by Mary Daheim
“Lori didn’t move in with Alison until the middle of November,” Vida said. “I know, I should’ve found out about it, but apparently I slipped up with all the holiday goings-on. That’s another thing I should mention to Billy. Working together as they do, he had to know Lori changed addresses. Surely she talked about moving. But you know men—they don’t always listen.”
My ear was beginning to hurt—from listening too much. “Okay, so where does Cole live when he isn’t shacked up with Alison and Lori?”
“In Redmond,” Vida said. “He works for Microsoft in marketing and travels quite a bit. Thelma told me he just got back from London.”
“At least we can fill in that obit blank. Will you call Kip and let him know?”
“Of course.” She paused again. “I’ve got quite a list of people to call. I think Billy should be off duty by ten. I’d better get going. I think I’ll make one of those lovely casseroles from my recipe file for my supper and save the rest to take to the church potluck later this week.”
Thanking God I wasn’t a Presbyterian, I said good-bye and hung up. While I ate my heated and reheated dinner, I pondered all the new information Vida had given me. Then I wondered why I was pondering.
Larry Petersen had died of a heart attack that might have struck him on the golf course, walking along Front Street, or behind the wheel of a car. It happened to people who weren’t old, and occasionally to someone much younger than fifty-three.
Thelma Petersen’s insistence that an inmate had killed her nephew was strictly speculation. But it’d be prudent for Milo to get the idea squelched before it ran the gamut of Alpine’s grapevine.
Cole Petersen’s presence in town wasn’t suspicious just because of the coincidental timing of the letters accusing the sheriff of a wrongful arrest and conviction. Cole, like his brother and sister, had grown up in Alpine. They had friends here. For all I knew, Cole visited now and then, somehow sneaking in under Vida’s radar. Even she couldn’t keep track of every person who stopped by for old times’ sake.
As for Milo’s letters, I still believed they came from a nut. Maybe the sheriff should check with the judge who’d sentenced Larry or the jury members who had found him guilty. Milo might not be the only victim of someone with a bad case of malice.
On that note, I stopped thinking about the Petersens and tried to find something decent to watch on TV. SportsCenter was of mild interest. The movie offerings sounded like pap. Even PBS and HBO had little to offer. When I hadn’t heard from Kip by ten-thirty, I called him to make sure everything in the back shop was ready to roll.
“Just about,” he said. “Mitch is still here, finishing up the county commissioners’ meeting piece. Alfred Cobb didn’t resign. In fact, he stayed awake the whole two and a half hours. Mitch dozed off twice.”
I laughed. “I don’t blame him. Ed must’ve been disappointed. He didn’t get a chance to make his big announcement.”
“Ed’s been disappointed before,” Kip remarked. “Not to mention disappointing. Get a good night’s sleep. Emma. Everything’s under control.”
I thanked Kip and rang off. I decided to make an early night of it and go to bed. But first I had to put away the nonperishable items from Rolf’s gift basket. Jam, crackers, cookies … I sighed as I made room in one of the kitchen cupboards. Why couldn’t Rolf leave me alone? Mr. and Mrs. Lord had made sure that their daughter received lessons in good manners. I’d have to thank Rolf for his largesse. Maybe I could get away with a brief notation on a Christmas card. Or a Hanukkah card. Or …
I stared at the labels in French. I thought about the Place de la Madeleine address. I visualized Paris. And then I shook myself and slammed the cupboard door shut. Tom and I had had a lot of things together, including a son. But we’d never had Paris.
EIGHT
WEDNESDAYS ARE A MIXED BAG. THE PAPER IS ON ITS WAY to porches, boxes, and newsstands. The pressure is off, but along with the sense of accomplishment, there’s a letdown. One of my worst fears as editor and publisher of a weekly is that a huge story will break just as our carriers are delivering the most recent edition. Going online has helped to dispel that nightmare, but there’s still the unease about the subtler occurrences that may hint at bigger stories, but are overlooked because our so-called nose for news is temporarily satisfied.
To my surprise, Denise arrived promptly at eight. I’d barely come in a couple of minutes earlier and was pouring coffee when she peeked into the newsroom.
