Authors: Mary Daheim
Luckily, Dean was in his office, studying county maps. He evinced mild surprise when he saw me knocking on his open door. “Ms. Lord, right? I can't get over how things have changed since I lived around here, especially in Snohomish County. It's amazing, isn't it?”
“Call me Emma,” I said, and sat down next to his worktable. “You're keeping warm this morning.”
Indeed, the old-fashioned radiators were producing wheezing, hissing noises. Dean smiled rather diffidently and nodded. “Now that Hector's so close to retirement, he feels he should visit every client in the county. A farewell tour, I guess.”
“He's been on the job a long time,” I remarked. “Speaking of farewells, I gather you said goodbye to Aaron Conley this morning.”
Dean's thin face turned bright pink. “Posting his bail was the least I could do. I felt I owed it to Crystal.”
“Why?” I asked bluntly.
Dean lowered his gaze, his long fingers pawing nervously at one of the maps. “I don't know. Why are you asking me?”
I'm not as glib or as devious as Vida. “Because,” I said, feeling a faint sense of remorse, “I'm nosy. That's part of being a journalist. Most of all, I need to clear my name.”
My answer wasn't much of an excuse, but it seemed to soothe Dean Ramsey. “I suppose I still felt bad because our marriage failed. If we hadn't divorced, Crystal would never have gotten mixed up with a young guy like Aaron. He's not really a bad person, just one of those would-be musicians who never grow up. Crystal saw him through rehab twice, but it didn't work. Even she shouldn't have had to put up with that. It can get real ugly.”
I tried to give Dean a sympathetic look. “Yes, it can. So you bailed Aaron out as a posthumous peace offering?”
Dean pressed his back against the chair as if to shore up his spine. “It couldn't have been one-sided. With Crystal and Aaron, I mean. I know what she was like to live with. We had something in common, and somehow, with both of us showing up in Alpine shortly before her death, I figured I owed Aaron, too. I guess I
was
making a peace offering. But mostly for myself.”
It made a certain kind of sense, I supposed. “So where does Aaron go now?”
“He's going to stay at Crystal's place for a while,” Dean responded, his color returning to normal and his hands at rest. “He has a right to, after all.”
“Yes,” I allowed. “I can't see any harm in it. The house is vacant until the estate disposes of it. Do you know if Crystal had a will?” In my astonishment over Dean's posting bail for Aaron, I'd forgotten to ask Milo.
“I couldn't say,” Dean said, and he sounded as if he was telling the truth. “There's no need for complications. Aaron can stay at Crystal's as long as he wants. The house belongs to him now anyway.”
I leaned forward in the chair. “What do you mean?”
Dean's expression was quizzical. “Don't you know?” He saw the blank look on my face and uttered a hoarse little sound that might have passed for a laugh. “Crystal
and Aaron separated a long time ago, but they never divorced. He inherits whatever she had, including the house.”
It was turning out to be a day of surprises. After asking Dean a few cursory questions about how he planned to handle his new job and then taking what would probably turn out to be a rather bad picture of him, I slunk back to
The A dvocate
in a befuddled state of mind.
Fortunately, Vida had returned from her interview with Justine Cardenas. “She's a cold kettle of fish, I don't care what her husband says. I never trust a woman who wears a French roll.”
“Francine Wells wears one,” I pointed out.
“I don't trust Francine,” Vida shot back. “Have you ever known me to buy a piece of apparel from her store? Goodness, such prices! I marvel that she stays in business in a town like Alpine. Think of the markup!”
I
had
thought about it, especially on my rare forays into Francine's Fine Apparel. But Vida was right about one thing: she wouldn't be caught dead buying anything that bore even the hint of a designer label.
“Did you find out much except for Christmas customs in Texas and California and wherever else the Carde-nases have been?” I asked, trying to keep from exploding with my own latest information.
“Not really,” Vida admitted. “Three of their four children and their families are coming here for the holidays. Actually, the younger two aren't married yet.” She sat down at her desk, whipped off her glasses, and began rubbing her eyes in that familiar, agitated gesture I knew so well. “Ooooh! I tried everything to get her to talk about Nat and last Friday night. The woman is a clam. It was so frustrating!”
I could imagine. Anyone who could resist Vida's cajoling,
blandishments, and just plain nerve had to become The Enemy. I suspected that Justine Cardenas had gone down in Vida's books as not only standoffish, but hostile.
