by Mary Daheim
“He's a real jerk,” Carla chimed in, hoisting the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “I'm off to BuddyBayard's and then I'll head home. Marilynn and I are going to the movies tonight.”
I tried to keep from looking curious, but for once Carla was observant. “Peyts is on call this weekend.” She gave me a faintly amused smile. “It's okay, Emma. You can mention his name. You can mention his name in the same sentence with Marilynn. You can mention their names together. Frankly, Peyts made me crazy. Marilynn can have him.” Her smile now arch, Carla swished out of the office.
Leo snickered. “Sour grapes—or not?”
I shrugged. “Carla and Dr. Flake were never a good match. I like Marilynn's chances much better. She knows how to deal with impossible men.”
Again Leo bent over his layout. I started for my cubbyhole. “What happened?” Leo called out after me as I crossed the threshold.
I turned to look at him over my shoulder. “About what? Carla and Peyts?”
Leo gazed up from his work. He was wearing a short-sleeve summer sports shirt with no tie. His bare arms looked muscular as he rested them on the desk. “No. Your weekend pass to wherever. San Francisco?”
I turned all the way around. “Who blabbed? Janet Driggers?”
Leo nodded. “I ran into her at Parker's Pharmacy this afternoon. She said you were very mysterious.”
I didn't understand the sudden urge to spill everything on Leo. But I did it anyway, at least in part. “I got dumped,” I said, forcing myself to look my ad manager straight in the eye. “My hot weekend didn't pan out. If you tell anyone, you're fired.”
Leo arched his eyebrows at me, but his expression was sympathetic. “The guy must be an idiot. I suppose I can't ask what happened?”
“No.” I'd already said too much. “It wasn't really hisfault.” It was, though. Tom had put up with Sandra's nonsense for far too long. But Sandra was sick. The mind could be as diseased as any other part of the body. I gave myself a sharp shake. This was no time to bring up all the old, tired arguments.
Leo was giving me his crooked grin. “Let Dr. Walsh cheer you up, babe. How about dinner at King Olav's? I owe you, remember? Our Sonics bet?”
I had forgotten the wager we'd made last fall in the NBA season's early stages. In a rare moment of basketball insight, I'd predicted that the Seattle team wouldn't get to the finals in the playoffs. They hadn't, losing to Denver in the first round.
I started to demur, then managed an uncertain smile of my own. “Why not? You can admire the price tags on my San Francisco wardrobe.”
“I can find plenty to admire without that,” Leo said, and for just a moment he looked very serious. “Go home, soak in the tub, unwind. I'll hold down the fort here until five and pick you up just before seven.”
There was no compelling reason to argue. I'd already planned my workload so that I could leave early to get to the airport. Three minutes later I was going through the front office, wishing Ginny a pleasant weekend.
“Rick's taking me to dinner on The River Queen in Everett.” Ginny seemed tickled at the prospect.
“It sounds like fun,” I said, recalling the announcement of the paddleboat's arrival a couple of years earlier. “The sun's coming out, so you should have a nice view. Enjoy yourselves.” With a farewell smile, I pushed open the front door.
The sun was indeed out, which made the drenching flood of water all the more astonishing. I let out a shriek as the brief torrent soaked me to the skin. In the middle of Front Street a man in a pickup truck screeched to a stop, while a handful of pedestrians, ineludingPastor Purebeck from the Presbyterian church, paused to gape.
I probably wouldn't have sworn anyway, since I was more stunned than angry. Ginny came running outside to find me wiping water out of my eyes and peering up at the lintel over The Advocate's entrance.
“Emma!” she cried in alarm. “What happened? You're all wet!”
Simultaneously, we spotted the galvanized bucket dangling from a piece of cord. Our eyes followed the cord down along the door to the outside knob. Ginny and I stared at each other.
“Somebody set this up,” I said, still dripping and spluttering. “Somebody,” I added, now sounding grim, “like that little rat, Roger.”
Ginny's eyes grew even wider. She started to laugh, then quickly put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, no! Roger is so awful!” But Ginny couldn't stop giggling.
The pickup had driven away, but most of the pedestrians, including Pastor Purebeck, remained. “Are you all right, Ms. Lord?” he inquired in his grave voice.
