by Mary Daheim
Vida showed up as I finished filling my own mug. She looked unusually pleased with herself, especially for someone who was wearing a yellow duck on top of her pillbox. The hat was new to me, and my surprise—more like dismay—must have shown.
“Well?” she said, giving me her gimlet eye. “Have you never seen a duck before?”
“Not that duck,” I admitted.
“Good thing it’s not hunting season, Duchess,” Leo said, using the nickname Vida claimed to hate. “You already got shot in the line of duty.”
“So did you, Leo,” she retorted. “My daughter Amy found this hat at a rummage sale in Sultan. She thought it was quite amusing. I’m wearing it to dinner tonight with her and the rest of the family.”
“You have to use it in ‘Scene,’ ” Leo asserted. “Sure, I know we don’t usually put staff into the column, but you don’t have to name names.”
“I most certainly will not use my duck as an item,” Vida declared, setting out Danish pastries, cinnamon twists, and cupcakes. “However, I need at least two more items for my column.”
“Could we use our new roof?” Kip asked. “I mean, it’s not personal, but we’d do it for any other business in town.”
“Yes,” I said, for once beating Vida to the punch. “It is news.”
“Very well,” she agreed. “Who else has something?”
I, as often is the case, was blank. Leo snapped his fingers. “Scooter Hutchins shaved his goatee.”
“Thank goodness!” Vida exclaimed. “He looked absurd. Is he running an ad for his home decor business this week?”
Leo nodded. “Bigger than usual. He’s got a sale on flooring.”
“Excellent,” Vida said, finishing her duties with the pastry tray.
I grabbed a cinnamon twist and headed for my office. All was quiet this morning. In my usual mental fog, I hadn’t noticed how our new roof looked when I’d driven down Fourth Street. I’d once again flunked my role as a trained observer. Fifteen minutes later, I observed something I didn’t want to see headed for my office.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Ed Bronsky called out, barging through my door and plunking his rotund self in one of my visitor chairs. “Do I have news or what?”
“What do you consider news?” I inquired, noticing that he’d snatched up three cupcakes en route.
Ed licked chocolate frosting off one of the cupcakes before replying. “Remember back in January when you and Dodge were making headlines by almost getting yourselves killed?”
“Yes, I vaguely recall the incident,” I said with a straight face.
“Right.” My former ad manager paused to flick his tongue over some frosting residue on his upper lip. “You know how my autobiography was made into a Japanese cartoon called Mr. Pig. It was never shown over here, but it dawned on me that with all my media experience, why not weave your story into the original, only using Shirley and me as you and Dodge. How’s that for an idea?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.
There are times when I truly don’t know how to respond to Ed short of pulling out my hair by the roots and screaming hysterically. This was one of them. All I could say was “Go on,” while trying not to slide out of my chair and under the desk.
Ed chuckled, spewing some of the cupcake crumbs onto my computer. “I can see you’re stunned by the idea, but I can’t help myself. These things just come to me from nowhere.”
Could you please send them back? I thought. In the five years Ed had worked for me, the only idea he’d ever had was to discourage local merchants from advertising. Putting together ads was work, a four-letter word Ed found far more offensive than any vulgarity. Having frittered away his sizable inheritance and been forced to sell his ersatz villa to RestHaven, he was still trying to figure out ways to make money from his self-published autobiography, Mr. Ed.
“… a pig with a badge,” Ed was saying, though I’d missed what had come before. “But the Smokey the Bear hats Dodge and his deputies wear wouldn’t look right. Do you think the sheriff would be offended?”
“In fact,” I replied, “Milo has ordered a different kind of hat for himself and the deputies. They should be arriving in another week or two. He’s been planning to do that for quite a while.”
“Hmm.” Ed rubbed two of his three chins. “What are they like?”
“They’re similar to Australian hats,” I said, for want of a better description. Just being in Ed’s presence turned my brain into goo resembling cupcake frosting. “The crown isn’t as high. As you know, Milo’s kind of tall.”
“Right.” Ed frowned. “I don’t know how Sheriff Pig would look in a hat like that. It’s the ears, you see.”