“Hi,” she said in a tentative voice. “Where is everybody?”
“Leo went to the Rotary Club’s monthly breakfast. Kip’s either in the back shop or he’s coming in later because he probably didn’t leave work last night until eleven or so.” I paused to stir sugar into my coffee. “Mitch may also be late because he had to cover last night’s county commissioners’ meeting. It’s Vida’s turn to pick up the pastries this morning. You’ll do it on Friday, which was the day Amanda—and Ginny before her—did it. The money comes out of petty cash. Do you know where we keep that?”
“Um … I think so. What kind of pastry is Vida getting?”
“Whatever looks appealing to her,” I replied. “That’s how it works.”
“So we can’t ask for something special?”
“No, but you can pick out your favorites when it’s your turn.”
She nodded vaguely and went back to the front office. I took my coffee to my cubbyhole, wondering what we’d gotten ourselves into with Denise. I could only hope that she’d be as interested in some of her other job duties as she was in our pastry.
My first task was to check with the hospital to find out how Craig Laurentis was doing. According to the nurse on duty, he’d had a restless night, but was improving. I thanked her and hung up. I briefly considered visiting him on my lunch hour, but decided against it. Craig might feel I was intruding on his space. Even though he’d talked to me rather than to Milo, I was still a virtual stranger. I’d give the hospital another call after I got home.
When ten o’clock had come and gone, I realized there had been no further word from Milo about the sinister letters. I was still irked with him for his “frigid” comment in front of Nurse Debbie. He, of all people, knew how little it took to set the town gossips abuzz. I knew he’d been frustrated by Craig’s refusal to talk to him; I figured that maybe the mysterious letters upset him more than I realized. He took his job seriously, if not always himself. He, like me, was his job. And I never could stay angry with him for very long. I picked up the phone and dialed his number.
“No letter today,” he said, sounding relieved. “Maybe Marlowe Whipp delivered it to the wrong address or dropped it somewhere along his route. Let’s hope that pain in the ass is over.”
“Did Bill Blatt ask you about verifying how Larry Petersen died? Vida told me she mentioned it to him last night after he got off duty.”
“Yeah. I put in a call to somebody who knows somebody who … et cetera. Meanwhile, I’m going to stop by the retirement home and tell Aunt Thelma to put a sock in it.”
“Good idea,” I said as Vida entered my office. “Talk to you later.”
“I couldn’t reach Marvin and Cathleen last night after I got home from the church potluck,” she said, adjusting the band of her tweed skirt and tucking in her brown and white polka-dot blouse. “I left a message. Where on earth would they be at nine o’clock at night in Arizona?”
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “The movies? Playing bingo? Visiting friends? It is a retirement community. They must have lots of activities.”
“They wouldn’t be playing bingo,” Vida asserted. “They’re not Catholic, they’re Lutherans. Lutherans don’t play bingo. I’m not sure if it’s against their religion, but I’ve never known any Lutherans around here—and there are so many of them—who play bingo.”
I tried not to smile. “Being a banker, Marv should be very good at keeping track of the called numbers.”
“From what I hear, Marv is fortunate if he can
keep track of his marbles,” Vida retorted. “As for Cathleen, she was never very bright, at least not in school. I was four years ahead of her, and she could barely read in second grade.”
I was almost afraid to ask the next question, but I plunged ahead. “Did you call JoAnne Petersen?”
Vida shook her head, the unruly gray curls going every which way. “I thought I’d wait. If there’s an autopsy, she probably doesn’t yet know when the remains will be ready to put in the mausoleum.”
“Milo will find that out,” I said, seeing Denise talking to Mitch in the newsroom. “Did you get your mail?” I asked, lowering my voice.
“Most of it,” Vida replied. “Leo ended up with three pieces and I got two of Mitch’s. Oh—and one of yours, but it was some sort of ad for updating something-or-other with your cell phone. I tossed it.”
“Okay,” I said, and cleared my throat in what I hoped was a signal for Vida to shut up. Denise was coming our way.
“What do I do with the little advertisements?” she asked.
