by Mary Daheim
“The commissioners rule,” I said, unsure of what I should say.
The mayor nodded. “I won’t criticize those men who’ve given us long years of service, but Alf Cobb is dead, and Engebretsen and Hollenberg are even older than I am.” He uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe we should rethink our government. This isn’t for publication, but Irene feels it’s time for me to take it easy, travel some, go back to the bayou and put our feet in that fertile black Delta soil. Isn’t your brother there now?”
“Yes, in Mississippi.”
“Then he’d understand. We don’t need a mayor and three commissioners. We’re strapped for funds. What this county and town need is a professional manager. We’d save salaries and election costs.”
I was stunned at Fuzzy’s perspicacity. It was possibly the best idea the mayor had ever had. “It makes sense,” I said. “It should’ve been done years ago, back when the timber industry tanked in the eighties.”
Fuzzy shrugged. “Change isn’t easy here. Out of the mainstream.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s where you come in. You have great power here. You should exert it more often.” He smiled, and I caught a hint of his former sparkle. “You also have a personal stake in this. Think what it would do for your much-respected future mate.”
“Does Milo know about this?”
Fuzzy shook his head. “Nobody knows except you and Irene. If you need facts and figures about places where this has been done, I can get them to you. Bainbridge Island is one example, though they incorporated only the island itself, but it’s a mighty big chunk of property.”
“Can I tell Milo about it?”
The mayor scratched at his temple. “I’d rather meet with him and the commissioners first. I wanted to secure your support now. You’re as smart as you are comely, darlin’, and I value your powers of persuasion.”
“You overestimate my influence,” I said frankly. “When was the last time I used my so-called clout to get a levy or a bond issue passed?”
“This is different. We’re talking saving money, not spending it.”
“But it’s still a huge change. Our residents balk at change.”
“That,” Fuzzy said, standing up, though not as easily as he once did, “is why I’m counting on you to change their minds before we change our government.”
Naturally, Vida wanted to know why Fuzzy and I had held a private meeting. For once I kept my counsel. She was annoyed, but I tried to soothe her by telling her to write up the engagement announcement. The vetoed photo, however, set her off again. “What’s wrong with you two? You’re both rather nice-looking. Milo’s aged well. He looks better now than when he was young. You’ve held up nicely, too.”
“Thanks, Vida, but I think most people know what we look like. As I recall, when you thought Milo and I were acting like lovesick teenagers in public, you were quick to point out that we had very high profiles.”
“All the more reason for readers to want to see what you look like when you’re not groping each other in the middle of Front Street.”
“We never—” Mercifully, her phone rang. I fled to the front office to see if Amanda had made out the mid-month paychecks.
She had just finished. “Did I gather,” she said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “that Wayne Eriks tried to come on to you, too?”
I sighed. “Yes, about a year and a half ago. He didn’t get very far. How about you?”
Amanda made a face. “It was just before I started working here last fall. He was doing something with the transformer box on a pole across the street. I’d been watching Oprah and the TV went out, so I saw the truck and went outside to ask if he’d screwed up the reception. I’d seen him around before but never really talked to him. He said he didn’t think so, but maybe he should check his computer in the truck. He went inside the van, then asked me to come take a look—he couldn’t tell which cable went to which house. I started to get in and realized we don’t have cable, we’ve got a dish like everybody else around here. He grabbed me, saying I was the only dish he cared about. It started to get ugly—he was a strong guy—until Marlowe Whipp pulled up in his mail truck. I ran like a deer. Marlowe thought I was chasing him to get our mail.” She laughed. “It was all so dumb, and I almost reported Eriks to the PUD, but then I remembered his son-in-law’s murder and thought maybe it’d unhinged him.”
“That dish bit was the same line he pulled on me,” I said. “I suppose it worked in bars and restaurants, too.”
Amanda shrugged. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but there was something creepy about him—the van, too. At least it felt creepy. Maybe I’m nuts.”
