by Mary Daheim
Milo, however, wasn't in.
“He left town,” Jack Mullins informed me, the familiar twinkle in his eyes.
“For the weekend?” I asked in surprise.
“No,” Jack replied. “He went over to Everett. Strictly work-related. But I doubt he'll be back in the office this afternoon.”
“What's he doing in Everett?”
Jack's expression grew furtive. “Can't say. Top secret.”
Fleetingly, I considered telling Jack that I knew about the weapons cache. If I did, maybe he'd confide in me about Milo's reason for driving the fifty-odd miles to Everett on a busy June weekend. But I decided not to reveal my covert knowledge. The sheriff might get miffed.
“So what else is new?” I asked Jack. “Anything we should know before the weekend starts?”
Jack shrugged, though he avoided my gaze. “Not much. Commencement weekend, should be the usual wrecks out on the road. All those students and parents taking Highway 2 to get across the state. Pray for sun. Half those people out there don't know how to drive in the rain.”
“Speaking of prayer,” I said, “what did you think of the tripleheader at St. Mildred's this morning?”
Jack shrugged again. “Kind of a letdown, in a way. But I heard the reception in the church hall was semiwild. It went on until about two-thirty, when Father Den and Jake O'Toole started throwing people out. The last I heard—I'll bet it won't really be the last—the heavy drinkers took off for Mugs Ahoy.”
I wasn't surprised. “The taverns and bars should be busy even without the mourners. I understand there aren't any vacancies at the motels and the ski lodge. Many of the parents, mainly of the college kids, have come for the weekend.”
“Not to mention Oscar Nyquist's relations,” Jack noted. “Some of those Norwegians can outdrink the Irish.”
“Have you got extra men on patrol tonight?”
Jack nodded. “Three deputies. Not to mention the emergency personnel on standby. Hell, all the bars have hired extra help, too.”
Toni Andreas looked up from her phone console. “Emma, there's a call for you. Do you mind?”
“No,” I said, a bit surprised. “Where shall I pick it up?”
Jack pointed to the phone on the other side of the counter. “Can you grab that?”
I took the receiver and said hello. Mae Conley's tearful voice was on the other end of the line. I could barely make out what she was saying:
“Mrs. Lord? I have some awful news.”
“About what?” I asked, giving Jack a puzzled glance.
“About Brian.” Mrs. Conley paused, sniffled, and coughed twice. “Excuse me, I'm so upset. Anyway, the airline people found Brian's casket.”
It was my turn to pause. “They did? Why is that awful news?”
“Because,” Mrs. Conley replied, and now her voice grew stronger, “Brian wasn't in it.”
I WASN'T SURE I'd heard correctly. “Did you say Brian was not in the coffin?”
“Yes, that's what I said.” Mae Conley now sounded faintly impatient with me. “The coffin was empty.”
“I don't understand,” I said, grabbing a memo pad and a pen from beside the telephone. “Where was the casket found?”
“At JFK in New York,” Mrs. Conley said. “It was in a storage area where it shouldn't have been. My husband and I are going to sue.”
I'd hastily scribbled the information about Brian's missing body on a sheet of memo paper and I handed it to Jack Mullins. “Sue? Who would you sue?” I asked, still dismayed.
“Whoever is responsible,” Mrs. Conley declared, sorrow and impatience giving way to wrath. “This is an outrage! I suppose we should start with the funeral home in Alpine.”
Jack was rolling his eyes. “I'm at the sheriff's office, right now,” I said. “I'll let them know what's happened. Is there any possibility of a mistake?”
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “Brian was either in the coffin or he wasn't. And he wasn't.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“That's who found the casket in the first place,” Mrs. 170
Conley replied. “My husband had called the authorities in charge of the airport. As usual, the police are baffled.”
“I'm terribly sorry,” I said, while visions of body snatchers danced through my head. “Is there anything I can do at this end?”