“The … you mean the classified ads?” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.
“Is that what you call them?” Denise frowned. “Doesn’t ‘classified’ have something to do with secret information, like in the government?”
Oh, God, I thought, what hath Emma wrought? “Not in this case,” I finally said as Vida left with what seemed to be an expression of despair. “Didn’t Amanda explain the classified advertisements to you?”
Denise made a face. “Is that what she called those little ads?”
I nodded. “We put them in the paper and also online. That is, they go to Kip after they’re checked for accuracy and authenticity.” Emma, you fool, don’t use big words like that. “I mean that sometimes people say things in their ads that aren’t quite true, like with cars. The person who is selling the car might state that it’s in excellent condition.” I paused to see if Denise was grasping my words. I honestly couldn’t tell, but at least she was looking at me. “Because this is a small town, we often know the person who is selling the car and we also know that the car is not in excellent condition—that it hasn’t been well maintained, is rusted out in places, and has dents or a broken windshield, for example.” I paused again. “If that’s the case, we ask the seller if we can modify … that is, make a small change in the ad, leaving out the word ‘excellent’ or changing it to ‘fair.’ ”
Denise looked puzzled. “Why not change it to ‘bad’? Or,” she went on, suddenly brightening, “ ‘really, really bad,’ because you charge by the word and that way you can make more money.”
“That,” I said wearily, “wouldn’t be fair to the person buying the ad.”
“But ‘fair’ isn’t fair,” she argued. “I mean, describing the car as ‘fair,’ not the person … wait. I think the phone’s ringing.” She rushed off.
I got up and went into the back shop to explain my predicament to Kip. “You are a very patient person,” I told him. “You are very good at explaining things to people. Do you think you can help Denise with the classifieds? I can’t even make her understand the basics.”
Kip laughed. “Sure, I’ll give it a shot. Every occupation has its own lingo. This is all new to her and she’s probably nervous.”
“That may be,” I said. “Or she’s the type of female who pays more attention to what men tell her than what women say. Besides, you’re in her peer group. I sure don’t want to spend the first few days trying to educate her about how newspapers work as opposed to banks. If I have to do that, I’ll either fire her or kill her, and we’ll end up with Averill Fairbanks or Crazy Eights Neffel in the front office.”
“Don’t worry, Emma,” Kip said. “Maybe she’s not as dim as you think. I know she got stuff screwed up sometimes at the bank, but it could be lack of focus on her part. You know, like ADD.”
“Along with S-U-B-T-R-A-C-T?” I waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I know what you’re saying and you could be right. At least she won’t have to deal much with numbers around here.”
The rest of the morning seemed to go smoothly. On my lunch hour, I started my Christmas shopping at the mall. Despite the merchants’ ads in the paper promising “huge savings” and “shop early, shop smart,” I didn’t find any items worthy of my hard-earned money. Adam had sent his list the day after Thanksgiving, but most of it consisted of items I’d order online. Ben wouldn’t tell me what he wanted until the last minute, so I didn’t bother looking for possible presents. After flunking Thanksgiving, maybe my son or brother could join me for Christmas. It wasn’t their fault that priestly duties had prevented them from visiting me, but I still took the defections personally.
During the afternoon, Vida fielded calls about Larry Petersen’s obituary. Most of the people who phoned wanted to gossip, rehashing the whole horrible bank catastrophe. Vida became predictably irritated.
“I can take care of the silly questions they ask, but it’s the self-centeredness that so annoys me. It’s as if someone famous had died. Most people can only relate to such tragedies by what they were doing when they heard the terrible news. And such twaddle!” She gestured at the receiver. “Darla Puckett chattering away, saying, ‘I discovered two overdraft charges I shouldn’t have had at the very time Linda Lindahl must’ve been killed.’ Or Brendan Shaw—“We were at Marv and Cathleen’s that night, but had no idea what had gone on and neither did they. Imagine, just sitting there talking about golf with those two new attorneys the Petersens had invited—and I don’t think either of them played golf.’ And Edna Mae Dalrymple all a-twitter about Andy Cederberg staying late with her to figure out how the library’s account had been mishandled by Denise, who’d gone home in tears, and then it turned out it wasn’t Denise, it was Christie Johnston who was embezzling. Even Betsy O’Toole had to chime in about JoAnne Petersen shopping at the Grocery Basket late that afternoon and not realizing her husband was murdering his sister. At least Betsy asked me to give Leo a message about the special insert they’re planning for next week with holiday recipes and the featured ingredients the store is selling on sale.”
