Authors: Mary Daheim
Milo found a toothpick on his desk. “This all came back to you now?” He began to chew in a speculative manner.
Andy nodded vigorously. “Yes, it did. I think I was in shock the first few days. Linda got killed, and everything at the bank’s been such a mess—I hadn’t really given myself a chance to concentrate. At first, it was just an impression. But then I started piecing it together.”
Milo leaned back in his faux leather chair. “You can lodge your complaint, Andy. But you can’t identify the car or the driver. We’re up a stump.”
“I know.” Andy gave Milo a helpless look. “The
thing is, I don’t know why anyone would want to run me down. As Reba says, I haven’t got an enemy in the world.”
It wasn’t my place to point out that Linda probably didn’t, either. Milo was nodding slowly, the toothpick twirling in his mouth.
“You go ahead and fill out the form,” Milo said. “Bill Blatt can give you one. If you can bring up the car’s make, license number, or what the driver looked like from your repressed memory, let us know.”
Andy didn’t miss the note of sarcasm. “Look, Sheriff, I’m not making this up! Think about it—why would anybody, driving in that fog at night, suddenly speed up and go over the curb? You could say he lost control, but on a residential street under those conditions? I don’t buy it. If I were you, I’d have your deputies start looking for vehicles that may have some front-end damage.”
Milo, who had apparently remembered that Andy Cederberg was a registered voter, removed the toothpick and sat up straight. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. But frankly, Andy, we’ve got too much on our plate right now with Linda’s murder—and some other things—to check out every car in Skykomish County. If someone’s really trying to kill you, they’ll try again.” Noting Andy quiver, Milo put up a big hand. “Relax. It’s more likely that they were trying to scare you. But be careful, just in case. You might try walking home a different way. Or taking your car to work.”
Andy was definitely unhinged. His voice shook as he replied: “But we only have one car. Reba needs it. And it’s no trouble to walk.”
“Work it out,” Milo responded, exhibiting impatience. “Look, if it makes you feel better, we’ll have somebody patrol your house for a few days. We’ll
check with the auto-body shop to see if anybody has brought in a car with suspicious damage. And speaking of cars,” he added, picking up the plastic bag and shaking out the set of keys, “give these to Marv when you see him Monday. They belonged to Linda.”
Timorously Andy took the keys in his bony fingers. “Shouldn’t you give them to Marv?”
Milo shrugged. “You’ll probably see him before I do. I don’t think Marv is anxious to see me in the bank real soon,” he added cryptically.
Andy didn’t seem to hear Milo. He was staring at the keys, and for the first time, he smiled, albeit grimly. “That’s weird,” he remarked. “Boy, people are sure strange.”
“Oh?” Milo sounded bored.
Andy was pointing to the keys. “See, Linda has all these marked with adhesive tape. She was so methodical. Her house key, her car keys, her key to the bank, even luggage keys. But she had a key to Howard’s house, because she needed it when she went over to drop things off for Alison. This is really kind of … funny.”
Milo looked as if he weren’t amused, but I leaned closer to Andy. “Why is that?” I asked.
Andy’s smile twitched along with the rest of his skinny frame. “I remember once when Linda’s key chain broke. She had to get a new one, which was easy because we were giving them away with new accounts. You got a clock radio if you deposited over five hundred dollars. Anyway, I was with her when she was putting the keys on the new chain. She said she always put Howard’s key as far away from her condo key as possible. It was symbolic, you see. But,” he continued, waggling the keys at Milo and me, “they’re right next to each other. Maybe she stopped hating him, huh?”
* * *
“You aren’t supposed to drink on duty.” My voice was stern as I spoke to Milo at the Venison Inn.
“One beer will not make me drunk,” he replied in a surly tone. “After Andy Cederberg, I could use a stiff Scotch. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get something.” Milo rose from the booth and went off in the direction of the bar.
About the only time I ever drink beer is in the sheriff’s company. Thus, I stared into my schooner and tried to make sense of Andy’s visit to Milo Dodge. But my mind wasn’t on murder or attempted murder. Rather, I saw Sandra Cavanaugh flitting around North Beach with a handsome, brainless hunk half her age.
I also saw Christie Johnston, but she was real, coming down the aisle with her husband, Troy. I smiled and waved.
