by Mary Daheim
“Gee,” I said, “guess you don’t need anybody with writing skills to help you … Sheriff.”
“No, I don’t.” He headed for his office and slammed the door.
“Is he always so nice to you?” Jack asked with a mischievous grin.
“Pretty much,” I said. “On the job, anyway. We agreed to keep our personal and professional lives separate.”
“Hunh. Nina and I did the same thing, except in our case, she agreed to keep our personal lives separate.”
“Jack, don’t talk about Nina like that. You know you’re nuts about her. I’ve seen you hold hands in church.”
The deputy’s eyes twinkled. “That’s to keep her from stealing my wallet. Say,” he said, lowering his voice, “what are the odds you can get the boss man to go to church with you? I haven’t seen him there yet.”
“About as good as the chances of the Mariners winning the World Series. The sheriff is not a churchgoing kind of guy.”
“I know, but …” Jack shrugged. “Seriously, he’s marrying into a family with two priests. Don’t you think that makes a difference?”
“Not to Dodge. They’re just a couple of guys who have a different job than he does.”
Jack’s puckish grin returned. “He’ll have to go inside a church if he gets his marriage annulled. The real question is, how are you going to get him to wear a suit?”
I laughed. “That thought has occurred to me. In fact, this morning I went to look for—” I stopped as Milo reappeared.
“Come and get it,” he said, motioning to me.
I sat down in a visitor’s chair while he remained standing in front of his SkyCo wall map. To my critical eye, the statement looked fine. The bottom line was that Eriks had died from a lethal 110-volt charge to the chest and that his death was under investigation.
“You don’t mention ruling out an accident or foul play,” I said. “Is that because you and Colin Knapp can’t be sure?”
“That’s right,” Milo replied, turning around. “Those burn holes in his clothes not being a match makes me suspicious—Knapp, too—but there’s always the possibility of something weird in terms of the entry from a hot wire. And where did anybody get one in the first place?”
“The truck?”
“That’s the most likely. But why would a live hot wire be there in the first place?” Milo took out a pack of cigarettes. “You want one?”
I shook my head. “I’m on the job. I want to avoid temptation.”
He ruffled my hair. “Me too. Go away so I can give Fleetwood the news. You’ll put it online, right?”
“I’ll have Kip do it,” I said. “I’ll call from home.”
“See you there,” he said after lighting the cigarette and picking up the phone. “I wouldn’t mind a steak for dinner.”
I’d gotten up and was in the doorway. “I’m working. Go shoot a cow.” I made my exit.
If the sheriff wanted steak, I’d go to the Grocery Basket before I went to my little log house, which was inexorably being turned into a stately mansion. I called Kip from my car and read Milo’s statement to him. He was bewildered. “Weird,” he said. “Did Eriks fall on a hot wire?”
“It’s possible,” I hedged. “That’s why Milo’s investigating.”
“He doesn’t mention an accident,” Kip pointed out.
“That’s because he isn’t sure.”
“Wow. If it’s not, then it’s really grim.”
“That’s why Milo’s cautious. Can you put it on the site now?”
“Sure,” Kip said. “Is it raining where you are? It just started here, so Chili’s letting me stop doing yard cleanup. It’ll spoil the Erikses’ barbecue, though. Isn’t it a little early in the season for that?”
Raindrops were falling on my windshield, a half mile from Ptarmigan Tract, where Mel and April Eriks also lived. “April’s not home,” I said. “She’s staying with Cookie. Why is Mel barbecuing? That’s odd.”
“Maybe their kids are here for Wayne’s funeral. They both work in Seattle. Heck, I don’t know. I can’t see over the fence. It could’ve been a brush fire. I didn’t think of doing that with the dead stuff I hauled out of the yard. Now it’s raining.”
“Enjoy your leisure,” I said before disconnecting.
Driving up Alpine Way, I wondered what Mel was really doing outside. Small fires seemed to be a leitmotif in connection with the Eriks family. My musings were diverted by the store’s reader board, where a Help Wanted sign was posted. The O’Tooles had to replace Tiffany. After picking up two T-bones, I saw Betsy facing out deli shelves.