I was trying to squeeze water out of my navy slacks. “I'm okay. I'm just glad it's a late Friday afternoon and we don't get much traffic at the office. I wouldn't want one of our subscribers to get doused. You might give your Sunday sermon on discipline.” My gaze narrowed at Pastor Purebeck. “Especially for grandparents.”
The clergyman's sculpted features sagged. He understood that I was referring to a member of his flock. “Well … ah … yes, discipline is considered old-fashioned, I'm afraid. But it's never really out of style. God bless you, my dear.” He moved away with unseemly haste, lest I actually take Vida's name in vain.
It wasn't hard to remove the bucket and the cord. I didn't understand how Roger had gotten up there untilI noticed the ladder standing innocently in front of the dry cleaners next door. Apparently our neighbors had been putting up their striped summer awning. Roger had taken advantage of the opportunity while his grandmother was collecting her clean clothes.
The drive home wasn't comfortable, but at least the incident propelled me into following Leo's advice. The first thing I did after grabbing the mail and checking my answering machine was to soak in the tub. I was relaxing and trying to forget that I should be en route to San Francisco when I heard an odd pounding noise. Hastily, I got out of the tub, wrapped myself in a frayed summer robe, and went into the living room. Someone was knocking on my door.
“Your bell's broken,” Milo said, giving it a poke. “See? Nothing. You want me to fix it?”
“Jeez, Milo, why not? I can stand here and shiver while you play Mr. Handyman. Come in, I'm going to get dressed.”
When I emerged in dry sweats, Milo was in the kitchen, searching for beer. He managed to find a lone can at the rear of the refrigerator. I made a mental note to stock up before Adam and Ben arrived.
“I heard you had an accident,” Milo said with a grin as we went back into the living room. “Roger gotcha, huh?”
While I knew that Milo shared my loathing of Vida's grandson, I didn't find his remark very funny. “He's amazing, really,” I said, collapsing into my favorite armchair and taking a deep swig of Pepsi. “He can create mayhem even when he's not around. That's genius, Milo. The kid may have a future after all.”
But Milo scoffed. “Not a chance. I'm going to stay in office until Roger's old enough so that I can arrest him and put him away for life. Speaking of which,” he went on, resting his feet on my coffee table and causing meto wince, “we learned something interesting today regarding our current homicide investigation.”
“Oh?” I tucked my bare feet under me in the soft chair. “Something you're actually going to share with the press?”
Milo grimaced, then lighted a cigarette. “If I don't, Bill Blatt will. He's the one who took the call from L.A. Vida will be all over him like a patchwork quilt.”
“So what is it?” I decided I might as well smoke, too. I'd been such a trouper at work, never giving into my nicotine frenzy despite my personal disappointment. Certainly I wouldn't manage to survive Leo's dinner without surrendering to a cigarette.
The sheriff looked as relaxed as I'd seen him for a while. He was gazing up into the rafters of my ceiling, studying the chinks between the logs. It suddenly dawned on me that Milo felt at home. The thought jarred me.
“We had L.A. County check into VineFan, Inc.'s accounts. That's the name of their corporation, by the way. It's a combination of their last names.”
> I knew that; I'd used it in the original story on the hot springs project. Sometimes I wondered if Milo ever read The Advocate. “Go on,” I encouraged, trying not to sound impatient.
Milo puffed and sipped, then chuckled. “Big spenders, my butt. Those guys had less than twenty grand in the bank between them. We should have known they were both just a lot of L.A. smog. Emma, old girl, I think my troubles are over.”
Chapter Sixteen
MILO'S SELF-SATISFIED ATTITUDE bothered me. I drank more Pepsi and tried to figure out why. “Are you saying they were con artists?”
Milo shrugged. “Maybe. I don't know that they did anything illegal here. Except that Levine got himself killed. But their financial status could give us a fresh motive that leaves me off the hook.”
I was puzzled. “How?”
Milo swung his feet onto the floor, then leaned over to lift the lid on my crystal candy dish. It was empty. I made another mental note. “Somebody they swindled in L.A. Or wherever. But not anybody local. As I said, so far as we know, they didn't break any laws in Alpine.”
The sheriff's information still perturbed me. It simply didn't ring true. Skye Piersall had fought Blake and Stan on other projects. Presumably, she'd lost a few battles. “Are you talking about the corporate account or their individual, personal accounts?”