“It seems to me you people in Alpine have done enough already,” Mae retorted. “I knew we should have had Gina's funeral home in Seattle handle this. I've been in touch with Brian's coworker at the Irish Consulate, Nolan Curry. Such a kind young man, and such a good friend of Brian's. Helpful, unlike some people,” she added with a touch of spite. “Meantime, we'll be in touch with Mr. Driggers or Mr. Peebles, but if you see them, you tell them that we're serious about taking them to court. The airline, too, if we have to, and the cargo people at JFK. This is a disgrace. Where is my poor boy?”
Mrs. Conley's voice broke again, just before she banged the phone down in my ear. Jack was looking bemused. Toni appeared stupefied.
“How,” she asked, “could anyone lose a dead body?”
“Good question,” Jack said. “But that's New York for you. Maybe poor Conley's in the East River. Isn't that where they put bodies in New York? At least we know what to do with a corpse here in Alpine. We bury it. But in New York, nobody cares about anybody else, nobody knows anything, nobody wants to get involved. Thank God I've never been east of the Idaho state line.”
“It's pretty weird, I'll admit,” I put in, “but the body could have been removed before it ever left Sea-Tac.”
Jack shrugged. “I suppose. Wait till Dodge hears this. He'll pitch a five-star fit. The Conleys may want to sue the county, too.”
I kept my own counsel, but I didn't have a great deal of sympathy for Milo. He'd treated the Conley murder as a side issue, insoluble and anonymous. Brian Conley was a stranger; the O'Neills and Hartquists were native sons. While typical of Alpiners, the sheriff's attitude was annoying.
On my way home from work, I swung by Driggers Funeral Home. Dan Peebles met me on tiptoe at the door. I always wondered why undertakers walked so softly. Surely they couldn't be afraid of waking the dead.
“Dan,” I said, putting out my hand, “I'm Emma Lord. We haven't officially met until now.”
Dan's handshake was firm, though his skin was soft. “Yes, I've seen you around town. You're the newspaper lady, aren't you?”
It was better than being the garbage girl or the waffle woman, I supposed. “I have, in fact, some unsettling news for you and Al,” I said. “Is he still around?”
Dan's earnest, round face showed regret. “He's not available right now. He's speaking with some of Oscar Nyquist's relatives from out of town.”
We stood in the plush-carpeted foyer. The floor, the walls, the ceiling were all a soft beige. The color was intended to soothe, but it reminded me of human flesh. Imagination can be a frightening thing.
I explained what Mae Conley had told me over the phone. Only the flicker in Dan's blue eyes indicated mild interest. Or perhaps it was discreet alarm.
“That's not our fault,” he said staunchly. “The deceased was definitely in that casket. I sealed it myself and drove it into the airport at Sea-Tac.”
“Can you prove it in case the Conleys sue you?” I asked.
He blanched. “Well… no. That is, once the casket is sealed here, no one opens it until it reaches the funeral director at its final destination.”
Final in more ways than one, I thought. “Have you ever heard of such a thing happening before?”
“Well …” Dan looked around, as if he expected somebody to march forward with a Typical Example. “Not firsthand. There are some stories—old ones, I think— about smugglers using caskets to transport all sorts of things, including drugs. But I don't know of specific cases.”
I started backing toward the door. “You'll tell Al, of course.”
Dan looked offended. “Of course.”
Feeling a bit sorry for having upset the young man, I gave him a sympathetic smile. “Em sure there's some logical explanation.”
“Yes,” Dan Peebles replied. But he didn't look convinced.
That evening, I relayed all of the day's mysterious adventures to Tom at Le Gourmand. He, however, seemed more interested in truffles and goose liver pate.
“Dodge is probably right,” Tom remarked, signaling the waiter for another glass of a French wine Pd never heard of. “I was here while the search for Conley was going on, remember? The weather was pretty bad, at least at the higher elevations. Which, I assume, is where your weird woodsmen hang out.”
“True,” I allowed, “but it seems too pat. I mean, with Brian's body disappearing, it strikes me as more complicated than just some nutty recluse ridding himself of an intruder.”
“I don't see any connection,” Tom said, consulting the menu once again. “Milo probably won't, either. Shall we try the Atlantic scallops in a flaky crust?”
