by Mary Daheim
Before telling Milo what Vida and I suspected, I decided to test the waters. “Are there any other leads?”
Milo lighted a cigarette and scowled. “If there are, the navy's not telling me about them. Not yet. Oh, sure,” he went on, exhaling, “they've promised to cooperate with SkyCo, but you know the military—a world of its own.”
Even though Milo wasn't going to like what I had to say, I couldn't withhold my theory any longer. “That's why I came to see you,” I said as the sheriff's phone rang.
Milo scowled some more, held up a hand, and lifted the receiver. “Dodge here. Can't this wait?” He listened to Toni, presumably, then let out a big sigh. “Okay, put her through.”
Trying to become invisible, I busied myself with the latest pamphlet on state hunting and fishing regulations. But of course I was tuned in to the sheriff's every word:
“I'm really busy today…. Tonight's no good, I'm playing poker at Jack Mullins's house…. Hey, it'll be late, and it's a weeknight…. Because we can't get together on weekends, that's the department's busiest time.” Then there was a very long pause on Milo's part. Finally, his face darkening, he spoke again: “If that's the way you feel, so be it…. I'm sorry, too. Took, tomorrow night would be fine. Can't it wait that long?” Again, the sheriff didn't speak for almost a full minute, and when he did, his face had softened. “Okay…. I know, I feel the same. Bye.”
Ringing off, Milo looked almost as if he were blushing. “That was Tara. She's giving me one last chance.”
My heart sank, but not because I was jealous. As far as I was concerned, Tara's call couldn't have come at a worse moment. Milo had entrusted his feelings to me. I wouldn't, couldn't hurt him. “Do you want another chance?” I asked in a hollow voice.
Milo winced. “I don't know that I don't want it. I mean, I don't like acting hasty. She's certainly a fine woman. Tike I said, I could do worse.”
Maybe Milo really was in love. He swore he'd been in love with me. I thought he'd been in love with Jeannie Clay, although I knew it was a rebound romance, and short-lived at that. But until now, it had never occurred to me that he might actually love Tara Peebles.
I stood up. “I'd better leave you to your quandary,” I said.
“Hold on,” Milo said in surprise. “I thought you had something to tell me.”
I gave thim an uncertain smile. “It can wait. I just remembered I've got to send Scott over to Old Mill Park to take pictures of Fuzzy Baugh's toilets.”
Milo looked puzzled. “You sure?”
I said I was. Keeping some ugly doubts to myself, I left.
I arrived back at the office to find Grace Grundle shuffling around the newsroom in her carpet slippers. “Now see here, Vida Blatt,” she was saying to my House and Home editor, “you've never had animals. You don't know the first thing about them.”
“Animals are a nuisance,” Vida declared, “and I do wish you'd try to remember that I've been Vida Runkel for going on fifty years.”
Leo Walsh appeared to be absorbed in a layout. I didn't much blame him. Scott was on the phone, so I scribbled a note about the toilet photos and tossed it on his desk. He gave me a nod while I skirted around Grace, heading for sanctuary in my cubbyhole.
“Just a moment, young woman,” Grace said, holding out an arm to detain me. “Would you please tell Mrs. Runkel here what a comfort cats can be.”
“I had cats very briefly,” I demurred. “I was sort of cat-sitting for a friend.”
“Cats are very sensitive,” Grace asserted, looking not at me but at Vida. “They're almost human. Indeed”— she sniffed—“they have more feelings than some humans I could name.”
“Oh, bother,” Vida muttered.
“Every time there's a death in Alpine, my cats become distraught for days,” Grace continued, ignoring Vida's comment. “Doozle in particular. Doozle hasn't been himself for at least a week, and when he's like that, he always runs off. What could you expect with so many deaths all at once?”
“Yes,” Vida admitted. “Oscar Nyquist, the O'Neill boys, and of course the discovery of the snowboarder's body. I don't recall such a week in Alpine.”
Grace nodded. “Terrible, just terrible. Especially Oscar. Such a fine man. But that doesn't help with Doozle. He's still gone.”
“But he always comes back,” Vida pointed out with more patience than I would have expected. “You said so yourself. So why are you insisting that we print up circulars advertising his disappearance?”
