Authors: Mary Daheim
“I can’t dance,” I said. “The klutz factor.”
“Same here.”
We studied the menu until the accordionist had moved on. Milo went for the pork chops. I chose the rotisserie chicken, even though it was supposed to be a half. Any leftovers could turn into something Milo might not like for Monday night’s dinner. We drank German beer and talked about our families in between intermittent serenades from what was now two accordionists. But the food was good, and just being together doing something out of our routine was a welcome change.
“That,” I said as we walked back to the Yukon in the waning daylight, “is the first real date we’ve had in years.”
“That sounds about right for you,” Milo declared. “You tend to do things backward. You have a kid and wait thirty years to get a husband, then you get married, but two months later you finally go on a date with him. Let’s walk a little. That German food’s heavy.”
We’d passed another restaurant and a series of small shops when I felt something bothering my left heel. “Hold up,” I said. “I should never slip my shoes off in a public place. It’s a bad habit.” Sure enough, there was a pebble—or maybe a chickpea. I tossed it aside before putting my shoe back on. Milo was studying a bulletin board outside a camera shop that displayed pictures, apparently of Leavenworth’s visitors.
“They have an ice race here every year,” he remarked. “On foot. How many ambulances do they have standing by?”
“We could do that in Alpine,” I said.
“No thanks. That’d mean extra duty for my … holy shit!” he exclaimed, peering more closely at one of the photos. “Unless I’m going blind, that’s Nel Dobles.”
I leaned against Milo to study the picture. “I’ll take your word for it. I’ve never seen him.” The man my husband was pointing to was with two other men, all of them smiling and holding up beer steins. He looked pleasant, probably even handsome, with dark hair and well-defined features. Milo scanned the other photos more closely.
“Here,” he said, sounding as close to excited as the sheriff gets when he shifts into work mode. “There’s Joe Fernandez. I’d bet on it, at least from his driver’s license picture. He didn’t look so good in person, being dead.”
Joe was standing in front of München Haus Bavarian Grill, which we’d just passed. He was wearing a light blue shirt and
jeans. His arm was around a pretty blonde who had her head on his shoulder.
“The camera shop’s probably closed,” Milo said. “I want to talk to somebody in charge at that restaurant. Let’s go.”
“Gee, I get to trot along on an investigation?” I panted, trying to keep up with my husband’s long stride.
“I can’t ditch you,” he said over his shoulder. “You’d probably make friends with the town creep.”
“Do they have one?”
“Every place does,” Milo said as he led the way inside the restaurant. “We’ve got Crazy Eights Neffel for starters.” He stopped, apparently looking for someone in charge. “Stay put,” he murmured and approached the hostess. After a brief exchange, Milo gestured for me to follow him through the restaurant.
I trudged along behind him, past the restrooms and through an unmarked door that opened as if by magic. The man who greeted us looked a little like a cheerful wizard, short and stout, with a bald head, a gray goatee, and twinkling blue eyes.
“Hermann Obermeyer,” he said with a faint German accent, offering his hand to my husband and then to me. “Come in, Sheriff. And Mrs.… Dodge, is it?”
The office was small and cluttered, not unlike my own. There was only one extra chair. Milo didn’t sit down, so I didn’t, either. Obermeyer did, however. Maybe the sheriff’s looming presence overwhelmed him.
After Milo had described the two photographs, Obermeyer looked puzzled. “We have so many visitors. Perhaps I should go outside with you to make sure I know which ones you’re speaking of. Half of the people in them will be holding beer steins.” The blue eyes twinkled some more as he led us out of his office, retracing our steps to the sidewalk bulletin board. It
was almost dark by now, but the restaurant manager—I assumed that was his title—had brought along a flashlight.
“Oh, yes,” he said at once when Milo pointed to Dobles. “He has been here a few times. Not so much to attend our special events, but passing through. This picture was taken with two visitors from Yakima. Mr. Dobles is from central California, I believe.” Obermeyer frowned. “He is not, I hope, in some sort of trouble.”
“No. He was in a serious car accident just outside of Alpine,” Milo replied, “but he’s recovering.” He pointed to Joe Fernandez. “What about this young man?”
Obermeyer studied the picture for what seemed like a long time. “Yes, I recall seeing him, maybe last summer. A rather … lively sort of fellow. Was he involved in the same accident?”
“No.”
