by Mary Daheim
“Sure.” I retrieved the letters. “I meant,” I said, putting them in Mitch’s in-basket, “what was Marlowe’s reaction to a real live murder?”
Ginny looked blank. “You mean at the tavern?”
“Yes,” I said, deadpan, catching Vida’s expectant gaze. Even when not totally absorbed with her body and the baby it carried, Ginny had neither a sense of humor nor an imagination.
Ginny shrugged. “The past three days that’s all he talks about. I tune him out. One drunk beating up on another drunk isn’t that big a deal. At least it wasn’t when I was a kid. Three or four guys got killed in brawls, not to mention accidents in the woods or the mills. Lots of lost arms and legs and fingers and toes, too.” She shuddered. “Gruesome, but typical of what went on back then. Those things aren’t what I want to dwell on when I’m having a baby. I’d rather think positive thoughts about autumn leaves and mountain meadows and big, fat pumpkins.”
My eyes strayed to Ginny’s bulging stomach. The pumpkin reference was apt, confirming my long-held opinion that Ginny didn’t have much imagination.
Vida, however, wasn’t giving in to Ginny’s indifference to tavern murders. “I might be able to catch Marlowe on his route this afternoon. He comes by my house around two. Usually,” she added, grimacing.
“Our mail at home gets later all the time,” Ginny grumbled and lumbered out of the newsroom.
Vida sighed. “I refrain from making the all-too-obvious comments.”
I agreed. “But should we talk to the people who were at the ICT?” I asked, using the tavern’s nickname, which was pronounced Icked.
“Yes,” Vida responded. “Human interest, as I mentioned.”
Not to mention Vida’s overwhelming curiosity, I thought. But she had a point. “I suppose,” I allowed, “but if these people have to testify at a trial, I’m not sure if we should publish their reactions. It’s going to be tough to pick a jury with such a small pool to draw from in this county.”
“It often is,” Vida pointed out. “Of course, we must be over eight thousand residents since the last census. The influx of commuters and people who can work out of their homes like Brenda Laskey has made Alpine and the rest of Skykomish County extremely desirable. I hate to bring this up, but Ed and Shirley Bronsky’s sale of their home to the group that wants to turn it into a retreat center is quite a coup. Naturally, the idea wasn’t Ed or Shirley’s, but their CPA’s.”
My former ad manager and his wife’s sale of the so-called villa known as Casa de Bronsky, or Bronska, or whatever the hell Ed called it, had been a relief not only to the family but also to everyone else who knew them, including me. When Ed had barged into my office and insisted on replacing Leo during my ad manager’s recovery from a gunshot wound, I thought I’d go nuts. The ten working days—or, in Ed’s case, nonworking days—had almost driven me to distraction.
“Let’s hope the ReHaven bunch finishes at least the exterior improvements on the place before the first big snow,” I said. “They’ll have to if they plan to open right after the first of the year.”
Vida nodded. “Three million dollars to refurbish and repair that monstrosity! It’s a wonder Ed and Shirley didn’t have to pay them to take the place off their hands. No upkeep over the years, so foolish. I’m surprised Ed got two and a half million for it. Of course he started out at what? Eight? I hope he’s learned his lesson about squandering money and making his own investments.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “Ed’s not the type who ever learns. Of course he’s not likely to inherit another big chunk of cash from a dead relative.”
“Reduced to living in a mobile home,” Vida said, shaking her head. “And with all those children. So cramped, and no doubt so cluttered.”
“It’s actually nice for a double-wide,” I pointed out. “But Ed’s going to have to get a job.”
“Not here,” Vida declared.
“No, never,” I assured her, using the back of my hand to take a swipe at my bangs, which needed a trim. “Shirley’s renewing her teaching certificate so she can at least substitute. The older kids are able to work, too. But you’re right. Ed’s got to get off his fat rear end and bring in some income.”
