by Mary Daheim
Molly, who was married to Karl Freeman, the high school principal, and Dixie, the wife of the football coach, Rip Ridley, greeted me cordially. Neither was among my staunchest supporters, but at least they hadn’t tried to run me out of town.
The rest arrived in quick succession: Darlene Adcock, whose husband, Harvey, owned the local hardware store; Mary Jane Bourgette, mother of the diner clan and wife of Dick, a local building contractor; Donna Wickstrom, who ran a day-care center along with her art gallery and was Ginny’s sister-in-law; and last, but certainly not least, Janet Driggers.
Edna Mae might dither and fidget, but she was organized. Her career as a librarian had given her plenty of experience. Tally cards were handed out. I drew Mary Jane as my first partner, opposing Dixie and Janet. We seated ourselves at the two tables and cut the cards.
“King of spades,” I announced, flipping my card into the middle of the table. “It’s my deal.”
Dixie, who had been a marching band majorette in her younger days, bounced in her chair and bid one heart before turning to me as I began to deal out the hands. “How’s Sheriff Dodge, Emma?” she asked.
Though her expression was ingenuous, she might as well have said, “How’s the sheriff you sleep with now and then, you snooty little tart?”
I shrugged. “According to Vida, he’s been upgraded to satisfactory condition. But you must have heard her program.”
“Oh—of course.” Dixie smiled, showing off her dimples.
Mary Jane, who was a fellow Catholic, shot Dixie an arch glance. “So you have a heart after all, Dixie, dear. I mean, hearts. Then I’ll bid one spade.”
“The better to dig the dirt with,” Janet murmured, and passed.
Since I was holding a mediocre hand, the best I could do for Mary Jane was to bid one no-trump. “Since we can’t provide much support, it seems as if Dixie and Mary Jane have all the high cards,” I said to Janet.
Janet’s expression was unreadable. “Mmmm,” she said.
Mary Jane passed. Dixie scowled at her cards and then rebid her hearts. The rest of us passed. As dummy, Janet laid down her hand, showing a high card count of fifteen. Dixie shrieked.
“Why on earth didn’t you respond to my opening bid?” she demanded.
Janet remained inscrutable. “I don’t know. I thought you were fishing. You know, just trying to get some information.”
“I’ll bet we have at least a small slam,” Dixie said angrily. “Since when did you get to be so cautious?”
I didn’t know where to look. I knew that Janet was being ornery to spite Dixie for her query about Milo. Janet—and Mary Jane, for that matter—tended to take my part in any situation.
“I’ve had a bad enough day as it is,” Dixie grumbled as I led a low club.
“Not getting any?” Janet said, batting her eyelashes.
“Oh, stop it, Janet!” Dixie exclaimed. “Could you stop talking about sex for once? Frankly, it gets tiresome. You’d think you were still in high school!”
“Sorry,” Janet deadpanned. “I just thought maybe you hadn’t had any since you were in high school.”
Dixie raked in the trick with the king of clubs from her hand. She glared at Janet. “Don’t even mention high school to me! That’s all I hear about from Rip—those damned football and basketball players! It’s one thing after another with those kids. I get sick of listening to him gripe about who broke curfew, who was caught drinking beer, who is smoking weed—and most of all, who’s knocked who up! What’s wrong with parents these days?”
“A fair question,” Mary Jane said mildly. “Dick and I’ve raised six kids, and heaven knows they’re not perfect, but we had rules. Even if children are lucky enough to have two parents who are married to each other, they either neglect them or spoil them rotten. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground.”
Mary Jane’s little speech seemed to help Dixie simmer down. “Don’t I know it!” Dixie exclaimed. “So many of them get too much too soon. Cars, computers, all these high-tech gadgets—they have everything. No wonder they won’t come to practice and can’t take criticism.”
Molly Freeman, who was sitting with her back to Dixie, turned in her chair. “Now, Dixie, don’t be talking about our students out of school. Literally.”
