by Daheim, Mary
“I need it,” I murmured, waving off a pair of caterpillar moths. “Maybe you’ll have a serious hit by deadline.”
“Tuesday?” my husband said, looking puzzled.
“We haven’t changed it,” I shot back with a glare.
Milo nodded absently. “Are we going to sit here until the sun goes down or do you plan to feed us tonight?”
I gave him my best wide-eyed look. “You haven’t started the coals.”
“Shit,” he growled, getting up. “I have to do all the work around here. Go pour me half a Scotch and get some of your scrunched-up editorials I haven’t had a chance to read.”
“Jackass,” I muttered as I went by him. “Why did I marry you?”
“My brawny arms,” he called after me. “Bring some real matches while you’re at it. My cheap lighter’s about to fizzle.”
After grabbing his glass, I grumped my way into the house. The phone rang as I was pouring Milo’s Scotch. I hurried into the living room, but when I picked up the receiver, I didn’t hear anyone at the other end.
“Hello?” I repeated, a bit louder.
“Ms. Lord?” The voice was barely audible.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Ren. Ren Rawlings, from RestHaven.”
I was so startled that I sat down on the sofa. “How are you, Ren?”
“I’m…sick. Can you come see me? Not tonight.” Her voice had gained some strength. “Visiting hours are over. Tomorrow, maybe?”
“Yes, of course. Late morning?”
“That should be fine. You see, I’m frightened.”
“Why is that?” I inquired.
“Dr. Reed is very kind,” she replied. “So are the other people here. But…I think someone is trying to kill me.”
Paranoia? I wondered, for lack of a clinical diagnosis. “You mustn’t worry about that. You’re safe at RestHaven,” I assured her. “Try to sleep.”
“How can I be safe?” Her voice was shaky. “But my mother’s spirit is in Alpine. I feel her near me. I must hang up. I’m sleepy.”
I heard her fumble with the phone before she rang off. Ren was fanciful, maybe delusional. She recognized her own fragile emotional state. That was good. But fear for her life wasn’t. Did she have a logical reason to be afraid? Maybe, but I had no idea what it might be. I decided I needed another shot of MacNaughton.
—
“Now what?” my beloved bellowed when I finally reached the patio. “You couldn’t find any matches?”
Ren’s call had made me forget. “Damn!” I set down our refills and turned to go back inside, but Milo grabbed my wrist.
“Sit,” he said. “I finally got it started. What took you so long?”
I related Ren’s call. The sheriff shook his head. “I wish you didn’t get mixed up in stuff like this. Send Vida. It’ll get her out of the office.”
“Ren asked me, not Vida,” I said. “The poor girl doesn’t know anybody here. What if she’s not crazy? I mean, what if someone is trying to kill her? She already ended up in the ER.”
Milo folded his arms across his chest, a sign that he didn’t want to argue. “Your call.”
“Damned straight,” I murmured. “Hey, tell me what Tanya had to say about Bill. I assume that was the topic of your lunch conversation.”
“Some of it,” he allowed. “Bill’s between a rock and a hard place. Lila’s always guilt-tripped him since his dad died. She doesn’t pull that on Marje, maybe because she’s a girl. The Widow Blatt wants a man around the house. She’s never worked, so she only gets Social Security and her husband’s small pension. I guess she’s strapped for cash.”
“She’s hard-up—and hard,” I remarked. “Vida was right when she said her sister-in-law’s inflexible. Is this a dealbreaker for Tanya?”
Milo smiled slyly, an unfamiliar expression for my straightforward mate. “I suggested that since Lila had a spare bedroom and needed money, Tanya should offer to move in and pay room and board. Bill can figure out what fringe benefits he gets from that setup.”
I reached over and punched Milo in his brawny arm. “You cunning devil! That’s devious. Would Tanya even consider it?”
“You bet,” he replied. “I’ll say this for my daughter—she’s damned near as stubborn as her mother. And she likes a challenge.”
“She is getting better,” I said. “She must really like Bill.”
Milo nodded. “She does. Damn. I can hardly believe it. Her other guys were disasters. Maybe almost getting killed by the last one set her head straight.” He glanced at the barbecue. “I think we’ve got gray coals. Bring on the burgers. You can skip the bug repellent. The smoke drove the flying insect squadron over to the Nelson place.”