“Because,” Grace retorted, stamping her carpet-slippered foot, “he's been gone longer than usual. What's worse is that I understand you used the item about Doozle getting sick from the awful stench, but nary a word about him running off. Now, when they read your column, everyone will think he's safe at home, when he isn't. I think you should print the circulars for free.”
Leo finally looked up. “Sorry, Ms. Grundle, no can do. But we'll give you a discount. How long has the cat been missing?”
“Since last night,” Grace replied. “Do you know how much Dr. Medved charges? I had to take Doozle in twice, and it cost over a hundred dollars. How can I afford to pay for circulars? Don't you have a civic duty to your subscribers?”
I stepped between Leo's desk and Grace. “Please, let's wait. Had Doozle recovered from the … awful stench?”
“Yes, of course,” Grace answered with a firm nod. “He only gets upset when Mr. Driggers runs the crematorium. The wind blows straight up the hill to my house. It's very noxious.”
I stared at Grace, whose small, dumpy figure exuded defiance. “What night was that?” I asked, my voice sharp.
Grace jumped a bit. “What? Let me think … Tuesday or Wednesday of last week. Tuesday, I think. Yes, I'm sure of it. The milkman comes on Wednesday, and I was afraid I'd run out of heavy cream for Doozle.”
I forced a kindly smile. “Yes, I can see why you've been worried. About Doozle, I mean. He sounds very sensitive. Excuse me, I think my phone's ringing.”
It wasn't, but I dashed into the office and closed the door, though not before I heard Grace demand, “Now what about my circulars?”
Just as I reached for the phone, it rang. Janet Driggers was on the other end, full of apologies.
“I feel so bad about standing you up at the ski lodge,” she said. “How about lunch? Al's supposed to be back from Seattle by then. He just called Dan Peebles at the mortuary to tell him.”
“I'll get back to you on that,” I hedged. “By the way, what impelled Al to go to Seattle in the first place?”
Janet's tone became conspiratorial. “I'll tell you at lunch. I'm buying, at the ski lodge, to make up for yesterday. Could you go at one so that I don't have to leave before Al gets back?”
I vacillated. But speaking with Janet should prove interesting. “Why not?” I said. Wednesday was always our lightest workday, though not necessarily this week. “But you don't have to treat. See you there.”
“Grace!” Vida exclaimed in the doorway as I hung up my phone. “Such a ninny when it comes to those cats.”
Along with Grace, Leo and Scott had left on their appointed rounds. Ginny was out front and Kip was somewhere in Skykomish County delivering the Advocate. I didn't need to ask Vida to close the door for privacy.
“Maybe,” I began as she sat down, “I am a bit muddled by love. Even though the wedding isn't until next spring, I keep having these fantasies of walking down the aisle at St. Mildred's and being on a honeymoon in the south of France and making dinner for Tom every night.”
“They aren't fantasies,” Vida asserted. “They're your future. But why should you make dinner every night? Indeed, why not work part-time and let Tommy help put out the paper? He certainly has the experience.”
I gave Vida an admiring glance. “That's a thought. He'll still have his newspaper empire to run, though.”
“Surely it must run mostly on its own,” Vida remarked. “That is, he doesn't have to be a hands-on publisher as you do.”
“True,�
�� I allowed, then folded my hands on the desk and leaned forward. “But that isn't what I wanted to talk about. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions about the Brian Conley murder and the missing body, but what did you make of Grace's statement that her cat always reacted to a cremation at Driggers's Funeral Home?”
Vida's gray eyes glinted. “Yes. I caught that. I think it's nonsense. I've never noticed a stench from the crematorium. But it did make me wonder. Grace lives on Spruce Street, just three blocks up from the funeral parlor. She could see the smoke, if not smell the … well, you know what I mean.”
“Grace would imagine that Boozle or whatever the cat's name is was bothered by the smell,” I said, growing excited as well as nervous. “And much as I hate to admit it, I do believe that animals can sense things that mere mortals can't. Which makes me wonder if Brian's body never left Alpine.”
