Authors: Mary Daheim
“I would if I could get a—”
“’ Morning, all,” said a deep voice from the doorway as Scott Chamoud arrived, late as usual. “What's up?”
“The Duchess's dander,” Leo replied. “Thanks for joining us, Scotty. We're having a staff meeting.”
My young reporter's limpid brown eyes grew wide. “We are? Did I forget?”
“No,” I managed to get in, “you didn't. Leo's kidding. But,” I added with a meaningful glance at my watch, “you're late. It's almost eight-thirty.”
Scott waved a white paper bag he'd been hiding behind his back. “I know. It was my turn to stop at the Upper Crust Bakery. Anyone for fresh doughnuts and some cinnamon twists?”
It was hard to get mad at Scott. He was not only a good writer, but handsome as hell. I didn't bother to remind him that he would have been late with or without the bakery stop.
“I'll take a twist,” I said, holding out my hand. Vida, who is always dieting to no perceptible effect, staunchly shook her head. Leo snagged a couple of doughnuts before Scott sat down behind his desk.
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath, then glancing at Scott. “I'm filling everyone in—I guess—on the recent
murder in Seattle of a young woman who grew up in Alpine and ‘left under a cloud.’ ”
“Pregnant?” Scott asked.
I deferred to Vida, who nodded solemnly. “Anyway,” I went on, “she happened to be living with a cousin of mine who I hadn't seen in years. Ronnie Mallett is kind of a loser, and a week ago Friday, the girlfriend—Carol Nerstad Stokes—was found strangled in the apartment they shared. Ronnie doesn't have an alibi, a neighbor overheard them quarreling earlier, and when he was picked up by the cops a few hours later, he looked as if he'd been in a fight. I get the impression that he was a smartmouth when he was interrogated, and not very helpful. Ronnie probably annoyed the detectives, which no doubt made the situation look bad for him. He swears he didn't do it, and he asked me to help him prove it. Or something like that.”
“Drink,” Vida intoned. “So often at the source.”
“Or drugs,” Leo said, lighting a cigarette in spite of Vida's usual dagger-eyed look. “Does this Ronnie do drugs?”
“I don't know,” I replied. “He seems like the type who'd smoke weed. From what little I saw of him at the jail Saturday, the verb
do
and Ronnie don't seem to have much in common.”
“Did he do it?” Scott asked, with that dazzling grin.
“He says he didn't,” I answered slowly. “Ronnie claims to have been in a neighborhood bar. Unfortunately, he can't recall which one.”
“Drink,” Vida repeated. “Didn't I say so?”
“How was the girlfriend strangled?” Leo asked, blowing smoke rings, though fortunately not in Vida's direction.
“With a drapery cord,” I said after swallowing a bite of cinnamon twist. “Carol was found by her daughter, who called the police. They were still there when Ronnie
staggered home. I guess the daughter has it in for him, at least according to Ronnie.”
“A daughter,” Vida echoed. “I wonder, now… Would she be the child that Carol was carrying when she left Alpine?”
I had no idea. Ronnie hadn't been good at details, and we hadn't been able to spend much time together.
“Why'd he call you,” Leo asked, “when you just said you hadn't seen him in years?”
“Good question,” I said as Ginny Erlandson, our office manager, came in to refill the coffeepot. “Somewhere along the line, Carol found out I was Ronnie's cousin. She must have had some fairly recent Alpine contact, because she told him—or so he claims—that I was some sort of super-sleuth. Ronnie remembered that, if not much else, and got his attorney to ask me to come see him.”
“Lose the guy,” Leo advised. “Why get involved with some long-lost cousin who's probably lying through his teeth?”
“Really, Leo,” Vida said in disgust, “what a crass attitude. He's kin. Naturally, Emma wants to help.”
I blinked at Vida. “I do?”
“Of course,” she asserted, joining Ginny at the hot plate and pouring herself more hot water. “He's fighting for his life. How could you reject his plea?”
“I'm not a detective,” I declared. “I don't really know the guy. I live in Alpine, not Seattle. Where would I find the time to investigate the case? Vida, you're nuts.”
“Nonsense,” Vida said calmly. “You'd feel guilty if you turned him down. If he's really innocent, and yet is convicted, you'll never forgive yourself. Besides,” she added, her majestic bust thrust forward as she returned to her desk, “I'll help.”