“I wonder,” I said, “if Wayne used the van with women who were more willing. I lucked out—it happened to me on a Saturday in my office, right after Tim was killed. That seemed crass.”
Amanda frowned. “Makes you wonder about Tiff, doesn’t it? Why would she want to move in with Jack Blackwell? In fact, why would Jack want a toddler in his house? Or is she leaving the child with her mother? Maybe Cookie would like the company now that Wayne’s dead.”
“I don’t know what’s going on or even when the funeral will be.” I nodded in Vida’s direction. “But we’ll be brought up to speed as soon as the real source of news puts her ear to the ground.”
“Oh, yes,” Amanda agreed. “How does she do it?”
“Sources, most of whom are related to her in oh-so-many ways,” I replied, seeing Spencer Fleetwood in the doorway. “Mr. Radio,” I said in greeting, but he put a finger to his lips and motioned for me to join him. After exchanging puzzled looks with Amanda, I stepped to the threshold. “Are you the new James Bond?”
“No,” Spence said, keeping his mellifluous voice down. “Is Vida around? I don’t want her to see me.”
“She was on the phone. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you over lunch at the ski lodge coffee shop. Can you meet me there in fifteen minutes?”
I checked my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. “Okay. Why didn’t you just call?”
He gestured at the Bank of Alpine across the street. “I had to make a deposit, so it was easier to come in person. I didn’t see Vida’s Buick. I thought she was out.”
“She’s not, but she got here late and probably lost her regular spot.” A few passersby were beginning to stare at this improbable site for a meeting of the media. “See you there.” I closed the door and wondered what was on Spence’s sometimes devious mind.
Just before noon I pulled into the ski lodge parking lot. Mr. Radio’s Beamer was already there. The sun was trying to peek out as I walked to the entrance. Maybe spring wasn’t as far away as I’d thought, or else we were getting our annual midwinter dose of unseasonably warm weather. That meant a sudden spurt in local growth, only to be followed by a killing frost and more snow. It could also cause avalanches if the white stuff melted too quickly. Ironically, we’d had more snow in November and December than in January. The Stevens Pass ski area had been shut down due to the lack of good powder.
Spence was waiting for me in the lobby. “Let’s skip the coffee shop,” he said, a hand at my elbow. “Too many eavesdroppers. The bar in the restaurant won’t be as busy.”
One of the usual blond waitresses appeared to take our orders as soon as we sat down in the shadow of Odin, Frigg, Loki, and other deities who evoked Nordic traditions. Given that we were in the bar, we both ordered screwdrivers. It seemed wrong not to have a drink. But then it was rare for Mr. Radio and Ms. Print Media to eat meals together.
“You’re not glowing like a bride-to-be,” he said, looking down his hawk-like nose at me. “Have you broken off with the bellicose sheriff?”
“He’s not bellicose,” I declared. “It’s your fault he broke your nose. You took a cheap shot at both of us. How is your nose, by the way?”
He smiled wryly, running a finger from brow to lip. “Not quite like the original, but close. I thought Dodge could take some light-hearted male joshing. I misgauged his fe
elings. So you’re still a couple?”
“Yes. Skip the history. Why are we here and why is it secret?”
Spence kept quiet while Birgitta or Brittany or Beelzebubba was setting our drinks in front of us. Ski lodge manager Henry Bardeen had a penchant for hiring blondes whose names began with a B.
Spence raised his glass. “To the happy couple, then,” he said.
“Thanks.” I clicked glasses with him. “Well?”
He sighed. “Vida’s show last night was a bomb. Last week’s wasn’t much better. Deputy Mayor Richie Magruder’s composting lecture didn’t light up the airwaves last week. I don’t expect all of her programs to be as electric as some she’s had recently, with her family airing their trauma over the trailer park tragedy or the Petersen banking heir brothers savaging each other, but dull does not become Mrs. Runkel.”
I nodded. “Vida’s been off her feed lately.” I had no intention of telling Spence what I suspected might be the cause.