Thus, I changed the subject and told Vida about Dean Ramsey and Aaron Conley. Naturally, she was agog.
“Not divorced! Oh, my!” Vida put her glasses back on. “Which, this being a community-property state, means Aaron inherits everything.”
“Unless she did have a will,” I pointed out, and then confessed that I'd forgotten to put the question to Milo.
For once, Vida didn't scold. Instead, she grew thoughtful. “I'll call Billy right now. If Milo knows, he'll know.” She picked up the receiver and began to punch in the sheriff's number.
I wandered back into my office. The wall calendar, courtesy of Sky Dairy and featuring snow-covered Tonga Ridge, told me it was December 12. Twelve days until Christmas Eve. Less than two weeks before Adam and Ben arrived. I questioned my lack of excitement. Usually, a combination of Christmas and my favorite relatives' imminent arrival would make me giddy with anticipation. So far, I felt nothing. I wondered if my soul was dead. Hating someone, as I had hated Crystal, can kill in more ways than one.
“There is a will.” Vida stood in my doorway, startling me out of my reverie.
“Then there's a way,” I retorted without thinking.
“A way for what?” Vida looked mystified.
“Sorry.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “I was being silly. Did Bill have any details?”
Vida tapped her fingernails against the doorjamb. “He was very reticent. All those ridiculous scruples. I've no idea where he got them. Certainly not from his mother.”
“Did he say anything at all that was helpful?” I asked, trying not to look too amused.
“Only that shortly after she arrived in Baring, Crystal asked Marisa Foxx to draw up a will. Which means,” she added, squaring her wide shoulders, “I'm off to the courthouse. It should have been filed by now.”
Briefly, I thought about going with Vida. But somebody needed to hold down the fort. While I waited for her to come back, I mulled over the case—again. Milo had to be making some progress, if only eliminating certain suspects. Aaron's alibi must have held up, or the sheriff wouldn't have let him go. But it appeared that Aaron had the best motive. Perhaps Milo had no legal grounds to keep him, but had warned him not to leave the area. Picking up the phone, I decided that I needed to get the sheriff in a mellow mood.
“I can't,” Milo replied when I asked if he'd like to have a drink after work. “My kids are coming up for an early Christmas.”
“So soon?” I asked. “How come?”
“Old Mulehide,” he said, referring to his ex, “is taking them on a ski vacation to Vail.” The sneer in his voice crept over the wire.
“Wow. Where did she get the money?”
“Probably that phony she married the second time around shelled out,” Milo said in a disgruntled tone. “He claims to ski, too.”
I commiserated briefly with Milo, then surrendered. My next call was to the PUD to find out about the power failure. As is often the case, a tree limb had blown down over a wire, in this case, one near the Overholt farm. I'd just finished typing up the two-paragraph story when Ed Bronsky came into the office.
“Ed!” I exclaimed, forcing an optimism I didn't feel.
“How's the shelter project? Are you bringing good news?”
Ed stumbled a bit over his glossy designer boots, but finally managed to wedge himself into one of my visitor's chairs. “I've got good news, but it isn't about the shelter.” He gave me a half-assed smile. “This isn't the time of year for that kind of thing, Emma. Everybody's too caught up with Christmas.”
“Yeah, gee, you're right, Ed,” I replied. “Those poor women out there are having such fun getting their heads pushed into the wassail bowl and being decorated with the kind of punch you never drink. Why should we worry?”
Ed made a face. “I'm not worrying. I mean, it's really a shame, and I'll get onto it right after the holidays, but for now, I've got an announcement. Page-one stuff. You ready?”
I was never ready for Ed, but I took a deep breath and pretended. “Okay. What is it?”
Ed beamed. “A TV miniseries, based on
Mr. Ed.”
He beamed some more. “How do you like them apples?”
Ed had the power to render me speechless. I stared. Finally, I managed to croak out a coherent response: “The project has been green-lighted?”
Ed nodded, still beaming. His chins bounced off the fur collar of his cashmere overcoat. He looked like a circus bear. All he needed was a funny little hat with bells.
“Irv and Stu wrapped up the deal this morning,” Ed explained, finally subduing his grin. “It'll be on cable, the HOPE channel, probably in the fall, maybe even Sweeps Week.”
I wasn't familiar with the HOPE channel. Maybe we didn't get it in Alpine. Maybe nobody got it. Maybe I was dreaming.
