistake,” she said, lowering her voice. “This town is turning into a disaster. What next, terrorists?”
'There's no escaping real life,” I pointed out, then nodded in the direction of the bakery owners who were conferring behind the counter. “Gail and Brenda are from California. Riverside. They seem to like it here.” I didn't add that they had gained grudging acceptance after a mere three years because the locals couldn't resist stuffing themselves on The Upper Crust's confections.
Beverly regarded Gail and Brenda with skepticism. “Good for them. I wish I were as lucky.” To my amazement, Beverly's eyes filled with tears. She turned away quickly and left the shop.
It would have been presumptuous to follow her. On the other hand, I was leaving anyway. But by the time I got outside, Beverly Melville was slipping into thebucket seat of her blue Mazda Miata. She pulled out into traffic just as Milo Dodge swung into his reserved parking space across the street.
I caught up with Milo as he reached the double doors. Despite the cool, overcast weather, he looked hot as well as tired. The sheriff glowered at me when I attempted a smile.
“Not now, Emma. Call me in the morning.” His elbows barred me from the door.
“Hold it—it's deadline.” I actually leaned into him. “What's going on? Jack's a lousy actor.”
Angrily, Milo banged the door, but allowed me to enter. “I don't want any crap on this,” he shouted, causing Jack to jump in his chair. “We c
an only do so much, goddamn it! Don't even think of speculating!”
More confused than annoyed, I followed Milo inside the counter area. “Facts would help. What are you talking about?”
Whipping off his regulation hat, Milo tossed it across the room. Then he unzipped his jacket with a furious motion, ran a big hand through his sandy hair, and took a deep breath. “Okay.” He paused to scowl at Jack, for no apparent reason. “Bill and Dustin went up to the springs this morning. They called in around eleven-thirty to say the place had been trashed. Teenagers, they guessed. I went up there right away. Sure enough, the place was a mess. Beer cans, condoms, general junk. They got the pools all dirty and ripped one of the plastic liners. They knocked over the birdhouse and burned part of it in a campfire. If we hadn't had so much rain lately, they might have set the woods off, too. I'd like to kill the little bastards. Every year it's the same thing—school's letting out and the kids go nuts!”
I tried to arrange the revisions in my head: The vandalism story would have to go in a box on page one. Maybe I could jump the Chamber piece to the insideand redo Carta's skunk layout. But I still needed more information.
“When did it happen?” I asked.
“Who knows? Last night, I suppose.” Milo reached for a cigarette, remembered the NO SMOKING sign he himself had posted in the outer office, and got out a roll of mints instead. “The fire was cold. It doesn't get dark until almost nine this time of year, so they probably went up when it was still light. Coming down is easier, especially if you're stoned. It would've served them right if somebody'd broken a leg.”
“Have you told Leonard Hollenberg?”
“Hell, no! I just got here!” Milo swung around, kicking at a wastebasket. “Bill and Dustin are on their way back, but I'm asking the Forest Service for help tonight. I don't want a repeat.”
Jack seemed to feel left out. “Sheriff, I'll bet we can bust some of those kids. We're getting other complaints, about trampled gardens and stolen flowers and broken windows.”
Milo sneered. “That's middle school stuff. Hell, these days it's probably first graders. These kids had to be older. They wouldn't walk all the way to the hot springs turnoff. They're too damned lazy.”
Jack was still wearing an eager expression. “That's what I mean—we pretty much know the troublemakers from the high school. Not to mention the dropouts. I'll start checking on them.”
Milo's shoulders sagged. “Okay. But they'll lie, and their lame-assed parents won't know where they were because they're more wasted than the kids. What we need is a witness who saw a bunch of teenagers heading for the hot springs trail.”
A brief silence filled the office. Milo retrieved his hat, while Jack began going through files, presumably of Alpine's most wanted adolescents.
Given Milo's mood, I hated to ask my next question: “Did you find the bullet?” I cringed inwardly, expecting a volatile reaction.
But Milo gave me a lopsided smile. “Not even my luck is all bad.” He felt inside his jacket and produced a plastic bag. “It's a .357 full-metal jacket, just like the M.E. figured. It appears to have gone through Levine, then hit a tree. It was embedded in the bark of a noble fir. I suppose we missed seeing it earlier because those nobles have kind of unusual bark.”
I was familiar with the tree's small rectangular blocks of dark gray. “What about foot- or fingerprints?” I asked.
“We'll do our damnedest.” Milo's back was turned as he tried to pour himself a cup of coffee. The pot was empty, and he swore. “Jack, can't you keep this cock-sucker going? What have you been doing all afternoon, playing NFL football on your frigging computer?”
“Hey,” Jack replied, looking put-upon, “I've been running checks on people. Levine. Fannucci. Melville. We may turn up a lead or two.”
Milo snorted. “We may turn up with egg on our faces. Who benefits from Levine's death? That's always the big question. I'll admit, it's probably some broad in Beverly Hills who's out walking her Chihuahua.”
Jack's expression grew puckish. “Maybe she sent a hit man.”