Vida pushed back in her chair. “And I must head out for my ten o’clock interview with Doc Dewey’s wife, Nancy. I suppose the Rhine River and those German castles are nice, but when it comes to rivers and autumn scenery, how can you beat driving along Highway 2 through the mountain pass?”
I didn’t have to answer Vida’s question. Fortunately, Mitch Laskey came in the door. “How did the arraignment go?” I asked.
“What you’d expect,” Mitch replied, setting his laptop on his desk. “Not guilty, self-defense, and so on. Berentsen’s hired a lawyer from Everett, a woman named Esther Brant. Can he pay for that?”
“Clive’s divorced,” I said. “His ex lives …” I looked at Vida, who had put on her raincoat. “Where?”
“Bremerton,” Vida responded, not missing a beat while heading for the door. “They had no children. The wife remarried. The second husband works in the naval shipyard over on the Kitsap Peninsula.”
Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “Amazing woman. Is there anything she doesn’t know?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Reflecting on Vida’s vast stockpile of local lore, it suddenly occurred to me that not only a little, but sometimes a lot, of knowledge was a dangerous thing.
TWO
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, I DECIDED TO PAY A VISIT TO THE sheriff. I was still irked over his implied criticism of my hiring acumen, but having known Milo Dodge for so long as ally, friend, and sometime lover, I could never stay mad at him for long.
Walking along Front Street, I gazed to my left, beyond the Bank of Alpine and the Alpine Building. The town’s older residential section, including my own little log house, clung to the side of Tonga Ridge. The vine maples, cottonwoods, and alders at the lower elevations were turning color, their slashes of red, yellow, and orange slowly merging into the dark green stands of Douglas firs, western hemlocks, and cedars. Vida wasn’t wrong about the local scenery. It was spectacular this time of year with just a few pockets of snow still tucked into the mountains’ recesses and an occasional waterfall trickling over moss-covered rocks. I stopped at the corner of Front and Third, waiting for a UPS truck to pass. A few high white clouds moved slowly across the sky. The temperature was cool but not yet crisp. The smell of diesel fuel didn’t quite manage to spoil the scent of sawdust from Alpine’s only remaining mill. By the time I reached the sheriff’s office, the air was also tinged with grease from the Burger Barn across the street. I realized I was hungry.
The sheriff was coming out just as I turned to go in.
“Is this an ambush?” he asked.
“Yes. No.” I craned my neck to look up at him. Milo is over a foot taller than I am, and in his regulation Smokey Bear hat he looms like a leviathan. “I thought I should touch base with you on the murder.”
“Ah.” The expression on Milo’s long face was wry. “So you don’t trust this Laskey dude after all?”
“Of course I do,” I retorted. “But I’m ultimately responsible. It’s a homicide, for heaven’s sake!”
Milo shrugged. “This one’s pretty cut and dried.” He gestured at the Burger Barn. “You want to eat or stand here and block foot traffic?”
“Eat,” I said.
The sheriff loped ahead of me, jaywalking across Front Street. “No breakfast,” he said over his shoulder. “We had a power outage in my neighborhood this morning.”
“Did you tell Mitch?” I asked, hurrying to catch up with him.
Milo leaned into the restaurant’s door, opening it with his shoulder. “Why? He doesn’t live in the Icicle Creek development.”
There are times when I honestly don’t know if the sheriff doesn’t recognize a news item or if he’s simply trying to annoy me. “Besides,” he added as we went inside, “it came back on about twenty minutes aft
er I got to work.” Espying an empty booth near the back, he led the way, giving a couple of nods to some of the other patrons, including Scooter Hutchins and Lloyd Campbell, a couple of our local businessmen.
“To think,” I said, sliding into the booth across from him, “I was going to thank you for making such a timely arrest in terms of our deadline. But I realize you probably never gave it a thought.”
“I sure as hell didn’t,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette. “Good God, don’t I have plenty on my plate without worrying about your paper?”
It was pointless to argue. After fifteen years of dealing with the sheriff and trying to make him understand the print media’s demands, I knew it was a lost cause.