“Thursday at the funeral was the first time I saw you out of your UPS uniform,” I said to Troy. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Like Christie, Troy was not a native Alpiner. But wherever he went to high school, I was certain he’d played football. He was under six feet, but stocky, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. I’d seen him heft parcels that looked as if they could be handled only by a forklift.
“Yeah,” he replied, looking ill at ease. “Most people don’t know me in my civvies. Christie and I haven’t been here long enough to make a big impression.”
“Small towns are like that,” I said lightly. “You two are taking a trip, I hear. We should mention it in Vida’s ‘Scene Around Town.’”
Christie seemed to be leaning on Troy, edging him toward the door. “Go ahead. It’d be as interesting as most of the stuff she writes about.”
“Michigan, right?” I feigned fascination. “You have relatives there, Troy?”
Troy looked surprised at my knowledge. “My brother. I grew up in Royal Oak, outside of Detroit.”
Christie’s gaze narrowed. I could have sworn there was malice in her eyes. “You people sure snoop around a lot at the newspaper. I suppose you want to know the rest of our itinerary.”
I played the stooge to the hilt. “That would be wonderful. Then, when you get back, Vida can do a story about your trip.”
“In that case, you can wait.” Christie gave me a frosty smile. “Until we get back, that is. ’Bye.” She propelled Troy out of the restaurant.
When Milo returned, I was still staring at the door that had closed behind the Johnstons. To my astonishment, he was carrying a pack of cigarettes.
“Whatever are you doing?” I demanded, the Johnstons momentarily forgotten.
Milo opened the pack, took out a cigarette, and produced a lighter I’d seen him use only on that rare occasion when he smoked a cigar. “I’m trying to kill myself. Any objections?”
“This isn’t the smoking section,” I protested. “And you’re an idiot.”
“You’re right on both counts,” Milo replied, puffing away. “But I’m the sheriff, remember? If they want to throw me out, they’ll have to get my deputies to do it. Where the hell’s the ashtray?”
“Use your beer glass,” I snarled. “Here comes our lunch. What’s gotten into you? How long has it been since you quit?”
Our waitress, who was yet another recent graduate of Alpine High School, gaped at Milo. Instead of reprimanding
him, however, she deposited our food and raced off to fetch an ashtray.
“I quit the day my divorce was final. Six years ago. Or is it seven? Who’s counting?” Milo thanked the waitress for the ashtray. She practically streaked away. “I’ve tried gum, mints, toothpicks, everything but chewing on utility cords. Oh, it wasn’t too bad until this damned Linda Lindahl case. But you should hear the phone calls and read the letters I’m getting. You’d think
I’d
killed Linda. I’ll tell you one thing, Emma, that woman’s a lot better liked dead than she ever was alive.”
The point wasn’t arguable. “It’s her family, not Linda,” I remarked as the restaurant lights blinked. “The Petersens are the essential Alpiners, going back to Frank when he worked as treasurer at the mill.”
“Right, right, right.” Milo waved away my comment with a swirl of smoke, then extinguished his cigarette and tackled his cheeseburger. “When the locals aren’t raving about my incompetence, they’re demanding we haul Bob Lambrecht back to town and string him up. Some of them are actually accusing me of shielding Bob because we went to high school together.”
I was aghast. “That’s crazy! Bob couldn’t have killed Linda! He wasn’t even in Alpine!”
“Hey, did I say any of this crap made sense?” Milo was derisive. “These jerks are jumping on Bob because he’s an outsider. Worse than an outsider, because he once was an insider. He defected, and went to the Big City. He couldn’t help it if he kept getting promoted.”
Even Milo somehow managed to make Bob Lambrecht’s success sound like a character flaw. “You need a serious suspect,” I said, falling back on the obvious.
“Jeez.” Milo looked at me as if my head had come to a point. “Big news from
The Advocate
’s editor in chief.
What do I do? Arrest the Petersens and charge them with conspiracy? They’re as good an example of Alpine as you can find. Frank and Irmgaard were involved in every civic enterprise and charity that came along. Marv and Cathleen have kept up the tradition. Larry and JoAnne do their share, too. Linda wasn’t made in the same mold, and Denise was lucky she didn’t get kicked out of Camp Fire Girls. But by and large, the Petersens are a big noise around here.”
“You left out Uncle Elmer. And the sister. Was she at the funeral?” I asked, dipping my deep-fried cod into a small dish of tarter sauce.
Milo nodded. “DeAnne and her husband came up from Seattle. I talked to them for a few minutes. They’d just gotten back from New Zealand and were still in a state of shock.”
