by Mary Daheim
“Is that why you built the birdhouse at the springs?” I asked, finding Leonard's explanation interesting, if typically long-winded.
“You bet. I've put up a bunch of houses for birds here at my place on the river. You see them?” He paused fractionally for my nod. “Every spring, I get some pretty fascinating characters. But not all birds build nests, you know. And not all of them want to use a birdhouse.”
“Did you get a spotted owl this year?”
“No.” Leonard's voice dropped in disappointment. “I even put an old nest inside, a big one I'd taken from a tree. But the damned owls didn't show up. You know how it is—they're getting scarce.”
“Leonard,” I began, unsure of my reason for asking the question, “do you know why anyone would pull down your birdhouse at the springs?”
Leonard looked disgusted. “Sure, I do. It's happened here, right outside my door. Violet and me went to Hawaii about the time of the first spotted owl legislation. Some damned fools came through here and shot the crap out of my birdhouses. Then, one Halloween, a bunch of kids knocked over two of them. Violet and me were in Alpine that night, at somebody's party. I had anidea who a couple of the kids were, so I gave their folks a good talking to. It didn't happen again.” Leonard's full face turned hard. It was obvious that he savored his clout as a county commissioner.
He sipped his coffee; so did I. Leonard hadn't told me anything that helped indicate who killed Stan Levine. My eyes roamed around the kitchen, with its crocheted dish towels, salt and pepper shaker collection, and airy yellow curtains. I had come to the Hollenberg house on a fool's errand. I doubted very much if irate loggers or spaced-out teens had dumped Leonard's bird-house into the campfire at the springs. Unless, it occurred to me, the act had been symbolic. Maybe I shouldn't dismiss the loggers so hastily.
But Leonard had moved on. Like nature, he couldn't tolerate a vacuum. “… environmentalists and such. It's not all bad, that's what folks have to understand. Outside money, fresh ideas, new blood—that's the future of Skykomish County.”
I tried to pick up the conversational thread. “True, stagnation is a real threat to—”
But Leonard was still wound up: “Look at Sultan. They've got plans for new businesses, new stores, new housing. People want to live away from the hustle and bustle of the city. They'd rather drive further to work every day and come home to clean air and a low crime rate. This is God's country, Emmy. Heck, even the girls get better looking. Like you.” He winked, then took another slurp of coffee.
“That's very kind, though I—”
“No, I mean it.” Leonard was nodding emphatically. “Monday morning, before I headed up to the springs—” He stopped, frowned, and rubbed his bald head. “God Almighty, what a day! That's why I almost forgot about those two blondes at the Dutch Cup. Now in the old days, how often did you spot a couple of real honeysletting down their hair along Highway 2?” He wagged a finger at me. “You bet—about once a year, when some coeds going over to Central Washington or Washington State would stop for a break. But these two weren't still wet behind the ears. The next thing you know, you girls will be wearing high heels at the Grocery Basket.”
Inwardly, I shuddered at the thought. Outwardly, I gave Leonard a curious look. “Two blondes? Did you recognize them?”
“Just the one, that architect's wife. Melville, that's the name. She's from California, she's pretty as a picture, and she's living in Alpine. Now who can fault that?” He sat back again, stubby thumbs entwined in his suspenders.
Amazingly, Leonard had remembered Beverly's last name. But that wasn't what most intrigued me: “When was that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“When?” Leonard started to scowl. “Monday, like I … oh, you mean what time? Just before eight-thirty. Once in a while I like to eat breakfast out. No hard feelings with Violet, mind, but it gives me a chance to shoot the breeze and hear what the voters have to say. Just for the heck of it, I had breakfast Monday at the Dutch Cup. Sultan may be in Snohomish County, but I've got some cronies there all the same.”
I wondered how candid I could be with the county commissioner. It was worth a try. “Was the other woman about the same age as Ms. Melville, with freckles and strawberry-blonde curls?”
Leonard gave another emphatic nod. “That'd be her, all right. I never forget a face. But she's not from around here,” he added with authority.
