Authors: Mary Daheim
Carla didn’t find my remark amusing. “Are you kidding? The Methodists—and some of the other churches, too—are making sure Platters on the Sky won’t carry any of the recordings with those stupid explicit-lyrics stickers on them. Whatever happened to free speech and all those amendments? Ouch!” Carla grabbed her ear.
Back in my office, I made a note to write an editorial on censorship. I also made a quick grocery list. Milo was strictly a meat-and-potatoes man so I jotted down rib steak, which I knew was on special at the Grocery Basket, the fixings for a Caesar salad, and a bottle of red wine. I’d make my own french fries and pick up dessert at the Upper Crust.
The phone rang just as I was debating whether or not I should wear my damaged linen jacket. Milo Dodge’s laconic voice was on the other end of the line.
“I may be late,” he said. “Closer to eight than seven.”
“That’s fine,” I assured him. “I have to shop and cook first.” I could have been ready for Milo by seven o’clock, but if he came later I wouldn’t have to rush. I might even have time to check the mail and phone messages at home.
Milo, however, didn’t hear my reply. He was off the line, speaking to one of his deputies. I thought I recognized the usually chipper voice of Jack Mullins. Except Jack didn’t sound so chipper.
“What’s that, Emma?” Milo said into the phone. “Sorry, I got interrupted.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, exchanging my role as hostess for that of journalist.
Milo let out a groan. “More dumb stunts. It’s just as well I don’t say anything. You might be tempted to run it in the paper.”
The sheriff of Skykomish County knows better than to pull that line on me. All I had to do was walk down the
street to his office and check over the daily log. “Okay, Milo,” I sighed, “what happened?”
He hesitated, then gave in. “It’s our new nurse. She got a little surprise in the mail today.” Again, he paused, and I could picture his long face grimacing. “Somebody sent her a black crow. Dead. Now that’s pretty ugly, Emma.”
It sure was. But could it be news? I was afraid so. Nevertheless, I made a judgment. “I’m not running that,” I said, on a note of outrage.
“Good,” Milo said. “But it could get worse.”
I sighed again. Milo was right. It could, and it did.
H
ALFWAY DOWN AISLE
2-A at the Grocery Basket, I realized that Carla might be about to make one of her classic journalism mistakes. Having gone to see Peyton Flake, she would probably hear the story of Marilynn Lewis and the dead crow. It was likely that my eager young reporter would grill the new nurse about her experience. While I could easily veto the article before it got into print, I felt it was equally important to spare Marilynn the embarrassment of Carla’s questions.
Tossing salad oil and anchovies into the cart with the rest of my groceries, I raced to the checkout stand. I cut short the usual pleasantries with fellow shoppers, the checker, and the courtesy clerk. Five minutes later, I was at the clinic where Nancy Dewey was closing the office for the day.
Young Doc Dewey’s wife was closer to fifty than forty, but well preserved, mainly due to good bones and fine gray eyes that retained a youthful sparkle. She had helped put Gerald Dewey through medical school by working at the University Book Store in Seattle. Now that her two children were raised and married, Nancy Dewey filled her leisure hours by alternating as a backup at her husband’s clinic and as a salesperson at her father’s stereo store at the Alpine Mall.
“You looking for Carla?” she asked, with a smile that was a trifle pinched.
I said I was. Carla, however, was in the back, being examined by Peyton Flake. She wouldn’t be long, Nancy assured me.
I leaned on the counter that separated the receptionist’s station from the waiting room. “Is Marilynn Lewis still
here? I haven’t officially met her.” I tried to keep my expression bland.
Nancy Dewey gave me a sharp look. My attempts at subterfuge almost always fail. “She went home about an hour ago.” Nancy paused, apparently waiting for me to blurt out the real reason for my visit.
I capitulated. “Was she upset?”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Nancy gave the day calendar an angry flip to the next page. “Imagine, the gall of some people! Oh, I know we’ve got plenty of rednecks and bigots in this town. But to go out of your way to make somebody miserable—that takes a real mean streak. We had four patients waiting when Marilynn opened that blasted box.”
As usual, I mentally calculated how long it would take the four onlookers to pass the news around Alpine. Whatever the time frame, the gossip mill would work faster—and more efficiently—than we could at
The Advocate
. Maybe my concern about sparing Marilynn embarrassment was in vain.
