by Mary Daheim
“Vida’s not kidding,” I said, sitting on the edge of Leo’s desk. “A woman got her throat slit at Stella’s Salon this afternoon.”
Leo was absorbed in his layouts. “Is that a new service? Eye tucks, boob jobs, putting hot wax all over yourselves, so you feel like a freaking eel. What does this one do, get rid of the turkey wattle? You women have the damnedest things done to your—” His head shot up and he stared at me with his world-weary brown eyes. “Shit! You’re not kidding! Who was it?”
I started to explain, but Carla Steinmetz breezed into the office before I could get out more than two words. Unlike Leo, my reporter obviously had been someplace in town where the news of Kay Whitman’s death had already been received. To my amazement, Carla didn’t start with a barrage of questions. Instead, she shrieked, flew across the office, and hurled herself at me with such force that I almost fell on top of Leo’s ads.
“Emma! I thought it was you! Emma! You’re alive! Emma, Emma, Emma!”
Carla’s concern was flattering, but she was smothering me. Gently, I pried her loose. “It was Kay Whitman,” I said. “Honoria Whitman’s sister-in-law. I gather that Kay and Honoria’s brother are visiting from somewhere.”
Both Carla and Leo looked blank. My reporter was the first to recall Honoria. “Oh!” she exclaimed, brushing the long black hair off her pretty face. “The sheriff’s main squeeze! I know her.”
“The sheriff’s occasional squeeze—if you’ll pardon the rather crude term,” Vida put in with a sharp glance for me. “I don’t believe that their romance is flourishing as it once was.”
“They’ve had some problems,” I conceded, avoiding Vida’s gaze. “But that’s not important now. We’ve got a homicide story on our hands.”
Vida and I explained what had happened at the salon. My ad manager and my reporter were sobered by the news. Leo held his head in his hands, cursing a world gone mad.
“It’s never been sane,” Vida remarked with some asperity. “You ought to know, Leo. You’re from Los Angeles.”
For once, Leo didn’t take the bait. Instead, he concentrated on a photo of a 1974 Ken worth logging rig.
Carla, however, was watching me expectantly. She is eager to please, and sometimes does. But as a journalist, she is a better photographer than a reporter.
In the recent past Carla had chided me about not giving her meatier assignments. Back in October, I’d caved in and assigned her to a public hearing on giving Skykomish County property owners more control over federal lands. The issue was relatively complicated, and I couldn’t blame Carla for being confused. But when one speaker referred to environmentalists as Mafia enforcers and another labeled bureaucrats as Nazis, Carla’s story took off on a tangent. By the time she was done, it sounded as if the Godfather and Adolf Hitler had moved to Alpine.
Thus, I wasn’t about to give Carla the Kay Whitman homicide assignment. Nor did I have much choice. Vida was clearing her throat loudly at the corner desk.
“You promised,” she said with a wag of her finger.
“But, Vida, you never do hard news,” I protested. “I didn’t argue at Stella’s because everything was in such confusion.”
Vida had resurrected her derby and was making an unsatisfactory effort to block the crown. “It’s not up to me to tell you how to run your newspaper, but it’s quite clear that you can’t cover this story.”
“Why not?” I was mildly annoyed. Vida may presume, but she is never presumptuous. “Just because I found the body …”
“I don’t mean that.” Vida dusted off the derby, which remained sadly misshapen. She had put her glasses back on and now gazed at me over the tortoiseshell rims. “I mean you and Milo. His girlfriend is involved. One of his girlfriends. It seems to me that your coverage of the investigation would be unethical. Under the circumstances.” Vida jammed the mangled hat back on her head.
In my office cubbyhole, I quietly fumed. Milo Dodge and I were not a romantic item. We never had been. Over the years we’d become good friends, and a couple of kisses had resulted. Admittedly, in the past few months, as I sorted through my feelings for Tom Cavanaugh and Milo wrestled with his for Honoria Whitman, we had grown closer. In fact, I’d finally confided the whole story of my relationship with Tom. Milo had responded with the details of his broken first marriage, and his current problems with Honoria. We’d given each other a shoulder to cry on, but not much else.
