by Mary Daheim
He was referring to my arrival with a grown son and no husband, which had fueled gossip. Not only did I have money to buy the Advocate, but I drove a Jaguar. The assumption was that I’d had a wealthy keeper. The truth was that my former fiancé, Don, had put me on his Boeing life insurance policy and forgotten to take me off after we broke up. When he died unexpectedly of a heart attack at forty-five, I’d come into enough money to buy both the newspaper and the secondhand car.
“Funny you should mention that,” I said, wishing that the burly jerk wasn’t blocking me on the path to my Honda, “now that your daughter is moving in with Jack Blackwell. Don’t you find that ironic?”
“Ironic?” Wayne wrinkled his snub nose as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word. “No. She’s going to work for Blackwell. It beats standing all day at the Grocery Basket ringing up bags of canned goods and half racks of beer.”
“I’m sure she’ll be off her feet at Blackwell’s.” I paused, seeing another figure approaching from the other side of the building. If memory served from looking at staff photos, it was Iain Farrell, the head of the rehab unit. “You know why Dodge considered you the prime suspect in Tim’s homicide. If nothing else, you impeded justice by lying—” I stopped, seeing that Farrell had passed the entrance and was about to join us.
Wayne’s back was turned to the newcomer, but noting my gaze move beyond him, he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re still a prick-tease and Dodge is a son of a bitch,” he muttered before greeting Farrell.
“More problems?” Farrell asked, gesturing at the PUD truck.
“Nothing serious,” Wayne replied. “The biggest problem is that the wiring and its connections had to be redone. For some damned reason, Bronsky hired from outside instead of using Alpine Service & Repair.”
Farrell’s lean face was thoughtful—or maybe he always took his time answering questions. “Good. So no holdups with our opening?”
“Not as far as I see,” Wayne said. “I’m just checking a few things. I’d better get busy.” He walked away, leaving me alone with Farrell.
I hastily introduced myself. “I won’t keep you. I know there’s a staff meeting about to start.”
Again there was a pause. “Yes. A pleasure.” He moved to the entrance but didn’t seem to be in a hurry.
A pleasure? Attending the meeting? Shaking my hand? Having Wayne on the job? I wondered how the afternoon’s interview with Farrell would go. At best, slowly … at worst, I couldn’t guess.
Predictably, lunch with Mitch at the Venison Inn turned out to be exactly what I’d expected. He was in a quandary about Brenda. Her emotional state was worse than I’d feared.
As my reporter unburdened himself at obvious personal cost, he began by telling me that his wife’s problems hadn’t been triggered solely by Troy’s most recent escape from prison. Her psyche had always been fragile, though it began to worsen after empty-nest syndrome set in.
“Brenda is first and foremost a mother,” he explained after our salads had been delivered by Nicole, one of Vida’s many relatives. “Not to say she hasn’t been a good wife. She has. But Brenda worked on her weaving at home while our kids were growing up. Our older two stayed close by and graduated from Wayne State. Jacob accepted an offer from Kimberly-Clark in Wisconsin and married a girl from Green Bay. They live in Appleton. After Miriam graduated, she went to work for a Pittsburgh landscaping firm.” He paused as Nicole brought our entrees.
“It sounds as if Jacob and Miriam are fairly close in age,” I said.
Mitch nodded. “Two years. There was a gap of five years before we had Troy. He was Brenda’s baby. In fact,” he continued, with a rueful expression, “Brenda insisted on calling him Troy rather than an Old Testament Jewish name. It seemed as if she stamped him as her own from the day he was born.” He stopped to take a bite of his pastrami on rye sandwich. “You know the rest of it,” he continued. “Dropping out of school, following a girl to Spokane, getting dumped, and then into drugs. In the meantime, Brenda wasn’t just frantic, she made herself sick. That’s when I decided to move here so we could be close to Troy. I thought it would save her sanity. It didn’t.”
I swallowed some of my shrimp salad sandwich. “Can you attach a name to whatever is wrong with her?”