Vida sat up very straight. “Have you mentioned this to Milo?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Tittle things were beginning to occur to me since last night. And this morning Milo was all worked up about Tara Peebles. Then you and I had the same thought about the naval station. Still, it was mostly guesswork, and while I was in Milo's office, Tara called him. I just couldn't tell him what we suspected.”
“He'll have to know,” Vida declared, “ and the sooner the better. Sentiment can't play a part in this.”
“But we could be completely wrong,” I argued. “Even with what Grace told us, it's only beginning to come into focus.”
“I still say we must tell Milo at once,” Vida said, rising to her feet.
I glanced at my watch, which told me it was almost ten-thirty. “I don't know…. Maybe I should wait until I see Janet Driggers at lunch.”
Vida, however shook her head. “No. Milo must hear this. Even if it's wrong, we should tell him.”
“But,” I protested, “you know how our sheriff feels about half-baked ideas. He'll look at us as if we're nuts.”
Vida wavered. “That's so. He may even think we're fantasizing. Dear me, such a quandary.”
“But Janet may be able to tell us something concrete,” I pointed out. “Assuming she knows what we suspect.”
With a grimace, Vida gave in. “You're right. Two or three hours won't make that much difference.”
Yet as Vida went back to her desk, I questioned my judgment. After she left to interview Jean and Lloyd Campbell of Alpine Appliance about their recent trip to Peru, I dialed Milo's number.
Bill Blatt informed me that Milo was out.
“How soon do you expect him back?” I inquired.
“I'm not sure,” Vida's nephew replied. “He took some personal time.”
I sucked in my breath. “To do what?”
“I don't really know,” Bill responded, sounding surprised that I would pry. I suppose only his aunt was allowed to do that. “He didn't say.”
The sheriff wasn't required to tell anyone where he was going. But I thought I knew.
The apprehension I'd felt earlier now crystallized into outright fear for Milo.
BETH RAFFERTY CALLED me on her lunch break. “Toni said you wanted to talk to me. Can we do it over the phone or shall I stop by on my way back from the Burger Barn?”
The Burger Barn was across Front Street, not quite halfway between the sheriff's headquarters and the Advocate. My own staff were at lunch, so I asked Beth to see me at my office.
“That's fine,” she replied in the perky voice that got shelved when a 911 call came through. “Can I pick up anything for you?”
I thanked her but said I was taking a late lunch. Fifteen minutes later, Beth showed up, carrying the ubiquitous white bag marked with two big red B's and a drawing of a sizzling hamburger patty on top of a barn. Just looking at the logo made me realize I was hungry.
Beth Rafferty was Tim's older sister, close to forty, with short blonde hair and intelligent hazel eyes. She was tall, almost six feet, and painfully thin. For years I'd wondered if she was anorexic, but Vida had told me that Beth had always been just plain skinny. Vida had also informed me that Beth had married a young man from Index when they were both still in their teens. The union had lasted less than two years, and after the divorce, Beth had taken back her maiden name.
“I'm on a wild-goose chase,” I admitted. “As you've 275
probably figured out over the years, journalists like to play detective. It comes with the job description. We dig into stories, the way scientists and historians research their areas of expertise.”
Beth gave me an uneven smile, a reminder that she'd been to the dentist and that the Novocain probably hadn't worn off yet. “Digging just like detectives,” she put in.
“Exactly.” I returned the smile. “I know the sheriff questioned you about your brother Tim. I also know that you said Tim's story was consistent—what he read over the air and what he told you. But was there anything he left out? Some detail, something so minor that he wouldn't feel it was worth mentioning?”
Looking up from her deep-fried mushrooms, Beth frowned. “Didn't you also talk to Tim?”
I nodded. “And Tiffany as well.”
Beth sniffed. “Tiffany. Why my brother stays with her, I'll never know. She's the original bimbo.”
“The point is,” I explained, “I learned very little from either of them. But you see quite a bit of Tim, right?”
“Not as much as you'd expect,” Beth replied with a wry expression. “In fact, there are times when I think Tim and Tiffany deserve each other. Our last heart-to-heart talk was when our dad died a few months ago. In fact, we had sort of a falling-out, though we made up later.”