“What did she do with it? The box, I mean. And the crow,” I added, as an afterthought.
Nancy switched the phone to the answering service before she replied. “I made her give box and bird to the sheriff. No return address, of course, and the handwriting was crude. A local postmark, but sufficient stamps so that it wouldn’t have to go across the post office counter. Cowardly, as you might expect.” Her fine eyes snapped with anger.
Sadly, I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say. It was doubtful that Marilynn Lewis had ever experienced such an insult in Seattle. Not that there weren’t bigots in the Big City, but Marilynn wouldn’t be singled out. In Alpine, it was different. She was, in effect, a pioneer. She must have realized that when she moved to town. I said as much to Nancy Dewey.
Nancy shrugged. “I suppose she was prepared for the worst, but she probably expected better. You know how most people are: eternal optimists.” It was clear from Nancy’s tone that life had taught her otherwise. She leaned across the counter, lowering her voice as if the waiting room were filled with eager listeners. “Gerry wasn’t crazy
about the hiring. In fact, Flake didn’t tell him Marilynn was black. He interviewed her in Seattle, so my husband never saw her until she showed up for work.”
I hated to ask the question, but I couldn’t avoid it. “And Gerry was upset?”
“Oh, no!” Nancy shook her head with vigor. “Not for himself, that is. Heck, Gerry had a black roommate in college. It was the Sixties, for heavens’ sake! But that’s the point, Emma—people like Gerry, who’ve lived away from Alpine, usually aren’t prejudiced. Unfortunately, most of the locals have spent ninety-nine percent of their lives in Skykomish County. Then there are the newcomers who moved up here to get away from urban problems. That combination makes up our practice. I can’t blame Gerry for worrying about local reactions.”
“He should only worry about Marilynn’s qualifications as a nurse,” I noted in my primmest voice.
Nancy nodded. “Which are excellent. Though,” she added, “it’s mostly hospital experience. Orthopedics and emergency room. But if you can handle the E.R., you can do anything.”
Carla came out from the examining room area with Peyton Flake at her heels. My staff reporter is barely five feet tall; Flake is six-four. They made an odd pair. Carta’s long black hair fell over her shoulders, while Flake’s wavy brown locks were held back in a ponytail. As ever, his professional attire was more than casual. It was almost disreputable. His blue jeans were ragged at the cuffs, his flannel shirt was rumpled, and the white coat he wore in deference to Gerald Dewey needed both cleaning and pressing.
“Bastards,” said Flake, yanking the stethoscope from around his neck. “If I find out who did that to Marilynn, I’ll kill the sons-of-bitches.” He wheeled on Nancy who was coming out of the receptionist’s area. “I’ve already told your husband that if this crap keeps up, I’m quitting. I won’t live in a lame-assed town where people aren’t treated like people.”
Nancy Dewey didn’t even blink. I gathered she was accustomed to Peyton Flake’s outbursts. “You’ve got surgery at eight tomorrow,” she said calmly. “Mrs. Whipp, knee replacement.”
Flake’s face fell. “I’ve never done a knee. Oh, well.” He shrugged and went out the door.
Carla was staring at me. “What are you doing here? I’ve got to go to the pharmacy and get some antibiotics.”
I asked her if she’d seen Marilynn, but the nurse had left before Carla arrived. Relieved, I bade Nancy Dewey good night and accompanied Carla outside. As it turned out, Carla didn’t know anything about the dead crow. No surprise there—my reporter is often the last to know anything. She expressed dismay, but in a detached sort of way. It was obvious that Carla’s priority was her aching ear. I watched her hurry across Pine Street and head for Parker’s Pharmacy two blocks away, between Third and Fourth on Front.
Coincidences in Alpine often aren’t very remarkable. With only four thousand people, it isn’t unusual to run into somebody you’ve just been talking about. Or at least to meet up with one of their cousins. In this case, it was an Alpine Appliance van parked across the street at the community hospital. A young man with straw-colored hair was coming out of the emergency entrance as I unlocked the door to my green Jaguar. I wondered if he might be Shane Campbell, whose parents were providing board and room for Marilynn Lewis.
I used my guise as journalist to find out. “Equipment problems?” I shouted.
Startled, the young man stopped in the act of locking the rear doors of the van. He said nothing, but gazed at me while two cars and a pickup truck passed between us on Third Street.