“Good,” I said, getting up. “I hope they chew that rotten bunch into itty-bitty pieces. I’ll bring the radio outside. Even if Vida’s being a pain in the butt, we can’t miss her program.”
Milo grunted. “We can’t? Maybe she’s going to trash you.”
“Then I will have to can her. Damn.” I kept going.
As it turned out, Vida’s Cupboard was not only benign, but bland. She’d recorded a chat with Miriam Lambrecht enthusing about the move to Alpine, which conveyed a certain down-to-earth charm. Following the commercial break, Vida apologized for “technical difficulties” involving an attempted recording of her phone conversation with Miriam’s mother-in-law. Thus, our House & Home editor gushed for the remaining five minutes over the possibility of Faith Lambrecht returning to Alpine. Apparently the minister’s widow was on the fence. Vida closed the Cupboard by tactfully suggesting that her old friend would have to be mad as a hatter not to return even if she had to crawl three hundred miles from Spokane.
“Shit,” Milo said in disgust after I turned off the radio. “Why didn’t Vida ask how happy Miriam’s husband, Bob, will be to go fishing again?”
I shook my head and went back into the house. Some people—including Milo and Vida—often had one-track minds.
The evening passed in lazy, drowsy bliss, lying out on the sweet-smelling new grass and watching the stars come out over Alpine Baldy. The old moon was riding high above Maloney Ridge and Skykomish. Sniffing the clover next to my cheek, I nestled closer to Milo. We ignored an owl’s hooting and I fell asleep in his arms. Neither of us woke until the sun had risen and we were both damp from the morning dew. If this was marriage, I thought, watching my husband rub his eyes and shake himself like a big, rumpled dog, I liked it.
—
Vida had the bakery run, so she hadn’t yet made her appearance. Alison was in place, along with Leo and Mitch, who were staring at the still-perking coffee urn. Having gotten up earlier than usual, I’d eaten a real breakfast for a change. After greeting everyone including Kip, who’d come from the back shop, I went into my office to call Janet Driggers. I’d forgotten about Al’s visit to the hospital until I saw his wife’s Audi parked outside of Sky Travel on my way to work.
As sometimes coincidentally happens, Janet called me before I could pick up the receiver. “You’re not Vida,” she said after I answered. “Where’s Mrs. Know-It-All-Alpine?”
“She’s not here yet,” I replied. “Can I help?”
“No,” she said. “First, I swear on Al’s always eager body that I’ll never let Lila Blatt in my house again. She’s toxic. No wonder Rupe died young. If Al hadn’t buried him, I’d swear he ran away from home.”
“Lila’s a pill,” I allowed. “What’s your real reason for calling?”
“Tell Vida Mrs. Cobb’s funeral won’t be until Thursday because of the long weekend,” Janet replied. “Would you believe Myron Cobb asked if we could give him a discount because both of his ancient parents died within a six-month period? Good Lord, for over thirty years Alf Cobb milked the county as a commissioner for more money than Al and I’ll ever see.”
I refrained from comment. “Baptist Church? What time?”
“Ten,” Janet replied. “They’ll keep it short so they won’t hav
e to serve lunch—just stale cookies and boozeless punch. Remember how cheap they were for Alf? You expect more for Hortense? She was merely the commissioner’s wife.”
“Milo and I were absent. We were still recovering from almost getting killed just before the funeral started.”
“Thoughtless of you to survive,” she remarked. “We could have started off the new year in a big way. Oh, well.”
“Say,” I said before Janet could go off on another tangent, “who did Al visit in the hospital Tuesday night? I’m not snooping. It’s a news-related question.”
“It is?” She sounded surprised. “You must be hard up for the next edition. Speaking of hard—”
“Stop,” I broke in, seeing a sour-looking Vida arrive with the pastry box. “Was it Ren Rawlings?”
“Yes. Al says she’s not playing with a full deck. You know her?”
I kept it simple, explaining how she’d come to see me on a quest for her roots. “Does that have anything to do with her summons for Al?”