I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten about Liam Raf-ferty. He had requested that his earthly remains be buried in Ireland. Stunned by my lapse, I was silent for a few moments. Beth, eating her mushrooms and green salad, didn't seem to notice.
I took a deep breath and assumed what I hoped was a casual air. “The quarrel wasn't serious, I hope.”
“Not really.” Beth sipped her Coke before speaking again. “It was that crazy idea my dad had about be-
ing buried in the old sod. Or at least Tim insisted that was what he wanted. Our mom didn't know anything about it, but frankly, she has symptoms of Alzheimer's. Anyway, I couldn't find dad's so-called request written down anywhere. He didn't even have a will, but then there wasn't much to leave, and in this state, everything's community property, so it goes to Mom as the surviving spouse.”
“Yet your brother insisted that your father wanted to be interred in Ireland?”
Beth nodded. “I couldn't really argue. But it was a big expense, and it seemed odd to Mom—when she remembers—that Dad didn't want to be laid to rest next to her at the cemetery here. Dad was born in Ireland, but Mom is from Skykomish. She isn't Irish, she's German. It hurt her—hurts her still, when she thinks of it. They'd had their problems over the years, but they loved each other. I know they did.” Beth's eyes grew misty.
“When did your father die?” I asked.
“April fifteenth,” Beth replied. “I'm not likely to forget the date, but of course it was also income tax time.”
April. That fit. “Where's Tim right now?”
“What?” It appeared that Beth was still dwelling on her parents. “At the radio station. He fills in quite a bit on Saturdays before he tends bar in the evening.”
“Thanks, Beth,” I said. “You may not know it, but you've been a real help. I'm sorry I inconvenienced you on your lunch hour.”
Beth shrugged. “No big deal, but I'd better get back to work. It took longer than I'd planned at the Burger Barn. They were really busy.”
I didn't try to detain her. It was almost twelve-thirty, and with luck, I'd just have time to call on her brother at KSKY. The station wasn't too far off my route to the ski lodge where I was meeting Janet Driggers.
When Spencer Fleetwood formally went on the air almost a year ago, I was suffering from pique and refused to attend his open house. I'd sent Scott Chamoud instead, and
of course Vida went, too. A stampeding herd of water buffalo wouldn't have kept my House and Home editor away.
The building that housed KSKY stood in a clearing just off the fish hatchery road. Several yards away was the radio tower. I couldn't guess its height, but it seemed to soar halfway to heaven. If it hadn't, the station's signal wouldn't have gone beyond the first crags of Tonga Ridge.
I didn't recognize the young woman at the desk in the tiny front office. Indeed, her wide, unflawed face indicated she wasn't more than eighteen. I assumed she was a college student and was startled by the deep voice that emanated from her flat chest.
“May I help you?” she inquired.
I told her I'd like to speak with Tim Rafferty. Ms. Deep Throat said he was on the air. I said I'd wait until he played the usual six-pack between commercials.
“He eats lunch then,” she said, glancing through the big window behind her where Tim was hunched over a large computer console. “This is the last trio of ads before he has his break.”
“Then I'll join him,” I responded, and marched into the studio.
“Hey!” The young woman thrust out an arm to stop me, but she was too late. I was already inside where a startled Tim Rafferty pressed a final key and stared at me with his mouth open.
“What the hell…? “he began.
“You're not on the air now?” I whispered, just in case the mike was still open.
“No.” He gulped. “What is this?”
“Just a couple of questions, Tim. Relax.” I sat down in the only vacant chair, presumably reserved for interview subjects. Then I threw out my wild guess: “When did the O'Neills tell you about their weapons stash?”
Tim drew back in his swivel chair. “They didn't. What're you talking about?”
“You knew they had illegal arms,” I said. “What did they do, ask you to help sell them?”
“No!” Tim was gripping the armrests on his chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I never got mixed up in that stuff! And they didn't ask me to!”
“But you knew about it,” I said softly. “That makes you part of the conspiracy to sell stolen and illegal guns. How do you think Sheriff Dodge is going to react to your complicity? You could end up in a federal penitentiary.”
