by Mary Daheim
“The crazy thing is,” Spence said as we began to descend the eastern slope of the Cascades, where only scant patches of snow remained at the highest altitudes, “Vida never has any real news. She simply talks about this and that, and then does her weekly interview.”
“She knows she has to save news for the Advocate,” I reminded Spence. “That was our bargain when I found out she’d signed on to do the program.”
“I know,” he agreed, “but still, it’s astonishing how much listeners love to hear her gab about Janet Driggers’s new hairdo or Cal Vickers’s compost heap.”
“It’s like her ‘Scene Around Town’ column,” I said, noticing two bicyclists who were huffing and puffing up Highway 2 with backpacks bowing them down. “Names make news. It’s not the news, it’s the names. Everybody knows everybody else in Alpine—and the county.”
Spence nodded. “That’s so true. But even after several years running a small-town radio station, I’m still amazed. By the way,” he added as we began to follow the Wenatchee River into Leavenworth, “have you ever been to Katzenjammers?”
“No,” I replied, my gaze turned toward the river on my right. “I like the name.” More than that, I liked the fact that Spence hadn’t chosen one of the restaurants where Tom and I had eaten during the course of a wonderful weekend in Leavenworth. Memories could still be painful—though, with time, also comforting. “The river’s low,” I noted. “The last few summers have been so dry.” Weather was always a safe topic.
Spence took my cue as if we were doing a radio interview. “Bad for agriculture, winter sports, and hydroelectric power. I don’t mind sunshine, but I understand why people around here pray for rain.”
Our conversation stayed in neutral until we reached Leavenworth, a town that had been built to look as if it had sprung from the Bavarian Alps. Virtually every building on the main byways was built to resemble the old, colorful chalets of a German village. It was kitsch, but it had charm. I liked it.
We turned off the highway and ended up two blocks from the main drag, where we parked in front of an antiques shop. It was exactly six o’clock. Spence led me down a flight of stairs. I glimpsed the main dining room with its whitewashed walls and wooden beams. Our request for the patio was granted.
“Tim Rafferty.” Spence spoke the dead man’s name in a more constrained manner than his mellow radio voice. We’d ordered cocktails and were sitting under a big blue umbrella facing a rockery garden. It was still very warm, but not as insufferable as my tin-roofed office.
“Yes,” I said. “Have you any idea why anyone would want to kill Tim?”
Spence’s brown eyes glinted. “Only me, when he wouldn’t show up for a stint at the station.”
“Was he irresponsible?” It wouldn’t have surprised me. Some of Tim’s actions in the past had reeked of immaturity.
“Oh . . .” Spence seemed to be considering his words as carefully as if he’d been on the air. He’d turned away slightly. I waited, studying the distinctive profile that always reminded me of a hawk or some other bird of prey. “Not entirely. He enjoyed being a so-called radio personality. But in the past couple of months, he was a no-show three times. He had excuses, always something to do with Tiffany and her pregnancy. But it was damned annoying because he never called to let me know he wasn’t coming. This last time—it was Thursday night, before I left town for the weekend—I threatened to fire him if he did it again.”
The fact that Spence hadn’t canned Tim was another symbol of our common bond. Only the rawest—or most desperate—of broadcasters would want to work in a small venue like Alpine.
“I gather you didn’t believe Tim,” I said. “His excuses, I mean.”
Spence shrugged. “From what I can tell about Tiffany, she’d make a medical crisis out of indigestion. That part might be true. But I still blame Tim for not advising me that he wouldn’t come to work.”
Our drinks arrived, a martini for Spence, bourbon and water for me. So far, only another half-dozen customers were on the patio. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Did Tim complain about Tiffany?”
Again, Spence was cautious with his answer. “Not exactly. He joked about being married. I got the impression that he would’ve been just as happy to keep the status quo. But she wanted a baby, and I suppose he was pressured into making their relationship legal. The Erikses and the Parkers probably insisted.”
“But the Raffertys seemed happy?”