Milo put his feet back on the coffee table. “Corporate and personal. Levine's, that is. We have no reason to check into Fannucci's. Yet.” He drained his beer can. “VineFan, Inc. has around fourteen grand in two separate banks. Levine's savings came to just under six grand. Hell, I'd have that much if I weren't still paying Mulehide for our kids' support. I should have it, too,since that jerk she married makes twice as much as I do.”
I didn't want to get sidetracked by Milo's domestic problems. As with Leo, I'd heard it all before. “Did you—or Bill—check into the projects that VineFan supposedly promoted?”
Milo was gazing soulfully at his empty beer can. “Oh, yeah. They exist. But that doesn't mean Fannucci and Levine are responsible.”
“You could find out,” I said in a chiding tone.
“We could,” Milo agreed with a condescending smile. “Have you ever tried to sort through who owns what and where the money comes from with a California company? It'd take some doing, and in this case I don't see how the payoff is going to help find Stan Lev-ine's killer. What we've told L.A. County is to look for somebody who got screwed over by VineFan. An investor, I'd figure.” Gently, Milo belched.
So Milo intended to dump the investigation in the L.A. County sheriff's lap. The idea wasn't worthy of him. I said so, using an unusually sharp tone. “What,” I finally demanded, “are you thinking of? That some sucker came all the way to Alpine and climbed up Spark Plug Mountain to shoot Stan? What's next? Blake gets lured to the Salt Flats in Utah and somebody runs over him with a four-wheel drive? Milo, you can't be serious!”
But he was. “The scenario is perfect. Revenge is a queer thing, Emma. You don't know people like I do. They brood, they dwell on stuff, they become obsessed. Think about it—whoever got bilked wanted payback time more than anything. Not in money, because it was gone. So this guy—we'll say it was a guy, okay?—sits around, figuring out how to do in Levine and Fannucci. He can take his time. That's all he's got, maybe. He follows his victims to Alpine. He could camp out this timeof year. He gets Stan alone and shoots him. Now he's got Blake scared spitless. He waits. Then Blake lets his guard down and goes off someplace and—whammo!” Milo gestured, as if pulling a trigger. “Revenge is complete. And sweet.”
“Then why doesn't VineFan have a big cash reserve?” I countered. “Why haven't Stan and Blake been reported to the authorities in California or wherever they did this alleged scam? Where did they expect to get the money to pay off Leonard Hollenberg?”
My questions didn't make a dent on Milo. “Good point,” he said, nettling me still further. “Because they were going back to L.A. to find another sap.”
Immediately, I thought of Ed Bronsky. That was when I told Milo almost everything I knew or thought about the homicide investigation. In his present mellow mood, the sheriff listened patiendy.
“I wouldn't worry about Ed,” Milo said, stifling a yawn. “Even he's not dumb enough to pour his inheritance into a resort project.”
One of the things I hadn't mentioned was Heather Bardeen's alleged recognition of Ed's voice on the ski lodge phone. “Ed could be conned,” I asserted. “Ego, for one thing. Blake Fannucci could talk the birds out of the trees.” I paused, frowning. There were those blasted birds again. “Damn it, Milo, this case is still in your jurisdiction.”
Stretching, the sheriff stood up. “Don't sweat it, Emma. The perp's not here. I guarantee it. This one'll get wrapped up in L.A., where it all started.” He reached out a hand and ruffled my hair, which had finally dried. “Thanks for the beer. I have to change and drive down to Honoria's. She's making some kind of Mexican stuff. It's supposed to go good with beer. That's why I didn't steal your Scotch.”
“I only keep it for you and Ben,” I said, sounding sulky.
Milo stopped outside of the front door. He fiddled with my bell, tried it again, still got no result, and straightened up. “It's the wiring. I'll stop by over the weekend to fix it. See you.” The sheriff made his exit, whistling.
Milo's visit had cast yet another shadow over my already dark mood. If Vida hadn't been showing Roger a good time, I would have called her. I knew she would agree that the sheriff was off base. But I also knew that, like me, she probably wouldn't know why.
Leo had reserved our table for seven o'clock. On a Friday night in June, we discovered ourselves surrounded by Alpine's young set. It was prom night, which I had forgotten. Carla, I hoped, had not— somewhere during the course of the week I'd assigned her to take pictures at the Elks' Club, where the dance was traditionally held. Maybe she planned to shoot a couple of rolls after she and Marilynn got out of their movie.
