by Mary Daheim
Meanwhile, I was customarily taken for granted, and often for a ride. It being Sunday, I half expected Adam to call, asking for money, clothes, or various audiovisual components. When the phone hadn’t rung by four o’clock, I was tempted to pick it up and make sure the thing was in working order.
It was, for it rang even as I stared at it. But it wasn’t Adam. Instead, Milo Dodge’s laconic voice droned in my ear.
“It’s raining,” he said. “You want to go eat someplace?”
It had been raining for a couple of hours, and the snow was melting quickly. “Where?” I asked, almost certain I knew the answer: the Venison Inn.
But Milo surprised me. “I can get anywhere with my Cherokee Chief’s four-wheel drive. You want to try that French place down the highway?”
I was stunned. Milo has about as much interest in foreign food as he has in petit point embroidery. “Café de Flore?” I said incredulously. “With words on the menu you don’t understand? What next, Mozart at the Seattle opera house?”
“I need to broaden my outlook.” The words came out in a mumble. I could hear Honoria Whitman’s voice echoing in Milo’s ears.
I smiled. “Don’t we all. It sounds fine. I haven’t been there since last spring.”
An hour later, as I was putting on my good green wool dress, I wondered why Milo hadn’t asked Honoria to go to dinner. Maybe she wasn’t willing to drive up the pass from Startup. Her car didn’t have four-wheel drive, and, like Leo, she was from California. On the other hand, Milo could have driven down to get her.
Most of all, I wondered why Milo had asked me.
Chapter Six
IT’S PAINFUL TO watch Milo Dodge read a menu that doesn’t feature cheeseburgers. At best, he was baffled; at worst, he was alarmed.
“What’s this marmite de poisson stuff?” he demanded, mangling the French pronunciation. “It sounds like something I should send to the lab in Everett.”
“It’s fish soup. Let’s make this simple. What do you feel like eating? Tell me, and I’ll order whatever comes closest.”
Naturally, Milo wanted a steak. I pointed out the bifteck au poivre, which made some sort of sense to him, particularly when I added that he could get fries and a salad as well.
“Maybe these French people really do know how to cook,” he remarked after the waiter had taken our order. “This place seems busy, but I don’t recognize most of the customers.”
Milo was right: Café de Flore catered to a wide-ranging clientele, from Seattle to Wenatchee. On a Sunday night, it was usually jammed, with reservations required. But because of the snow, the restaurant wasn’t quite full.
“The prices are pretty stiff,” Milo went on, hoisting his Scotch glass. “I remember that from the last time you and I were here.”
I couldn’t resist the question: “You haven’t eaten here with Honoria?”
Milo shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I’ve been meaning to bring her. Somehow, we always end up someplace else. Like Monroe or Snohomish or even Everett.” Milo was now blushing.
Over my bourbon, I gave Milo my most kindly smile. “Hey, don’t tie yourself in knots because you didn’t major in French. Half the people here probably mispronounce the entrées.”
The high color began to fade from Milo’s cheeks. “It’s not just that, Emma.” He pulled his chair closer and hunched over the linen-covered table. “Honoria speaks French like a native. Spanish, too. She knows everything about art and music and all that stuff. She reads books by writers I never heard of and she honest-to-God really does watch PBS. I feel like the village idiot when I’m with her.”
“Nonsense,” I retorted. “Crazy Eights Neffel has that title wrapped up.” Noting Milo blanch at my flippancy, I patted his arm. “Stop beating yourself up, Milo. You’re a successful law enforcement officer, one of the best in the state. You’re well liked, you’ve helped raise decent kids, and you’re anything but dumb. So what if you don’t know Puccini from Pushkin?”
“Huh?” Milo was scowling at me.
“Never mind. Honoria likes and admires you for what you are, not for what you know. She wouldn’t still be around if that weren’t true.”
Almost a full minute passed before Milo spoke. He removed his elbows from the table, took a swig of Scotch, and gazed forlornly over my shoulder. “Maybe she won’t be around much longer. We don’t have much in common.”
