Authors: Mary Daheim
My staff—or part of it—was devoting itself to arranging interviews at the high school. Vida and Carla would join forces Friday morning.
Meanwhile, Ed had some exciting news. “Starbuck’s has made an inquiry about that vacant space by the railroad station,” he announced. “You know, where Stuart’s Stereo was located before they moved to the mall.”
At the corner of Front Street and Alpine Way, the site was perfect for a quick caffeine stop. Commuters heading out of town could breeze by on their way to Highway 2; those who stayed in town during the day wouldn’t have far to go no matter where they worked.
Carla was elated. “Oh, too cool! Now I can get a double skinny extra tall or a one-twenty-five-degree extra foamy without having to explain it to those yokels at the Venison Inn! I can’t wait! Alpine may hit the big time yet!”
Her reaction to the possible advent of Starbuck’s and all its glorious coffees reminded me of Marlow Whipp’s new espresso machine. I conveyed the message to Ed. His freshly found enthusiasm didn’t carry over to Marlow, however.
“Well now, Emma, I’d be the last person to turn up my nose at a potential advertiser,” he said, resurrecting his more familiar mournful face, “but Marlow’s always been a washout. I tried to get him to advertise after he took over from his folks. Three, four times I asked him, but he always said
no
. Heck, I was in there as recently as last winter—I needed some breath mints—and Marlow was downright surly. He couldn’t wait to get me out of there, mints and all. I’ll admit, he was busy then—must have had ten, fifteen kids in there. It was crowded, I’ll say that for him.”
I decided not to press Ed further. Still, if Marlow wanted to make a go of his espresso machine, he ought to have the opportunity to get the jump on Starbuck’s. The Spruce Street Grocery was sufficiently removed from the railroad station to nab potential customers on the east side of town. I’d bring the subject up again when we heard something more definite about Starbuck’s intentions.
Around three o’clock, I was debating with myself over whether to write an anticensorship or a pro-L.I.D. editorial. Deciding that Alpine needed sidewalks above Cascade Street more than it needed obscene music, I started with the safety factor. I was fumbling around with funding when Marilynn Lewis called. Her voice was muffled, and she sounded agitated.
“Ms…. Emma,” she said into the phone, “is it possible to talk to you after work? We can meet somewhere. Maybe one of those little cafés at the mall?”
I suggested my house, which was infinitely more comfortable than the mall’s two hole-in-the-wall fast-food eateries, one of which featured ersatz Chinese and the other, semi-Tex-Mex. Marilynn paused briefly before saying she’d be over around six.
It was only after I hung up that I realized she’d have to walk from the clinic. I called her back and suggested that I pick her up sometime after five. Shyly, she asked if I could make it five-thirty. I said I could. It was no problem to kill time at the office for thirty minutes.
I had no reason to think that something besides time might get killed in that half hour.
I
T HAD STARTED
raining early in the afternoon, but the air was warm. After three years of summer drought, I didn’t complain. I never do when it rains. A typical native Pacific Northwesterner, I feel invigorated by damp weather. It’s the sun that depresses me. When the days of cloudless skies spin out and the heat beats down like a hammer and the grass goes brown and the evergreens droop and the earth turns to dust, my own roots crave water, too.
So I didn’t curse the gray skies or the need to use my windshield wipers. Marilynn got into the Jag as if she were being chased by demons. She actually sighed as she settled into the bucket seat next to me.
“What a day,” she murmured. “Dr. Flake had thirty-four patients. Doc Dewey saw twenty-six.”
“Egad,” I said, doing some quick mathematical calisthenics, “that’s sixty people. Well over one percent of Alpine’s entire population.”
“Babies and arthritis,” Marilynn replied. “Those are the major complaints around here. You can’t do much about either one.”
Braking at the Third and Cedar intersection, I glanced at Marilynn. “And you? What’s your complaint? You sounded a bit frazzled when you called.”
Marilynn’s perfect profile was on display as she leaned back against the leather upholstery. “Wait until we get to your place. Have you got any white wine, or am I being pushy?”
I laughed. “White wine, bourbon, Scotch, beer, vodka, and maybe some gin shoved to the back of my so-called liquor cabinet. Oh, and rum, I think. I keep the Scotch for the sheriff and the beer for my son.”
Marilynn turned to gaze at me inquiringly. “Where did you say your son was? Alaska?”