I didn't argue with Vida—then. We had a paper to put out. Our pub date is Wednesday, and this was the week before Easter, which meant the paper would double in
size because of the extra advertising. That, in turn, meant that we had to have enough editorial copy to balance off the ads. Dutifully, I typed up the story on Carol's murder, relating the facts as I knew them. I left Ronnie's name out of it, referring to him only as Carol's boyfriend and the prime suspect. At least the six inches of copy would help fill the front page.
Not that I was ungrateful for the extra advertising revenue. Contrary to rumor, weekly newspapers aren't a cash cow, at least not
The Advocate
. This would be the first time in my ten-year career as editor and publisher that I'd face advertising competition, a subject that inevitably came up whenever Leo and I talked.
“This Fleetwood guy is supposed to go on air June first,” my ad manager announced when he came into my cubbyhole of an office around nine o'clock. “I drove by his shack on the fish hatchery road last night. It looks like they're getting ready to install the hardware. You still good for next Tuesday?”
I glanced at my wall calendar, a promo for Harvey's Hardware and Sporting Goods. Harvey Adcock only used one color photo for the year, almost always a different view of Mount Baldy, looming over Alpine.
“As far as I know,” I said. “I suppose I should have met this Spencer Fleetwood sooner.”
Leo shrugged. “Why? You've covered the story. One feature interview's enough for a guy who's trying to steal our customer base.”
“I don't see how he's going to survive,” I remarked. “Heck, I don't see how we're going to survive. There are seven thousand people in this county, and I'm not sure we can support a newspaper and a radio station. How's he going to pay staff?”
“He isn't,” Leo replied, lighting another cigarette. “KSKY will be on the air from five until midnight, at least for starters. He'll handle most of the work, maybe use
some kids from the community college as interns, and then buy those canned music programs, with a generic host.”
“The locals won't like it if they find out their favorite announcer is from Philadelphia,” I noted.
Leo shook his head. “There are shows produced in Seattle and Tacoma. Spence, or whatever he calls himself, can get people who know a mountain from a molehill.”
I grimaced. “You aren't making me feel better.”
Leo's green eyes crinkled at the corners. He was from Southern California, in his mid-fifties, divorced with grown kids, had overcome a problem with the bottle, and found a home at
The Advocate
. In other words, he was a middle-aged cliché, another loser who'd cut his losses.
“I thought,” Leo said, his expression droll, “being a journalist, you searched for truth. The truth is, Spencer Fleetwood is a pain in the ass as far as we're concerned. Hell, he asked me if we wanted to exchange ads. You know, quid pro quo.”
“Do we?”
“Sure, unless you want to start a blood feud.”
“No. There're enough feuds in Alpine as it is,” I said, watching Leo exhale and wondering how long I could stay off cigarettes this time. “Tuesday, noon, the ski lodge, right?”
Leo stood up. “Right.”
So why did I feel it was wrong?
There were many things wrong with my life, though my car wasn't one of them. But that night, around five-thirty, as I walked out to the two-year-old champagne-colored Lexus parked at the curb, I suffered mixed emotions. The car was a semi-gift from my longtime lover and the father of my only son. Tom Cavanaugh had been in Alpine last December when a crank destroyed my
darling Jaguar with a sledgehammer. Since Tom had been staying with me and his middle name is Guilt, he had offered to replace the Jag. I'd resisted. My finely honed independence wouldn't permit such a gift. I'd told Tom it made me feel like a kept woman. Tom had laughed and agreed to a loan arrangement, the terms of which I set down: I'd pay him fifty bucks a month until he married me. Considering how much even a used Lexus costs and Tom's ability to stall, I figured the car would be paid off about the time I was confined to a nursing home.
Thus I wasn't entirely happy with our little agreement. I resented Tom's easy extravagance and my not-so-easy acquiescence. On the other hand, the Jag had been wrecked just before Christmas, and I was broke. The meager insurance money had made me feel a little better, because I'd turned the check over to Tom. But while he guided his daughter through the first stages of single motherhood in San Francisco, I fumed in Alpine. Tom had been a widower for over a year, and we had no definite plans for the future.