“Looking for a second job?” she asked with a smile.
“I should, given our remodeling project. Any applicants yet?”
“Two,” she replied. “College students, no experience. Not that Tiff was the sharpest cutter on the cheese wheel.”
“Were you surprised when she quit?”
“Yes.” Betsy rubbed Lubriderm on her hands. “No notice, either. Jake and I were irate, but what could we do? I wrote a check for the money she’d earned this month and that was that.”
I shrugged. “She got a free ride and a man to lean on.”
Betsy stepped aside to let an elderly couple pass. “Oh? I wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
Betsy made a face. “She seemed scared, which was odd. When Jake or I had to chew her out, which we sometimes did, she’d get sullen. This was different, but I don’t know why.”
I didn’t, either. But, as with all bad things, we’d find out.
SEVEN
MILO WASN’T HOME BY FOUR, SO I REREAD MAVIS’S LETTER, trying to figure out how to tell her she was wrong about my marriage plans. Maybe I should call her. I was still mulling when I heard the sheriff arrive, cussing his head off.
“Now what?” I asked from the kitchen doorway as he came inside.
“You put the garbage can lid on half-assed and raccoons got in it. There was stuff all over the place. Didn’t you see it when you came in?”
“No. I was carrying the groceries. This morning I was rushed when I took out the garbage. Guess what—you could do that instead of me.”
“I do,” Milo said, brushing raindrops off of his jacket. “The can under the sink wasn’t full last night.”
“It was this morning.”
Fuming, I started for the carport, but Milo stopped me. “I cleaned up the mess. The solution for foraging wildlife is to enclose the garage. I don’t know why you didn’t do that when you moved in.”
“Because there wasn’t even a carport then and I couldn’t afford a full garage. That’s why, you big jackass.”
Milo took off his jacket. “It’s the best way to go now. With our weather, it’s the only way. It’s a damned nuisance when one of our cars is blocking the other one. As long as we extend the addition, an enclosed double garage will balance off the whole thing.”
I put my hands over my ears and screamed. Milo walked past me into the living room. I followed him with fire in my eyes. “Why not add a couple of stories? Maybe an elevator? A rec room with a movie theatre …”
The sheriff hung up his hat and jacket on a peg by the front door. He put a big hand over my mouth and his other arm went around my waist. “Why don’t you shut the hell up? Don’t you want to do this thing right? Just nod, and then I’ll let you jabber.”
I refused to budge. Milo simply stood there and waited. Finally I leaned my head against his chest, forcing him to take away his hand. “How much will this cost?” I asked weakly, though I didn’t want to know.
“With the garage, about a hundred and twenty grand.”
My head jerked up. “You’re serious?”
“It’s an estimate, but close. Melville stopped by headquarters on his way back from RestHaven. I asked him about the garage then.”
“Where do we get that kind of money until you sell your house?”
Milo lifted my chin with his free hand. “Emma, I’ve got that much saved up. More, if yo
u want to know. I don’t throw my money around. I started investing what I’d been shelling out to my kids a long time ago. If I can’t spend it on us, what’s the point?”
“Oh, Milo …” I buried my face against his chest.
“Hey,” he said, chuckling softly, “did you really think I’d go into debt over this? I know you don’t have a lot of your own money. I never intended for you to be out a dime on this addition. I’ve always felt more at home here than I ever did at my place after Mulehide and the kids walked out. But the only way this can be our house and not just yours is for me to put money into it. That’s only fair, right?”
I nodded and finally looked up. “You really are wonderful.”
“I guess so.” He kissed my forehead. “I wouldn’t have finally snagged you if I wasn’t. Hey—are you purring?”
“I think so,” I said, and giggled. “I really am fourteen.”
He let me go but swatted my behind. “We’re maturing, though. You might be up to sixteen, even seventeen. Hell, I might hit twenty by March. I’ll change. You can make me a drink as the first thank-you.”
“Dare I ask what the second one is?”
