“Nice to meet you, Mandy. And you too, big fella.” Rusty had stationed himself beside Miranda. Done with the form, Steve’s eyes swept the front room. Miranda stood behind the counter, hoping the décor would merit this artsy guy’s approval. “I like what you’ve done here. You’ve taken shabby chic to a whole new level.” The skin beside his eyes crinkled when he grinned.
Unaccustomed to banter, Miranda was uncertain how to respond, so she didn’t.
“Seriously, Mandy, I like old things, things with a past. That’s why I do what I do.”
“Thanks.” Miranda decided against telling Steve he was her first guest. Instead she followed his lead. “You’re going to be working down the road in Toppenish? Removing gang graffiti from those historical murals?”
Steve nodded. “According to Mrs. Evans, some of those art works have been up for decades, and nobody’s ever laid a finger on ’em till now. She thinks it happened during a gang initiation. It’s a big job.” He shook his head and frowned. “You won’t be seeing the last of me for weeks.”
“Well you’re welcome here as long as it takes.”
“Thanks. You don’t have to do up my room but once a week. Don’t want to spoil me, do you?” There was that grin again. “And is there a washer and dryer I can use?”
Miranda didn’t want guests, even charming ones, in her apartment and that’s where the washer and dryer were, so she made an offer she hoped she wouldn’t regret. “Not to worry. When you need some laundry done, just leave it on your bed.”
“Are you sure? The Toppenish Public Art Association isn’t paying for my laundry.”
“I’m sure. I do laundry most days. Do you need help getting your luggage?”
“Not yet. Ask me again in ten years. And thanks.” With a wink he was out the door. When he returned he was wearing a large hiker’s backpack. “My work stuff’s okay in the truck. Nobody’s going to break in to steal a couple of thousand Q-tips, right?”
“Q-tips?”
“Yep. Those little suckers are the tools of my trade.”
Miranda nodded, pleased to think that if this charming man seriously intended to clean graffiti off those messed up murals with Q-tips, he’d be staying at Breitner’s until she was eligible for Social Security. But all she said was, “Who knew? You’re first to arrive today, so you can choose your own room.”
She grabbed her keys and led Steve down the corridor. Her contractor had gutted the former farmhouse’s kitchen and dining room and transformed those spaces into bedrooms, and then, per Miranda’s instructions, he had given each bedroom, the two new ones and the two existing ones, a bathroom. “Wow! The farmer who used to live here wouldn’t recognize the place.” Miranda assumed Steve disapproved. After all, the man made a life’s work out of preserving old things in their original state. But, on the other hand, this same man probably wanted to pee in a private bathroom whenever he felt like it, so maybe he appreciated her priorities.
After they walked through all the rooms, Steve chose one bright with sunshine. Miranda commented, “That afternoon sun is still hot this time of year, so turn on the AC if it gets too warm. The thermostat is to the left of the dresser. Here’s your room key, a key to the front door, and there’s a list of area restaurants in the lobby.” She left him at the door, glad she’d advised him how to avoid roasting to death, glad he’d arrived, and hopeful that her other guests would also show.
They did. One was a fifty-something Canadian woman interviewing for an administrative position at Heritage University. As if rehearsing for that interview she told Miranda, “I know it sounds trite, but I’d really like a chance to make a difference.”
Two guests were new grandparents from Issaquah staying for a week to help out on the farm while their son and daughter-in-law got used to their twin girls. “For nine months our son insisted they wouldn’t need help, but the second he saw those two little cuties he changed his mind.”
And the last guest to arrive was a client Rosemarie referred, Tom Buler, a middle-aged man from Seattle looking for property for a second home. “I’ll tell you what I told Rosemarie. I hate having to go south for a little winter sunshine. I don’t need a beach, just a ray or two of sunlight in February, that’s all.”