“Is Clive being a model prisoner?” I asked politely.
“So far.” Milo was studying the menu, though I didn’t know why. He almost always ordered the same thing. “Clive’s pretty upset. He swears he didn’t hit De Muth hard enough to kill him.”
“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”
“I suppose so.” Milo slid the menu back behind the napkin holder. “I thought his attorney might ask for bail, but she didn’t. I figure she’s going for a plea bargain. Anyway, bail might not have been granted since Clive’s a trucker.”
“That translates as an automatic flight risk?”
“Around here it does.” Milo leaned out into the aisle. “What did they do, fire all the waitresses?”
“They’re busy,” I said. “It’s almost noon.”
The sheriff exhaled smoke and looked grumpy. “So why’s everybody here early?”
“It’s five to twelve,” I said. “It’s Wednesday. They probably want to finish in time to get their copy of the Advocate.”
“Bullshit.” He leaned back in the booth. “Oh, God, here comes Delphine Corson.”
“So?”
“She called this morning to ask me not to …” He stopped as Delphine reached our booth. “Hi,” he said halfheartedly. “What’s up?”
Our local florist was inching toward sixty, but she’d done a good job of keeping her looks. Delphine’s short ash-blond hair was cut in a style that accentuated her high cheekbones and azure-blue eyes. “I was hoping to buy you lunch,” she said to the sheriff after giving me a quick if not sincere smile. “I see you’re already booked.”
Milo’s gaze was steady. “Oh? You should’ve called first.” He gestured at me. “I picked this one up on the sidewalk.”
Delphine’s smile became a smirk. “No kidding. Seriously, we have to talk,” she said. “Are you free this evening? I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“The ante’s going up,” Milo remarked. “I’ll have to check my social calendar. It’s pretty damned crowded these days.”
“Come on, Dodge,” Delphine said, leaning a hand on the back of his booth. “Have you tried the Sailfish Grill in Monroe? It’s really good.”
“I’ll call you,” Milo said.
Delphine had stopped smiling. “When?”
“This afternoon.” His gaze remained steady. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
Looking far from convinced, Delphine turned around and headed back toward the front of the restaurant.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered, “that new waitress—Lisa or Liza or whoever—was coming our way but gave up when she saw Delphine in the way. Now she’s disappeared.” He tapped ash onto the Formica tabletop, then swept it into his hand and dumped it on the floor. There was no ashtray because we were sitting in the No Smoking section. The sheriff didn’t uphold laws that inconvenienced him.
“Take it easy,” I said. “The waitress—whose name is Liz, by the way—is coming from the other direction. She’s lean and mean, recently arrived from Idaho.”
For once, the sheriff altered his usual order of a cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad. “Bacon burger, fries, and that new fruit cup.”
“We’re out of the fruit cup,” Liz replied, and added archly, “thanks to you.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Milo demanded.
“I heard you arrested the guy who drives the truck that brings the canned fruit here,” Liz said, her thin lips barely moving. “So what do you want instead?”
“The salad, blue cheese.” Disgruntled, Milo stubbed out his cigarette and tossed the butt into his empty coffee mug. “Did you run out of coffee, too?”
“Not yet.” Liz glared at him and snatched up the mug before turning to me. “The beef’s rare today.”
“Oh.” I smiled feebly. “Good. Then I’ll have the dip with fries and a salad exactly like the sheriff’s.”
Without another word, Liz stalked off.
Milo began his customary ritual of rearranging the salt and pepper shakers. “You had a run-in with her already?”
“Last week. I ordered the beef dip rare and it was well done, so I—politely—inquired if any of it was rare. Liz informed me that the only thing rare she’d found around Alpine was real men.”
“She’d better watch her mouth,” Milo said, craning his neck. “Where the hell is the coffee?”
