by Mary Daheim
“What difference does it make?” Vida demanded. “You don’t put that sort of thing in an obituary.”
“I know,” I agreed. “This is straight news, page one. But I was thinking about where Gen might be buried.”
“In a ditch, for all I care,” Vida said, picking up the telephone receiver, and with ruthless fingers, she punched in numbers.
I wrote the story, wondering if I still might have to insert a new lead. But when I called Milo at ten to five, he assured me he hadn’t heard anything from Everett, and that he’d checked as recently as half an hour earlier.
“They knock off at five,” he said, “or pretty close to it. I figure we’ll get the results sometime before noon tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, disappointed. “But if you do hear anything in the next hour or so, call me at home or on my cell.”
Milo promised that he would. As a precautionary measure, I told Kip to answer the phone if it rang. The sheriff might absentmindedly call the newspaper, forgetting that I wasn’t still at work.
Ben wasn’t due for dinner until after six. I’d planned on swinging by the Grocery Basket to pick up some lamb chops and fresh broccoli. I had everything else I needed at home.
But the hospital wasn’t out of my way. I stopped there first and took the elevator to the second floor. The buxom, gray-haired nurse on duty was one of the Bergstroms. She informed me that Ms. Dupré couldn’t receive visitors.
“Nerves, if you ask me,” Olga Bergstrom huffed. “One of those excitable types. The kind of old maid who keeps medical coverage high. Every time they get a stomachache or a stuffy nose, it’s off to see the doctor. I’ve no time for it.”
I assumed a humble yet quizzical attitude. “You mean you don’t think there was a medical cause for Annie Jeanne’s collapse?”
“She ate something that didn’t agree with her. Spoiled milk, I wouldn’t wonder. You’d be surprised by how many people come into emergency, swearing they’ve been poisoned. Doctor—well, both doctors, really—humor them, especially if they’re of a certain age. Mark my words, often as not, it’s something they had in the refrigerator that they couldn’t bear to throw out. Afraid to spend an extra dollar—they’d rather have their stomachs pumped.”
“Goodness,” I said in professed dismay, “perhaps I ought to run an article in the paper warning people to keep track of due dates on their perishable products.”
“An excellent idea,” Olga asserted with a sharp nod of her head. Unlike so many medical practitioners, she wore starched whites, white stockings, a cap with a double stripe, and a pin that indicated she’d trained at Deaconess Hospital in Spokane. Old Doc Dewey had insisted on proper attire, and his son carried on the tradition. I thought it wise. Call me fussy, but I prefer being able to tell the difference between a nurse and a barmaid at Mugs Ahoy.
“I can’t discuss the case, of course,” Olga continued, keeping one eye on the monitors at the nurses’ station, “but a word to the wise is never wasted. Shelf dates, expiration dates, anything that a person has had on hand for over a year, particularly if it’s been opened.”
That qualified my food stores for condemnation by the health department. I should have felt doomed.
“We’ll put that in the Advocate,” I promised. It was a House & Home item, and actually not the worst idea I’d heard. Vida might even have a syndicated column on the subject in her files. “I understand Annie Jeanne is recovering, though.”
“Certainly,” Olga replied. “She should be up and doing by Thursday.” The nurse’s keen blue eyes scrutinized me. “That’s right—she’s the housekeeper at the Catholic church. Your brother is no doubt anxious for her to get back to work. I’ve heard that priests can be quite demanding.”
“Ben’s not used to having a housekeeper,” I said. “I don’t recall Father Kelly being a slave driver.”
Olga’s lips exhibited a faint twitch of amusement. “Strange you should say that, since he’s black. But I’m talking in general, from what people say about priests. You might be surprised at the things I’ve heard, especially lately.”
“No,” I said, sounding weary, “I wouldn’t. As a Catholic, I’ve heard it all.”
Olga looked dubious, but was distracted by one of the monitors. “Ah. Elmer Kemp is having some respiratory problems. A smoker, you know. I must go. I’m all alone, it being the dinner hour.”
Olga bustled away.
Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting in the express checkout line at the Grocery Basket when my cell phone rang. Despite a glare from the woman ahead of me, I answered the call. It might be Milo.