“No, she's not,” I agreed in a somewhat distracted manner. “She was staying with a friend at Startup.” Skye Piersall had gotten an early start Monday morning.I wondered if she had called me at nine-thirty from the Dutch Cup.
“Did they seem … friendly?” I put a smile into the question.
Leonard jabbed his chest with a thumb. “To me? Hey, I didn't pull any fast ones! Commissioner Hollen-berg isn't one of those politicians who chases skirts!”
I made a rueful face. “Of course not. I meant friendly with each other.”
Leonard took the implied apology well. He thought about the clarification for several seconds. “They were serious. Real serious. Head-to-head, confidential-like. Now that's one thing I don't like about you young women—you're all too serious these days. Take Violet—she's a giggler. At your age, she was full of fun, always chipper, couldn't stop giggling.”
I tried to imagine Violet as effervescent. I failed. Either life had taken the steam out of Mrs. Hollenberg, or her husband's memory was worse than I'd thought.
I thanked Leonard for his information and the coffee. The brief drive back to Alpine was made under listless gray skies. I pondered his sighting of Beverly Melville and Skye Piersall in Sultan. What had prompted them to get together? Beverly would have been on her way to Seattle; Skye would have come from Honoria's house. Had the two women known each other in California? And if they had, so what?
It was exactly eight o'clock when I entered the newspaper office. The half-hour detour hadn't been very profitable. I still wasn't sure why I'd felt the need to call on the county commissioner and ask about spotted owls. Leonard had sounded straightforward; his recital had made perfect sense. So what was it about birds that bothered me? I couldn't seem to get them out of my head.
My forlorn state must have shown. Leo was already at work. He eyed me with sympathy.
“What happened, babe? You look like bird shit.”
“Thanks, Leo. Watch your mouth. Vida will be here any minute. Let's not talk about birds. They're driving me nuts.” Ignoring Leo's curious glance, I poured a cup of coffee. Seated at my desk, I called Honoria, who I knew was an early riser. I'd meant to phone her the previous night, but in my disappointment over the canceled trip, I'd forgotten. She didn't answer until the seventh ring. I imagined her maneuvering the wheelchair with that languid deliberation that I didn't quite understand. Unlike me, Honoria never seemed to be in a hurry.
My initial inquiry about Skye Piersall evoked a deep sigh. “I'm fond of her,” Honoria said carefully. “Oh, I realize she puts people off sometimes. It's part of her armor against the world, specifically in dealing with her causes. It's not easy, always being in an adversarial position.”
As a newspaper publisher, I understood Skye's plight. But I hoped that my own armor wasn't as obvious. “Skye told me something that wasn't accurate,” I said, trying to be tactful. “Maybe she made a mistake. It was about the relationship between Blake Fannucci and Beverly Melville, the architect's wife.” I explained the confusion in detail.
Honoria's tone turned musing. “Heavens, I've no idea. Skye finds Blake very difficult, almost impossible to deal with. Her tendency with such people is to pretend they don't exist. You're probably right, it was a mistake. I'd guess that Skye doesn't care if Blake has a string of ex-wives or a passel of sisters. She got on much better with Stan Levine.”
“Was she in love with him?” I could remain tactful for only so long.
I mistook the silence at the other end of the line forshock. But when Honoria finally spoke again, her voice conveyed its usual calm: “
Love doesn't come lightly to Skye. Her passions are reserved for ideas, not people. Still, she was much intrigued by Stan. According to her, he was very complicated. Did you know they first met in the Peace Corps? Central America, as I recall.”
I didn't, of course. “Stan was in the Peace Corps? Was Blake?”
Honoria laughed in her musical way. “Not that I know of. He's hardly the type. But then I suppose some people would think the same of Stan. That's what I mean—he was a complex person. Or so Skye told me.”
Now it was my turn to be silent for a moment. “Didn't Stan and Blake meet in college?”
“I'm not sure,” Honoria replied. “But Stan dropped out of school to go into the Peace Corps and then went back to get his degree. He and Skye lost track of each other until they met again over some environmental issue near Palm Springs. The romance—if you'd call it that—was off and on for years.”