Milo’s eyes sparked. “You know damned well what it is. But we’ll save that for later.”
I’d just finished pouring our drinks when the phone rang, and I had to hurry out to the living room again. Snatching up the receiver, I heard Vida assault my ears.
“Wherever did you disappear to this afternoon? You and Jennifer left like thieves in the night. I so wanted her to meet Roger.”
“She had to go to the rehab medical unit,” I said. “Patients were due to arrive. Didn’t Roger tell you he’d already met her?”
“He had? Well, no, he didn’t. He was so caught up in explaining his new duties. He wants to make Grams proud of him.”
I was glad that Vida couldn’t see my expression. “I hope he can do that,” I said a bit stiltedly.
“He will,” Vida declared. “He’s so eager to do his best. Which is more than I can say for Ed. He made less than twenty dollars from his so-called memorabilia. He had to lower prices to get that. Can you imagine anyone who’d want napkin rings engraved with Mr. Pig?”
“He did sell his self-published life story to Japanese TV.”
“As a cartoon. Did anyone in this country see it? For that matter, did anyone in Japan see it? I heard it was cancelled after a few episodes. Surprising in a way, for people who sleep in bureau drawers.”
“They’re a sort of pullout bed for travelers.”
“Very odd,” Vida said as Milo went through the living room into the kitchen. “They’re short, so I suppose they’d fit into drawers.”
“They’re not as short as they used to be,” I said. “Besides, they—”
“Oh,” Vida interrupted, apparently not in the mood to listen to reason, “I must give Cupcake a bath. He’s quite fractious today, hopping about in his cage and not singing.”
“A dirty canary is a temperamental bird,” I said as Milo returned to the living room and put my drink on the end table. “ ’Bye.”
Milo sat down and picked up the Seattle Times from the magazine rack next to the easy chair. “Spring training’s started. Is there any hope for the Mariners?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Why do I ask? The front-office dumbasses will trade anyone who’s decent. Damn. I’d like to see a couple of games, but they’ll want an arm and a leg for a decent seat.”
“You’ve got lots of money,” I said cheerfully.
Milo glowered at me. “Watching a bunch of bums who make a hundred times as much as I do and don’t work half as hard is why I have money saved up. Parking costs too much. The concessions cost too much. Screw ’em. We’ll catch the games on TV.”
“Gee, you sound like a husband.”
He shrugged, and all but the top of his head disappeared behind the sports section. I got up to go out to the kitchen, but detoured to the easy chair and kissed the top of Milo’s head. “Guess what? I like it.”
He uttered a short laugh. “Good thing. According to the first Mrs. Dodge, I flunked the job.”
The phone rang again before I could reach the kitchen. But I realized it was Milo’s phone, so I kept going. Dinner was simple—baked potatoes, fresh broccoli, and the T-bones. Or so I thought, until I realized I still hadn’t cleaned the oven. I was scrubbing it with a Brillo pad and Comet when I caught some of what Milo was saying.
“Didn’t the damned fools lock their doors? With a herd of people going through the place? … Right, they think they’re safe here in the woods.…” He lowered his voice again, but my curiosity was piqued. I hurriedly cleared away the worst of the grease and went into the living room just as Milo put his cell back in his shirt pocket.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Milo lit a cigarette before he responded. “Dr. Woo called Dwight—he’d just come on duty at five—to say somebody ransacked his patient records. I thought they kept those on a computer these days, but Dwight told me they hadn’t had a chance to do that since the new system was installed. Anyway, Woo reported a burglary and wants to see me ASAP.”
“Are you going to headquarters now?”
Milo fingered his chin. “Oh—I should, I suppose.”
I sat on the arm of Milo’s chair. “I’ll hold dinner. It shouldn’t take long, right?” I can finish cleaning the oven, I thought.
“I hope not. You’re not mad?” He looked faintly surprised.
“Why would I be? When have I ever been mad at you for doing your job? You’re a news source, big guy. I need to fill space.”
Milo grinned. “I asked because you don’t sound like a wife.”