Before she climbed the stairs to her apartment that night, Miranda checked the home-made whole-wheat muffins, granola, and peach jam, the dairy-fresh butter, yogurt, and milk, the hardboiled eggs from Pauline’s pampered chickens, the locally grown grapes and apples, and a few token imported bananas for the hopelessly banana-addicted. She checked her supply of Peete’s coffee, assorted tea bags, and organic sugar. Her mother’s mismatched but lovely old china and flatware ought to please Steve. She straightened the bar stools in front of the counter and, finally, locked the front and back doors.
Upstairs in her three attic rooms the walls were painted and the floors sanded and stained. Her little kitchen was operable as were the bathroom, the washer, and the dryer. She had her air mattress, her sleeping bag, a folding table and chair, her laptop, and her clothes, so she was okay. Rusty had his own new bed. She’d furnish the place when she had time and a steady income stream.
Things were going well. Her mother would be proud of her. They’d discussed this day often during Mona Weintraub’s final months, months when Miranda was aware that Mona was focusing her remaining strength and considerable wisdom on enabling her troubled and reclusive daughter to live on without her. So that night a relieved Miranda opened her fridge and eyed the bottle of champagne Mona had given her. “Crack it with your first guests!” Her mom had issued this order with her warm smile followed by a phlegmy cough that left her spent and reaching for her oxygen. Fighting tears, the fledgling innkeeper decided it was too soon to celebrate.
CHAPTER 4
Guest book:“Breitner’s is going to be this California girl’s second home until I find the property I’m looking for. This B & B is clean and comfy and the breakfast is delicious, organic, and not guilt-inducing, a nice change.” Gloria Derrinsman, Napa Valley, CA
On a Sunday morning in late September, while the Valley’s church bells tolled their last round and the final jubilant hallelujah of a nearby Baptist choir rang out in response, Miranda heard another sound so out of context she thought at first she’d imagined it. She dropped the sheets she was folding and hurried outside to her mailbox with Rusty, but the sound had stopped. Then there it was again, the piercing, staccato wail of the ram’s horn. She pictured the ram Abraham had chanced upon, the unwitting creature ensnared in branches. Her lips whispered the familiar syllables the rabbi and congregation chanted in between blasts of the horn. Tki’a. Shva’rim. Tru’ah ─ The unmistakable ancient call to prayer and to the promise of forgiveness came from across the street, from inside the factory. It must be Rosh Hashanah. In her new self-imposed exile, without her mother or other Jews to celebrate with, and with a B & B to run, she’d forgotten. But by blowing his shofar in that cavernous factory, a pious koshering inspector, perhaps also feeling alone, reminded her.
Miranda was grateful to be recalled to prayer even though she wasn’t quite sure why. As the prelude to Yom Kippur, Rosh Hashanah was a cue for her to repent and ask forgiveness from those people she may have wronged during the past year. Yom Kippur, or the Day of Atonement, itself is a day when Jews fast and repent for the sins they have committed against God. And people say Kaddish, the Mourners’ Prayer, in memory of their dead loved ones. Some Jews only appear at synagogue once a year to say that prayer on that holy day, even though it is said at every Sabbath service. She would mark her calendar. She would fast and spend Yom Kippur at the Reform temple in Yakima she’d heard about from Rosemarie. Nobody knew her there. She could rise to her feet with that congregation and say Kaddish for her mother, her grandfather and grandmother, and for Timmy. Meanwhile, even though she’d missed the Rosh Hashanah service, she stood at the mailbox and asked forgiveness for hating her father and for not taking in Vanessa Vargas.
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nbsp; Perhaps discomfited by the piercing shrillness of the ram’s horn, Rusty seemed glad to return to the house, to lie at Miranda’s feet while tears brought on by remembering her dad’s treachery splotched the sheets she was folding. The sheets were from the room just vacated by Gloria Derrinsman, who’d stayed a couple of nights while looking for property suitable for a second spa she hoped to build similar to one she owned in the Napa Valley. Miranda’d been amused by how Gloria made her ambition sound like community service. “The folks who tour wineries appreciate life’s special moments. They also appreciate spa treatments using only organic herbal emollients. Why not give visitors to Washington’s wineries the same opportunity for special moments and emollients my clients in California enjoy?” Miranda put away the folded sheets and felt cheered as she recalled the accolade Gloria had written in the guest book and posted online. And she was further relieved when, tail wagging again, Rusty followed her into Steve’s empty room to watch her make the bed and clean the bathroom. She was less pleased with her pet when she had to reprimand him for slurping toilet water and dripping it all over the floor.