Dixie shifted around to glance at the high school principal’s wife. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. But maybe Karl should use a heavier hand with some of the students. You know who I mean.” She scooped up another trick.
Molly leaned halfway out of her chair. “You know darned well that if Karl did anything to the students, he’d get his rear end sued off by the parents. Come on, Dixie—don’t blame my husband for today’s sorry state of affairs when it comes to the younger generation. Rip’s in the same boat, and they’re both rowing as well as they can.”
Dixie sighed. “I know. I just get frustrated.” She took the last trick, making a grand slam. But the steam seemed to have gone out of her. “At least,” she said, “we got a part score.”
“Right,” Janet agreed. “I’ll do better next time.” Her green eyes darted around the table. “We can all do better.”
Her words signaled some kind of truce. The rest of the evening went smoothly enough, except for Darlene Adcock knocking over the bowl of mixed nuts, Donna Wickstrom dealing with one card short that was later found under Molly’s foot, and Edna Mae getting hiccups for at least fifteen minutes, causing her partner, Janet, to misplay a hand that had been doubled and redoubled, setting them back a thousand points. But as Janet announced at the end of the evening, there were no deaths and only a few wounds.
I’d tried to call Vida a couple of times while I was dummy, but her line had been busy. I left messages, and when I got home a little after ten, I noticed the red light blinking on my phone.
“I know why you’re calling,” her recorded voice said. “I also know you must be calling from Edna Mae’s. Ring me as soon as you get home.”
Quickly, I dialed her number. Vida answered on the first ring. “Goodness! I thought you’d never call! Did you realize I had to censor that dreadful Nordby boy?”
“Yes. You cut almost three minutes off of your program,” I replied. “How come?”
“Right after Bryce mentioned his brother, Brad, a second time wanting to be a billionaire, I said something about maybe he will, and Bryce replied, ‘Not by knocking up Brianna Phelps. He’s going to have to pay big bucks for that dumb stunt.’ Or something like that. Naturally, I had to press the mute button. He wouldn’t stop going on about it, so I simply ended the show.”
“Ah. I knew something must’ve happened.” I thought back to Dixie Ridley’s comments about the high school students’ misbehavior. “What’s Brad Nordby, a senior?”
“Yes,” Vida answered, “and Brianna is only a sophomore. In fact, I believe she’s underage as far as the law is concerned. Not to mention that she’s the Methodist minister’s daughter.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s too bad. I wonder how the Reverend Phelps and his wife will handle this.”
“With profound embarrassment, I should imagine,” Vida said. “But that isn’t all I have to tell you.”
“What?”
“After we went off the air, I quizzed Bryce most closely about this little scandal,” Vida said. “He told me that he’d confided in Elmer, and Elmer was going to give Brad a good talking to. I gathered that this wasn’t the first time Elmer had pitched in with advice for Brad Nordby.”
“You’re suggesting that…?” I let my voice trail off.
“Yes,” Vida said somberly. “I’m suggesting a motive for murder.”
Chapter Ten
VIDA AND I discussed Bryce Nordby’s revelation for several minutes. It was possible that Brad Nordby had been summoned to the Nystrom home by Elmer and that they had met in the henhouse, but of course we were speculating. Milo Dodge despised speculation, especially from amateurs. But Vida and I both felt that at least we’d found a viable reason for someone to take a d
islike to the otherwise lovable Elmer Nystrom.
“If,” Vida said, “Dixie Ridley was including Brad in her diatribe about students, I’d guess that the Phelps girl’s pregnancy isn’t a complete secret. These stories run like wildfire through a high school. Dear me, I’m sadly out of touch with the younger generation. I don’t see as much of Roger since he’s been going to college. Maybe he and I can have one of our overnights this Friday. And I must talk to Marje and some Methodists.”
“Marje and the Methodists,” I remarked. “Sounds like a rock band.”
Vida wasn’t amused. “I can’t think of what’s wrong with Marje lately. My niece used to be so informative.”
