by Mary Daheim
Birgitta, however, was frowning. “How earlier?”
“What? Oh—the yearbook. Um … I think the first one came out in 1911.”
The frown deepened, then the au pair girl shook her head. “No, that will not suffice.” She turned away. “Thank you all the same.”
“Wait!” I called after her, getting back on my feet. “There are other papers, at the library. They keep some of the publications from Skykomish and Snohomish and Sultan. I think at least some of them go back to the turn of the century.”
Birgitta glanced over her shoulder. “The library. That is good. Yes. Thank you.”
She left, no longer wary. But I was still short, dumpy, and rumpled.
Dwight Gould answered when I called the Sheriff's office around four-thirty. The ME's report had just come in from Everett. Milo was out on a call and hadn't yet seen it. Dwight didn't feel right about releasing any information until his superior had digested it first. The deputy was mildly apologetic, but firm.
With no deadline looming, I didn't argue. I was about to call and check on Carla when I heard a woman arguing with Vida in the other office. I didn't recognize the newcomer's voice, so I stepped to the doorway to get a discreet peek.
“Look,” the woman was saying in a husky, ragged voice that should have inhabited a body much older than what appeared to be some thirty-odd years, “I don't give a damn what you do with this thing, but my grandmother insists you run it.” She was waving a manila envelope at my House & Home editor.
“That's not the point,” Vida asserted. “We ran a picture of your father today, a formal portrait taken quite recently. Indeed, I suspect it's the same one you have in that envelope.”
“It's not,” said the woman, who I guessed was Deirdre Rasmussen. “It's different. He had it taken in Seattle.”
I had almost sidled up to Vida's desk when both women noticed my presence. “Emma,” said Vida, “this is Deirdre Rasmussen Nichols, Einar Jr.'s daughter.”
“Deirdre Rasmussen will do fine,” the woman said, holding out what I perceived to be a grudging hand. “I took my maiden name back when I got my divorce from Jerk-off.”
“I see.” I smiled, somewhat feebly. “Let's see the photo, Ms. Rasmussen.”
“Deirdre will do fine.” She opened the envelope clasp and slipped out an eight-by-ten color portrait. “See? This is much better than that stuffed-shirt shot you ran in your paper today.”
That was debatable. Einar Rasmussen Jr. was posed kneeling by a large tree. He was wearing a dark green cardigan, white shirt, and striped tie. Next to him lay a large collie dog with its tongue hanging out. The shot was meant to convey warmth and devotion and all sorts of fuzzy, nice feelings, but my reaction was that the hand Einar Jr. had placed on the dog's neck contained an electric-shock device. Einar was smiling, but he looked far from benign.
“Impressive,” I remarked, handing back the photograph. “Vida's right. We've already run a head shot. If you want, you could take out a memorial ad and then we could run this picture, too.”
Deirdre recoiled as if I, too, had an electric-shock device in my power. “What? You mean pay to run the photo? Are you nuts?”
“That's what people do with ads,” I said, my face expressionless. “Pay for them.”
“Screw it. I already bought a classified ad for Fluff. Our cat got lost. Again.” Deirdre tossed her head, causing the late-afternoon sun to highlight the red glints in her dark blonde hair. “Grandmama can stick it in her…” She caught Vida's glare and made a face. “Oh, hell, she might buy the damned ad. Grandmama likes to show off.”
“Keep us advised,” said Vida. “By the way—” She pursed her lips. “How is your dear mother?”
Deirdre's hazel eyes flickered. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Vida appeared shocked. “How unusual!”
“Mom doesn't show her emotions much,” Deirdre said. She was taller than average, heavier than she probably wanted to be, and her potentially pretty face was made up all wrong, as if she were in a decade-long time warp. I hadn't seen so much blue eye shadow since the Gabor sisters. “Mom keeps things to herself,” she added, and looked away.
“And Beau?” Vida now wore a semismile.
“Beau's okay.” Deirdre still didn't look at either of us, but seemed transfixed by Carla's empty chair.
Vida gave a single nod. “Then we'll be seeing you all at the funeral in Snohomish,”
“Sure.” Deirdre's eyes now strayed to Leo's desk. My ad manager was gone for the day, but he'd left an almost empty pack of cigarettes by his phone. Deirdre looked as if she'd like to smoke the remnants all at once.