“Clinical depression was the original diagnosis when we were in Detroit. Once she got here, she seemed better. Then Troy made his second escape, and that really threw her. At this point I don’t know what a professional would call it. The last few weeks before Troy broke out, she didn’t want to leave the house. I can’t keep her with Miriam. Our daughter has a job and can’t play round-the-clock nursemaid. I can’t, either. I may put her in RestHaven and hope for the best. From what I’ve seen of the place, it’s first-rate. Right now I feel as if I’ve abandoned her.”
“You’ve done the best you can,” I said, “but I understand. Are you covered for that sort of thing through SkyCo?”
Mitch looked at me curiously. “You’re the one who had me sign up for it. Don’t you know what the coverage is?”
I was embarrassed to admit that I didn’t. “I’m not very good at reading fine print. It’s not something I’ve ever had to check on.”
“Then I guess we both should do that.” Mitch stared at the rest of his sandwich as if it were poisoned.
“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. I liked Mitch, but he had a habit of putting me in the wrong, and this wasn’t the first time. “When you run a small newspaper, there are a lot of things you have to put on hold. I try to keep focused on the tasks at hand. This may not be Detroit or the Free Press, but these days I’m lucky to keep the paper going.”
“Then let’s do it as soon as we finish here.”
“How about now?” I said, pushing my plate away.
“Fine.” He appeared to be reaching for his wallet.
“I’ll pick up the tab. Let’s go.”
Mitch didn’t argue. Nicole quickly added up our bill. I handed her twenty-five dollars, telling her to keep the change. We walked the half block in a torrential downpour. The clouds hovering over the rooftops had turned an ominous black. We arrived semi-soaked to find an empty office. I got out the SkyCo health care binder and placed it on Mitch’s desk. “You want to look or should I?”
A bit sheepishly, Mitch said he’d do it. I went into my office and called Ellen Nordby, the hospital’s benefits maven. Not surprisingly, she was out to lunch. While hearing the rain pelt our tin roof, I went over Dr. Farrell’s background. I realized he hadn’t recognized my name or remembered our two o’clock interview. It was now almost one. On the off chance that Milo might be in his office, I dialed his number.
“Not here,” Sam Heppner said, sounding as close as he got to glee.
“Is he still at the courthouse?”
“No.”
“When do you expect him?”
“Can’t say.”
I slammed down the phone. When it came to choosing between Sam and Dwight as the most misogynistic deputy, it was a dead heat.
Mitch appeared in the doorway, looking gloomy. “It doesn’t sound as if mental health is covered unless it’s accident-related.”
I refrained from suggesting that maybe he could run over Brenda with his car. “Has she ever suffered any sort of head trauma?”
“Not that I recall. In over thirty years of marriage there might’ve been an incident I missed or forgot.”
“Maybe she had a head injury when you weren’t home. You could ask her and quiz your kids to see if they remember anything like that.”
“I suppose.” He put the binder on my desk and walked away just as lightning flashed.
A boom of thunder soon followed. Such storms weren’t infrequent in our high-elevation aerie. They could occur any time of year. In summer, there was often no rain, just spidery lightning over the mountains and thunder rolling down the Valley of the Sky. An awesome sight, though in dry weather I worried about forest fires.
Amanda was back at her post. Leo
and Vida arrived a minute later. The lights flickered several times. I heard Vida complain because she’d forgotten her rain bonnet and her maroon pillbox was soaked. A few minutes later, Kip appeared to tell me we’d lost our online connection.
“Just hope nothing big happens until it’s restored,” he said.
“With any luck,” I responded, “lightning will hit KSKY’s antenna.”
Vida had overheard. “That’s unkind. My program is on tonight.”
“Sorry. I’m still miffed about Spence scooping us.”
I’d barely spoken when our lights dimmed. My first reaction was to check to see if the phones worked. Mine didn’t, but I had my cell.
“A pole must’ve been hit,” Leo said, raising his voice to be heard over the thunder. “At least it’s not dark enough to need candles.”
“Coleman lanterns,” Vida said. “That’s what they used in the old days in Alpine until the houses got electricity.”