While that was true, I suspected that the crux of the problem lay elsewhere. Milo has been reluctant to make a commitment. Honoria has been growing impatient. I broached the dreaded subject.
“Have you talked about the future?”
Milo glared. “Hell, yes. Over at the Cougar Inn, I asked her to marry me. She said no.” He finished his Scotch in one defiant gulp.
“Oh.” I was at a loss for words. The waiter returned, inquiring if we’d like another drink. Milo nodded curtly; I decided I might as well join him. He was driving, and chances were that he wouldn’t arrest himself for being under the influence.
“Did she give you a reason?” I asked after the waiter had parted.
Milo was toying with the salt and pepper shakers. At least he hadn’t brought along a toothpick. Slowly, painfully, he nodded. “She says I don’t love her.”
I blinked several times. “Don’t you?” The words tumbled out.
“I don’t know.” Milo’s expression was miserable. “I thought I did. But Honoria asked me how I envisioned us ten years from now. Hell, I can’t envision tomorrow. I said so. She told me that we’d grow apart, because our … how did she put it? … our emotional ties weren’t strong enough, and we didn’t have much else to keep us going. Or something like that.” Milo practically snatched the fresh drink out of the waiter’s hand.
Having known Milo longer than I’d known Leo, I was more inclined to offer advice as well as sympathy. I had plenty of the latter, but not much of the former.
“So what are you trying to prove?” I asked as the party of four at the next table gasped over the dessert cart. “That you can expand your horizons? Or that you really do love her?”
Milo’s long face was puzzled. “I’m not sure. Maybe I figure that if I get interested in cultural stuff, it’ll prove I … ah … love her.”
“You shouldn’t have to prove it.” I spoke with surprising fervor, and regretted it immediately. “I mean, either you do or you don’t. If you don’t know, Milo, maybe Honoria is right.” Now he was completely crestfallen. My sympathy overflowed. Men can’t help their inability to face up to genuine emotions. Intuitively Milo would know when to call for the hit-and-run instead of a bunt. But he’s dense as a Douglas fir when it comes to personal relationships. “Have you thought about what your life would be like in ten years without Honoria?”
Milo’s hazel eyes roamed the room, from the wall that was covered with wine racks to the copper pots suspended from the ceiling and back again. “That depends on whether I’m still sheriff.”
I tried not to look aghast. Maybe Honoria was right. I may have known Milo longer, but she knew him better. I’d run out of advice, and my sympathy was beginning to dry up. Fortunately, our salads arrived, and with them, Milo drifted off our main conversational course.
“I don’t have a lock on this job,” he said. “Take this Linda Lindahl thing. The voters aren’t going to be happy with the fact that I can’t even get a coroner’s verdict until about Tuesday.”
“That’s because the county hasn’t the funds to provide you with proper equipment and manpower.” My tone was reasonable.
Milo gave a jerky nod. “Sure, you and I know that. But the voters aren’t logical. If we put a bond issue on the ballot in March, they’ll veto it, big time. But they’ll still blame me because I can’t solve crimes like some hokey sheriff on TV. Hell, Emma, I’ve got one hand tied behind my back, and the other one feels a little crippled. Once Marv Peterson gets over the shock, he’s going to be breathing down my neck to find his daughter’s killer.”
“You must know so
mething,” I said, trying to sound less like a journalist and more like a friend. “Crime-scene stuff. Tire tracks? A struggle? Time of death?”
For the first time since we’d sat down, Milo grinned. “You’re fishing, Emma. You’re going to get skunked.” The grin disappeared. “So am I, at least until we hear from Snohomish County.”
I was wide-eyed. “You mean there was nothing of interest at the murder site?”
Milo pushed his empty salad plate to one side. “I didn’t say that. There were tire tracks, all right. Plenty of them, including Vida’s. The road crew has cleared a ten-foot strip on each side of the existing highway. That’s where Vida parked. So did a lot of people—hunters, lovers, fishermen, even hikers who don’t mind freezing their butts off. Footprints are another matter. The ground’s covered with all kinds of growth, from berry vines to fallen branches to moss. We did our best trying to find a good print, but then it started to snow. If there was a struggle, we didn’t see much sign of it.”