Her anxious gaze gave me an idea. “I was just heading out. How about a drink at the Venison Inn?”
Somewhat to my surprise, Deirdre looked grateful. “Why not? I'm in no hurry. Thanks … Emma, right?”
Vida was miffed. She knew that her disapproval of alcoholic beverages in general and bars in particular excluded her from the invitation. Five minutes later Deirdre and I were turning into the local watering hole on Front Street.
The place was already filling up with the after-work regulars. We sat at a table next to a trio of youngish bearded men in plaid work shirts and canvas pants who gave Deirdre the eye. She ignored them, and saved whatever charm she possessed for Oren Rhodes, the bartender.
“You're not a native,” Deirdre said in that husky voice after Oren had taken our orders.
I laughed. “I'm originally from Seattle, by way of Portland. How could you tell?”
Deirdre shrugged. “I don't know. You just don't seem small-town.” She let out a big sigh as her gaze traveled to the lighted cigarette machine next to a life-sized cutout of a miniskirted redhead holding a tray of beer. “I've spent my whole life trying to get away from small towns. I never seem to make it. Mountlake Terrace was as close as I got to the Big City.”
Mountlake Terrace was a suburb north of Seattle, close enough that it was impossible to tell where the city stopped and the 'burbs began. Apparently it wasn't close enough for Deirdre Rasmussen.
“I didn't want to come back up here,” she continued with no prompting from me. “But Dad thought I needed to pull myself together after the divorce. That was bull. It was Davin going off that threw me.”
“Davin was your husband?” I asked. “I thought his name was Jerk-off.”
Deirdre smiled, revealing a single dimple in her right cheek. “His name is Jerk-off. I didn't care about him. Davin's my son.” She lowered her eyes.
“Oh.” My mother's heart melted. “How old?”
“Seventeen, last month. Of course he wasn't around for the party I'd have given him. He left Christmas Eve.” Her face crumpled; even the blue eye shadow seemed to slip.
I remembered Adam at seventeen. It wasn't a good age, not for a boy. Too much to prove, unsure of struggling in that cleft between boy and man. My son had wanted to be everything, and felt like nothing. It was an age on the cusp, and very dangerous.
“Do you know where Davin is?” I asked, waiting until after Oren had delivered Deirdre's vodka martini and my bourbon and water.
“No.” Deirdre didn't look up, but took a deep sip from her glass. She sipped again, and finally her hazel eyes seemed to bore into my face. “Dad knew. But he wouldn't tell me.”
“Why not?”
Deirdre drank again. “Because my father was the biggest prick in the world. He's the reason Davin ran away.” Her expression was bleak, like a January dawn. “Who could blame me for hating my father?”
I felt my eyes widen. “Did you kill him?” The words tumbled out.
Deirdre blinked once. “No. But I wish I had.” She finished the martini in one big, fierce gulp, and swallowed the olive whole.
Chapter Eight
EVERYBODY HAS A story to tell. Part of my job is to listen. But Deirdre Rasmussen didn't reveal anything else about her father, her son, or Jerk-off. The second martini didn't loosen her tongue; she closed up like a vacated house. It was if she'd
had a statement to make, and having done it, details were irrelevant.
We sank into chitchat. The funeral arrangements, suburban living, the uncertain spring weather. I'd paid for the first round, but she bought the second. And then she took her leave, a graceless, yet vulnerable figure, making her way between the tiny round tables with flickering candles stuck in old mason jars.
I was now staring at the cigarette machine. I'd quit several times, once for five years. But the urge remained. I was still struggling with my inner demons when Leo sat down in the chair Deirdre had left empty.
“Drinking alone, boss lady? Bad idea.” My ad manager shook his head in mock dismay.
I explained about Deirdre Rasmussen. Leo seemed mildly interested. “Nobody liked this Einar much, I take it.”
“He sounds typical of many successful men,” I replied as Oren Rhodes nodded at Leo, then looked inquiringly at me. Wisely, I decided to skip a third round. “They work their tails off to make money, they interact just fine with their peer group, but they stink when it comes to personal relationships.”