The immediate future, however, was another matter and even more vexing. I eased the Lexus along the driveway to my little log house at the edge of the forest and just sat there. In the past few months I'd begun to dread going home. As I drummed my fingers on the pearl-gray steering wheel and watched a pair of crows flap their wings in one of the tall firs that stood behind my house, I found it ironic that I couldn't kill time by listening to the radio. Apparently, I was in some sort of dead zone. The signals from Everett and Seattle got through only on an irregular basis. I was as likely to pick up San Mateo or Spokane as to tune into a regional station. Because of the mountains, reception from out of town was unreliable for most Alpine residents. Which, I had to concede, made an ideal situation for Spencer Fleetwood and KSKY.
Finally, I got out of the car, gritted my teeth, and went into the house. As usual, the living room was strewn with toys, baby clothes, dirty plastic dishes, and tabloid newspapers. Two Siamese cats batted a dirty disposable diaper between them. Amber Ramsey and her baby, Danny, were nowhere to be seen, but I could hear the TV blaring in my son Adam's old room.
The cats, Rheims and Rouen, abandoned the diaper and rushed to rub up against my ankles. Then they each let out that eerie cry that is the breed's call to dinner, among other things. No doubt they hadn't been fed all day. Grimly, I marched into the kitchen—another mess— and opened a fresh can of Friskies Mariner's Catch.
“Poor babies,” I murmured, giving each a passing stroke before they got down to business at their dishes by the back door. I'd inherited the cats from a friend, and they were considerably cleaner than my so-called houseguest.
“Amber!” I shouted, going into the little hall that leads to the two bedrooms and the bath, “can you turn that thing down and come out here?”
The sound was lowered slightly, then Amber, carrying five-month-old Danny, wandered into the living room. “Hi,” she said without much enthusiasm. “You okay?”
“No,” I declared, waving a hand at the debris. “Amber, how many times have I asked you to pick up after yourself and the baby?” Nag, nag. “This place is a wreck.” Nagging wasn't my style. “I really don't like coming home to more work after a day at the office.” Double and triple nag. I was turning into a battle-ax.
“I was just going to do it,” she said, pouting a little. “Danny's been fussy today.”
I regarded Danny with a skeptical eye. He looked perfectly happy to me, cheeks ruddy and fists waving mightily. He even laughed when I got closer. Danny was definitely a charmer.
But his mother was not. With no place to stay, Amber and son had landed on my doorstep during a Christmas Eve snowstorm. A runaway at seventeen, Amber had been in search of her father, who had recently moved to Alpine. Dean Ramsey was the new county extension agent and had been in the midst of moving his second family from Oregon. He had promised to take Amber and the grandson in as soon as they were settled.
Then, after New Year's, Amber's stepmother had decided to stay in Salem until the end of school in June. She and Dean didn't want to uproot their two adolescents until it was absolutely necessary. Consequently, Dean still hadn't bought a house, and I was stuck with Amber and Danny.
“Here,” Amber said, thrusting Danny at me. “I'll pick up.”
I took Danny and backed my way to the sofa. There was barely room to sit, but I was damned if I'd volunteer to clean up after Amber one more time. It had become a ritual—I'd come home, the house would be a mess, I'd chastise Amber, she'd repent, I'd feel sorry for her, then I'd do the work for her. Danny had been sleeping through the night since early March, he took at least one long nap a day, and since Amber obviously wasn't looking for a job, the least she could do was shoulder some of the responsibility in exchange for her free lodging. I wanted to be kind, I wanted to be charitable, but Amber Ramsey was driving me nuts.
“Here's what we'll do,” I said, bouncing Danny on my knee. “You keep the house clean every day. I'll go on providing the food.” My gorge rose as I said the words. Amber qualified for food stamps, but I'd never benefited. I didn't know what she used them for, and I didn't ask. At least she wasn't trading them for drugs. As far as I could tell.
“Okay,” Amber said, giving in so easily that my heart sank. “Does that include dishes?”
“I have a dishwasher,” I retorted. “What's so hard?”
Amber paused in putting the collection of tabloids in the basket on the hearth and pushed the dark blonde hair out of her eyes. “You said once you didn't like the way I loaded it.”
“You have to have a system,” I said. “Just figure out where the plates go, the bowls, the glassware. It's not that difficult.”
Amber gave me a truculent look. “You said I did something that made the blades or whatever stop turning.”
“You put a two-foot vase in the damned thing, Amber. The blades can't turn with anything that high in the way.”
“Oh.” She returned to her tasks. “Shall I make your bed, too?”
I looked askance. I didn't know that Amber had ever made the bed that had once belonged to my son. “No. I'll do that. Amber, don't put that dirty diaper in the fireplace.”