Authors: Mary Daheim
I, too, had found the lack of communication peculiar. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to think that there’s a buyout in the wind after all?”
Vida’s sigh was eloquent. “I’d hate to think it. But it’s happening everywhere. Hardly a month goes by without some big bank taking over a smaller one somewhere in the state. I suppose it’s unrealistic to believe
that … Eeeek!” Vida’s screech startled me. “Roger is throwing up! All this violence! I must run!” The phone clicked in my ear.
Attributing Roger’s stomach troubles to gluttony rather than gore, I wasn’t alarmed. I was, however, disturbed. I hardly knew Linda Lindahl, but her death had shaken me. As if suffering from an aftershock, I found myself suddenly unnerved. I checked both doors to make sure they were locked. I left the light on in the carport. I spent five minutes staring out the front window. The snow was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see beyond my split-rail fence. Surely no homicidal maniac would be out in this kind of weather.
Or so I told myself as I prepared for bed an hour later. When the phone rang just before midnight, I was still awake. Anxiously I picked up the receiver and said hello. There was a slight pause before the caller hung up.
A wrong number, a coward like me. I hadn’t had the courage to tell the Whistling Marmot that I’d made a mistake in dialing. A few minutes later, I drifted off to sleep. I’d expected grisly dreams, of bodies stuffed in rotting logs, of murderers lurking in the shadows, of Roger eating Fritos.
Instead, I dreamed of Tom Cavanaugh. It was a familiar, frustrating dream I’d had for over twenty years. We were working together on
The Seattle Times
, and trying to conduct our affair with the utmost discretion. In the dream, as in real life, we were always trying to find an opportunity to be together. Unlike real life, we never did. The city editor, my ex-fiancé, Tom’s wife—someone would intrude to keep us apart. Every time, the dream ended on the same note, with me sitting alone, watching Tom walk away. Never once had I ever dreamed of making love with Tom, not even after our ecstatic reunion at Lake Chelan the previous June.
It had been twenty years since we’d been together. We hadn’t even seen each other for almost that long. When Tom’s mentally unstable wife, Sandra, had gotten pregnant about the same time I had, all hope of marriage had evaporated. Stubbornly, I refused Tom’s help.
I’d headed for Mississippi where Ben had his first parish in the home missions. When I returned with little Adam, I put Seattle behind me and finished my schooling in Eugene, at the University of Oregon. After graduation, I’d gone to work for
The Oregonian
in Portland. There Adam and I remained until I got the opportunity to buy
The Advocate
.
It was then that Tom reentered my life, having heard about my purchase through his weekly newspaper grapevine. He had been based in Sandra’s hometown of San Francisco for years, using her inherited money to fund his entrepreneurial activities. Or what was left over from that money after paying for bail bondsmen, lawyers, court costs, fines, hospitals, and custodial care. Sandra may have been rich, but she didn’t come cheap—not in terms of upkeep or emotional erosion. It was a testament to Tom’s character that after twenty-five years, he wasn’t as crazy as she was.
I was still thinking about Tom the next day after returning from Mass. I’d had to put chains on the car because Alpine was now under five inches of snow. Had it been a Monday, the city might have roused itself to plow the streets. But it was Sunday, and Mayor Fuzzy Baugh could walk to the Baptist church. If he felt like it. Besides, the latest forecast called for a warming trend, with the snow turning to rain by afternoon. If that happened, come the March elections, Fuzzy could boast that he’d saved the taxpayers money.
The Sunday paper had nothing on our local murder. The edition delivered to Alpine was printed earlier than
the one received by Seattle subscribers. Perhaps tomorrow
The Post-Intelligencer
or
The Times
would carry an inch or two in their Northwest sections.
Indeed, for all its pages, I found little of interest in the current edition. Or maybe I was still in the clutches of my dream. I hadn’t seen Tom since Lake Chelan, though I had spoken with him on the phone as recently as mid-October. He had called to ask if I thought Adam had finally found his niche in anthropology. Tom knew I wouldn’t know, so I presumed he’d also called to hear my voice. Having finally relented and let him meet Adam, I was still adjusting to Tom’s active interest in our son’s well-being. Adam was adjusting, too, and seemed to like Tom. Or maybe Adam merely liked the money that Tom gave him for plane tickets. I had the feeling that Tom’s belated arrival in Adam’s world conveyed an aura of impermanence. Fathers who suddenly show up after the first twenty years must seem ephemeral, like a wizard materializing out of a puff of smoke.