Another five minutes passed before the storm moved on. I asked Mitch to check on the extent of damage. Heading to my office, I heard sirens, no surprise in severe weather. The storm passed just after one-thirty. Through the window above Vida’s desk I could see that the rain had dwindled. There were no visible lights across the street. Before I got to my desk, my cell rang.
“Emma,” Milo said, “Wayne Eriks is dead.”
“What?” I shrieked.
“He either fell off a pole or got fried by a hot wire. Maybe both.” Milo hung up.
THREE
MY STAFF WAS MILDLY STUNNED BY THE NEWS OF WAYNE Eriks’s death.
“He always was the careless type,” Vida asserted.
“I don’t think I know him,” Mitch murmured.
“The Widow Rafferty’s dad, right?” Leo said.
“Dumb stunt if he was on a pole in this weather,” Kip remarked.
“That creep hit on me once,” Amanda declared.
“A bad habit of his,” I noted—and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
Most of all, I wished I knew where the accident had happened. Milo hadn’t given any details. “Those sirens,” I said. “They probably were for Wayne. Did it sound as if they were headed to RestHaven?”
“Possibly,” Vida replied. “They were going east.”
It was a quarter to two. “I’m heading up there to interview Dr. Farrell. Maybe I’ll go now, just in case that’s where it happened. Wayne was working on some glitch when I was there before noon.”
Vida nodded. “I must call Dot Parker. She was never fond of her son-in-law, but she’ll feel sorry for Cookie. The Erikses have had more than their share of problems. First their son, Ringo, died in a rafting accident, then Tiffany’s husband, Tim, was murdered, and now Wayne is dead. Don’t forget his brother Mel’s sister-in-law, Crystal. She came to a dreadful end. They do seem hexed.”
“Hexed?” Mitch echoed. “They sound doomed.”
I wondered if Mitch was thinking that maybe his own problems weren’t as horrific by comparison. But I didn’t take time to carry on a conversation, especially if it involved Crystal Bird, my onetime nemesis. I was too curious about where and how Wayne had died. Telling Kip to stand by in case our power was restored, I headed out into what had subsided to our normal February rain.
No freight trains held me up, but there were big puddles of water on Front Street and River Road. I was forced to drive slowly, and once I passed the golf course, I could see an ambulance blocking the entrance to RestHaven’s sloping driveway. I pulled onto the verge, trying to spot Milo’s Yukon. Just as I was about to get out of my car the fire engine pulled out. It was only then that I spotted the sheriff standing by the medic van and talking to Del Amundson, one of the drivers.
As I trudged to where they were talking, I saw Sam Heppner and the only female deputy, Doe Jamison, getting into a cruiser. This was the first time I’d assumed my editor’s role—except for our own frightening story—since Milo and I became engaged. To my surprise, I felt awkward.
Sam and Doe took off just as I reached Milo and the medic. “Hi, Emma,” the sheriff said. “Your power’s back on?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
His hazel eyes turned wary. “How’d you know where Eriks was?”
“I’m here to interview Dr. Farrell,” I said, my awkwardness overcome by annoyance. “Besides, the last time I saw Wayne Eriks he was here at RestHaven.”
Milo nodded vaguely. “It probably was an accident with a hot wire. The dumb shit had taken his gloves off. Doc Dewey can do his thing now.” He gestured over his shoulder at the river, which was running high and off-color. “Weird. Almost the same spot where Ursula O’Toole Randall was found facedown in the Sky.”
I thought back to the long-ago incident that had occurred while Milo and I had been a couple the first time around. I wondered if the site was jinxed. “That’s it?” I said, nodding at Del, who’d given the sheriff a semi-salute before heading to the medic van.
“What did you expect? Somebody shot him and he fell off the pole? The ambulance is heading out,” Milo continued as the vehicle descended the driveway. “Eriks is on the way to the morgue. You want pictures?”
Del had pulled out and was making a U-turn on River Road. Milo and I both stepped out of the way. “I didn’t bring a camera.”
“Good thing. You take lousy pictures.”
I waited until the van had passed us. “You’re in a lousy mood.”