Leo chuckled, somewhat ruefully. “Hey, I could qualify—except I've never been a success at much of anything.”
“Don't say that, Leo,” I said. “You've done a great job for me. I'll bet you did just fine for most of your other employers over the years.”
“Yeah, maybe, except when I was drinking booze out of a two-gallon bucket under my desk.” Leo sighed, then lighted a cigarette. “Since you brought it up, I might as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Maybe Leo's arrival in the bar hadn't been coincidental. He'd probably returned to the office, where Vida had told him of my whereabouts.
“It's no big deal,” he said, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. “I got a job offer this week. I was damned near tempted, but I've decided to say no.”
“I'm relieved,” I admitted. “My God, I can't lose two staffers in the same year!” Then, from some dark corner of my brain, apprehension surfaced. “What was the offer?”
Leo accepted his Scotch rocks from Oren, joshed a bit, and finally turned his attention back to me. “I don't know if you remember the guy who recommended me for The Advocate, but he just bought up some weeklies in Napa and Yolo counties, north and east of the Bay Area. He wanted me to oversee the advertising for all four of them.” He exhaled, then spoke through a cloud of smoke. “Tom Cavanaugh. Remember?”
Remember. The problem was, I couldn't forget. “Sure,” I said, sounding unnaturally chipper. I was fumbling in my handbag, my head ducking down under the table. “You got together with him a while back in Seattle, right?”
“Yeah. He talked then about the possible acquisitions, trying to get a feel whether or not I'd be interested in coming back to California,” Leo said, his voice normal, neither curious nor suspicious. “You looking for a cigarette?”
“No.” I was emphatic, overloud. “Were you interested?” I sat up straight, having caught my breath and gotten a grip on my composure. Still, my eyes strayed to Oren Rhodes behind the bar.
Leo grimaced. “As I said, I was tempted. The money was better. No offense.” My ad manager gave me a rueful smile, then acknowledged two of our advertisers, Scooter Hutchins and Lloyd Campbell. “But I'm not ready to go back to California,” he went on as Scooter and Lloyd sat down at a table behind us. “I'm going to call Cavanaugh tonight and let him know.”
“He called from San Francisco?” I hoped the question sounded innocent.
“Yeah, Monday night.” Leo sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. “I've given it almost forty-eight hours. It doesn't feel right. But I thought you ought to know.”
“I appreciate it.” I winced as Oren, interpreting my glance as a request for a refill, appeared with another bourbon. Meekly, I thanked him. “It doesn't seem like a good time to be buying up weeklies,” I said to Leo. “The newspaper business isn't very good these days.”
“Northern California's growing,” Leo explained. “People moving up from L.A., newcomers who want to live in the state, but avoid earthquakes and riots and brushfires and mud slides. Cavanaugh's got a good business head, and plenty of money. Besides,” Leo added, lighting another cigarette, “he doesn't have anything else to do with his time since his wife died.”
I lost it. The full glass went flying onto the floor, my mouth dropped open, and I think I actually let out a small scream. Or maybe it was a groan. Leo stared, and so did Scooter, Lloyd, and the three workingmen at the next table.
“Emma!” Leo gaped at me, then grabbed my wrist. Oren Rhodes hurried over to collect the glass, which, fortunately, hadn't broken. The bartender volunteered to mop up the spill while I sat mutely in the chair and shook all over.
“What the hell … ?” Leo was still holding on to me, now looking more worried than startled. “Hey, come on, tell me …” He gave a shake of his head, as if he were trying to come out of a bad dream.
But the bad dream was mine. “I'm okay,” I said thickly as Oren swiped away at the carpet. “Can we get out of here?”
“Sure.” Leo let go of my wrist, gulped down the rest of his drink, and tossed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Let's go.” With a protective arm around my shoulders, he called a thank-you to Oren and hustled me out of the bar.
It had begun to rain while we were in the Venison Inn. Soft, sparse drops fell from darkening clouds that had settled over the mountains. The cool damp air cleared my head as we walked the short block to our cars, which were parked in front of The Advocate. Leo said nothing until we reached his Toyota.