“I’ve no idea,” Spence replied, putting his expensive sunglasses back on. He was facing west, and the sun was beginning to settle down behind the mountains. “I hardly ever saw them together. Did you?”
A pair of chipmunks frolicked in the rockery. The air smelled forest-fresh, tinged only with the scent of spices from the restaurant kitchen. I couldn’t help it. My mind traveled back to that weekend with Tom. There had been snow everywhere. Leavenworth was decked out for Christmas. It had been a magic time, full of love and laughter.
“What’s wrong?” Spence asked, looking curious.
“Nothing,” I lied. “I was just trying to remember how Tim and Tiffany acted when they were together. Somehow,” I went on, speaking just a little too fast, “I always seemed to encounter them in some kind of crisis. She was the clingy type. But he seemed willing to protect her.”
“That probably enhanced his masculinity,” Spence said. “He acted cocky, but I felt his self-esteem was fairly low.”
“With good reason,” I murmured. “I have noticed lately that Tiffany seemed sullen. Of course, when I’ve seen her she’s been at the Grocery Basket on her feet, working. I chalked it up to her being pregnant and feeling miserable.”
Spence ate the olive in his drink and looked thoughtful. “I wonder if I should tell Dodge about the crank callers.”
“What crank callers?”
He shrugged, though I thought he seemed a bit reluctant and didn’t answer right away. I waited in silence, noting that—as always—he was impeccably dressed, wearing a Ralph Lauren short-sleeved tan shirt with cream-colored linen fatigues. His wardrobe wasn’t extensive, but what he owned was quality. I often wondered how he afforded it. Maybe he was a prudent shopper. Then again, he’d never had children.
“The usual,” Spence finally replied, signaling for our server to bring another round. “Probably the same nuts who write you unprintable letters. There’s one, though, who’s called several times this past month. I don’t recognize him. Neither did Rey or my engineer, Craig. In fact, it sounds as if this guy is disguising his voice. I’ll admit, the calls have been more personal, not the usual rants about the music or the advertisers or the news.”
“What does he say?”
“I took one of the calls,” Spence said, lighting one of his exotic black cigarettes. He offered me one, but I declined. They were too strong. “Tim’s never been around when the calls have come in. Anyway, this creep said that if Tim didn’t get off the air and tend to business—whatever that means—he’d break his face. Rey took the last call over the weekend while I was gone. The guy told him that Tim was a nasty SOB who ought to get run over by a logging truck.”
I was surprised. “That’s strong stuff. My critics only want to run me out of town.”
Spence nodded. “Exactly. This guy sounds as if he may have a grudge. When I asked Tim about it, he just laughed it off. He said it was probably some drunk he’d refused to serve at the Venison Inn.”
That was possible. I frowned at Spence. “Do you agree?”
Finishing his first martini, Spence leaned forward in the patio chair. “No. Not now, after what’s happened to Tim. I suppose that’s why I’d better talk to the sheriff.”
But Spence had talked to me first. On a previous occasion, he’d held out on Milo—with disastrous results. I assumed Spence didn’t want to repeat that mistake. I was his guinea pig. No doubt that was the real reason for taking me to dinner out of town.
At least I hoped so.
WE DINED ON ve
al and crab cakes. We talked almost exclusively about Tim. Spence knew about the sports memorabilia, but had never seen any of the items. He was also aware that Tim did some E-trading, but had rejected his employee’s financial advice.
“I’ve got my own portfolio,” Spence had informed me. “It’s modest, but it’s solid.”
Not wanting to drive the westerly route until dusk, we took our time, lingering over cheesecake and coffee. Spence had decided to hire another part-timer from the college. Rey Fernandez would have his two-year degree in December. He’d done an admirable job, but had returned to college in his late twenties and was anxious to move on. Like Scott, Rey had skills that were marketable beyond Alpine.
“I’ll see Dodge first thing in the morning,” Spence said as he pulled into the parking space next to my Honda Accord in front of the Advocate building.