“Don’t have a heart attack,” I cautioned. “Your gallbladder episode last winter scared everybody. Anyway,” I went on, “when I was here last week I wanted to ask Liz some questions, since she was obviously new in town. I didn’t because she wasn’t very friendly and I was annoyed. Bad start. I had Vida interrogate her the next day. Liz moved here from Idaho Springs in September. Even Vida couldn’t find out why, so instead of doing a short newcomer feature, we decided to put it in the ‘Scene Around Town’ box on the front page. ‘Liz Kirby, an Idaho transplant, is a new face at the Burger Barn.’ Or something like that. Liz should know that a small town is no place to remain anonymous.”
Milo stopped fiddling with the salt and pepper. “Vida couldn’t get her to open up? Liz must be in the witness protection program.”
“Vida’ll find out eventually,” I assured him and kicked his shin, hoping he’d catch on as Liz approached with the coffee carafe and a clean mug. She poured my coffee first. “Thanks,” I said cheerfully.
Liz didn’t say anything; neither did Milo. I kept expecting her to remind him he was in the No Smoking area.
“What’s with you and the fruit cup?” I asked after Liz had left us.
“Doc Dewey. He said I should eat more fruit and fewer spuds.”
“You ordered fries.”
“So? I was compromising.”
I shook my head. “You’re hopeless. Tell me why Delphine is sucking up to you.”
Milo’s long face looked pained. “I went out with her a few times,” he said, speaking quietly and more rapidly than usual. “Long time ago.”
“I recall your brief and apparently unsatisfactory … courtship. Leo Walsh dated her, too, but that never went anywhere, either.”
“That’s the trouble,” Milo said. “Delphine’s always in a rush to get married again. I don’t know why—she and Randy weren’t exactly an ideal couple. That marriage was rocky from the start. But after three dates with a guy, she starts talking long-term commitment. Who needs that kind of pressure?”
I nodded. “She did get engaged to Spike Canby. Then he got hurt in that construction accident on the bridge into town. They broke up not long afterward.”
“Right.” Milo paused as Liz brought our food, all but dumping it on the table.
The sheriff peered at his burger. “Where’s the bacon?”
“We’re out of that, too,” Liz replied, looking as if she had to force herself from smiling in triumph. “No delivery. We ran out after breakfast.”
“You can’t find another driver for Berentsen’s truck?” Milo snapped. “This town’s got plenty of them, with all the ex-loggers.”
Liz pressed her thin lips together before responding. “The truck needs new brakes. The guy who got killed was supposed to fix them over the weekend.”
“Oh, for …” Milo made an angry gesture, narrowly missing knocking over his coffee mug. “Forget it.”
�
��I’d like to,” Liz snapped. “This town’s a real cesspool.” She stomped off toward the serving area.
“I still don’t know why Delphine’s so anxious to talk to you,” I said after a brief pause. “Is she lusting after your body?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass.” Milo took a vicious bite of his burger. I waited for his response. “Spike couldn’t work construction anymore with his bum back,” he said at last, “so he had to find a job. I guess he’d managed to save some money and when Virgil Post’s family put the Icicle Creek Tavern up for sale, Spike bought it. Right after that, he married Julie Whatever-Her-Name-Was.”
“Blair,” I said. “She was married before to a guy from Maltby.”
“That sounds right.” Milo ate two fat french fries. “Anyway, Delphine was at the ICT Saturday night when De Muth got killed. She never goes there, but she’s been seeing Gus Swanson since he and his wife split a couple of months ago. Gus worked late because the new models had arrived and he was going over his inventory. He asked Delphine to meet him at the ICT for a drink.”
I nodded. Gus owned the local Toyota dealership, which was located off the Icicle Creek Road a couple of blocks from the tavern. “What happened? Did Delphine get into it with Spike and somehow start the brawl that led to the murder?”
Milo shook his head. “Not as far as I know. That is, according to her, they’d just gotten served when all hell broke loose. She and Gus took off. Delphine says nobody was dead when they left. Anyway, she doesn’t want me or anybody else mentioning that she was at the tavern. Too embarrassing, I guess, to show up at the place owned by her ex-boyfriend. It’s dumb. Who cares?”