It was. “We got the autopsy report,” he said in his typically unhurried manner. “It came in about ten minutes ago. Hang on.” The phone crackled a couple of times as it sometimes does at Alpine’s three-thousand-foot elevation. I tried to refrain from tapping my foot. “Sorry about that. Bill Blatt had a question for me about his overtime. Anyway, as I was saying, we got the ME’s results back from Everett. According to them, Genevieve Bayard died from a—” The phone cut out again.
It was my turn with the checker, Ryan O’Toole, the teenage son of the store’s owners. Ryan gazed at me with questioning hazel eyes after he rang up my seven items. The total was thirty-one dollars and forty-four cents. The express line was cash only. My wallet was short by four dollars. Preparing to beg and scrambling to find my credit card, I heard a mellow voice in the ear that wasn’t glued to the phone.
“May I?” said Spencer Fleetwood, handing me a five-dollar bill.
“Jeez.” I glanced at the half-dozen people behind Spence, gritted my teeth, and took the money. “Thanks,” I murmured. “I owe you.”
By the time I got my change and my bag of groceries, the cell had gone dead. I hurried out into the rain and dialed the sheriff’s number.
“What happened?” Milo said. “I lost you.”
I didn’t take time to explain. He was the sheriff; he could figure it out. “How did Gen die?” I asked, as the rain poured down and I wondered if I could get electrocuted.
“What?” He sounded impatient. “Oh—you lost the connection. Gen was poisoned, an overdose of insulin. It was in the food she ate at the rectory. I’m afraid Annie Jeanne Dupré’s in a bit of trouble.”
My jaw dropped. “No! That’s impossible! It had to be an accident!”
“We still have to investigate,” Milo said reasonably. “I sent Dustin to the hospital to stand guard.”
“You think Annie Jeanne’s going to escape?” I asked in disbelief.
“No, of course not,” he responded on a slightly sour note. “It’s procedure. Besides, if Gen’s death wasn’t accidental, Annie Jeanne could be in danger. She was poisoned, too. And if it was an accident, she might be suicidal. I’ll have Dwight Gould spell Dustin later on.”
“Good grief,” I murmured, realizing that I hadn’t seen any sign of the law at the hospital. “When did Dustin go over there?”
“About fifteen minutes ago,” Milo said. “Got to run. I’m on my way to Buddy and Roseanna’s. Talk to you later.” He clicked off.
As I opened the passenger door, Spence sauntered out of the store. “Emma!” he called.
I was putting the groceries on the floor of my Honda. Maybe I could pretend I didn’t hear him. But his voice carried and he knew it; I swore he could broadcast without a transmitter.
“Just a minute!” I yelled. “Let me get out of the rain!” Rushing around to the driver’s side, I frantically dialed the Advocate’s number. The phone rang four times, and I was afraid it would trunk over to the answering system before Kip could pick up.
He answered just as I was plunging into despair. “Hold everything!” I shouted—just as Spence slid into the passenger seat beside me.
“You owe me,” he murmured, looking annoyingly amused.
“Ohhh . . .” But no matter how much I stalled, Spence would have the news before the paper was published. My shoulders slumped. I stopped shouting and briefly relayed the aut
opsy report to Kip.
“Are you coming to the office?” Kip asked.
“Of course, I’m on my way as soon as I call Ben to tell him I’ll be late getting home. We’re going to need at least three inches, either on page one or in a jump to page two.”
“Got it,” Kip said. “See you.”
I put the key in the ignition. Spence angled his long legs around the grocery bag and leaned back in the seat. “So Mrs. Bayard was poisoned.” He glanced at his high-tech watch that seemed to tell him everything except the odds on the Super Bowl. “I just missed the six-o’clock hour turn. I’ll have to break in with a bulletin.”
“You can start by getting out of my car,” I snapped. “I’m not a taxi.”
“I’ve got my wheels here,” he replied, reaching over to lift a strand of wet hair out of my right eye. “You need a haircut.”
I was beyond annoyance, climbing fast to anger. Fury wasn’t far behind. “Since when did I ask you to be my fashion consultant? Beat it, Fleetwood. I’ve got work to do.”