“Sure.” I backed off from discussing the Conley investigation. Tom wanted to celebrate, not cerebrate. I hardly blamed him. We were engaged at last. We deserved to put the rest of the world aside for a while.
Before leaving for Le Gourmand, we had called Adam. He was elated at our news. In fact, he had been downright incredulous.
“I was beginning to think it'd never happen,” he declared joyfully.
Then Tom had asked if Adam would marry us in the spring. Our son hadn't been able to respond at first. I couldn't recall when Adam had been so overcome with emotion. Maybe it was sixteen years ago when the ten-speed I'd given him for Christmas got stolen on New Year's Eve.
So we spoke of Adam and of our future and of all the things we hadn't dared to mention while our lives were teetering on the balance beam. It was a lovely evening, and it only got better after we returned home.
On Saturday, Tom was still in his handyman mode. After breakfast he started pruning every bush, shrub, tree, and vine that he could reach. By noon, I barely recognized my yard. In fact, there was much more of it, especially out back.
I was admiring his accomplishments when the phone rang. Hurrying into the house, where I'd left the receiver on the kitchen counter, I caught the call just before it trunked over to my answering machine.
“Emma.” Vida sounded grave. “I'm calling from the office at Faith Lutheran.”
“Yes? Is Oscar's funeral over?”
“Just,” Vida replied, her voice muffled. I suspected she was shielding the mouthpiece with her gloved hand. “Emma, I must see you. I'm only going to stay for a short time at the luncheon reception here at the church. I'll take some pictures and then, if I may, I'd like to stop by your house.”
It wasn't like Vida to be so mysterious. “Sure,” I said. “You're … all right, aren't you?”
“In a way,” Vida replied cautiously. “Here come a clutch of Gustavsons. I must dash.”
By the time I went back outside, Tom was talking to the Marsdens. They were my nice neighbors; the family on the other side had never been friendly and their kids were noisy pests.
“I'm going to borrow the Marsdens' pickup and haul this yard stuff to the dump,” Tom called to me as I waved in my most affable manner. “Where is the dump?”
Viv Marsden gave Tom directions while Val offered to help load the pickup. Apparently Viv's directions were confusing. Her husband broke in while she pointed this way and that.
“Hell, Viv,” said Val, “I'll ride with Mr. Cavanaugh. Hell, I'll drive.”
“You don't need to,” Tom began. “And please call me Tom.”
“Sure, Tom, come on,” Val said, leaping the three-foot split rail fence between our properties. “Let's get cracking.”
I shrugged, smiled at Viv, and went back inside. Tom seemed to be fitting in with his surroundings. Maybe he'd join the Kiwanis or the Rotary Club or the Knights of Columbus. I pictured him running for city council, organizing a drive for the library, volunteering for the United Way of Skykomish County. I smiled again when Tom and Val drove off to the dump some twenty minutes later. They had no sooner departed than Vida arrived. Coming up the front walk, she looked furtive and darted glances in every direction.
“What's wrong?” I asked as she entered the house.
Vida collapsed into one of the armchairs. “Oh, my! Such a time!”
“The funeral?” I inquired, perching on the arm of the sofa.
Vida shook her head, which was adorned with a simple black straw. “No, that was fine. It's not—” She stopped and looked me in the eye. “Would it be terribly cheeky of me to ask for a cup of hot tea?”
“Of course not,” I said, getting up again. “If you're in a hurry, I'll microwave it.”
“That's good,” Vida said, though she usually made quite a production out of tea-brewing. “I'll wait here.”
I fixed us mugs of English Breakfast tea, zapped them for ninety seconds, and loaded Vida's with cream and sugar. “Here,” I said, handing her the mug before I sat down on the sofa. “Now tell me what's got you in such a dither.”
“Oh, Emma.” She shook her head several times. “I don't know what to do.”
“About what?” I asked, growing more mystified by the second. I'd never seen Vida in such a state.
She took a big sip of tea, followed by a deep breath. “It's Roger. He has Brian Conley's snowboard.”
It took a few seconds for me to comprehend what Vida had said. “Brian Conley's snowboard. The item that wasn't found with him. Do you know how Roger happened to get hold of it?”