Meanwhile, I was customarily taken for granted, and often for a ride. It being Sunday, I half expected Adam to call, asking for money, clothes, or various audiovisual components. When the phone hadn’t rung by four o’clock, I was tempted to pick it up and make sure the thing was in working order.
It was, for it rang even as I stared at it. But it wasn’t Adam. Instead, Milo Dodge’s laconic voice droned in my ear.
“It’s raining,” he said. “You want to go eat someplace?”
It had been raining for a couple of hours, and the snow was melting quickly. “Where?” I asked, almost certain I knew the answer: the Venison Inn.
But Milo surprised me. “I can get anywhere with my
Cherokee Chief’s four-wheel drive. You want to try that French place down the highway?”
I was stunned. Milo has about as much interest in foreign food as he has in petit point embroidery. “Café de Flore?” I said incredulously. “With words on the menu you don’t understand? What next, Mozart at the Seattle opera house?”
“I need to broaden my outlook.” The words came out in a mumble. I could hear Honoria Whitman’s voice echoing in Milo’s ears.
I smiled. “Don’t we all. It sounds fine. I haven’t been there since last spring.”
An hour later, as I was putting on my good green wool dress, I wondered why Milo hadn’t asked Honoria to go to dinner. Maybe she wasn’t willing to drive up the pass from Startup. Her car didn’t have four-wheel drive, and, like Leo, she was from California. On the other hand, Milo could have driven down to get her.
Most of all, I wondered why Milo had asked
me
.
I
T’S PAINFUL TO
watch Milo Dodge read a menu that doesn’t feature cheeseburgers. At best, he was baffled; at worst, he was alarmed.
“What’s this
marmite de poisson
stuff?” he demanded, mangling the French pronunciation. “It sounds like something I should send to the lab in Everett.”
“It’s fish soup. Let’s make this simple. What do you feel like eating? Tell me, and I’ll order whatever comes closest.”
Naturally, Milo wanted a steak. I pointed out the
bifteck au poivre
, which made some sort of sense to him, particularly when I added that he could get fries and a salad as well.
“Maybe these French people really do know how to cook,” he remarked after the waiter had taken our order. “This place seems busy, but I don’t recognize most of the customers.”
Milo was right: Café de Flore catered to a wide-ranging clientele, from Seattle to Wenatchee. On a Sunday night, it was usually jammed, with reservations required. But because of the snow, the restaurant wasn’t quite full.
“The prices are pretty stiff,” Milo went on, hoisting his Scotch glass. “I remember that from the last time you and I were here.”
I couldn’t resist the question: “You haven’t eaten here with Honoria?”
Milo shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I’ve been meaning to bring her. Somehow, we always end up someplace else. Like Monroe or Snohomish or even Everett.” Milo was now blushing.
Over my bourbon, I gave Milo my most kindly smile. “Hey, don’t tie yourself in knots because you didn’t major in French. Half the people here probably mispronounce the entrées.”
The high color began to fade from Milo’s cheeks. “It’s not just that, Emma.” He pulled his chair closer and hunched over the linen-covered table. “Honoria speaks French like a native. Spanish, too. She knows everything about art and music and all that stuff. She reads books by writers I never heard of and she honest-to-God really does watch PBS. I feel like the village idiot when I’m with her.”
“Nonsense,” I retorted. “Crazy Eights Neffel has that title wrapped up.” Noting Milo blanch at my flippancy, I patted his arm. “Stop beating yourself up, Milo. You’re a successful law enforcement officer, one of the best in the state. You’re well liked, you’ve helped raise decent kids, and you’re anything but dumb. So what if you don’t know Puccini from Pushkin?”
“Huh?” Milo was scowling at me.
“Never mind. Honoria likes and admires you for what you are, not for what you know. She wouldn’t still be around if that weren’t true.”
Almost a full minute passed before Milo spoke. He removed his elbows from the table, took a swig of Scotch, and gazed forlornly over my shoulder. “Maybe she won’t be around much longer. We don’t have much in common.”
While that was true, I suspected that the crux of the
problem lay elsewhere. Milo has been reluctant to make a commitment. Honoria has been growing impatient. I broached the dreaded subject.
“Have you talked about the future?”