Miranda wasn’t the only person in the Valley working that Sunday. Michael was repairing her shed roof. And as Miranda was on her way out to run with Rusty, Steve came in and drawled, “Well, now that I’ve finished my business with the Lord, I just might change and put in a few hours on the murals this afternoon. I’m like a farmer. My job’s a lot easier before it gets cold.” As usual she smiled at his wit and wished she could think of something equally witty to reply. The smile would have to do. When Miranda and Rusty returned, the B & B was empty. That day’s one new check-in had yet to arrive.
He arrived that evening and a police officer walked in with him. The sight of a uniformed law enforcement official, a holstered gun on his belt, in her B & B propelled the cop-phobic Miranda to the tips of her toes. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, unsmiling man of about forty whose buzz-cut seemed at odds with his chin, which was as long as John Kerry’s. He approached her at the counter, blinked a couple of times, pointed to the badge on his belt, and proclaimed, “County Sheriff’s Deputy Detective Alex Ladin. You the owner?”
“Yes. I’m Miranda Breitner.” She couldn’t imagine what he was doing there. Her architect had brought the old building up to code and she had the permits and bills to prove it. She also had her innkeeper’s license and certificate of occupancy posted behind the counter. Fire extinguishers and smoke detectors graced every room. Her driving record was as spotless as her kitchen. Rusty had a license, wore a tag. She recalled reading online that the Sunnyvale PD had a history of corruption and personnel changes, but she didn’t know much about the county cops except that there weren’t enough of them. She hadn’t worried about it. Smitten by the old farmhouse and the small-town charm of the busy but still-bucolic Valley, she’d put the local constabulary in the same category as she put the gangs, irrelevant to her and her B & B. She’d have little to do with cops or criminals unless they were featured in TV crime shows. Maybe one of her guests was in trouble.
The detective’s voice was deliberately pitched to be audible to everyone in the room and, Miranda thought, to most people east of the Cascades. So she wasn’t surprised when Steve and Angela Lacey, another guest, emerged from their respective quarters. The deputy nodded at the newcomers. “There’s been a homicide across the street, in the processing plant.”
Miranda flinched as fear dueled with denial in her head. Fear won. She feared her ram’s horn blower had come to harm or maybe Oskar Hindgrout. Then she feared her guests could be in danger. Their gasps and mutterings were audible and, in response, the deputy turned and pointed into the darkness. “The building’s taped off. But don’t worry. We’ll be patrolling there from now on. We wanted to let you all know. Tell me, did any of you notice anything going on over there that seemed unusual?” He glanced around the room. When no one came forward, he added, “If you think of anything, call me.” He tossed a few business cards on the counter. Miranda’s hand trembled as she extended it to claim one.
“I can’t tell you the identity of the victim because next of kin have not yet been notified.” Detective Ladin turned again as if to leave. Then he pivoted and leaned over the counter, lowered his voice, and addressed his remarks only to Miranda. “I’ll be talking to you again, Ms Breitner.” His stare was intense and made her feel even more threatened than cops usually did. “Glad to see you have a dog.” He reached over the counter to let Rusty who stood beside her sniff his hand. Rusty obliged and promptly ejected a stream of liquid feces at Miranda’s feet. Withdrawing his arm, the detective said only, “Hmm, he might not be much help. Might want to think about keeping a firearm handy too.”
Miranda paled. She didn’t know what was scarier, the message that somebody was killed right across the street or the grim messenger who delivered it. And she didn’t know what was wrong with Rusty, either. Even if he didn’t poop like that again, she’d take him to the vet the next day. She didn’t get to thank the detective before he made it to the door. Instead, she removed her shoes, took them outside, and reentered to clean up the dog shit, while speaking reassuringly to Rusty and her guests.