I reflected on the ill-fated pair. Stan had been in his early forties when he died; maybe Skye was only a couple of years younger. As far as I knew, neither had ever married. Vida had told me that Stan's death practically unhinged Skye. Maybe Honoria had misjudged her friend's capacity for love; maybe Honoria herself was too cool, too self-contained, to fathom the depths of another's emotions.
“Honoria, do you remember where Skye was headed Monday morning? She left your place early, I believe.”
The faint laugh had an edge. “Really, Emma, I can't think why you're asking me such questions. Has Milo deputized you?” Honoria's tone verged on sarcasm.
I tried to make a joke of my inquiries. “It's the snoop in me. I keep trying to figure out why people do things. A murder investigation is like one of those kids'puzzles where you color only the spaces with the dots. A picture emerges, but you need the blanks to set if off.”
“I don't recall those,” Honoria replied in a dubious voice. I guessed that as a child she was already creating original work with molding clay. Clods like me labored over filling up those dots. “Skye left here before eight,” she said, conceding the answer to my question. “She insisted that I didn't trouble to make breakfast. Her schedule was full, but naturally I didn't pry.”
The rebuke stung only slightly. I let it pass as a new thought occurred to me. “When I first met Skye, she said she was from Seattle. 'More or less' was the way she put it. But she flew back to California. And what about her car?”
Honoria's laugh now seemed forced. “Really, Emma, I can't keep up with her. CATE is headquartered in San Jose, I believe. Skye had been staying with friends in Seattle. During the last few months, there had been various projects in the Puget Sound area. I think her plans were to drop the car off in town, go to the airport, fly to San Jose, and check in with her managers, or whatever they're called. She'd requested to be reassigned. I'm sure you can understand why.”
I could. Maybe. Yet I was bothered by Skye's reaction. “Stan's death certainly affected her deeply,” I remarked.
“The entire Alpine experience affected her adversely,” Honoria said, now speaking in a firm voice. “She simply couldn't get a feel for the town's attitude. They resent outsiders, yet they're in dire need of jobs. They love the wilderness, but they're perfectly willing to hunt and fish and chop down trees. She found them utterly paradoxical. Frankly, I do, too.”
Honoria's views weren't foreign to me. But as a native Pacific Northwesterner, I intuitively understood myfellow residents' outlook. It was not unlike that of the regional Native Americans, who respected the land but believed that its bounty was reserved strictly for them. If the indigenous tribes of the nineteenth century had resented the white man, a hundred years later the descendants of the original interlopers despised those who had the misfortune of being born in another state. The natives—of every color and creed—had enormous pride and hostility to match. Some might call it selfishness; Pacific northwesterners deemed it self-preservation.
The conversation with Honoria ran down, dwindling away in an exchange of innocuous philosophical cliches. The two of us would never agree. After all, Honoria was from California. The chasm between us was deeper than the Columbia River, wider than the state of Oregon.
It was, I concluded, the same sort of polarization that had thwarted the romance between Skye Piersall and Stan Levine. Their basic attitude toward life was so different that they couldn't meet on any common ground. Love, if that is what had existed between them, wasn't enough to bind them together.
Or was it? Twenty years ago they had both joined the Peace Corps. Their ideals must have been very similar then. What had happened, especially to Stan, that would make him change directions so radically?
That was the question I posed to Vida when she entered my office five minutes later. Naturally, she had no idea, and wasn't in the mood to speculate.
“You look dreadful,” she announced, echoing Leo Walsh's words. “Maybe you should go away for the weekend after all. Have you considered visiting your friend Mavis in Oregon?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn't pull such a surprise on her. Mavis is incredibly flexible, but I don't do that kind of thing.”
Vida, of course, wouldn't do it either. “Then concentrate on your brother and Adam. They'll be here a week from tomorrow. Just be thankful that you have family. I'm taking care of Roger until Saturday night. His parents are driving over to Spokane for a wedding. This should be an enjoyable weekend.”