With feigned sadness, Spence shook his head. “I thought we were media partners. I’m only trying to help your image.”
I turned on the engine just as my cell phone rang again. I shot Spence a dark look as I fumbled around in my purse for the blasted phone.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” he said with a self-pitying sigh. “Besides, I have breaking news to report. Ta-ta.”
Spence got out of the car just as I found the phone and answered.
“Where the hell are you, Sluggly?” my brother asked. “I’m drowning on your front porch.”
“Meet me at the paper,” I said. “I’ll explain then. I’ve got the lamb chops with me.” I rang off, turned on the windshield wipers, and reversed out of the parking space. Someone honked behind me. I looked in the rearview mirror. It was Spence in his BMW. I felt like backing up and hitting him.
Instead, I drove a little too fast, but not fast enough to beat my brother, who had a straight shot down Fourth from my little log cabin to the newspaper office.
“What kept you?” he asked ingenuously as he stood by the entrance.
“You’ll kill yourself someday,” I muttered as I unlocked the door. “I’ll gloat before I mourn.”
“Hmm,” he responded, “somebody’s little sister is in a bad mood.”
“Somebody’s big brother is going to be in one when I tell you what’s happened,” I shot back.
“How’s that?” Ben asked as I flipped on the lights in the reception area before heading into the back shop.
I was feeling perverse. “What do you think of having your housekeeper charged with murder?”
Ben looked at me as if I must be joking. But I kept walking until we were in the production area. Kip looked up from whatever he was doing with the optical character scanner.
“Hi, Emma, hi, Father.” Kip stood up. “Are we talking poison as in murder?”
“We don’t say ‘murder’ until Milo does,” I replied. “Don’t worry, I’m going to rewrite the story with great caution.”
“What about Annie Jeanne?” Ben demanded, following me back into the newsroom and on into my cubbyhole.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sitting down and turning on the computer. “I exaggerated. Let me do this first. Then I’ll explain.”
Ben glowered at me before turning around and going out into the newsroom.
It took me a couple of minutes to focus on the new lead. “Alpine native Genevieve Ferret Bayard died early Monday evening after ingesting what the Snohomish County medical examiners termed ‘an overdose of insulin.’ ”
I stared at the sentence. It was as dead as Gen, and I’d misspelled her maiden name. Changing Ferret to Ferrer, I deleted the rest of the lead. Then I deleted everything except Gen’s name. Next, I called the sheriff’s office.
“Milo’s not there, right?” I said to Deputy Bill Blatt, who also happened to be Vida’s nephew.
“He only left about ten minutes ago for the Bayards’,” Bill said. “Can I help?”
Perhaps because of his kinship—not to mention constant reminders from Aunt Vida about deadlines—Bill was more aware than most about how we put out the paper. “Can you give me the exact wording of the ME’s statement?”
“Want me to fax it to you?” Bill asked.
“Please. Thanks, Bill. I gather there isn’t anything else that Milo didn’t tell me?”
“Um . . .” Bill was as cautious as his boss. “I was standing right by him when he was talking to you. Until we start the investigation, I don’t think there’s anything else we can say yet.”
That made sense. “Can I quote you as saying Gen’s death qualifies as being caused by mysterious or suspicious circumstances?”
“Ouch.” I could picture Bill flinching. “Gee, I wouldn’t want to say that in the paper.”
“I need a quote.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes.”
“Um . . . okay, how about this? I’ll say, ‘Mrs. Bayard’s death will be under investigation.’ ”
It was feeble, but it’d have to do. At least it covered the backsides of the sheriff’s office and the newspaper. “Thanks, Bill. Your aunt will thank you, too.”
“I hope so,” Bill said. “She’s been out of sorts the last few days, even before she went to Tacoma. I guess she gave Buck Bardeen an earful because he hadn’t put Cupcake to bed Monday night. Luckily, she got home before it was really dark. Why do canaries have to have a blanket anyway? Other birds don’t.”
“Other birds don’t live indoors,” I said before ringing off.