I crossed to meet him and identified myself. “I thought there might be a crisis at the hospital,” I explained. “You know—electricity, heat, water. That’s news in a small town.”
“It is?” The young man obviously didn’t think so. “No, nothing like that. Mrs. Whipp just checked in and insisted on renting a VCR. I dropped it off on my way home.” He gave me a halfhearted smile and headed for the driver’s side of the van.
“Are you Shane?” I called after him.
Turning to look over his shoulder, he nodded. “Right. Do
you need something? We’ve got a sale on gas barbecues this week.”
I gaped. “You do? How come your dad didn’t take out an ad?”
Shane lifted his broad shoulders, which were covered by a brown jacket with
ALPINE APPLIANCE
emblazoned in crimson letters. “I thought he did. Come to think of it, I didn’t see it in the paper yesterday.”
I hadn’t seen it, either. Inwardly, I cursed Ed Bronsky. Had he forgotten to run the ad? Had he discouraged Lloyd Campbell from placing it in the first place? Had Ed made it so small that he could have mounted it on the head of a pin? I vowed to call Ed as soon as I got home.
My original intentions had been sabotaged by my ad manager’s apparent dereliction of duty. Whatever tactful approach I had devised flew right out of my head. I considered offering my sympathy to the Campbell family’s boarder, but held back. If Shane had been out delivering appliances all afternoon, he might not have heard about Marilynn Lewis and the dead crow. My feigned innocence hadn’t fooled Nancy Dewey, so I tried acting dumb with Shane Campbell. Having had more practice at the latter than the former over the years, I was sure of success.
“How’s Marilynn Lewis doing? I still haven’t met her. Is she settling in okay?”
My queries seemed innocuous, but Shane Campbell’s fair skin flushed. “She’s doing all right,” he mumbled, suddenly absorbed in the clipboard he was carrying. “She’s anxious to get her own place. That’s not easy in a little town like Alpine.”
It wasn’t. Carla had roomed in two different private homes before finally getting an apartment in a new, but pricey complex. Ginny Burmeister had given up trying to find affordable housing, but as a native, she had the option of living at home with her parents. I was aware that it might be more difficult for Marilynn Lewis to find a permanent niche. While it would be illegal for anyone in Alpine to discriminate, it wouldn’t be impossible. It never was.
“You must be kind of crowded,” I remarked, edging
away from the curb and closer to Shane. “Your sister still lives with your folks, doesn’t she?”
The flush faded. Shane apparently felt he was on safer ground discussing his sister. “Cyndi? Yeah, she’s the only one of us who’s never left the nest. Our older sister, Wendy, got married five or six years ago. She teaches at the high school.”
Quickly, I made the connection. Wendy Campbell must be Wendy Wilson: English, lit, speech, and debate. Her husband, Todd, was the local Public Utilities District manager. Cyndi obviously worked for her brother-in-law as the PUD receptionist. I’d met Wendy at several high school functions and talked to Todd on many occasions. I had also seen Cyndi at the PUD office. The Campbell family portrait was coming into focus.
It was apparent that Shane was anxious to shove off. It was also evident that he wasn’t entirely comfortable discussing his family’s boarder. I felt sad about that. Stupid me, I keep hoping that each upcoming generation will be more tolerant. If the sixtyish senior Campbells were broad-minded enough to invite an African-American woman to share their roof, I would have thought their son would be even more progressive. But children often take the opposite course, if only to be perverse.
Shane Campbell drove off, and so did I. The afternoon sun was low over the evergreens that surround my cozy log house high on the hill above Alpine. I found no surprises in either my mail or on my answering machine. Ed Bronsky, however, sounded flabbergasted when I called to ask him about the ad for Alpine Appliance.
“Now that’s the darnedest thing, Emma,” he said, in an uneasy voice. “I had that dummy all laid out and looking spiffy. But there was this typo—well, not a typo, really, a mistake—something about the price. I put it down as $29.99, but it was $299.99. When Lloyd Campbell told me to fix it, I said, ‘Gee, Lloyd, what kind of a sale is
that?
Three hundred bucks to cook something you could do on your stove? What happens if it rains? Which it will, because it always does.’ Then he got mad and said to forget it. So I did.”
I groaned. Ed was impossible. I would have to call Lloyd
Campbell first thing in the morning and try to talk him into running another ad, probably at a drastic discount, just to keep him happy. Better yet, I’d go over to Alpine Appliance in person.