“That's great, Ed,” I said, and forced enthusiasm into my voice. “You're positive? I wouldn't want to run this without confirmation.”
Ed nodded some more. “My agents faxed me a copy of the contract this morning. We'll seal the deal over the weekend. In fact, Shirl and I are driving into Bellevue this afternoon. We'll stay at the Hyatt Regency to celebrate.”
I took notes. I had no choice. “What's the name of the production company?”
“Family Something-or-Other,” Ed replied, and scratched his head. “Gee, I forget exactly. Shall I call you?”
“You can tell me when you get back,” I said. “We'll have plenty of time before deadline.”
“Sure.” Ed stood up and preened a bit. “I doubt that I'll have much to say about casting. Still, I'd like to see Leonardo DiCaprio as the Young Ed. Maybe De Niro when I hit middle age. Wouldn't he be perfect?”
Since the only resemblance I could see between Ed Bronsky and Robert De Niro was that they were both male and had probably had two parents, I didn't reply directly. “I think you're right,” I hedged. “Usually, the author doesn't get involved in the filming process.”
“It's too bad, really,” Ed said, literally filling the door. “I've got some terrific ideas, especially for the opening about how my mother went into labor.”
Dare I ask?
I didn't need to. “It was right after World War II,” he began, “and my folks had a little Victory Garden. You know, carrots and radishes and beets and stuff like that, to help beat the Nazis and the Japs.”
“You can't say Japs, Ed,” I interrupted.
“Huh?” Ed looked surprised. “You could then. Anyway, Mom was digging up the old vegetables when she got her foot stuck in a hole and fell down. Her water
broke, and the next thing you know, whoosh! I was practically born in the cabbage bed.”
“No kidding,” I said, trying to envision such an opening for aTV miniseries. I suppose it had its comic possibilities.
Ed nattered on about the rush to the hospital, the delivery in the hall, the great excitement among family and staff because he was such a
big
baby. I pictured a smaller version of the present Ed, in diaper and bonnet, gnawing on a chicken.
Naturally, Ed mistook my amusement for approval of his proposed opening scene. “See, Emma,” he said, “I've got a genius for TV drama. Maybe I could talk Irv and Stu into letting me have…”
I tuned Ed out. Eventually, he ran down. “Got to pick up Shirl and head for the Hyatt.” At the door, he called back to me. “You want some pictures? I've got a great shot of Shirl and me by the pool from last summer. It has that Southern California look.”
As in Sea World?
I wanted to say, but didn't. In bathing suits, Ed and Shirley resembled a couple of beached whales. “I doubt I could use it for this issue, Ed,” I said with what I hoped sounded like regret. “We've got so much Christmas stuff. Not to mention the follow-up on Crystal's murder.”
“Oh, that.” Ed dismissed Crystal with a wave of one hand. “I thought Dodge arrested her ex.”
“Not for murder,” I said. “Anyway, he's out on bail.”
“Hunh,” Ed responded, looking momentarily bemused. Then he puffed himself up and departed.
I marveled that Ed could be so self-centered. Crystal could have died in his own hot tub, and he'd still be picturing Robert De Niro as the Lord of Casa de Bronska. I might have hated Crystal, but I was affected by her death. At least I hoped I was.
Vida returned five minutes later. “Heavens!” she exclaimed, flopping down across the desk from me. “I almost ran into Ed. Fortunately, I saw him coming out of
The Advocate
, so I ducked into Sky Travel. By the way, Janet Driggers told me that no one has come to claim Crystal's ashes.”
“Really?” I said. “That's odd.”
“More than odd,” Vida agreed, stripping off her gloves. “That hasn't happened at Driggers's Funeral Home since Frosty Phipps died in ‘sixty-nine. Frosty was so ornery that nobody wanted him, not even in his cremated form. Al's father, Owen, finally mailed the remains to Charles, the eldest Phipps child, who passed them on down the line—there were four children in all—until they got to Neva, the youngest. Her little ones got hold of the package before she did, and since it was close to one of their birthdays, they thought it was a present and opened it and dumped it in their sandbox. Neva and her husband, Doyle, always said it was the only time that their kiddies had ever played with Grandpa. He was
that
mean.”
I smiled as Vida paused for breath. “Terrible. What about the will?”
Vida's eyes sparked. “Ah, yes. The will. Most interesting. The cabin and its contents go to Aaron. The money is divided forty-sixty between Thad and Melody. Thad gets the sixty share. What do you make of that?”