Although the fax’s official wording didn’t add anything important, by the fourth try, I had a livelier, more up-to-date lead: “Skykomish County law officials are launching an investigation into the insulin poisoning death of Alpine native Genevieve Ferrer Bayard, who was stricken Monday evening while visiting here.”
Explaining where Gen’s death occurred was a delicate matter. Pending the outcome of the autopsy, I hadn’t yet written that part. No blame must be attached in any way to St. Mildred’s or to my brother. And, as far as I was concerned, to Annie Jeanne.
“Bayard died shortly after dinner with her longtime friend Annie Jeanne Dupré, who was hospitalized with similar symptoms of poisoning. Dupré is recovering at Alpine Memorial Hospital, but is expected to be released today.”
So far, so tactful. But I hadn’t finished the paragraph. Reminding myself of the five W’s of journalism—who, what, when, where, and why—I took a deep breath and continued typing.
“The two women were dining at the rectory of St. Mildred’s Catholic Church, where Dupré is employed as parish housekeeper.”
I looked out into the newsroom. My brother was perusing a bound copy of past editions of the Advocate.
“Ben,” I called, “I need a quote from you.”
He slammed the volume shut and approached my office. “Why?”
“To save your ass and mine. Here,” I said, quickly printing out the material I’d written, “what comes next is you exonerating the church, Annie Jeanne, and yourself while also expressing shock and sorrow.”
Ben scanned the lines. “Shit.” He bit his lower lip and scowled before signaling me to vacate my chair. “I do better if I write, not talk.”
“Go ahead.” I stood up and wandered around what little space there was in my cubbyhole. Ben typed in fits and starts. After five minutes, he shook his head and got to his feet. “See if this’ll do.”
I sat down again and read what my brother had written.
“Like the entire community of Alpine, I’m devastated by the untimely passing of Genevieve Bayard and by the suffering of Annie Jeanne Dupré. However, I have great confidence in Sheriff Milo Dodge, and I am certain that he’ll be able to determine what might have caused such a horrendous accident. Personally, I blame the Baptists.”
“That’s not funny,” I snarled, deleting the last sentence.
“Hey,” Ben retorted, “don’
t lose your sense of humor. You’re wound up like a Swiss watch.”
He was right. I tried to relax. “It’s going on seven. We’re two hours behind already.”
“No, you’re not,” Ben pointed out. “Kip hasn’t been dozing in the back shop; he’s been putting the rest of the paper together. Sure, you’re worried about Annie Jeanne. So am I. But we know she wouldn’t intentionally hurt a fly. So we’ll have to see her through this.”
I agreed. It wasn’t hard to picture Annie Jeanne all aflutter, scurrying around the rectory kitchen and, in her excitement, using the wrong—and deadly—ingredient.
Just before I sent the complete story to Kip, I wondered if we should run a small head shot of Annie Jeanne on page two. There was one in our files, although it had been taken at least fifteen years earlier, before I bought the paper. But Annie Jeanne was one of those people who never appeared to age; she seemed to have been born middle-aged.
I had seen the photo recently, just before Father Kelly left on his sabbatical. Annie Jeanne wasn’t smiling, but looked uncharacteristically severe, with her high forehead and graying black hair pulled back into a tight knot: A cliché, really, of the repressed old maid who might slide off her rocker and do in her nearest and dearest. I decided not to run the photo. It was too easy for readers to imagine the cutline that wasn’t there.
“Annie Jeanne Dupré: church organist, housekeeper—and ruthless poisoner.”
EIGHT
I didn’t have the energy to call Vida that night to relay the latest news. She’d find out soon enough, if, in fact, she hadn’t wormed the story out of Bill Blatt already.
Strangely enough, she hadn’t. “You should have phoned me,” she declared in a testy voice when I announced the autopsy findings to the staff shortly after eight o’clock Wednesday morning. “What got into you?”
I was standing in the middle of the newsroom. Vida was also on her feet, hanging up her mottled brown raincoat. Leo lounged at his desk, caressing his coffee mug as if it were a woman. Ginny was in the doorway to the outer office, and Scott was placing the Upper Crust’s morning offering of elephant ears on our worn plastic tray. Kip, who worked late hours before pub day, was always allowed to come in when he felt like it.