“You should,” I urged him. “Maybe somebody got some bad investment advice from Tim.”
“That’s always a possibility.”
I thanked Spence for his good idea to get us out of town. There were no awkward good-nights with us. Somehow the spark of attraction hadn’t struck either of us. A woman was in his life somewhere; I sensed that, and figured she lived out of town, though probably not in Seattle. I’d deduced her existence because Spence’s weekend absences had increased in recent months. I could have asked him about her, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe I respected his discretion. Maybe she was married.
It was dark by the time we returned, but a light was on in the back shop. After Spence drove away, I went inside to see if Kip was almost finished putting the paper together.
My production manager was working on the front—and final—page. “It turned out tight,” he said. “I had to run Scott’s arson investigation sidebar next to the main story instead of inside. That meant the jump from your story almost didn’t fit on page three.”
“How come? The sidebar shouldn’t have taken up more than an inch or two. There wasn’t any real news.”
Kip brushed at the auburn goatee he’d been growing since spring. “There was news after you left. Scott called it in around eight. I tried to reach you on your cell, but you were out of range.”
The mountains had interfered. I’d been on the wrong side of the Cascades. “What happened?”
Kip turned off the optical character scanner. “It was an easy fire to figure out. Maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t planned. But whoever set it just poured gasoline around the house and lit a match. An amateur, according to the investigators.”
An amateur arsonist, I thought. But a deadly killer. Kip and I stared at each other in dismay.
FIVE
I CALLED SCOTT when I got home around nine-thirty. First, I congratulated him on getting the latest information into the paper. Then I asked if there was anything I should know that he hadn’t included.
“Speculation on Floyd’s part,” he replied, referring to Robert Floyd, who had led the state’s arson team. “Like where the gasoline came from, whether it was on-site, or whoever brought it along.”
“In other words,” I interpreted, “was it premeditated.”
“Right. I talked to Dodge, but he wouldn’t say anything at this point.”
“That sounds like our cautious sheriff,” I remarked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around to take the call. I owe you.”
“Hey—it’s part of the job,” Scott replied.
He was right. But in the background, I heard Tamara shout, “Bonus, bonus, bonus!”
In her dreams.
WEDNESDAYS WERE ALWAYS comparatively slow, especially in the morning before readers started to call and complain about the latest edition. Thus, I decided to pay a condolence call on Tiffany. Maybe she had some inkling of why her husband had been killed.
But first, I checked in with Milo. He actually had some information.
“Cal Vickers told me Tim always kept a gallon of gas in his garage,” the sheriff said. “Tim used to be the kind of dink who could never figure out that ‘E’ meant empty. I ought to know; a few years ago we had to tow his ass from Highway 2 back to Alpine a couple of times. That’s why I checked with Cal at the Texaco station first thing this morning. Tim had gotten a lot better about filling up, but he still kept an extra gallon on hand, just in case.”
“Is that printable?” I inquired.
“You mean for next week?”
I made a face into the receiver. “No, I was thinking about running around town and handwriting the information on all the copies of the Advocate.”
“Funny, Emma.” But the sheriff didn’t sound amused. “Use it if you want to,” he said, “but don’t say it’s for sure. By the way, Beth Rafferty told me that recluse, Old Nick, has been seen around the area lately.”
Not having mentioned the hermit to Milo earlier, I feigned ignorance. “Any further sign of Old Nick?”
“Nope. Somebody’s been hanging out at that vacant house by the cul-de-sac, though,” Milo said. “We’re trying to find the owner.”
I reflected on the occupants over the years. As I recalled, they were nondescript—a couple of college students, maybe; an older man who’d lost an arm, possibly working in the woods; a couple who’d kept a rusted-out pickup in the front yard. “Nobody ever stayed there very long. It’s always been a rental, hasn’t it?”
“They don’t know anything about it at Doukas Realty.” Milo paused to speak to someone, but I couldn’t hear what he said. “Toni Andreas just brought me some fresh coffee. It tasted weird first thing this morning.”