“Maybe you ought to get off your ass and figure out where this bullet came from.” Not waiting for Jack's agreement, Milo whirled on me. “You heard me, Emma—keep to the bare bones. I don't want the voters saying I botched this investigation after they approved a bond issue to beef up this department. What the public doesn't realize is that in law enforcement, it's always too little too late.”
'Too true,” I said, but my sympathy was wasted on Milo.
Leo and Carla and Ginny had gone home by the time I got back to The Advocate at five after five. Vida remained, looking worried.
“It's not like you to wander off on a Tuesday,” she said in faint reproach.
Delegating the layout problems to her, I explained as I worked on the vandalism story. Vida was less appalled than I'd expected.
“Nothing's sacred to young people these days,” she declared. “A murder site would merely titillate them. It's all this TV violence. When Roger stays with me, I insist that he watches only wholesome programs.”
Knowing that Roger's favorite show was NYPD Blue, which he called “Butts and Guts,” I made no comment. “Word will get out,” I said. “If there were girls at the springs, they'll talk. And the boys will brag.”
For some minutes we worked in silence. Then Vida spoke almost in a murmur. “He hasn't resubmitted.”
“Huh? Who?” I was proofing my completed sidebar and thought I'd missed something.
“Mr. Ree. Ginny said the ad wasn't resubmitted.” Vida looked pleased.
“Ah!” Disposing of the corrected vandalism piece, I smiled at Vida. “That means he must have gotten your response and doesn't feel a need for further fishing. Maybe you'll hear something tomorrow or Thursday.”
Vida was now making an effort at nonchalance. “Perhaps.” She leaned forward in her chair, rummaging through her in-basket. “Wouldn't it be nice to have someplace to go in Alpine?”
I assumed Vida was talking about the teenagers with time on their hands and mischief on their minds.“Besides a murder site two miles up Spark Plug Mountain?”
“No, no.” She tugged at a piece of paper, freeing it from the stack of what I knew to be mostly publicity handouts. “I mean for adults. Did you get this news release from the state about a study of new community college sites?”
Vaguely, I remembered such a thing from a month or so ago. “That's an annual announcement, isn't it?”
Vida nodded, scanning the sheet of paper. “But this one includes prospective areas other than the 1-5 corridor. It doesn't specifically mention Skykomish County, but it proposes a study of potential sites within a hundred miles of Seattle and Tacoma. That could mean Alpine, couldn't it? Think what a two-year college could offer us!”
I agreed. Such an institution would bring a great deal to the county. I suspected, however, that Vida was thinking in more personal terms, such as going to a college choir concert with Mr. Ree.
“We don't have the population base to support a state-funded college,” I reluctantly pointed out. “If local kids go on to college, they usually head over the pass to Wenatchee J.C. or into Everett.”
Naturally, Vida knew as much—or more—about such things than I did. Still, she was loath to surrender the concept. “Geographically, this would be a good site. It would draw on the Highway 2 corridor and parts of Snohomish, King, and Chelan counties. I feel like writing a letter to our state senator.”
“Why not?” I studied the finished front page. It was crowded, and our only photos were of the moribund hot springs parking lot and the helicopter landing. Unfortunately, no head shot of Stan Levine had been available. The pictures we'd taken of him and Blake for our previous editions had been too cheerful and informal.
“More of our young people would be motivated to attend college if we had a campus here,” Vida said, standing up and reaching for her coat. “Let's be honest—young people today are lazy.”
I thought of Adam. “Yes, th
ey are. Unless they're really interested in something.” To be fair, my son had worked very hard on the Anasazi dig.
“Which,” Vida continued, as if I hadn't spoken, “makes me wonder about the vandalism at the hot springs.”
Now my full attention was riveted on Vida. “What do you mean?”
Vida shrugged her shoulders into her coat, then adjusted her turquoise bowler. “Would your average troublemaking teenager—who is making said trouble because he or she is lazy as well as bored—bother hiking two miles uphill carrying party goods?”
I gazed at Vida with interest. “Good point. Why not trash Old Mill Park or the Icicle Creek Campground? Are you suggesting these weren't kids?”
Vida stroked her upper lip. “I'm not sure what I'm saying. It simply doesn't fit.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind the same thought had registered. Indeed, Milo had remarked that the culprits must have driven to the turnoff because they wouldn't want to walk. Why, then, would they want to hike?
Swiftly, I reread my sidebar story: “While the sheriff allowed that juveniles may have caused the damage,” I had written, “his department's investigation of the vandalism is being carried out separately from the homicide inquiry.” That was safe enough. Anyone reading the article would come to the same conclusion—it was probably kids.
The knee-jerk reaction made me wonder if that's what we were meant to think.
I'd already changed into my bathrobe when the phone rang a little after eight o'clock. At first I didn't recognize the low, faintly reedy voice at the other end.
“Can I trust you?” There was a tremulous quality to the question, and I wondered if I had one of the local lunatics breathing in my ear. “I have to trust somebody,” the voice said with more verve.
I recognized Skye Piersall. “Where are you? We're running your interview,” I added quickly, lest she think me a personal as well as a professional snoop.