Authors: Mary Daheim
“Heavens, no,” Vida replied. “It's their calling, like the sea. How many crabbers do you know who have gone down off Alaska?”
“None,” Scott answered. “I'm from Portland.”
“So you are,” Vida murmured. “A shame, really.” She
turned to me just as I headed for my office. “When do you want to drive down to Startup?”
I glanced at my watch. “Not for a while. It's only eight-thirty.”
“Then we'll leave around eleven,” Vida said. “Perhaps you should call first.”
I agreed, then began my day behind my desk. Kip had repaired the leak in the roof, which meant one less distraction. The snow had held off, and as I walked downhill to work, I felt that the temperature was rising. Tom had offered to drive me, but wasn't yet dressed. I had let him sleep in because last night he'd confided that he was only beginning to get back into a natural sleep pattern. The past few years with Sandra had practically forced him to keep one eye and one ear open. They'd had separate bedrooms for some time, but there was an intercom, and she frequently called to him for help in the wee small hours.
That was another thing I hadn't known about Tom.
I finished the editorial on the women's shelter shortly after nine. Scott brought in the contact prints from his photo shoot of the St. Lucy's pageant held on Saturday night at the Lutheran church. He had some excellent shots, no mean feat since there are only so many ways you can photograph young blonde girls with candles on their heads.
Ginny arrived a few minutes later with the mail, which brought yet more ugly letters. I skimmed them, but decided they could be evidence and stuffed the most recent ones into an envelope for Milo.
Around ten I called the sheriff to ask if he'd found anything helpful in or on the Jaguar. So far no luck, but Ron Bjornson, who knows his way around almost any kind of vehicle, wasn't finished checking.
At ten-thirty I phoned Paula's house in Startup and got the answering machine. I figured she was at the college,
grading finals. Her students' term projects weren't the kind that could be brought home. When the glass pieces had been graded, the students would keep their creations, no doubt using some of them as Christmas presents.
“Nobody answers down there,” I called to Vida. “I suspect Victor wouldn't bother himself to pick up the phone.”
“Then we'll have to surprise him,” Vida said, and looked pleased at the prospect.
“Okay,” I said without enthusiasm. Surprising Victor Dimitroff sounded like an early wake-up call for a grizzly bear in hibernation. “We'll leave at eleven.”
Vida scowled, but didn't say anything. I knew she was champing at the bit, but I wanted to call Tom to see if he was meeting me for lunch. He'd been in a sleep-induced fog when we'd made a tentative date to eat at the new diner. The drive to Startup and back, along with the interview, would take over an hour. One o'clock would be a more realistic time for lunch.
Tom didn't answer, so I assumed he was in the shower. I left a message, though I suspected he wouldn't check the machine. Milo was right. A cell phone was becoming a necessity, not a luxury. I called Stuart Electronics, formerly Stuart's Stereo, and asked them to make me their best offer. Ten minutes later, my head was reeling and Cliff Stuart had sold me “not the cheapest, but a quality item.” It better be. My new necessity was in a luxurious price range.
On a late Monday morning, there wasn't much traffic along Highway 2, except for the blasted trucks. I frankly considered them a menace, especially on a two-lane, undivided road. For the past year or more, I'd considered starting an editorial campaign to get the trucks off the highway and load the freight onto trains. Or planes or ships or dogsleds. But I knew my feeble protests would go nowhere, and that in a community where trucks had
been part of a once-thriving livelihood, I'd make even more enemies. Thus, I often seethed, particularly when stuck behind a semi on an uphill grade.
Vida, however, showed remarkable patience. “Victor can't go very far,” she remarked as we passed the Money Creek campground. “He may even be glad to see us. I imagine he's getting cabin fever by now.”
I was about to express my doubts when a horn honked as a driver passed us on a straight stretch of road.
“Really,” Vida huffed, “I despise people who feel they must—goodness,” she exclaimed as the red Grand Cherokee pulled back into our lane, “isn't that Milo?”
I strained to see who was at the wheel, but the Cherokee was too far ahead of us now. “I haven't memorized his new license plate yet,” I admitted.
“It's the same as the previous one,” Vida responded.” ‘
LAWMAN.
’ “
“Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn't catch it.”
“He's turning off,” Vida said in surprise. “Isn't that the road into Crystal's cabin?”