“Where to?” he asked, his face still masked with concern.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to call Ben. I needed to talk to Adam. But I owed Leo an overdue explanation. His apartment on Cedar Street was only three blocks away. I could drive that far without killing myself or anyone else. Maybe.
Leo didn't agree. “I'll drive you to my place,” he said, opening the door on the Toyota's passenger side. “We can come back later and collect the Jag.”
I hadn't been in Leo's apartment for some time. It was an older two-story building with a bleak brick exterior and an entry hall that hadn't yet been swept clean of its autumn leaves. But since my last visit to his second-floor unit, my ad manager had made some improvements. He'd painted the walls, added some decent furniture, and installed an elaborate stereo system. The small living room conveyed a sense of comfort which had been markedly lacking a couple of years earlier.
“I should have guessed,” he said, after I was seated on the blue fabric-covered couch and he'd started up the coffeemaker, “that you knew Cavanaugh. You asked if he'd called from San Francisco.”
The whole story came out, the fatal meeting at The Seattle Times, where I was a student intern and Tom was a copy editor, Tom's unhappy marriage to a wealthy but unstable woman, my pregnancy, her pregnancy, my flight to Mississippi, where Ben was working in the home missions, Adam's birth, and my pigheaded decision to keep Tom forever out of our lives.
“Then,” I went on as the rain came down harder against the windows, “one day a year or so after I bought the paper, Tom showed up. It was strained at first, and I thought he only wanted to meet Adam. I finally allowed it, and they've been in contact ever since.”
Leo's brown spaniel eyes were direct and not without sympathy. “What else did he want?”
“Oooh …” My hand flapped at the air. “Me, but just once, over at Lake Chelan, where there was a newspaper conference. We tried” to make some other plans, but they always fell through, usually because of Sandra. He'd never leave her, though he said he would. Tom was riddled with guilt.” I blinked several times at Leo. “Good God! I didn't ask you what happened to Sandra! You must think I'm one selfish bitch.”
Leo patted my knee. “One upset little kitten. Actually, I'm not sure. I think she may have OD'd on all that medicine she took. The only times I ever saw her—twice, maybe—she was pretty cranked up on something. But Tom rarely talked about her.”
I felt si
ck. “OD'd?” I could picture Tom, in the hillside mansion I'd always envisioned, finding his wife lying on the elegant bathroom tiles. “An accident?” Sandra was known to threaten suicide.
“I don't know.” Leo shrugged. “As I said, Tom kept that stuff to himself.”
“When?” Why hadn't Tom told me? Had he let Adam know?
“Ah…” Leo scanned the ceiling. “I think it was around the holidays. I only found out when he called Monday night.”
The sense of nausea was beginning to pass. Five months ago. Maybe Tom was still grieving. Maybe he was in shock. Maybe he was ashamed.
“I wonder how their kids took it,” I said. The last I'd heard of the Cavanaugh son and daughter, they were living away from home.
“I never met his kids,” Leo remarked. “Did you?”
“No.” I had started to shake my head, but stopped abruptly. “Yes. Adam. It's odd how nobody—including me—seems to remember that Adam is Tom's son.”
Leo fell back against the couch cushions. “Hell, I should have guessed! He looks like Cavanaugh! But I never …” Uttering a stunted little laugh, he shook his head.
“Call him now.” My voice had an unfamiliar imperious ring.
“Now?” Leo regarded me curiously. “It's six o'clock, he might not be home.”
“Where would he be?” I asked with bite. “On a date?”
Leo waved a hand. “He could be anywhere. He travels quite a bit. Hell, he owns papers all over the West, even British Columbia.”
“Call him.”
Leo started to resume his protests, then slumped against the armrest. “Okay. Why not?”
But Leo had judged correctly; Tom wasn't home. Only an answering-machine message came across the line. It was Tom's voice, and I shut my eyes as Leo held up the receiver and I heard the faint, familiar inflections.
“I'll call back later,” Leo said, hanging up without leaving a message.
Neither of us spoke for a couple of minutes. The rain was splattering the old, wavy glass, and the light was dying in the west. Leo got up to fetch coffee. I didn't feel like drinking it, but hated to turn down the offer after my host's kindness.