My phone rang. “Oh, darn,” I said, reaching for the receiver. “Can we talk about this later? I’m expecting an important call.”
“That’s okay, I can wait.”
I tried to control my temper and said hello in what I hoped was an excited tone.
“Is your office on fire?” my brother, Ben, asked in his crackling voice.
“Yes, yes, of course it is!” I replied. “Let me take notes. Or would you rather read me those statements? It doesn’t matter how many pages you’ve got. I don’t want to leave out anything.”
Even Ed could take that broad of a hint. “Maybe I should come back later,” he murmured, still clutching the last cupcake as he heaved himself out of the chair.
“Holy crap,” Ben said, “are you being held hostage? Or has Dodge driven you to despair?”
I watched Ed waddle out through the newsroom. “Ed,” I replied. “Need I say more?”
“Please don’t,” my brother begged. “Even Dennis Kelly, who has the patience of a saint, sometimes wishes Bronsky would defect to another religion. What’s Ed up to now or dare I ask?”
“Don’t,” I said. “There are some things that shouldn’t be conveyed by telephone. How are things in El Paso?”
“As I told you, it’s not what I expected,” Ben replied. “It’s huge, especially when you combine it with Juárez, across the Rio Grande. There’s a mountain range on this side and another one in Mexico. The altitude here is higher than Alpine. I thought I’d be hanging out at the border or some damned thing, but mostly I’m helping new immigrants get settled. It’s a far cry from the Mississippi delta and the Native American reservations around Tuba City.”
“Do you like it?”
“I think so. You know I wanted to be in a city again after spending so much of my priesthood on rural assignments. But the past couple of years filling in for priests in big cities cured me of that. Still, this is a whole different culture in all sorts of ways. And would you believe El Paso is one of the safest big cities in the country? Hell, it may be safer than Alpine.”
“You could be right,” I admitted. “Dwight Gould found a body in the Sky late yesterday afternoon.”
“Probably easier to do than catch a fish,” Ben murmured. “Anybody I know?”
“Not a local,” I said. “A Hispanic male from east of the mountains.”
“Maybe Catholic. Got a name so I can offer up a Mass for him?”
“Dodge isn’t releasing any ID until next of kin are notified.”
“Okay. I’ll do a folano benecito, as we call it in Spanish. That’s ‘blessed stranger’ to you. God knows who the guy is, even if I don’t. Say—what’s up with the annulment process?”
Having been married the first time in a Protestant church, my husband had to go through the process of having his union with Tricia annulled. Then we could have a Catholic ceremony or at least have our marriage blessed by a priest. That meant a lot to me, even if Milo didn’t give a hoot. He’d been raised as a Congregationalist, but his real religion was fishing. It gave him a sense of peace as well as time for introspection. If, he’d told me, hanging out with fishermen was good enough for Jesus, it was good enough for him.
“Milo looked through the papers, but he’s been busy. The process is … daunting. Don’t worry. You know how he is. The sheriff always takes his t
ime, though once he gets onto something, he’s thorough.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Ben paused. “How are you two doing otherwise?”
“Fine, really. Tanya’s still hovering, but that’s okay. She’s dating Bill Blatt.”
“Vida’s nephew? Oh, my God! Don’t tell me that eventually even you are going to end up related to Vida in some weird Alpine way?”
“I never thought of that,” I said. “She’s still mad at Milo—and Rosemary Bourgette and Judge Proxmire.”
“Roger, right?” Ben didn’t wait for an answer. “They don’t teach forgiveness at the Presbyterian church? I expect better of them. And of Vida. Hey—got to go. Jorge Valdez and his six kids just showed up. Peace, Sluggly.”
“Same to you, Stench,” I said, retaliating with my childhood nickname for him.
I’d no sooner hung up when I saw Mitch come into the newsroom. I went out to meet him. “Anything new at the sheriff’s office?” I asked, empty coffee mug in hand.
“If you mean an ID on the body, no, not yet,” Mitch replied, shedding his black raincoat. “Otherwise, it’s the usual. The sports car driver is still listed in critical condition at the hospital in Monroe. Two other minor accidents in town, the usual traffic violations, one reported prowler up on First Hill, and shoplifters at both Safeway and Grocery Basket. Oh—Dodge is shorthanded. Heppner called in sick.”