Maybe we had been spending more time together. But we’d always gone out to lunch and dinner and for drinks. Sometimes I invited Milo to my place for a meal, alone, or with others. He and his three grown children had spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with me, along with my son, Adam, and my brother, Ben, and a few other guests. Upon reflection, I realized that instead of the once-a-month dinner à deux, Milo and I had been eating together a couple of times a week. The frequency hadn’t occurred to me until now. But if anyone had noticed, it would be Vida.
That didn’t mean that Milo and I were in love. What we were trying to figure out was if we were out of love—with other people. Neither the sheriff nor I was prone to impulsiveness. I had always considered Milo a plodding sort. I was more generous in describing myself, calling it caution.
Thus, Vida’s comments nettled. I trusted her to handle the murder story, though the assignment really wasn’t fair to Carla.
And Carla was quick to tell me so. Five minutes after I went into my office, she came in and asked if she could close the door. That request from a staff member usually meant trouble.
“Look, Carla,” I said after she had stated her case, “you’re doing double duty as it is with Ginny gone on her honeymoon.” Our office manager, Ginny Burmeister, had become Mrs. Rick Erlandson the previous Saturday night. The newlyweds had flown to Hawaii for a week. Carla had been saddled with covering the front office for her close friend and coworker.
“This is Monday,” Carla said, raking a hand through her hair. “Ginny will be back a week from tomorrow because you gave her Presidents’ Day which the rest of us don’t get but I don’t mind because you pay us overtime.”
“Which,” I interjected, “means you’re getting overtime on the holiday for both your job and Ginny’s.”
Carla nodded. “Right, that’s great. But once we get this week’s edition out, all I really have to do is answer the phones and take a few classified and personals ads. Ginny can do the rest when she gets back.”
There was some truth in Carla’s words. But I wasn’t going to let her cover the murder story. I was sufficiently piqued at not doing it myself. As far as I was concerned, Vida and I still hadn’t played our final inning in that journalistic game.
“What about that tip we got from Cal Vickers about the big new house that’s being built along the Skykomish River on the other side of Index?” Cal, the owner of the local Texaco station, had called me Monday morning about what looked like the foundation of an elaborate residence. He had come across it while on a fruitless steelheading expedition.
“I’ll call the county this week to see who’s applied for a permit,” Carla replied, pouting. “That’s no big whoop. It’s probably some commuter place or a summer cabin. I want something with meat in it for a change.”
Carla had forced my hand. “The fact is,” I said, “I do need you for something else. I’ve decided to go ahead and reopen the back shop.” It was only a small lie, since the plan had been festering in my brain for almost a year. “We won’t print the paper here, at least not at first. But we can do desktop printing. Look what Ginny had to pay for her wedding invitations. I’m sure we could offer better prices. I’d like you and Ginny to be in charge. You can start by checking out what kind of equipment we’ll need.”
Carla brightened. “Computers? Desktop? Wow! I’d like that! Ginny will, too, I bet.”
In all honesty, the idea was long overdue. The back shop had lain idle ever since I’d taken over The Advocate six years earlier. The space was used only for storage, and wasn’t earning us a dime.
<
br /> My inspiration not only buoyed Carla’s spirits, but galvanized me as well. I’d procrastinated too long. As Carla left my office, I silently thanked her for goading me into action.
I goaded myself into work. My editorial on a new bridge over the Skykomish River was ready to roll, as was most of the front page. But now I had to consider the space that would be allotted to the homicide story. The phones had been ringing ever since Vida and I returned from the sheriff’s office. I wasn’t used to not having Ginny there to answer them. No doubt there were two dozen irate subscriber messages on the voice mail that we ordinarily used only on weekends and after hours.
When I went back into the news office, Vida was gone. Leo informed me that she was lurking outside the sheriff’s office. I nodded. That was good. Maybe Vida would worm something out of Milo or Bill Blatt before the end of the business day.