I nodded as we crossed Tyee Street. “He’s at the university in Fairbanks. His father and I never married, but we keep in touch.” The newly acquired assets of my closet leapt before my eyes.
Marilynn displayed polite interest. “It’s good for parents to get along, whether they’re married or not. My folks didn’t, and it was much better after my dad died.”
“Did you have brothers or sister?” I inquired as we passed a couple of young fishermen who had apparently walked up from the river.
Marilynn nodded. “Two younger brothers. They moved back to California with my mother when she remarried. One works for Kaiser. The other’s in college.”
I turned onto Fir Street. We were less than a block from my house when we heard the sirens. I pulled over next to a vacant lot with a tipsy
FOR SALE
sign that had been there since before I’d moved to Alpine. In the rearview mirror, I could see the ambulance right behind us. The driver slowed as he passed my driveway, then turned into the cul-de-sac where Fifth Street dead-ended.
“What’s up there?” Marilynn asked, as a couple of people came out on their front porches.
“Nothing,” I replied. “It’s all forest. The woods begin in back of my house.” I was about to release the brake when I heard another siren. Sure enough, a sheriff’s car had pulled onto Fir. I stared into the window as it passed: Dwight Gould was behind the wheel, with Bill Blatt at his side. Milo must have gone off duty at five.
Marilynn and I exchanged curious looks. This time I waited to make sure that the fire department wasn’t also racing up Fourth Street or coming along Fir. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t I waited for a van filled with Little Leaguers to pass, then pulled back out and crept up to my driveway. Once in the carport, I picked up the pace.
“Marilynn,” I said, jumping from the Jag, “I’m going to let you in, and then I’m afraid I’d better check out the action around the corner. I’m sorry to be such a bum hostess, but I’ll point you to the white wine. I shouldn’t be long.”
Over the top of the car, Marilynn gazed at me through
the rain. “Hey—I’ll come, too. I’m a nurse, remember.” She pulled her tan all-weather jacket aside to reveal her white uniform. “It looks to me as if there’s been an accident, right?”
Fueled with professional zeal, we marched through the wet grass, past the older single-story home that stood next to my log house, beyond the skeleton of construction that had been abandoned by its private builder, and around the corner lot that was overgrown with blackberry bushes, huge ferns, and Oregon grape. We turned at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.
The rain wasn’t coming down very hard at present, but earlier in the afternoon, it had been heavy enough to fill the potholes in the dirt road that led about fifty yards into the forest. Five vehicles jammed the dead end: the sheriff’s car, the ambulance, a Forest Service truck, a white compact I didn’t recognize, and a beater that might have been abandoned in the cul-de-sac a long time ago. We had almost reached the little knot of people when I heard another vehicle pulling up behind us. I turned to see Milo Dodge come to a stop in his Cherokee Chief. He was still in uniform.
“Emma! What are you doing here?” He acknowledged Marilynn with a brief nod.
“I live here, remember?” I waited for him to catch up. “We working girls are merely doing our duty. What’s going on?”
Milo had loped out ahead. “We got another shooting,” he called over his shoulder. “Stay back, I hear the guy’s dead.”
I obeyed; so did Marilynn. We were within twenty feet of the group which I realized included not only the two deputies and the ambulance attendants, but Libby Boyd, three boys about eleven years old, and a man in a bright plaid shirt who looked vaguely familiar. After only a few words from Milo, Libby, the boys, and the man were dispersed in our direction. I glommed on to Libby.
“Who is it?” I asked.
Libby put her hands to her head and twisted her upper torso, as if expelling demons. “Jesus, I don’t know. It’s another black man.” She stared straight at Marilynn Lewis. “What’s going on around here?”
Stiffening, Marilynn grabbed my arm, as if for support. “How would I know?” she retorted. I didn’t like the hint of hysteria in her voice.
Libby hung her head. “Sorry. I found the poor bastard. That is, those kids found him, but they didn’t realize he was dead.” She gestured jerkily at the young boys who were standing with the man I barely recognized.
“Who’s he?” I inquired in a low voice.
Libby brushed raindrops off her forehead. “Him? His name’s Vancich. He was driving along Fir Street, and I waved him down to call for help. He stuck around because he knows one of the kids.”
The man’s identity clicked in. Verb Vancich was married to Monica, St. Mildred’s CCD teacher. Monica was a faithful attendee of Sunday mass, but Verb was what was known among Catholics as a C&Eer. He came to church on an irregular basis, showing up usually for Christmas and Easter, and very little in between.