I was surprised. “Heppner is never sick. He’s too ornery. No germ would dare land on his prickly hide.”
“He is human,” Mitch said, beating me to the coffee urn. “Gee, who ate all the cupcakes?”
“Ed Bronsky,” I informed him. “You’re lucky he left a Danish and a couple of cinnamon twists.”
“He seems like a real character,” Mitch said, picking up one of the twists. “Was he really such a bad advertising guy?”
“In a word, yes. By the way, what’s wrong with Sam?”
Mitch shrugged. “I didn’t ask. A virus, probably.”
“I suppose even Sam could succumb to one of those.”
I filled my mug and returned to my office. Deputy Heppner had never been a warm and fuzzy guy. Over the years, he’d become even more irascible. If he had caught a virus, he’d get over it on his own. That’s the way he lived.
It didn’t occur to me that it was also the way he could die.
FIVE
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, I CALLED THE SHERIFF. “I’M AWARE you don’t realize this is our deadline day,” I began, “but I thought I’d remind you in case you’ve forgotten to give us the body’s name.”
“Nope,” he replied in an aggravatingly complacent tone. “Do you know how many people named Fernandez live in Wapato?”
“I think you just told me his name,” I said.
“You didn’t hear that. Besides, you’d never print only a last name and the address on his driver’s license is out of date.”
“So he may not even live in Wapato?” I asked, tapping my fingernails on the desk.
“Could be. Yakima County’s close to forty percent Hispanic. As for his common name, didn’t Fleetwood have somebody named Fernandez working for him a few years ago?”
“Right,” I said, “but he wasn’t from Eastern Washington. Do you have time to eat lunch with me?”
“I don’t have time to eat lunch, period,” Milo grumbled. “I have to go with Tanya to her appointment with Dr. Reed at twelve-thirty and I’m shorthanded with Heppner out sick. I’ll be lucky to be home by six. Tanya’s coming for dinner. Bill’s pulling night duty.”
“Poor you. I’ll go away now and leave you alone.”
“If I were alone, I’d have some free time.” Milo hung up on me. Married or not, there were some habits he couldn’t seem to break.
Vida, however, was free for lunch. In fact, she asked if I’d like to join her at the Venison Inn. “One of my Gustavson nieces is working there during the lunch hour. Mandy—you remember her?”
“Yes,” I said, not even bothering to try untangling the branches on Vida’s enormous family tree. “Wasn’t she training to be the daytime bartender before she quit to have a baby?”
“Just briefly,” Vida replied, adjusting the duck, which had listed to the pillbox’s port side. Maybe he’d spent time at the VI’s bar when his owner wasn’t looking. “That was a few years ago. Mandy didn’t care for the job’s rather unsavory aspects. She’s filling in for her cousin, Nicole, who’s taking college classes. A journalism major, as you may recall. Somehow I inspired her.” Vida’s attempt to look modest failed.
As usual, Vida chose the booth with the best window view to keep track of the passing parade. “Oh, dear,” she said under her breath, “there goes Crazy Eights Neffel on a unicycle. He really shouldn’t weave in and out of traffic like that.” She gasped; the duck wobbled. “Goodness! He just swerved into the clock tower by the bank!”
I turned around to try to see how our local loony had landed, but a UPS truck blocked my view.
“That’s my nephew Ronnie Blatt driving,” Vida said. “I wonder if he’ll stop to see if Crazy Eights is hurt. It’d serve him right if he is.”
Ronnie and the UPS truck moved on. I noticed a couple of people apparently helping Crazy Eights. I suggested it to Vida as a “Scene” item.
She shook her head. “You know I try to avoid sightings of that lunatic. It only eggs him on.” She opened the menu and frowned. “The special is a roast beef sandwich with a side of potato salad and a dill pickle. That sounds rather skimpy, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I’m going for the fish and chips with the coleslaw.”