As it turned out, Vida wormed Honoria and her brother into The Advocate. Just after four-thirty, the trio arrived, with Honoria’s wheelchair gliding across the threshold.
“I couldn’t let these poor people go back to Startup without a few comforting words,” Vida said. “They’ve had a terrible afternoon.”
The Whitman siblings’ demeanor attested to the fact. Honoria’s customary self-possession was badly shaken. Her fine features seemed strained and her short ash-blonde coiffure had lost its flair. Everything about Honoria seemed different, including her lack of vitality, her tailored clothes, her wheelchair. She greeted me with a pathetic smile and an outstretched hand that somehow struck me as clawlike instead of graceful.
“Emma!” she said in her low voice. “It’s been some time since I’ve seen you. And now, like this …” Her hand fell away into her lap.
The man who stood behind her wheelchair bore a passing resemblance to his sister. He, too, was fair, though there was gray at his temples and he was beginning to bald. The bone structure might have been as aristocratic as Honoria’s, but there was too much flesh on the face. Trevor Whitman looked puffy, and his color was poor. Prison pallor, I thought fleetingly, and offered my hand as Honoria introduced us.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I said, the trite words sounding typically inadequate.
Trevor Whitman didn’t respond. For an awkward moment, the only sound in the editorial office was the distant wail of the Burlington-Northern, slowing as it passed through town on its way to Seattle.
Trevor finally transferred an Alpine Medical shopping bag to his left hand and shook his head several times. Then he reached out to shake my hand. And shake it until I felt my arm would fall off. The shopping bag bounced weightlessly at his side as he stared somewhere past my right ear. After another strained pause, I gently squeezed his fingers. He still didn’t let go. I had the impression that he was utterly dazed.
I turned to Honoria. “How are you going to get home?” In times of tragedy, I embrace mundane matters. It’s easier that way.
“My car’s here.” Honoria paused; Trevor finally released my hand. I had seen Honoria’s car parked in the space reserved for handicapped persons outside the sheriff’s office. The Nissan sedan was specially rigged for her needs and also had been equipped with snow tires for winter in the Cascade Mountains. “We should leave right away, before the snow gets too heavy. Mother’s all alone at my house.”
Vida made a sympathetic noise. “Your poor mother! I didn’t realize she was visiting you, too. You’ve talked to her, I assume?”
Honoria nodded. “But only about twenty minutes ago. We had to wait and wait for official word, and then we debated about whether to phone or tell her in person. It was snowing so hard for a while that we thought we’d have to put the chains on. It was even possible that we couldn’t leave at all because Milo needed us to make arrangements or …” Her voice trickled off.
Vida was awash with compassion. “Then you must be off. My goodness, I didn’t realize you had such a houseful! You should have told us about your company!” In any other context except this grief-stricken atmosphere, I would have taken Vida’s words for reproach. But she went on, oozing comfort. “If there’s anything we can do, let us know. Remember, Honoria, we’re all your friends here in Alpine.”
Honoria started to offer Vida another pathetic smile, but then her thin mouth abruptly turned down. “Not everyone,” she said grimly.
Honoria didn’t need to remind us that somebody in Alpine had killed her sister-in-law. Maybe that somebody had meant to kill her. Still without saying a word, Trevor Whitman pushed his sister out into the cold, darkening late afternoon.
At five-oh-five, the lights were still on at Stella’s Styling Salon. Carla had relayed the information before leaving work. The Advocate is located across Front Street and two full blocks east of the Clemans Building. We couldn’t see the storefronts from that distance, so Vida had sent Carla on a brief scouting expedition.
“That’s good,” Vida said after Carla had made her final exit. Leo had also left for the day. “I’ll stop by Stella’s on my way home.” She began to gather up her belongings.
So did I. “You’re not going without me,” I declared, shrugging into my duffel coat.