I shuddered. “Why would anybody do that? Put her in that old rotten log, I mean. It’s ghoulish.”
“Murder is ghoulish,” Milo muttered. He shrugged, and finished his second Scotch. “I figure the killer wanted to hide the body, and the log was handy. Whoever did it probably counted on the snowstorm and hoped Linda wouldn’t be found until spring.” He paused and gave me a sharp look. “That’s a guess, Emma. You’re not taking mental notes, I hope.”
I was, of course. I always do. But I wasn’t foolish enough to print the sheriff’s speculations. Milo should know as much.
“It sounds as if the killer is a man,” I remarked, the grisly statement contradicting my sunny smile for a departing couple I recognized as fellow shoppers at the Grocery Basket.
Milo must have known them, too, though he merely nodded. “Probably. Linda wasn’t tiny. But we can’t rule out a woman, unless she’s feeble. Hell, you could have done the job, Emma. Strangling people when they don’t expect it isn’t as hard as you’d think. And the log was pretty big. It’d take some tugging and hauling, but it could be done by just about anybody.”
“It would take some time,” I noted. “But as I recall, that little clearing is shielded from the road. Or did the highway crew cut down the trees? I haven’t been up that far on 187 since Big Mike Brockelman started working on it.”
They had cut no trees, Milo assured me, only vine maples and underbrush. Linda and her killer would not have been visible from the road.
“But … you didn’t find any … uh, clues?” I hated to use the word because I knew how much Milo and other law enforcement people despised it as amateurish.
“I already told you, no. It’s a love nest, especially for teenagers in good weather. Also a drinking hangout. You can imagine what they leave behind.” Milo looked disgusted.
“Any guesses about how long she’d been dead?” The question had barely escaped my lips when the waiter presented Milo’s steak and my coquilles Saint Jacques. Fortunately, it takes a lot to make me lose my appetite.
Milo eyed his steak appreciatively. He, too, was made of sterner stuff. “It’s hard to tell with the weather we’ve been having. That’s another one for the forensics folks. If you really want a guess, I’d say twelve hours.”
Vida and Roger had discovered the body around two o’clock Saturday. Since the bank was open until six on Fridays, Linda had probably left work no earlier than six-thirty. In all probability, she had been killed somewhere between seven P.M. Friday and two A.M. Saturday. I hadn’t yet dropped my little bombshell on Milo. But Vida might have beaten me to it.
“What was she wearing?” I asked, forking up a tender scallop.
“Clothes.” Milo’s eyes glinted. “You want a fashion description, go ask Francine Wells. Linda had on slacks, a sweater, a fuzzy hat, a long coat, boots—and that damned muffler. Oh, and underwear. I suppose.” Once again, Milo was looking faintly embarrassed.
It was then that I told Milo about seeing Linda go into the Lumberjack Motel on Monday night. The sheriff was mildly surprised. I was amazed that Vida hadn’t already relayed the news. But of course Roger had been her priority.
“It might not mean a thing,” Milo allowed, “but we’ll check the register.”
I also informed Milo about the alleged custody fight. He confirmed that Reba’s rumor was true: Larry or his wife had mentioned it when he called on them Saturday.
“Howard Lindahl will be questioned,” Milo assured me. “Spouses and ex-spouses are always the primary suspects.”
I studied Milo’s face as he devoured three french fries at once. It certainly wasn’t handsome, but it had character. It also had bread crumbs on the chin. Reaching across the table, I gave Milo a swipe with my napkin.
He looked chagrined. “See? Honoria would think I’m a clod.”
“No, she wouldn’t. Besides, I’ve probably got lettuce stuck between my teeth.” I bared them for Milo’s inspection, but he shook his head. For several moments, we ate in silence. I didn’t know what Milo was thinking, but my mind was on the Petersens. “How are they taking it?” I finally asked.