“It sure is,” I replied, and was far from amazed when Vida hit the turn signal and we, too, left the highway.
“Milo isn't going to like this,” I said as we wound along on the gravel road. “Assuming that
is
Milo.” Maybe I could appease him by telling him about the cell phone I'd ordered.
Sure enough, the sheriff was at the front door to Crystal's cabin when we pulled in behind the Cherokee. He turned, saw us, and threw up his hands.
“I should have guessed when I saw you on the highway,” he shouted, sounding irritated. “How did you find out so soon? Bill Blatt?”
Naturally, the question was addressed to Vida, who gave a little start, then squared her wide shoulders. “Not Billy,” she said in a vague voice. “I do have other sources.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, and was pretty sure she didn't, either. But I could bluff right along beside her. We were going up the steps to the front porch when Aaron Conley opened the door about two inches.
“It's The Man,” Aaron mumbled. “Dudester Dodge. The Lawmeister. How's business?” Then, before Milo could respond, Aaron saw Vida and me, and slammed the door shut.
“Come on, Conley,” Milo shouted, trying the knob. “Open up.”
This time, Aaron only gave an inch. “Not with those broads around. Hey, forget it. Nobody stole anything. They didn't even get in. I scared ‘em off. I only called because …” He paused, apparently trying to remember why he had in fact summoned the sheriff. “Because of Crystal. I mean, like, maybe the killer returned to the scene of the crime.”
Milo's shoulders slumped. “Jesus, Conley, I don't have time for jokes. Did you or did you not have a break-in?”
“Not exactly.” The door moved another inch. “I mean, whoever it was, got scared off. Honest. I yelled when I heard the noise and then all I saw was somebody take off in a car.”
“What kind of car?” Milo asked, obviously trying to keep his temper under control.
“A dark one. Older model. Maybe a Chev, or one of its spawns.” Aaron seemed to be trying to cooperate, though even from my viewpoint on the porch, I could see his eyes were dilated and not quite focused.
“What about the noises?” Milo persisted.
“I was chilling in the hot tub,” Aaron said. “I guess it was the front door. Right here.” He rapped on the sturdy wood with its calla-lilly window. “By the time I grabbed a towel, there was nobody here. Then I heard somebody around the side of the house, sort of stumbling around in
the snow. I went back inside and put on a pair of pants and some boots. By the time I got out on the deck, I heard the same noise, only more toward the front of the house. I came back out here and that's when I saw the car start down the road. It wasn't parked all the way up behind my van, like you are. It was just down there, by the bend.” He pointed to the road a few yards beyond Vida's Buick.
Milo nodded. “That's it? You call that a break-in?”
“I call it damned weird,” Aaron shot back, sounding almost like a normal person. “Who comes sneaking around like a freaking burglar and won't say who it is? Hey, Dodge dude, you think it's
fun
to stay in this place after my wife got killed?”
I kept forgetting that Crystal had still been legally married to Aaron at the time of her death. Mr. Weed didn't strike me as a typical widower.
“You can take off after your trial,” Milo said, and poked a finger at Aaron. “It's set for January fifth, you know. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.” The sheriff turned on his heel and almost bumped into Vida. “Let's go,” he muttered. “I'm done here.”
“Aren't you going to look for footprints?” Vida asked.
“Hell, no,” Milo shot back. “Do you really think Pot-head in there heard anything besides what runs around in his burned-out brain?”
“I'll look,” Vida declared, and moved quickly down the steps and around the side of the house.
Milo, however, was getting into the Cherokee. “Come on, Vida, get your damned car out of the way. I've got another call, out by Cass Pond.”
But Vida wasn't deterred. I watched her for a moment, then joined Milo by the Cherokee. “What about Nat Cardenas?” I inquired. “Could he have been the person snooping around?”
Milo frowned. “You mean to see if there was more dirt
on him? No. What's the point? We have those computer disks, and we'll hang on to them until he's cleared. Then he can have them and throw them in the Dumpster. For all we know, he may be telling the truth. Those women are only friends. Like us.” He shot me a perverse look.
Vida reappeared, waggling a finger at Milo. “There definitely are footprints,” she announced. “Medium-sized. Aaron wasn't hallucinating.”