As usual, I couldn't quite manage to congratulate Vida on having Roger under her wing. She, however, positively glowed. Or perhaps she was thinking about her Sunday date with Mr. Ree. I felt a pang of envy.
“It's trying to rain again,” I said, sounding unusually gloomy at the prospect. Hastily, I tried to make amends. “We shouldn't have to worry about drought this year.”
“My garden is flourishing,” Vida said. “All my perennials are coming along beautifully. I think I'll teach Roger about flowers tomorrow. He loves getting his little hands in the dirt. The contact with Nature, you know. He's so in tune with the elements.”
So is Satan, I thought. But for Vida's sake, I smiled. “Honestly, I'm looking forward to Ben and Adam's arrival. It's time to talk to my son about his future. He's old enough to consider a career. Or at least declare a major.”
Vida was now looking away, in the direction of my filing cabinets. I assumed she was considering Adam's quandary, or perhaps dreaming of Roger as a botanist or a landscape architect or a grave robber.
I was wrong. “Blake Fannucci,” she said, her gray eyes again fixed on me. “That's what happened to Stan Levine. He met Blake in college and turned a very sharp corner.”
I considered Vida's statement. “Yes,” I said slowly, “that may be true. Blake is very convincing. As a young man he was probably full of ideas—concepts, he'd call them—and he convinced Stan they could buildempires of their own. That would have appealed to Stan.”
Vida nodded, her summer straw hat lurching dangerously. “Idealists come in all forms. It's how that idealism is channeled that determines the course of a person's life. Really, I don't see a great deal of difference between a young man who goes into the Peace Corps to help Third World countries and someone who wants to create a luxury resort. It's all building—if you know what I mean.”
I did. But what I couldn't see was how the road from youthful idealism in Central America had led Stan Levine to his death on a mountainside near Alpine. It seemed to me that the trail in the homicide investigation had grown cold. Indeed, I had the feeling that Stan Lev-ine's killer would never be caught.
My pessimism must have showed. Vida was regarding me with a troubled expression. “You almost looked normal for a few moments. What happened, Emma? You worry me.”
My laugh was rickety. “I worry me, too. It's nothing, Vida. Just disappointment, frustration, and a sense of hopelessness.”
“Oh.” Vida stood up, a hand on her hat. “Is that all? That's life. Don't fret over it.”
I made a disparaging noise. That was easy for Vida to say.
B
ut, of course, it wasn't.
By mid-afternoon it appeared that life was becoming even more onerous. My worst nightmare was about to happen. Well, maybe it wasn't the absolute worst, since it didn't involve my son, my brother, or Tom Cav-anaugh. Instead, it was Roger, arriving at The Advocate after school let out. He intended to stay until his grandmother went home from work.
In the first hour, from a few minutes after three until not quite four, Roger was relatively benign. He unplugged Carta's computer, broke Ginny's calculator, and drew all over one of Leo's advertising layouts. For Roger, that was mild. I controlled my glee when Leo called him an undisciplined little bastard and took a swipe at Roger's rump. Leo missed. Luckily, or unluckily, Vida was in the front office at the time. Roger raced off to seek sanctuary with his grandmother.
But ten minutes later, when the wretched little creep violated my cubbyhole and dumped God-only-knew-what from my word processing disk, I called a halt. Taking Roger by the collar of his rugby shirt, I marched him into the news office.
“Look, Vida,” I said, trying to remain calm, “why don't the two of you call it a day? You've put in a good week, and I won't quibble if you want to take your grandson home so you can get an early start on your fun weekend.”
Vida's expression was inscrutable. But she didn't argue. She had some items to pick up at Cascade Dry Cleaners next door and needed to make a stop at the Grocery Basket. In the handful of minutes that it took Vida to organize her work life, Roger raced outside, where he presumably waited peacefully for his grandmother. I waved off my House * Home editor with a frozen smile.
Leo was hunched over his desk, redoing the layout that Roger had defaced. “That kid's practicing to be a world-class prick,” he muttered. “How does the Duchess put up with him?”
“Roger's her blind spot,” I said with a shake of my head. “She's much more strict with her other grandchildren. But of course they don't live here.”