“Cut Betsy some slack,” I said. “She and the rest of her family are still in shock over their own tragedy. It’s going to be a rough Christmas for all the O’Tooles without Mike.”
Vida nodded halfheartedly. “True. And so senseless—a young man dying while under the influence of those dreadful drugs.” She stared up at the window that looked out onto Front Street. Only the lower legs of passersby could be seen, though Vida could identify most of Alpine from their footgear. I assumed she was thinking—again—of Roger and how easily he could’ve been the one who’d careened off of Highway 2 and ended up dead.
Having apparently run out of steam, Vida finally went back to work. So did I, catching up with my other staffers’ duties.
Mitch had received at least three tips about the maple poachers, including one from Averill Fairbanks insisting that Venusians had stolen the trees for their excellent tonewood properties to improve intergalactic communication with earthlings. Mitch had told Averill that he thought maple trees grew on Venus. Averill responded that he didn’t realize that and offered profuse thanks for the information.
Leo, going beyond the call of duty, had invited Denise to have lunch with him at the Venison Inn. She’d turned him down. It wasn’t until later in the afternoon that I asked why.
“It’s not because she thinks I’m a dirty old man,” Leo said, noticing that we were out of coffee. “Well, maybe it is, but her reason was that she was going to work out at the gym for half an hour and then go home to check on her ex’s dog. He still hasn’t collected Doof or whatever his name is.”
“Maybe he doesn’t intend to,” I suggested. “I’m not sure if Greg Jensen’s from Alpine.”
“Could be,” Leo said. “I never met him.” He went out to the front office to alert Denise about the need for more coffee.
Vida had just hung up the phone. “Do you know Denise’s ex?” I asked qu
ietly before our new hire could fetch the coffee makings and bring them into the news room.
“Of course,” Vida replied. “He’s Reba Cederberg’s nephew. That’s how …” Seeing Denise enter with a new bag of coffee, Vida stood up, but continued speaking. “… the old road into Index went. Come, I’ll show you on the map in your office.”
Vida hadn’t missed a beat, even offering Denise a toothy smile on our way to my cubbyhole. I dutifully followed her to the county map on the wall, which was out of Denise’s line of sight.
“As I was saying,” she said in a normal voice, “the original road from the highway went off here.” Vida didn’t bother pointing to the map, but began to speak more softly. “That’s how Denise met Greg Jensen. Reba was a Jensen before she married Andy Cederberg. Her older brother, Sig, was by their father’s first wife, Dorothy. She died of an aneurysm when she was very young. Then her father married again and had two daughters, Reba and Rachel, by his second wife, Lucille. Sig, Greg’s father and Reba’s half-brother, and his wife, Diane, moved to Sultan at least ten years ago.” She paused as Denise announced to whoever was within hearing range that fresh coffee was being made.
I leaned just far enough toward the door to see Denise go back to the front office. “The coast is clear,” I said, and wished that the Cederberg-Jensen family tree was, too. I was utterly confused.
“Anyway,” Vida continued, back up to normal volume, “Sig passed away three years ago. Greg may be living with his mother in Sultan, though Reba mentioned something to me about her sister-in-law spending winters in Palm Springs or Palm Desert or Palm something-or-other. I believe someone in the family has a time-share condo down there. It’s not yet winter, so she still may be up here.” Vida grimaced. “More sun worshippers. Whatever happened to savoring the seasons? Doesn’t anybody over sixty appreciate the passages of time anymore?”
I didn’t disagree, but my brain was still occupied with sorting out the Jensens and the Cederbergs. The only thing I could be sure of was that Denise and Andy had worked together at the bank, and at some point Andy or Reba had introduced her to Greg Jensen.