Wrestling with my handbag, I found a notebook and a pen. “The sheriff said he was shot. Is that true?” I asked.
Libby closed her eyes and gulped. “It sure is. Shot in the head. Just like that other one, over at the grocery store.”
I felt the pressure of Marilynn’s fingers on my arm. A quick glance told me she was as distressed as Libby Boyd. “You’d better come home with me, too,” I murmured at Libby. “You could use a drink.”
Libby nodded, a distracted gesture of assent. I patted Marilynn’s hand, pried her loose, and doggedly marched over to Milo.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound as coldhearted as journalists are portrayed in fiction where they don’t ever really look at dead people and feel like throwing up, “let’s have the facts, Dodge.”
Milo had just returned from viewing the corpse. “He was shot in the head at close range. I’m guessing he’s been dead for no more than an hour, maybe less. I wouldn’t say that much, if I didn’t know you can’t print this until next week.” He paused, waiting for Bill Blatt.
Vida’s nephew was flushed with excitement or possibly repulsed by the sight of a dead man. Bill was young enough that it was hard to tell.
“All those ferns are pretty well trampled, Sheriff,” said Bill. “Do you think that shows the signs of a struggle?”
“No,” Milo answered bluntly. “It just shows the poor devil thrashed around for a while before he died. Have you combed the area?”
Bill nodded. “Nothing, so far. Well,” he amended, “footprints. The kids’, I’d guess, and Libby’s. It’s pretty hard to tell, with all the rain.”
“Right.” Milo sounded disgusted. “And all I wanted to do was go home and have a beer and watch the NBA playoffs.” He voiced the latter complaint in a low voice as Bill Blatt trudged back to the victim.
I tugged at Milo’s sleeve. “Tell me this much and I’ll go away, taking two disturbed young women with me,” I promised. “Is the dead man wearing leg shackles?”
Milo gritted his teeth. “Yes. But they’ve been sawed through. So have the chains attached to his waist. By all means, call Vida. Call me a horse’s ass. It’s probably Wesley Charles. See that old car?” His long arm lashed out at the beater. “He stole that, maybe in Monroe, possibly Sultan. Now take your black and white broads, and get the hell out of here!”
In spite of the proximity of a dead man, in spite of Milo’s latent racism and chauvinism, in spite of my own revulsion in the face of violence, I laughed. Milo Dodge was impossibly small-town. But somehow, I sensed that under his clumsy veneer of various prejudices, he wasn’t small-minded.
“Milo,” I said, not entirely sure that I, too, wasn’t a trifle hysterical, “I could kiss you.”
Milo loomed over me, his hazel eyes boring into mine. “Then why don’t you, you dink?”
I felt myself being swept off the dirt road, pulled against Milo’s big, lanky frame, and kissed in a style I hadn’t remembered since a drunken fraternity party in 1969. I shuddered; I shook; I reeled even as he parked me back on the ground.
“Milo!” I squeaked, staggering just a little, and putting a hand to my mouth, which felt as if it had been smacked by a wet fish.
But Milo had already turned away and was giving orders
to Bill Blatt and Dwight Gould. The ambulance men were awaiting further directions. Libby Boyd and Marilynn Lewis were standing ten yards away, as wary of each other as they were of the impulsive action between Milo and me.
Angrily, I stalked toward them. “Get your truck, Libby,” I ordered. “Marilynn and I will walk.”
Libby stared at me, her fair, wholesome face stunned. “You should have done that two minutes ago,” she declared.
I gave her a fierce look. “Speak for yourself. Maybe Milo should have done that two years ago.” Taking Marilynn by the arm, I stomped out of the cul-de-sac.
My guests sipped white wine, while I drank my standard bourbon. Yet neither of the two young women who sat at opposite ends of the sofa relaxed much. Libby seemed nervous; Marilynn appeared distressed. I had not mentioned Wesley Charles’s name out loud, and wouldn’t until after Libby was gone. Marilynn couldn’t have seen the body from where she was standing in the cul-de-sac. Indeed, I hadn’t seen it myself. It was possible, however, that she had heard me ask if the victim was wearing shackles. She might have heard of Wesley Charles’s escape on the radio. Or, I thought with a pang, she might know about it on a more personal level.