Milo grabbed my arm. “Buy those crabs. Goddamn it, Emma, I could cart you off now if I didn’t have to fill out a bunch of paperwork.”
I stared up at him. “You’re free of Tricia and Tanya?”
“You bet.” He grinned and squeezed my arm. “Now beat it, before I ruin our staid new public image.”
“Okay,” I said meekly. “What if they don’t have crab?”
The sheriff had let go of my arm and started to turn toward his SUV. “I don’t give a shit. I’ll eat sawdust if that’s all you’ve got.”
Smiling, I went back to my Honda, but waited for Milo to drive away first. He waved as he passed by. I was still smiling as I got out of the car and headed for the entrance. But my smile faded when I went inside. A half-dozen somber people were gathered in the atrium, including the receptionist. She saw me and hurried to indicate Dr. Farrell’s office, directly opposite Dr. Reed’s.
“He’s waiting for you,” she said in a hushed tone.
Apparently I was two minutes late. Iain Farrell looked somber as he greeted me and stayed put in his gray leather chair.
“The driveway was blocked,” I said.
“Yes.” He scowled at a yellow legal pad. “Editor and publisher, Alpine Advocate. Emma Lord.” He paused, gray eyes still fixed on his notes. “You have ten minutes. We’ve called a special grief encounter.”
I already felt like an idiot, so I might as well sound like one. “Because of the accident?”
Farrell finally looked at me. “Word gets out. Patients don’t need exterior stimuli. We have to deal with it at once to minimize trauma.”
I decided not to comment. “Why did you come to RestHaven?” I asked, figuring I’d better make the most of my ten minutes.
“I didn’t. They came to me.”
“Because of your reputation?” I asked, wondering exactly what the hell his reputation was. The bio I’d received was brief.
“I assume so.”
“You’d had a practice in Milwaukee and you taught at Marquette. Will you do any teaching here?”
He frowned, heavy dark eyebrows coming together. “At a community college? Hardly.”
“You’re a Chicago area native. Why did you come to Alpine?”
“Money.”
“You mean a large pay raise?”
He shook his head. For the first time I noticed a small bald patch in his graying black hair. “Cost of living.”
I knew he was single and that no children had been mentioned. “Are you looking for property?”
Farrell drew back in his c
hair as if the question offended him. “Do you sell real estate on the side, Ms. Lord?”
My perverse side rebelled. “Are you interested in buying some?”
“No.”
“Too bad. I know of a nice rambler that’s coming up for sale in the Icicle Creek development,” I said, referring to Milo’s plan to sell his house. “Maybe two of them. The accident victim’s widow may want to sell if she doesn’t want to live there alone. Or maybe she could rent you a room. She’ll probably need the money.”
The gray eyes narrowed at me. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“Oh, but I am,” I said, standing up. “One final question—what kind of toothpaste do you use?”
Farrell didn’t answer right away. I didn’t think he would. By the time he uttered the single word “Crest,” I was halfway out the door.
The power was on by the time I got back to the office. In fact, it might’ve gone on while I was en route to RestHaven. Certainly there’d been no sign of outage or even dimmed lights at the facility.
“Whoa,” Leo said as I stomped into the newsroom, “you’re pissed.”
“I am,” I admitted. “I’m off to a crappy start with the RestHaven people. What’s worse is that when I drove away, Fleetwood was just arriving. Let’s check the hour turn at three to see if he beats us again.”
“RestHaven does advertise with KSKY—and us,” Leo pointed out.
“I know, I know,” I said, taking off my jacket. “I managed to blow it with Farrell, but the whole setup bothers me.”
Leo chuckled. “Maybe Ed’s aura lingers.”
“There’s not much of that left. They’ve done a good job of erasing the Bronsky imprint.” I sank into Leo’s visitor’s chair. “I’m going to pass the other interviews to Mitch. Where is he?”
“Doing the story on Blue Sky Dairy’s new equipment,” Leo said after lighting a cigarette. “Give him the job. He needs to stay busy.”
Vida entered from the back shop. “Well now! Was Wayne drunk?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “If he was a serious boozer, Milo would know, living just a few doors away.”