“Depends,” Milo replied, buttering more crusty bread. “Marv and Cathleen are a mess. Larry and JoAnne seem to be in shock. Denise is hard to figure. Kind of an airhead. Uncle Elmer and Aunt Thelma are a pair of stoics. Marv and Elmer’s sister in Seattle is in New Zealand with her husband. The family—well, Marv, actually—decided to wait to tell them when they get back next week.”
We were silent again, finishing our entrees. The waiter took our plates and inquired about dessert. We declined, but ordered Bailey’s Irish Cream.
“You don’t think a stranger killed Linda, do you, Milo?” I posed the question after our liqueur glasses had been delivered.
Slowly, Milo shook his head. “From what I know of Linda, she’s not the type to go off with somebody she didn’t know. And she did go off with whoever it was. Her car is still in the Parc Pines condo garage. I’d bet my badge that Linda knew her killer.”
I wouldn’t take that bet. The fact that Milo’s reasoning ruled out a homicidal maniac should have been comforting.
But it wasn’t. There was a killer among us, and the odds were excellent that the face was familiar.
Midway through Monday morning, I called Bob Lambrecht again in Seattle. My pretext was to ask if he’d received the courtesy copies of The Advocate that we’d sent him last week. The real reason, of course, was to try to wheedle more information out of him about his visit to the Bank of Alpine.
Bob was in a meeting. Since I’d identified myself as the editor and publisher of a newspaper, his secretary insisted on turning me over to the public-relations department. A brisk female voice came on the line and informed me that not only had Mr. Lambrecht received The Advocate, he had sent off a thank-you note. The PR staff had kept a copy for file.
“That’s great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. Then, on a sudden whim, I tried an old newspaper ploy: “Is it true that the Bank of Washington plans to buy out the Bank of Alpine?”
The silence at the other end of the line lasted so long that I thought we’d been disconnected. Finally the voice lost some of its briskness:
“Just a moment, please.”
Chewing my lower lip, I waited with a sense of excitement. I could hear nothing; the PR staffer must have hit the mute button. I was still waiting when Leo rapped once on my open door. I gestured for him to come in. He was still limping, and looked tired.
“The Bank of Washington has absolutely no plans to buy the Bank of Alpine,” the brisk voice said suddenly in my ear. “Thank you for your interest.”
I thanked her for the information. Or lack of it. My face must have registered surprise. Leo gave me a ghost of his cockeyed grin.
“Another stiff?” he asked, balancing precariously on the back legs of my visitor’s chair.
“No.” I frowned at the phone. “No bank buyout. That’s odd.”
“Why? It was never more than a rumor. Didn’t you
start it yourself?” Leo’s brown eyes were amused.
I felt silly. “In a way. But it made sense.”
Leo was ready to dismiss the bank, even if I wasn’t. “That’s a hell of a thing about the Lindahl broad. You hear anything from the sheriff?”
I hadn’t, and didn’t expect to for at least another twenty-four hours. Upon arriving at work, I’d briefed my staff on what little I’d learned over the weekend. Leo was fascinated; Carla was indifferent; Ginny was distracted; Vida was annoyed. Having been pried loose from Roger, my House & Home editor felt left out. She had harrumphed into her typewriter and shortly thereafter had stomped out of the office. I suspected that her nephew, Deputy Bill Blatt, was about to get the third degree.
“What do you think?” Leo’s dry voice cut into my thoughts.
“About … what?” I was feeling as distracted as Ginny.
“Linda Lindahl. You’ve been here quite a while,” Leo said, taking the last cigarette out of his pack. “You must know this cast of characters. Come on, babe, whodunit?”
“I’ve no idea.” It was true. “As I told you this morning, ex-husbands are always good suspects. But so are spurned lovers and jealous rivals.”
For a split second, I thought Leo flinched. Maybe I imagined it, or his ankle was hurting. Instead of making a further comment about Linda’s death, he changed the subject. He was trying to get all the merchants at the mall to sponsor a special insert each Wednesday between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