“Jesus,” Leo muttered after we'd put in our drink orders, “were we ever that young? I hope not.”
I laughed, remembering my own high school prom at Blanchet in Seattle. I'd gone with a fellow senior whose name I'd forgotten but whose behavior was etched on my mind. Whoever he was, he, like me, had been one of the less popular students. He had shown why by bringing along a flask and getting skunk-drunk after only a few sips. One of my darkest recollections was of driving his car from the restaurant to his house while he hung out of the door, throwing up all over Greenwood Avenue North. We had never made it to the dance.
To my surprise, Leo showed no signs of wanting to follow in my long-ago date's disgusting footsteps. Aftertwo drinks he was ready to order. By the time our salads arrived, some of the teenagers were leaving. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rip and Dixie Ridley checking out the dining room. No doubt they had been assigned to make sure that none of the celebrants caused a scene.
Since the Ridleys appeared to be looking in our direction, I waved. They ignored me. I sighed at Leo.
“I wonder if by the time I retire or move out or die there'll be anybody in this town still speaking to me.”
“Count me in, babe,” Leo said, adding more pepper to his salad. “Don't worry about Ridley. He's your typical jock, still hearing the roar of the crowd on fourth-and-goal. Mrs. R was probably a cheerleader.”
I gave a halfhearted chuckle. If memory served, Dixie had been a cheerleader in Colfax or Walla Walla or wherever Rip had played high school sports. She had put him through college at Washington State University. Or was it Oregon State? After two bourbons, I wasn't sure.
The table next to us had been vacated by one of the Gustavsons and his date. I hadn't recognized her, which meant she was probably an outsider, from Sultan or even Monroe. Somewhat hazily, I reflected on the lack of credentials for those who didn't belong. They changed with age, it seemed. Surely, mature people like myself considered anyone born on the right side of the Cascades as acceptable___
“Pssst,
babe!” Leo was hissing at me. “Our gracious hosts from last weekend.” He nodded at the table where young Gustavson and the Sultan princess had so recently dined.
With a little start I glanced discreetly to my left. Sure enough, Beverly and Scott Melville were being seated by the hostess. This time I'd wait to be acknowledged.
Surprisingly, it didn't take long. Beverly hadn'tpicked up her menu before leaning halfway out of her chair to call my name. Scott also smiled and nodded; Leo joined in the etiquette frenzy.
“You see, babe,” Leo said after we had finished our mutual greetings, “the Melvilles aren't snubbing you. Now do you want to tell Uncle Leo about the rat who ran away?”
At first I didn't know what Leo was talking about. Then I realized he was referring to my canceled weekend. Somehow, I never thought of Tom Cavanaugh as a rat.
“Leo,” I began, resting my elbows on the table, “if I had another drink, I might tell you the whole long, sad story. But I don't want another drink, and you don't want to hear it.”
“Why?” Leo asked, keeping stone-faced. “Wouldn't I respect you in the morning?”
I lowered my gaze, concentrating on the Danish flatware. “That's not the point.”
“Let me guess.” Leo paused as the waitress removed our salad plates. “You've known this guy fofr a long time. Maybe you met him years ago, when you worked on The Oregonian. He quit and moved away. Or you quit to escape him. But you couldn't get him out of your system. And vice versa. So the two of you meet now and then in Seattle or San Francisco or wherever it's convenient for a getaway. It goes without saying that he's married and won't get a divorce. A serious Catholic, like yourself. How am I doing?”
A quick estimate told me that Leo was shooting about eighty percent from the field. If the Sonics had done that well in the playoffs, I'd be picking up the tab instead of Leo.
“How do you figure all that?” I asked, somewhat amused and rather impressed.
“Easy. You don't play around. You're careful, butyou're not cold. I never see you hanging out with anybody around Alpine except that horse-faced sheriff, and I know he's got anther woman. So if you're meeting a guy in San Francisco, it has to be a big deal, and probably long-standing. Loyalty is one of your great virtues, babe. Hell, you'd still be tearing your hair over Ed Bronsky if he hadn't quit. Carla will retire before you get rid of her. And some publishers would have fired my ass the first couple of months when I was still drinking like a shit-faced sot.”