One of these guests, Angela Lacey, a very pregnant pharmaceutical rep who’d been at the B & B for a couple of days, approached the counter and, in a lowered voice, advised Miranda, “Don’t worry. My girlfriends threw me a baby shower and gave me a nine mil and a whole lot of lessons on how to use it. Anybody tries anything here tonight, I’ve got your back.” To her own amazement, Miranda found herself nodding a thank you. But when she checked in her new guest Hank Ames, she felt sick. He was a reporter from a Boise paper there to review the B & B as part of a feature on the Valley as a “Winter Wonderland.” When he made a crack about the Bates Motel, Miranda had to force her lips into a smile.
The guests remained in the front room talking softly. Steve brought out a six-pack of Yakima Glory beer, Miranda heated and spiced cider for Angela, and they all sat around speculating about what might get a factory worker killed. Miranda blanched when Steve said, “Maybe it was a gang hit.” He displayed iPad photos of the gang tags defacing the Toppenish murals he was working on. After a discussion about the prevalence of gangs in the area, they agreed the deceased had been the target of either a gang initiation or a gang avenger. The reporter typed steadily on his tablet. Steve more than redeemed himself in Miranda’s eyes when he announced his intention to remain at Breitner’s regardless of the “doings” across the road. And she wanted to cheer when he added, “I’ve been here for several weeks and I can assure you, this B & B is a gang-free environment. The only drug dealer at Breitner’s is a pregnant lady pushing allergy meds.”
At last Miranda tiptoed upstairs, shaken by the news of a murder right across the street from her start-up B & B, by the intimidating messenger who delivered that news, and by the coincidence that a reporter was there chronicling the killing. No doubt he’d discourage Idahoans from visiting the Valley at all, let alone from staying at Breitner’s. For the first time since the B & B opened, she considered the soul-sapping possibility that Breitner’s might fail. And, no fan of the police, she’d been further unnerved by the visit of a law enforcement officer to that same B & B and by the knowledge that he or one of his cronies would return to interrogate her. The only bright spot was that Rusty hadn’t excreted any more liquid shit and seemed himself. He gulped the fresh water she provided and fell asleep.
But she knew that sleep would not come to her easily that night. She couldn’t do anything about the homicide, but she could try to calm her fears about dealing with police. So she poured herself a glass of wine, groped in her still unpacked duffel for a moment, and withdrew a few pieces of yellowing paper preserved in a plastic envelope. It was an essay she wrote when she was sixteen at the suggestion of her therapist. “Writing it down in your own words may help you take control of this episode in your life, put it in perspective, and move on,” she’d said.
My
Interrogation
I’d been in the waiting room at Virginia Mason Medical Center’s ER for hours before Timmy’s mom and Charles finally showed up. Kathy was hysterical. They went into the room where I figured the doctor was still examining Timmy. Soon two big guys in suits showed up and went into that room and talked with the doctor, Timmy’s mom, and Charles. When the two men came out, one of them told me they were both detectives and showed me a badge hanging on his belt. He said they had a few questions for me about Timmy’s behavior during the evening, but he didn’t tell me Timmy died or that they thought it was my fault. He just said they wanted to chat with me privately at police headquarters. In the car, he said I didn’t have to chat with them if I didn’t want to, but if I agreed to, anything I said could be used in court.
I wanted to help Timmy. I also didn’t want to be rude. And I had no thoughts of court. I told him I’d be glad to talk to him, but I asked him to please call my parents and let them know where I was and ask them to come and get me. He said he’d call them a little later.
But he didn’t call them until a lot later. They put me in a little room and for over twenty-four hours both detectives threw questions at me. They just kept asking the same ones, over and over.
“Did you force him to eat?”
“No. Timmy’s usually a good eater. I just nuked his fish sticks and mac ‘n’ cheese and put them on his highchair tray.”
“Was his food too hot?”
“No. I always let it cool before I put it on the tray.”
“Did you get angry when he wouldn’t eat?”
“No, but I was surprised because like I told you, Timmy’s usually a big eater.”
Murder in the Melting Pot Page 4