“Maybe,” I said, “it’s because I’ve never been one.”
By the time I’d finished cleaning the oven and started the potatoes, my curiosity kicked back into gear. Why would anyone want to look at Woo’s files? As far as I knew, all the patients had been transferred from outside of the area. It didn’t make much sense.
Milo returned shortly after six-thirty. I put his steak in the skillet and started water to boil so I could steam the broccoli. “Well?” I said as he poured us each half a drink.
“Those damned fools, Woo included, pawed through the files to see if any were missing. They don’t lock their offices because they want, and I quote, ‘patients to have a sense of freedom and access.’ That means any nut job who can tell a patient file from a banana peel can swipe the staff’s wallets. Maybe the inmates are running the asylum.”
“Did you go to RestHaven?”
“Hell, no. Woo came down to headquarters. Dwight went to the scene of the screwup. He did his job, but I doubt we’ll get much.”
I took my drink from Milo. “Was anything missing?”
Milo leaned against the opposite counter. “Not that they could tell. If they wanted patient information, Woo’s printer has a copier, so they wouldn’t have to take anything out of the office. But that woman doc—Reed?—told Dwight he didn’t understand. They all felt violated. I didn’t want to know how Dwight handled that remark.”
I laughed. “I don’t, either. Deputy Gould isn’t the soul of tact. How could they be sure it wasn’t one of their own looking for something?”
“All the big guns swore they didn’t go near Woo’s office. That doesn’t cover the rest of the staff, though. Maybe I can nail Roger.”
I turned Milo’s steak and put mine in the skillet. “He doesn’t have that much imagination—or curiosity. Did you soothe Dr. Woo?”
Milo shrugged. “I told him never to mess with what he called a crime scene. Reporting a burglary when nothing’s been taken isn’t smart, either. You can’t even call it a break-in if the door’s not locked. Sure, we’ll check for prints, but we won’t find much after they rummaged through everything but the ceiling. The fingerprint lab in Marysville might be worth a shot, but I hate to bother them.” He paused. “Unless this was a cover-up for somebody who’s up to something.”
I looked at the sh
eriff with an expression of mock surprise. “Gosh—are you speculating? Are you using imagination? I’m stunned.”
Milo grimaced. “Damn. Living with you has a bad effect on me. Pretend I never said what I just said.”
“How about good effects? It works both ways. I cleaned the oven.”
In the morning, the river was too high and off-color for Milo to go fishing. I left him reading the Times while I headed to Mass shortly before ten. It was the second Sunday in Lent. Father Dennis Kelly’s homily was on St. Matthew’s gospel of Jesus’s Transfiguration. As usual, it was very well-organized and slightly soporific. Den was a much better administrator than he was a speaker, tending to sound as if he were lecturing a class. It was understandable, given that he had taught in a seminary for several years before coming to St. Mildred’s.
Francine and Warren Wells were the first parishioners to accost me outside. “I can get that Hugo Boss in navy,” Warren said. “Don’t you think the color would suit Milo better? In a black sport coat he’d look as if he was about to gun down somebody in the middle of Front Street.”
I started to tell Warren that I really didn’t want to spend that much money, but in a sudden fit of perverse pique over Milo’s reticence about his investments, I said yes.
Francine’s eyes bulged. “My God, you’re going to spend … I mean, it’s for his birthday, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I want to spoil him.”
“I guess spring is in the air,” Francine said with a bemused expression. “Tiffany Rafferty came in yesterday with a wad of cash and bought a boatload of Tory Burch separates and Hanky Panky lingerie. Patti Marsh never had that kind of money to toss around when Blackwell was keeping her in a style to which she never became accustomed.”
I glimpsed Betsy and Jake O’Toole talking to Father Den. “Really?” I said, recalling Betsy’s remark about Tiffany looking frightened. “Of course Patti’s never been a fashion maven.”
“Neither is Tiff,” Francine said. “The collection is very trendy, but she put together some ghastly combinations. And frankly, she hasn’t lost all the weight she gained with the baby. I don’t think she works out.”