Vida didn’t protest. She had often tagged along with me on important stories, and usually I was glad that she did. My House & Home editor had a way with her when it came to eliciting even the most intimate confidences. Sometimes she badgered, sometimes she cajoled, sometimes she exuded almost saintly sympathy. Whatever the ploy, it was rare that she didn’t find out what she wanted to know.
The snow had stopped, but a thin layer covered the ground and the rooftops. Alpine is nestled in the Cascade Mountains at the three-thousand-foot level, which means that winter lasts almost half the year. The town climbs up Tonga Ridge, its man-made roosts looking awkward in full sunlight, but melding into the trees under rain and snow. Mount Baldy’s twin crests brood over the Skykomish River Valley, the snow line marking time with the seasons.
Mining brought the first outsiders to the area, back before the turn of the century. The whistle-stop on the Great Northern Railroad was known as Nippon until Carl Clemans came from Snohomish to build a logging camp. He renamed the site Alpine, built a mill and another camp, and eventually erected small houses for the families who wanted to join their husbands and fathers in the woods.
The original mill had been shut down by Clemans in 1929, after the timber harvest was complete. When the mountainsides were scarred and shorn, there was talk of abandoning Alpine, of letting nature reclaim its own. But Vida’s father-in-law and some enterprising Norwegians had spared the cluster of family cabins and fledgling enterprises by putting up a ski lodge. As the second-growth forest matured, new mills had sprung up. But now, with the threat to the spotted owl and other endangered species, the timber industry was once again suffering death pangs. Only one sawmill remained, though the ski lodge continued to flourish, especially during the winter. A surge of commuters in the past decade had helped keep the town’s heart beating, and now the proposed community college promised to inject new blood.
Unfortunately, it was Kay Whitman’s blood that commanded my attention after Stella let Vida and me into the salon. She was alone, isolated behind crime-scene tape.
“Milo said I could come in to close up, as long as I didn’t touch anything except the counter stuff.” Stella grimaced. “I’ve canceled the morning appointments. Even after all the money we sank into that bond issue, Milo can’t handle a homicide. He still has to ask for help from Snohomish County.”
The sheriff’s expanded facilities included a small lab and funding for a part-time forensics pathologist. Kay Whitman’s death was the first murder in Skykomish County since the renovation had been completed. It appeared that Milo still had to rely on Everett, which was the seat of our neighboring county. Situated some fifty miles away, SnoCo personnel were naturally not inclined to give SkyCo problems priority. That was understandable, if distressing.
“Who’ll want to do business here after all this?” Stella d
emanded, waving a hand at the rear of the salon. “I’ve spent over thirty years working my butt off in this town. What do you bet they’ll turn on me like snakes?”
I couldn’t answer Stella’s question. But Vida gave it a try.
“Nonsense, Stella. Women aren’t like that. If they’re satisfied with the way you cut their hair or give them a permanent or do their nails, they’ll still come here. It’s too far to drive to another salon, especially in bad weather. In fact,” Vida added slyly, “they’ll probably line up for facials, just to see where the murder occurred.”
Stella eyed Vida with disbelief, but a hint of amusement tugged at her full mouth. “Vida, you’re a ghoul.”
“Perhaps.” Vida shrugged. “Most people are. That’s why your business won’t suffer. Be glad of it.”
It seemed that Stella had been about to leave when we arrived. “The sheriff wants me out of here,” she said, putting a zippered money bag into a woven satchel. “Is this an official visit, or did you just come to commiserate?”
“Both,” Vida replied.
“In that case,” Stella said, “walk with me to the bank. They’re closed, so I’ll make a night deposit. Then we can go over to the Venison Inn and talk. I sure could use a drink.”
Stella turned heads in the bar of the Venison Inn. For different reasons, so did Vida, who rarely frequented the nondining area of the restaurant. The owner and bar-tender, Oren Rhodes, hurried to our small, round table to take our orders and to offer his sympathy to Stella.
“That’s the trouble with out-of-towners,” Oren said, leaning confidentially against Stella’s chair. “They show up in town, and the next thing you know—whammo! There’s trouble. Is it true that this woman came from California?”