The sheriff’s coffee always tasted weird. I refused to drink it when I visited his headquarters. “So the owners don’t live around here?” I asked.
“Talk to Vida,” Milo suggested. “See if she knows. If anybody does, it’d be her.”
Vida, however, was surprisingly uninformed. “Dear me,” she fussed, “I don’t recall. Many of those houses on the south side of Fir Street were built by one of the Gustavsons in the forties, after the war. Except yours, of course.”
My log cabin had been built as a summer retreat by a family from Everett. “Between Alpine Way and Fifth, most of them look alike,” I noted. “They’re all two- or three-bedroom bungalows.”
Vida was resting her chin on her hands and concentrating. “As you know, the ground becomes very steep and rocky behind your house. That’s why Fir is the last east-west through street. I don’t think that part of town was ever a tract owned by one individual. The records at the courthouse should show who bought the property and put up the house. I could swear it’s been there since I was a girl.”
Vida wasn’t sensitive about her age, though she rarely mentioned it. Maybe we avoided the topic because I was afraid she could be considering retirement, and she might—wrongly—think that I felt she’d earned the right to quit working. I knew she was over seventy, if not by much. But the Advocate without Vida was inconceivable. Nor could I imagine her ever surrendering her job.
“So you think the house might have been built before War World Two?” I said tactfully.
“Yes. Once the ski lodge was opened, there was quite a bit of construction in town, despite the Depression.” Vida frowned. “Really, you have no idea how often I’ve chastised myself for not paying more attention to my surroundings when I was young.”
I couldn’t envision a time when Vida hadn’t exercised her rampant curiosity. I figured that right after her birth, she’d interrogated every other infant in the nursery, and that when she was two days old, she’d known their history going back three generations. I could picture her crawling into their cribs, ordering them to stop crying and identify their parents, grandparents, and siblings. Naturally, she would have worn a funny baby hat, possibly with a feather in it.
“I’ll check it out this morning,” Vida vowed. “It may take a while. The county clerks in SkyCo have always been incompetent. It’s even possible that a lien was put on the house and that it doesn’t belong to anyone.”
She left a few minutes lat
er. I waited until ten o’clock to telephone the Erikses’ residence and find out if I could visit Tiffany. Cookie Eriks answered in her whiny voice. Tiffany was still asleep. Could I wait until closer to noon? Or better yet, stop by around four? The family had a one o’clock appointment to meet with Al Driggers at the funeral home.
I opted for the earlier time. Tiffany might be an emotional wreck after a session at the undertaker’s.
Vida was still gone when I left at eleven-thirty. It took only five minutes to drive to the Erikses’ home in the Icicle Creek development. The house was a typical tract structure, a split-level with minimal landscaping and in need of a new roof. Wayne Eriks was employed by the Public Utility District; Cookie occasionally worked in retail, usually during the Christmas season.
A camper was pulled off to one side of the front yard. I parked on the edge of the street, by a row of mail and newspaper boxes. The Advocate hadn’t yet been delivered, and probably wouldn’t be for another hour. Even during the summer when our teenage in-town carriers were out of school, they couldn’t seem to get going until after noon.
Cookie Eriks answered the door. She was a thin, drawn woman with only a passing resemblance to either of her Parker parents. “Emma,” she said, making a nervous motion with one hand. “Come in. Tiffany’s in the shower.”
“How’s she feeling?” I inquired as she led me up an uncarpeted flight of stairs to the living room.
“Poor girl,” Cookie sighed. “She’s exhausted. Imagine, losing everything! I don’t know how she stands it.”
“It’s terrible,” I declared, sitting down on a sofa that had been covered in blue corduroy. “Tiffany and Tim had been together for so long.”
Cookie was still standing, shaking her head and wringing her hands in front of a Roman brick fireplace that was filled with trash. “All her furniture, all her clothes, all her wedding presents! It’s a blessing, really, that she hasn’t had any baby showers. The first one is in October.”