“I never said he was,” Milo retorted. “Not exactly. I mean he could have heard ten people outside, and by the time he wandered around in his usual daze, they'd given up. Face it, the guy's unreliable.”
“Still,” Vida began, “I should think you'd—”
Milo silenced her with an emphatic wave of his hand. “Forget it. There was no crime. It's not against the law to knock on somebody's door and then, when they don't answer, to go looking around the rest of the house. Conley's van is parked right there.” He gestured at the dirty white vehicle that had almost run me down. “Whoever it was had a right to assume he was home. End of story. Now let's get the hell out of here.”
We did, with Milo turning back toward Alpine and the Buick heading west to Startup. Ten minutes later, we were at Paula's place. Vida had never been there, and, as expected, her reaction was critical.
“This was the Merrill farm, fifty years ago,” she said, tromping to the door in her sturdy overshoes. “The Merrills were peculiar. They raised goats, but refused to sell them. By the time Marva Merrill died back in ‘sixty-two—Curtis had passed on in ‘fifty-eight—the goats were living in the house and Marva was sleeping in the barn. Ruby Siegel—she was in Sultan at the time, but had lived in Alpine many years ago—told my mother that the whole place smelled like an abattoir. Ruby never should have moved. She was bored in Sultan, which is why she
joined the Ku Klux Klan and the Communist party. She didn't believe in either of them, but the meetings kept her busy. Unfortunately, she once got mixed up on the dates and appeared in her bedsheet at a Communist rally. The party members chased her all the way across the highway and down to the cemetery before she could tell them who was wearing the pointy hat.”
I shook my head in an incredulous manner. Smalltown ways could still amaze me.
Vida was already at Paula's front door. “All this glass,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “Whatever happened to the walls?”
“The goats ate them?” I suggested.
“Hardly,” Vida said, pushing the doorbell. “At least two other owners lived here before your friend Paula came along.”
Victor didn't seem to be answering the door. “Maybe he misplaced his crutches,” I said.
Vida rang the bell again. “Maybe he's antisocial.”
Still, no response. I moved down the wide porch and peered through a window that was decorated with wild roses. “He's there, sitting in a recliner.”
“Is he alive?” Vida asked in an irked tone.
“He's moving. He just turned a page in his book.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Vida rattled the door handle. Surprisingly, it opened.” Yoo-hoo!” she called. “Mr. Dimi-troff? You have company.”
“I don't want company,” Victor called back in his deep, accented voice. “Go away.”
“Don't be so ornery,” Vida commanded, striding into the living room. Paula had removed all but the necessary walls and beams to open up the house into a continuous large room. Only the bathroom was enclosed. Vida took it all in, and looked disapproving.
“Mr. Dimitroff,” she said, planting herself in front of Victor, “you remember us. From
The Advocate.”
Victor remembered, but didn't look pleased at the recollection. “Paula is not here. She is at the college.”
“We didn't come to see Paula, “Vida said, now exuding charm. “We came to see you. Goodness, are you quite comfortable? That recliner seems to be at an awkward angle.”
“It's broken,” Victor replied in a petulant tone. “Paula is not always a conscientious housekeeper. She should be more vigilant concerning repairs.”
“Let me,” Vida said, bending down. “Shift your leg away, if you will.”
Despite his skeptical expression, Victor complied. Vida yanked at the footrest, gave it a tremendous pull, stepped on it with her considerable weight—and, amazingly, it reverted to its proper place.
“There! Much better.” She smiled ingratiatingly at Victor. “Now, shall we chat?”
Victor looked uncertain. “Chat? Why should we chat?”
“We've just been to Crystal's cabin,” Vida said, sitting down in an antique wooden rocker. “Aaron Conley had called the sheriff to report a break-in. There hadn't actually been such a thing, but it got us to thinking.”
It had?
I marveled to myself. I hadn't been thinking much of anything, except wondering if I could use Paula's phone to call Tom about lunch.
“Anyway,” Vida went on, shedding her tweed winter coat, “we wondered about the night Crystal was killed and your auto accident. Is it possible that you actually went to Crystal's cabin and interrupted another break-in? Or was it the murderer?”
The color drained from Victor's face. “You are saying that
I
am the murderer?”
Vida uttered an uncharacteristic fluttery laugh. “Heavens, no! I mean that you may have encountered the person who killed Crystal. Which is why you were so upset and went off the road.”