Vida lifted her chin and gazed at me with steadfast gray eyes. “No.”
“Did you ask him?” It was a foolish question on my part. Even with Roger, Vida wouldn't be reluctant to ask.
“Yes,” she replied, her lips stiff. “He said he found it, period. He wouldn't say when or where. Indeed, he behaves as if it were some time ago, that he's had it all along.”
“I assume you've impressed on him that this is very important,” I said, “since the snowboard is part of a homicide investigation.”
Vida yanked off the straw hat and glared at me. “Certainly I told him! Do you think I'm a silly old fool? But you know what teenagers are like, especially boys. They don't trust adults, they keep things to themselves, they're borderline antisocial.”
It was the nearest I'd ever heard Vida come to criti-
cizing Roger. But she was right. Even Adam had gone through a silent period at about Roger's age.
“So what are you going to do about it?” I asked. “You'll have to tell Milo.”
Vida grimaced. “That's what makes it so difficult. I do not want the sheriff browbeating poor Roger. Think how it might scar him emotionally! I don't want the poor boy to spend the rest of his life in fear of the authorities.”
I'd also figured that's exactly what would happen to Roger anyway, and with good reason. But I couldn't say so to Vida. Indeed, some of my greatest fantasies involving her grandson had come into focus. Alas, I'd hoped for a more disturbing fate, such as Roger in a striped prison suit, an iron ball shackled to his chubby leg, a round paper hat on his head. And all the while being forced to drink Milo's miserable coffee.
Nonetheless, I regarded Vida with compassion. “Milo will have to know. What do you think, Vida? How long has Roger had the snowboard?”
“I've no idea,” she admitted. “Last night I went out in the garden after supper. There's so much weeding and cutting-back to do this time of year. Alongside the fence between the driveway and the house, I saw an object stuck behind the tulips and daffodils. I hadn't noticed it before, perhaps because the bulbs have been in full bloom until the past few days. At first, I didn't know what it was. It looked like a very odd ski.” Vida's expression was one of chagrin. “Ernest's father, Rufus Runkel, may have helped start the ski lodge, but I must confess, I've never been an outdoor sportswoman. I removed the thing and kept on working. It was almost dark when I went back inside the house, and I'd become so engros
sed in what I was doing—yard work is endless, you know— that I forgot about the object until this morning when I started out for Oscar's funeral. I'd left it lying against the house, you see, and I took another look before I went to the car. This time I noticed that there was a name etched on it. Brian Conley's.”
As Vida related her story, I kept moving closer and closer to the edge of the sofa. Aware that I was about to fall on the floor, I scooted back. “What did you do then?” I inquired, breathless.
“I went into the house and woke Roger up. He likes to sleep in, especially on Saturdays.” She paused to smile fondly. “I asked if he knew what the object was. Now remember, he was barely awake and not entirely coherent. He finally mumbled that it was a snowboard. I thought as much, since it bore Brian's name, but I wanted to be sure. I asked Roger if he knew where it came from. At first, he buried his head in the pillow—so difficult for youngsters to wake up when they're still growing—but finally he said he'd found it. I pressed him a bit, but he just got cranky and said he didn't remember where or when. Naturally, I'll question him again when I get home, assuming he's up by now.”
Since it was one-thirty in the afternoon, I certainly hoped Roger might have hauled his sorry butt out of bed. “He must remember,” I pointed out. “Snowboards are expensive. Roger wouldn't forget finding something like that.”
Vida didn't comment directly. “It's Milo I'm concerned about. But you're right—he'll have to know, won't he?”
“You of all people know that, Vida.”
With effort, she got to her feet. “I dread it, though. Poor Roger. But it's necessary, particularly since Brian Conley's body seems to have disappeared.”
I nodded again. “His poor parents need all the help they can get.”
As Vida tromped to the door, straw hat in hand and shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, I felt sorry for her. She might be blind when it came to Roger's faults, but I'd never held it against her.
“Have you mentioned this to Buck?” I asked as we reached the porch.