He frowned. “Buck has finally moved to Alpine, so I assume that’s not the problem. That leaves Roger as the likely suspect.”
“Roger is always a likely suspect,” I agreed.
“I thought he was going back to college or joining the military,” Spence said after a pause. “Do you know if he’s doing either one?”
I shook my head. “She hasn’t talked about him much lately.” That was true—and, in its way, revealing.
“The kid’s too dumb to be a con artist,” Spence said. “You may recall she’s had him on her show more than once. He’ll never make it to a degree, even at a community college.”
“You’re probably right.” I watched Spence light one of his exotic black cigarettes. Like the sheriff, he seemed indifferent to the smoking ban in the bar. Unlike the sheriff, he’d brought along a pocket ashtray. Milo used whatever was handy, including the floor. “Are you going to discuss the lack of content in her recent shows?”
Spence grimaced. “I’d rather not. I’ll wait to see what she’s got in mind for next week. How come she didn’t ask you and the sheriff to be on Cupboard? That would’ve been a natural and a real grabber.”
“She did. We refused. You know we were trying to avoid publicity.”
Spence grinned. “I’d never consider either of you shrinking violets.”
“We try to guard our private life,” I said primly.
He laughed, a cultivated yet somehow pleasant sound. “Please. You were the talk of the town back in December.”
“Stop.” I shot him a warning look. “You know damned well we didn’t do anything except kiss on a street corner.” Before Spence could offer a rebuttal, I went on the offensive. “What I’d like to know is how you get so much news out of RestHaven. I’m pissed. What’s your pipeline?”
He feigned innocence. “Maybe I’m just good at newsgathering.”
“No. You’ve always claimed to be more of a DJ than a newscaster. I know your early history around here, but not what came after that. You originally told me you were from Boston. That was a lie.”
Our waitress returned. We hadn’t looked at a menu. I ordered clam chowder and a spinach salad. Spence said he’d have the same.
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said after the blonde left us. “I did come here from Boston. I lived and worked there at WZLX for over ten years.”
“That’s quite a change,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”
Spence looked pained. His eyes moved to the waterfall and trees etched on the mirror behind the bar. “I met a Radcliffe lit prof. We fell in love and lived together for eight years. She drowned off Nantucket on a faculty outing. It damned near killed me. Boston was the only real home I ever had. I couldn’t stay without her.” He leaned forward. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me?”
I nodded. His eyes spoke the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t. You know what it’s like to lose someone you love. It all came back to me when Cavanaugh was killed.”
I recalled Spence’s kindness. He’d told me Tom was dead. Milo had already taken off to catch the killer. “You were … very compassionate.”
Spence sat back in his chair. “We won’t talk about it again.”
We didn’t—then. But sooner, rather than later, we would have to.
FIVE
THE REST OF LUNCH PASSED WITHOUT DISCUSSING TOPICS THAT incited either of us. Spence and I could agree on many things, including the growing tendency of reporters and writers to make the story about them, rather than the event. Ego was not a quality that good journalists displayed in their work. We parted amicably just before one. I had not learned how he kept beating us with RestHaven news. He, of course, did not know about Mayor Baugh’s big idea. I figured we were even.
The newsroom was empty when I returned. Amanda informed me that Vida had gone to see the Parkers during her lunch hour and might be late getting back. She had made them “a lovely casserole” the previous night to offer as comfort food. Having been forced to eat Vida’s casseroles, I hoped that Durwood, as the retired local pharmacist, kept an antidote on hand.
Leo was out hustling ads and Mitch was stopping by the sheriff’s office before his interview with Dr. Woo. I hadn’t had a chance to ask how the morning session with Jennifer Hood had gone, but I assumed that if there had been a problem, my reporter would have told me.
Vida returned at one-thirty. “Needless to say,” she said, standing in my doorway and shedding her coat, “Dot and Durwood aren’t deeply mourning their son-in-law. They don’t know when the funeral will be, though. Is Milo really sending the body to Everett for a full autopsy?”