Milo glared. “Hell, yes. Over at the Cougar Inn, I asked her to marry me. She said no.” He finished his Scotch in one defiant gulp.
“Oh.” I was at a loss for words. The waiter returned, inquiring if we’d like another drink. Milo nodded curtly; I decided I might as well join him. He was driving, and chances were that he wouldn’t arrest himself for being under the influence.
“Did she give you a reason?” I asked after the waiter had parted.
Milo was toying with the salt and pepper shakers. At least he hadn’t brought along a toothpick. Slowly, painfully, he nodded. “She says I don’t love her.”
I blinked several times. “Don’t you?” The words tumbled out.
“I don’t know.” Milo’s expression was miserable. “I thought I did. But Honoria asked me how I envisioned us ten years from now. Hell, I can’t envision tomorrow. I said so. She told me that we’d grow apart, because our … how did she put it? … our emotional ties weren’t strong enough, and we didn’t have much else to keep us going. Or something like that.” Milo practically snatched the fresh drink out of the waiter’s hand.
Having known Milo longer than I’d known Leo, I was more inclined to offer advice as well as sympathy. I had plenty of the latter, but not much of the former.
“So what are you trying to prove?” I asked as the party of four at the next table gasped over the dessert cart. “That you can expand your horizons? Or that you really do love her?”
Milo’s long face was puzzled. “I’m not sure. Maybe
I figure that if I get interested in cultural stuff, it’ll prove I … ah … love her.”
“You shouldn’t have to prove it.” I spoke with surprising fervor, and regretted it immediately. “I mean, either you do or you don’t. If you don’t know, Milo, maybe Honoria is right.” Now he was completely crestfallen. My sympathy overflowed. Men can’t help their inability to face up to genuine emotions. Intuitively Milo would know when to call for the hit-and-run instead of a bunt. But he’s dense as a Douglas fir when it comes to personal relationships. “Have you thought about what your life would be like in ten years
without
Honoria?”
Milo’s hazel eyes roamed the room, from the wall that was covered with wine racks to the copper pots suspended from the ceiling and back again. “That depends on whether I’m still sheriff.”
I tried not to look aghast. Maybe Honoria was right. I may have known Milo longer, but she knew him better. I’d run out of advice, and my sympathy was beginning to dry up. Fortunately, our salads arrived, and with them, Milo drifted off our main conversational course.
“I don’t have a lock on this job,” he said. “Take this Linda Lindahl thing. The voters aren’t going to be happy with the fact that I can’t even get a coroner’s verdict until about Tuesday.”
“That’s because the county hasn’t the funds to provide you with proper equipment and manpower.” My tone was reasonable.
Milo gave a jerky nod. “Sure, you and I know that. But the voters aren’t logical. If we put a bond issue on the ballot in March, they’ll veto it, big time. But they’ll still blame me because I can’t solve crimes like some hokey sheriff on TV. Hell, Emma, I’ve got one hand tied behind my back, and the other one feels a little
crippled. Once Marv Peterson gets over the shock, he’s going to be breathing down my neck to find his daughter’s killer.”
“You must know something,” I said, trying to sound less like a journalist and more like a friend. “Crime-scene stuff. Tire tracks? A struggle? Time of death?”
For the first time since we’d sat down, Milo grinned. “You’re fishing, Emma. You’re going to get skunked.” The grin disappeared. “So am I, at least until we hear from Snohomish County.”
I was wide-eyed. “You mean there was nothing of interest at the murder site?”
Milo pushed his empty salad plate to one side. “I didn’t say that. There were tire tracks, all right. Plenty of them, including Vida’s. The road crew has cleared a ten-foot strip on each side of the existing highway. That’s where Vida parked. So did a lot of people—hunters, lovers, fishermen, even hikers who don’t mind freezing their butts off. Footprints are another matter. The ground’s covered with all kinds of growth, from berry vines to fallen branches to moss. We did our best trying to find a good print, but then it started to snow. If there was a struggle, we didn’t see much sign of it.”
I shuddered. “Why would anybody do that? Put her in that old rotten log, I mean. It’s ghoulish.”
“Murder is ghoulish,” Milo muttered. He shrugged, and finished his second Scotch. “I figure the killer wanted to hide the body, and the log was handy. Whoever did it probably counted on the snowstorm and hoped Linda wouldn’t be found until spring.” He paused and gave me a sharp look. “That’s a guess, Emma. You’re not taking mental notes, I hope.”