“Patient confidentiality bothering her?” I suggested. “Or Doc Dewey has threatened to can her if she leaks any more medical news?”
“Marje does not breach patient confidentiality,” Vida declared. “She simply keeps me informed of certain vital statistics. They do run on my page, you know.”
Except, of course, that Vida didn’t need to know about impending births before the mother-to-be found out. But I didn’t argue. My House & Home editor and her niece could struggle with their consciences. My own was enough for me.
After a few more surmises, we hung up. It had been a long day, a busier Wednesday than usual. I went to bed a little after eleven and slept soundly. I awoke to more rain but no snow, not even a hint of frost.
Vida had performed the bakery run, bringing back maple bars—her favorite—and a coffee cake covered with caramelized pecans. She began her morning’s work with a call to Jeanne Hendrix. “She wasn’t in when I stopped by on my way home last night,” Vida explained. “Perhaps she’s found a job somewhere else, maybe with an orthodontist in Monroe or Snohomish.”
I told her I was going to drop by the Della Croce house in about an hour. “I’ll arrive unannounced,” I said.
“Sometimes it’s better that way,” Vida remarked, holding the receiver to her ear. “Hmm. Jeanne Hendrix isn’t answering. I’ll try later.”
As soon as I’d gotten some coffee and a maple bar, I called the hospital. According to whoever answered the phone, Milo was waiting for Doc Dewey or Dr. Sung to release him. I said that the sheriff must be feeling better.
“He is,” the female voice replied. “But we’re not. He’s a very poor patient.”
“May I speak to him?”
Long pause. “Very well,” the woman finally replied. “I’ll put you through.”
“Yeah?” Milo’s usually laconic voice was a growl.
“Have we eaten our oatmeal this morning? Have we had our bath?” I asked in my most condescending manner.
“Stick it, Emma,” Milo snarled. “Why are you calling?”
“Actually,” I said, becoming serious, “I have a suggestion for you. Please don’t act like I’m being a jackass.”
“What?”
A roaring noise could be heard in the background. “You should talk to Bree Kendall before you leave.”
The noise, which sounded like a machine, grew louder. “What?”
I raised my voice. “You should talk to—”
“Shut that damned thing off!” Milo yelled. “Do it now!”
Silence in the background. “Sorry,” Milo said, apparently to me. “Some idiot steered a floor polisher into my room.”
I explained about Bree and told Milo she should be working the reception desk in the emergency room. “As long as you’re there,” I added.
“Just because she quit her job—” Milo began impatiently.
I interrupted him. “Hey, you or one of the deputies will talk to her at some point, right? Or have you solved this while you’re in the hospital, like Josephine Tey’s policeman in Daughter of Time?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Never mind.” For a moment I’d forgotten that the sheriff never read anything except spy novels and hunting and fishing magazines. “Just do it. Please?”
“If I see her,” Milo muttered. “Will you make me dinner tonight? I’m starving.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “Assuming, of course, you’re not going to be put on a restricted diet.”
“Screw that,” Milo said. “See you tonight.” He hung up.
I checked the AP wire, returned a couple of phone calls, ate the maple bar, and drank my coffee before heading out to the Burl Creek Road. It was almost nine o’clock. I assumed the Della Croces would be up and about.
In fact, on this gloomy January morning, there were lights on in the modest house next door to the Nystrom property. I pulled up onto the grassy verge. The Nystrom house was dark, at least toward the front. I couldn’t see the rear of the house, nor could I spot any cars. The driveway led to a garage away from the henhouse and not far from the fence that separated the two lots. I got out of the Honda and opened the front gate.
Stepping-stones had been placed at convenient intervals on the dirt path to the house. A few shrubs grew close to the front, and a big, leggy rhododendron overlapped the handrail on my right. There were only three wooden stairs to the small porch. I rang the bell and waited.
The overweight middle-aged woman I had assumed was Anna Maria Della Croce opened the door a moment later. The glasses she wore on a chain now hung over a flowered housecoat. “Yes?” she said, eyeing me curiously.