“That’s what Mitch intended to find out,” I said.
“Certainly it has to be a freak accident,” she remarked.
I shrugged. “Don’t look at me. How’s Cookie?”
“Her sister-in-law spent the night with her.” Vida sighed. “Cookie wanted Tiffany to come back home, at least through the weekend, but she wouldn’t leave Blackwell. It’s as if—Dot told me—he’s cast a spell over her. I suppose that ‘spell’ is spelled with a dollar sign.”
“Tiffany’s nice-looking, but she’s no knockout,” I said. “She’s got a toddler in tow. I wonder how Jack likes that.”
“He never had children by his wives or girlfriends. Maybe he actually likes children. Did anyone try to kill him today?”
“No, not that I know of. Is Cookie in deep mourning?”
“More like a state of shock,” Vida replied. “If she doesn’t want to be alone, she could stay with Dot and Durwood. They have plenty of space. You’ve been to Wayne and Cookie’s house. What’s it like?”
“The same as the other tract homes in the development. It’s fairly well maintained. The only one that looks different is Scott and Beverly Melville’s house after he redesigned it and they renovated several years ago. They needed more room for their growing family.”
A raised voice in the front office captured our attention. “My goodness!” Vida exclaimed. “Is someone angry with Amanda?”
“Let’s find out,” I said, getting out of my chair.
Vida beat me out of the newsroom. From behind her formidable figure, I could see Patti Marsh leaning over the counter, shrieking at our office manager.
“You, of all people, know what Jack’s like! You tried to take him away from me!”
Amanda was obviously trying to remain calm. “I never did any such thing. At most, it was a mild flirtation. Jack isn’t my type. He’s old.”
Patti swung around to glare at Vida and me. “If it isn’t Mrs. Busybody and Ms. Lord of the Newspaper. I want to make a statement.”
I managed to maneuver around Vida. “What kind of statement?” I asked before Vida could erupt with indignation.
Patti put her fists on her hips. “That I’m not trying to kill Jack. I deny anything that anybody’s said otherwise. How’s that?”
“Who,” I asked reasonably, “accused you of attemp
ts on his life?”
Patti swung an arm so wildly that she nearly hit me. “Everybody!”
“This is ridiculous,” Vida muttered, and stomped back to her desk.
“I’d have to find out who’s making these accusations before I could let you deny them in print,” I explained, not with any hope that Patti would understand. I was still trying to figure out if she was sober. “You might have grounds to sue for slander.”
“I don’t want to sue anybody,” Patti retorted. “I just want people to know it’s not me who’s trying to kill him.”
“Have you been questioned by the sheriff?” I asked.
Patti threw back her head and guffawed. “Hell, no! He’s too busy banging you these days to care about me.”
My temper was rising just as Leo came through the door. “Well,” he said, and stopped, apparently at an uncharacteristic loss for words. “Hi, Patti. You want to buy an ad?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Yes!” She whirled on him. “You’re my kind of guy, Walsh. I’ll take out an ad. I’ll even pay for it. Ms. Snooty and Ms. Snob don’t believe me.”
The phone rang, allowing Amanda to temporarily withdraw from the fray. I decided I should, too. If anybody could handle Patti, it was Leo. I backpedaled into the newsroom and all but ran to my cubbyhole. As I went by Vida’s desk, I heard her murmur the word “ninny.” I assumed she meant Patti and not me.
A sudden calm ensued. I peeked into the newsroom but saw only Vida, who was talking on the phone. Leo must have removed Patti from the premises. Ten minutes later Amanda came to the door and confirmed my assumption.
“Is Patti nuts?” she asked.
“Not really. As you know, she and Jack have been together for years. He’s often strayed, but always comes back to her. This live-in setup with Tiffany is different. I see why Tiff wants a sugar daddy. She’s unmotivated and self-centered. But why him and why now? Surely she realizes her mother needs her. Cookie’s always spoiled her.”