“And Elmer?” I had glimpsed Elmer and Thelma at the services. Milo’s aunt had been appropriately, if untidily, dressed in black. Uncle Elmer’s attire had consisted of a denim jacket and rumpled brown trousers. He had kept his distance from the rest of the family, but given his lack of social skills, that was hardly surprising.
“What about Elmer?” Milo demanded through a mouthful of burger.
The lights flickered again. I could hear the distant rumble of thunder. “He and your aunt aren’t exactly involved,” I noted.
“They’re farmers.” Milo drank the last of his beer. “They used to be active in 4-H and the Grange when they were younger. At least Aunt Thelma did. Hell, they’re lucky these days to keep that place going at all.”
Milo was probably right. Elmer Petersen must be close to seventy. I was searching for a tactful way to tell
the sheriff that I knew about Linda’s dinner at the Dutch Cup when I remembered Christie and Troy Johnston.
“Christie was downright surly,” I concluded. “They’re leaving tomorrow. Are you sure you shouldn’t talk to her first?”
Milo ate two french fries at once and cocked his head at me. “Who says I didn’t?”
Milo would say no more about Christie Johnston. I was anxious to go home, clean house, and reflect on my love life, but the sheriff insisted on making the most of his lunch hour by having a piece of pumpkin pie for dessert. As long as we were lingering, I asked him what he thought about Andy Cederberg’s remarks.
Milo shrugged. “He scared himself. Somebody—let’s hope it wasn’t Durwood Parker or I’ll have to bust him again—lost it in the fog. But Linda was murdered, so now Andy sees a conspiracy or some damned thing.” Milo lighted another cigarette.
“Vida was thinking along those same lines earlier,” I said. “You’re skeptical?”
“You bet. Look, Emma, there’s some stuff going on with the bank that I can’t talk about. You’ve guessed as much. I don’t know all the details yet.” Milo coughed once, then frowned at his cigarette. “I guess I’m not used to this stuff after so long. Anyway, if this bank inquiry develops into anything, we’ll let you know so you can have your story. But don’t go along with Andy and Vida and all the other characters who are looking under the bed for boogeymen.” Milo coughed again.
“What about Linda’s car keys?” I felt a bit like coughing, too. Milo was blowing smoke straight into my face.
“What about them?”
“Their placement on the ring. Milo,” I went on, lowering
my voice and leaning closer, “how was the Lindahl house broken into? A window? A crowbar? An underground tunnel?”
Behind the blue haze, Milo frowned. “Damned if I know. That’s Snohomish County’s responsibility. The City of Everett, actually. Why do you ask?”
There were times when Milo seemed as dense as the cloud of smoke that enveloped him. Yet I knew that he wasn’t really dim, but methodical. And somewhat plodding. Thus, I often felt compelled to give him a boot. “What if somebody had a key to get in? What if it wasn’t a real burglar? You said nothing was taken. How did the Lindahls know there’d been a break-in?”
“I didn’t see the report.” Milo evaded my gaze. His pie arrived, topped with ice cream. “Drugs, maybe. You’d be amazed at who’s got them. You’d be even more amazed at where the dopers think they can find the stuff.”
I was dubious. “It’s too much of a coincidence that the Lindahls had a break-in the night before Linda was killed. Did you ever hear from the phone company about the call to Howard from Dick Johnson?”
Milo was still resisting eye contact. “Monday, probably. We’re having them run a check on all the Petersens, too. That’s why it’s taking so long.”
The sheriff’s reply partially appeased me. “That’s good work. I wish you’d take a look at that burglary complaint, though.”
“Don’t bug me, Emma.” Milo forked up a hunk of pie. “How the hell could a break-in at the Lindahls have anything to do with Linda’s murder?”
Involuntarily my hand touched my purse. A flash of lightning struck close enough that, for a fleeting moment, everything appeared as blue as Milo’s smoke. The roll of thunder followed, resonating somewhere off the
face of Tonga Ridge. I patted my purse. The little map still reposed in a zippered side pocket. I should mention it to Milo.
But what was the point? A hysterical adolescent whose mother had just been murdered had found it and jumped to conclusions. I was middle-aged and rational. Between my office and my home I had a dozen scraps of paper with notes and directions. They meant nothing, except that at some point in time, I’d needed to get someplace for some reason I’d already forgotten.