“Exactly,” Janet responded. “Ren’s a morbid sort. She wanted to know if Al or his father had ever buried an unidentified or unclaimed female corpse. Never happened, of course. How could the funeral home collect? We’re not a freaking charity.”
“That’s it?” I said, noting that Vida was filling the goodies tray only with various types of muffins. No wonder Mitch, Leo, and Kip were hanging back.
“You expected Ren’s bio?” Janet retorted. “Ah! Here comes Carrie Starr. I love her. She always wants to go somewhere with or without Dr. Bob. Let me know if you and Dodge decide to have a honeymoon. Some people figure you’ve been on one for at least ten years. Why not? I’m damned envious.” She greeted the dentist’s wife and rang off.
“…more wholesome and much healthier,” I heard Vida lecture my trio of male staffers. “You may be slim, Mitch, but you must consider your arteries.” With that, she adjusted the beribboned straw boater and stomped off to her desk.
Great, I thought, now my employees will not only be glum, but they’ll mutiny. I felt like Captain Bligh.
Leo, however, was undaunted. “Say, Duchess, what kind of technical difficulties did you have last night on your show? Couldn’t Fleetwood help you out?”
“Fie on you, Leo,” Vida snapped. “Spencer wasn’t at the station. Presumably he was comforting Rosalie Reed.”
I leaned back further in my chair as both staffers moved off to their respective desks. I heard Leo ask why Dr. Reed needed comfort. Vida replied that things were a bit unsettled at RestHaven, but added archly that she wouldn’t dream of prying. Leo shut up.
Even if I’d been hungry, my perverse nature wouldn’t permit me to partake of Vida’s muffins. I’ve nothing against muffins, but in an ornery-off, I can give my House & Home editor a run for her money—or her muffins. I did, however, have to inform her about Hortense Cobb’s funeral. I emerged from my office and marched to her desk.
“Thursday?” Vida said after I’d relayed the message. “Very well. The rest of the Cobb family must be poor at organization.” She turned to the stack of mail Alison had just delivered.
I went back to my office. Mitch showed up at nine-thirty to tell me what I already knew about the sheriff’s log. He asked for my take on what he termed the Stalker. “Is it a story,” he inquired, “or hysteria?”
“Stalker?” I echoed. “That’s a bit strong. He’s been reported as lurking, though. Did the sheriff have anything new about the guy?”
Mitch shook his head. “Nothing solid. Mrs. Everson thought a man had been following her in an older model van. She couldn’t give a decent description of him or the vehicle. It happened last night when she was coming home from a meeting at the Methodist Church.”
“Bebe Everson is prone to hysteria,” I said. “Especially if it involves anything to do with her long-missing mother-in-law, Myrtle Everson.” I lowered my voice. “Ask Vida why things are unsettled at RestHaven. I’m already off to a bad start with her. By the way, are you going to do the native-roots series?”
“If you think it’ll play,” Mitch replied. “I started putting together a list of locals who have different ethnic backgrounds. So far I’ve got five blacks including your pastor Father Kelly, six Asians—Deputy Fong being one of them—nine Hispanics, mostly college students, and the longtime Irish, Greek, and Italian families.”
I nodded. “Then go with it. Buddy Bayard is French, by the way. So is Crazy Eights Neffel, whose real last name is Neville, but I suspect he’ll tell you he came from outer space and is really a Neptunian.”
“I’ll leave him off the list,” Mitch said. “Do you think it’s a series? Three stories, maybe?”
“Why not? It’s good filler and you can use family photos.”
My reporter started to turn away, but stopped. “Got a question on the Greek family—Doukas. I’ve heard Vida mention the name, but I found only a listing for Simon Doukas, the attorney. Are there any other Doukases still around? I got the impression the family was a bunch of big movers-and-shakers at some point.”
“Simon’s the son of Neeny Doukas,” I explained. “Years ago the family was quite large and owned half the town. Neeny’s been dead for years, though he was still here when I moved to Alpine. His first wife had died and he remarried before moving to Palm Springs. I don’t recall any children besides Simon.” I grimaced. “I’m not on good terms with him. We got off to a bad start.” There was no point in mentioning that Simon had called me a whore because I’d arrived in Alpine with a son and no sad story of a former husband.