I introduced myself. “I talked to you the other day—after Elmer’s death.”
“Of course,” she said, but sounded uncertain. “You say you work for the newspaper?”
I guessed she didn’t read the editorial page. “I’m the editor and publisher,” I said. “Do you mind if I come in for a few minutes? I’ve been doing some background work on Elmer’s life.”
And death, I could’ve added, but didn’t. Anna Maria stepped aside and led me not into the living room but into the kitchen.
“I was just having coffee,” she said. “Would you like some?”
“If it’s not any trouble,” I replied.
“No, no. I keep a pot going most of the day.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “It keeps me from snacking too much.”
I sat down in one of the four red schoolhouse chairs. The chairs, along with the red wooden table, were in a nook. Anna Maria poured coffee for both of us.
“I’m not sure what I can tell you about Mr. Nystrom,” she said, sitting opposite me. “We’ve only been here four years, since our daughter started high school. Gloria’s a senior now.”
“Four years is a fairly long time,” I pointed out, “especially when your houses are so close together.”
“Yes.” Anna Maria looked away toward the small window above the table. “Yes, it is, generally speaking.” She turned back to me. “But the Nystroms aren’t very outgoing.”
“I understand that,” I said. “That’s why I’m bothering you. Very few people seemed to know the Nystroms intimately, despite Elmer’s fine reputation for customer service at Nordby Brothers.”
Anna Maria nodded. “My husband, Nick, took his pickup there. It’s a Chevy model. Nick always raved about Elmer and the service department. I suppose Nick knew Elmer as well as anybody outside the dealership. Sometimes they’d talk together over the fence.”
“Then I should talk to Nick,” I said. “Where does he work?”
“For the county,” Anna Maria replied, her brown-eyed gaze traveling to a ceramic cookie jar on the kitchen counter. “Would you like a molasses cookie to go with your coffee?”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I just ate a big maple bar.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed. I suspected that she’d hoped I’d accept her offer so she could have a cookie, too. “Where was I?” she murmured. “Oh, yes—Nick. He’s a surveyor. He’s out with a road crew near the Cascade Tunnel. He won’t be home until after five. They quit a little earlier this time of year because it gets dark so soon.”
I recalled a news release about improving a dirt road in the area. “I would like to talk to him,” I admitted. “If it’s okay, I can call
him this evening.”
Anna Maria grimaced. “Just make sure you do it before eight. He won’t talk on the phone once his favorite TV shows come on.”
I promised I’d comply. “Did you call on Polly Nystrom Monday?” I inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Anna Maria said. “She was terribly upset, of course, poor woman. I didn’t stay long. I felt as if I were getting in the way. Her son had come home, and there were a couple of sheriff’s deputies snooping around. I think their pastor—Bartleby, isn’t it?—was on his way.”
I knew I was about to tread on some rocky ground, but faint heart never won good newspaper story. “Do you know Carter Nystrom very well?”
Anna Maria’s face grew impassive. “No.”
“But you must have been quite friendly with Polly. I mean, both stay-at-home moms and living so close.”
The brown eyes grew cold. “Cordial,” Anna Maria said after a pause. “We were always good neighbors to them. Polly and I never really talked much. She didn’t come outside unless she was giving gardening directions to Elmer or watching Carter work in the yard.”
I played stupid. “But you liked her,” I remarked.
Anna Maria got up from the chair. “Excuse me for a moment. I think I heard our cat at the door.”
She left the nook and went to the back door but returned before a minute had passed. “My mistake. Do you think Elmer was killed by some crazy person?”
“That’s possible, of course,” I replied.
Anna Maria shuddered. “That’s very frightening. Maybe we should get an alarm system.” She sat down again and smiled. “Now tell me how you got to be a newspaper owner.”
I was so used to asking the questions that I was startled. Someone I hardly knew was showing an interest in my life. I must have stared at Anna Maria.
“I think,” she said, “it must be a fascinating story. I’ve never known a woman who was a publisher.”