“Oh.” Vida frowned. “Maybe I should have that, too. I suspect it’d be more slimming. You’re very fortunate you don’t have to count calories,” she murmured, putting the menu aside. “Genetics, of course. I’m forced to watch my weight. Oh—here’s Mandy.”
Vida’s niece looked as if she should be watching her weight, too. Mandy hadn’t shed most of the pounds she’d gained during pregnancy, despite the baby being almost a year old. But most of the Runkel and Blatt women were big-boned and tall. No matter how much Vida fussed about her diet, I could never tell if she’d gained or lost an ounce.
I drifted while aunt and niece exchanged family chitchat. Finally, Vida inquired about the fish and chips. “There are only two pieces of fish?” she asked in dismay.
“They’re good-sized portions,” Mandy said.
“Hmmm.” Vida fretted her upper lip. “Might you be able to add just one more? Smallish, of course.”
“Sure, Aunt Vida,” Mandy replied. “Anything else?”
“Well … I’m not that fond of coleslaw, dear. I noticed there was potato salad with the special. Could you substitute that?”
“I can try,” her niece offered.
Vida nodded. “Fine. As for the chips, the last time I had them, there didn’t seem to be enough to go around with the fish. I like my fish and chips to come out even. They complement each other so nicely, don’t you agree?”
“Um … sure. I’ll make certain that there are some extra fries to go with the extra fish, okay?”
“Of course. And can you bring catsup and mayonnaise along with the tartar sauce? By the way, they put the tartar sauce in such a tiny cup. It’s never sufficient for the fish. Is it a bother to bring a bowl?”
“Of course not,” Mandy insisted, though I noticed that she looked a bit pained. Maybe her feet hurt. Or her wrist had given out from writing down all of her aunt’s requests.
I finally remembered that I knew how to talk and spoke up. “I’ll just have the regular fish and chips with a vanilla malt.”
“Hot tea for me,” her aunt said. “Cream, of course.”
Mandy trudged away.
Vida was again looking out onto Front Street. “I see no sign of Crazy Eights or the unicycle. At least he didn’t dent the bank’s clock tower.”
“It is cast iron, isn’t it?” I said.
“I believe so. It’s very old, dating from the bank it
self.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I hear we may finally be getting a permanent Bank of Alpine president.”
“Not Andy Cederberg?”
“That’s right. Nobody ever thought Andy would hold down the job permanently. He doesn’t have the experience, nor does he possess an executive manner.” Vida’s gray eyes practically danced. “Do try to guess who would fill the role most admirably.”
“I suppose I can eliminate Crazy Eights Neffel. Unless, of course, his executive parking place is the clock tower.”
Vida wasn’t amused. “If you insist on being obtuse, I shan’t tell you until the announcement is official.”
Despite all the unpleasant memories from the latest Petersen family bank tragedies of the previous November, I forced myself to recall if Vida had mentioned any names. “I’ll eliminate Marv Petersen’s grandsons, who declined the honor on your radio show,” I said. “Is Marv involved in the decision making or has his brain gone further south than the Arizona retirement community where he and his wife now reside?”
“Marv apparently has some lucid moments,” Vida said. “The trustees he put in place upon leaving the bank are the college president, May Hashimoto, and Dr. Bob Starr, Lloyd Campbell, Al Driggers, and Simon Doukas. Quite an upstanding list, you must agree.”
I made a face. “Except for Simon Doukas. In case your memory is slipping, he was the first one in town to call me a whore. I haven’t spoken to him since.”
“That, of course, was of no importance to Marv,” Vida said in a reasonable voice. “He wanted one attorney involved, and even if Simon is semi-retired, he comes from an established Alpine family. The other two lawyers, Marisa Foxx and Jonathan Sibley, are relative newcomers.”
“Right,” I muttered, “they’ve only been here ten years.”
“Now, now,” Vida reprimanded me, “you think highly of Bob Starr, who is an excellent dentist. Certainly Al, as the local funeral director, is a longtime fixture, and so is Lloyd, with his appliance store. Admittedly, May Hashimoto hasn’t lived in Alpine for very long, but I gather Marv wanted someone from the college. And she’s a woman as well as a minority. Surely that means something.”