Mitch gestured in Vida’s direction. “So I go to the primary source?”
“Who else?” I said. “There may’ve been other kids who moved away. Like a lot of rich, powerful men, Neeny was hard to get along with.”
“Right,” Mitch said. “Coming from Detroit, I’m well acquainted with robber barons and corrupt labor leaders.” Upon that note, he headed straight to his desk, apparently disdaining the muffins.
Since Mitch was doing the ethnic series, I figured I might as well take on Desmond Ellerbee. Not wanting to pester Rosemary, I called Directory Assistance for the number and was rather surprised that he was listed. I thought an L.A. film-script writer might seek anonymity while the creative juices were flowing.
“I’m flattered,” he declared after I introduced myself. “I didn’t think anyone up here in this woodsy world would care about Hollywood types.”
“We had a movie filmed here several years ago,” I said. “A local young woman was the costar. We’re not completely primitive. I thought perhaps I could stop by this afternoon.”
“Yes,” Des said in his pleasant voice. “Why not? I’m making dinner for Rosemary, but it’ll be a simple meal, fresh and organic.”
I translated that as something my husband would proclaim fit only for goats to munch in the backyard. After assuring Des that Rosemary would be delighted with Southern California cuisine, we settled on two o’clock for the interview. He asked if I needed directions; I told him I’d once visited a previous occupant. I didn’t add that my hostess had been murdered shortly after I’d left. I’d leave that detail to Rosemary over glasses of California Pinot Grigio.
Shortly before noon, I noted that my staff was on hand, so I made an announcement. Summoning Alison from the front office and Kip from the back shop, I informed my curious employees that I was breaking precedent by not opening the office on Monday, the Fourth of July.
“Don’t worry,” I went on, seeing Leo looking puzzled, Mitch faintly bewildered, and Vida staring at me as if I’d lost my mind, “you’ll get paid for the day off.”
No one spoke for at least thirty seconds. I was about to return to my office when Vida broke the silence: “Well now. I suppose you and your husband are taking the weekend off for your long-delayed honeymoon. Am I correct in assuming next week’s edition will be only eight pages?”
“No, on both counts,” I asserted. “We’ll go at least twelve, maybe sixteen. Milo has to work this w
eekend.” I turned on my heel and beat a retreat to my sanctuary. I heard someone—probably Leo, being the only one who’d dare—utter a stifled laugh.
Damn, I thought, sitting back down at my desk. Nothing cheers Vida these days. I thought she’d be pleased to have a free day with Dippy or Buck or just working in her garden. Maybe I’d have to crawl to her on my hands and knees before she’d come around. What really troubled me was that even the most abject apology might fail. I vowed I’d do whatever it took. The status quo was untenable. The Alpine Advocate without Vida was unthinkable.
Thus, I tried not to think about it. But of course I could think of little else.
TWELVE
The morning had taken its toll on my appetite. I’d do my good deed for the day by visiting Ren Rawlings at RestHaven. I’d interviewed emotionally disturbed patients a few times when I worked on The Oregonian. Generally, my subjects had been more cheerful than their austere surroundings. At least the local facility was new. For comic relief, I could always recall its days as Casa de Bronska.
Upon arriving at RestHaven, the first person I recognized was Iain Farrell, who was heading toward the entrance. He paused a few feet away, looking puzzled. “Ms. Lord?” he said, sounding unsure.
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m here to see Ren Rawlings. How is she today?”
His heavy, dark eyebrows came together. “You’re a friend?”
“I know Ren,” I said, feeling my face tighten. “She called last night to ask me to visit her.”
“I see.” Farrell’s gray eyes veered off toward the main desk. “Very well. I must ask you to keep your stay brief. Nor should you excite her. She’s in a very fragile place.”
I refrained from asking if that “place” was made of French crystal or English bone china. “Is she on medication?”
He made an impatient gesture with his right hand. “A mild sedative. Merely to calm her while we ascertain the proper treatment. Excuse me, I’m late for a luncheon engagement.” He brushed past me in his haste to exit the premises.