Typical Dodge
, I thought, not going beyond the short answer that was bound to make the other person talk. I ought to know. He’d pulled that on me a couple of times, and I’d found it unsettling.
“I don’t know his name,” Obermeyer said, scratching his bald head, “but he was what I’d call a party boy. Always the beer, always the pretty girl, always just this far from making a fool of himself.” He held up his thumb and index finger to demonstrate the narrow margin.
“Did he get into fights?” Milo asked in his most laconic manner.
“No. But once, at the beer garden, he came close. Somehow he made a joke, and everyone laughed. The hostility evaporated. He had a way with him. Is he in trouble over in Skykomish County?”
“No.” Milo smiled and put out his hand. “This is routine. Thanks for your help.”
“Of course, Sheriff,” Obermeyer said, wincing slightly as
my husband crushed his fingers. “Do come back to one of our celebrations. Your charming lady would enjoy herself.” He sketched a bow for me.
“We might do that,” Milo said, almost convincingly.
“Free brats for you both at München Haus,” Obermeyer called as he headed back to the restaurant.
“Nice guy,” Milo murmured as we walked in the other direction to the Yukon.
“But not a lot of help,” I said.
The sheriff didn’t say anything until we were buckling up inside the SUV. “I’m not so sure about that. We know that both Dobles and Joe have been in the area, though not necessarily at the same time. Dobles seems as if he likes to make an impression. Joe sounds like a goofball.”
“Maybe he is.
Was
, I mean. You mentioned that Yakima isn’t sure which side of the law he was on.”
“Right.” Milo paused, waiting to turn off Front Street to reach Highway 2. “But Obermeyer’s description tells me something. Nobody takes a goofball seriously. It’s a perfect cover. Now I’m damned sure he’s a Fed. That means we may have a motive for murder.”
“But in Alpine?” I said as we began to head west toward Stevens Pass and the summit. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right. But I can’t figure out what other motive there would be. Joe came to Alpine for a reason. For all I know, he intended to see Sam, if, in fact, they’re related.”
“You don’t think that Sam …” The thought was so awful that I couldn’t say it out loud.
Milo, however, knew what I was thinking. “No. Sam’s reaction to recognizing Joe was what sent him off the rails. I doubt Sam knew Joe was in town. He’d probably arrived that night
and met whoever killed him then. We’ve asked around. Nobody recalls seeing anybody who looked like Joe. If he had dinner—and the ME’s report indicated he had, around eight that evening—it wasn’t in SkyCo. We checked Skykomish and even Sultan. No luck. He probably ate in Monroe, which meant he didn’t get to Alpine until later.”
“You’ve got to talk to Sam,” I said. “When’s payday?”
“It was Friday. If you’re thinking Sam needs money, forget it. He’s as tightfisted as Gould.”
I was silent again for a few moments. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who your mystery woman caller is,” I finally said.
“If anything about her becomes official, yes. Otherwise, it’s unofficial.”
“Nothing that could be remotely connected to Sam or Joe?”
“That’s right.”
I was looking at Milo, and he suddenly frowned. “At least I hope it’s right,” he said in an uneasy voice.
“Damnit, now you’ve made me curious. I think I’ll drug you to make you talk.”
The sheriff didn’t speak until we were nearing the summit. “I’ve done some background on what my visitor told me. If I find out she’s not running off at the mouth, I’ll tell you because it’ll become official. Like you, I don’t deal in rumors.”
“I didn’t recognize her,” I said. “Admittedly, I was spying on her through the Marsdens’ fence.”
“Of course you were. I really thought you’d try to crawl in through a window and listen from the hall.”
“I wish I had. But I’d probably have fallen over something and given myself away.”
He glanced at me and grinned. “That sounds about right.”
“She seemed nervous.”
“She was.”
“Thirtyish?”
“About that.”
“Pretty?”
“Kind of.”
“Married?”
“Yes. That’s it. You’re done.”
“Okay.”
I did know when to give up—and shut up.
Monday morning Vida showed up wearing a pith helmet. “Where,” I asked as Amanda stared, Leo gaped, and Mitch had to turn away to keep from laughing out loud, “did you get that thing?”
“It’s not a ‘thing,’ ” Vida replied indignantly. “It’s authentic, made of pith, which comes from a swamp plant.”
“You found it in a swamp?” Leo asked, trying to look innocent.
“Fie on you, Leo,” Vida retorted. “My daughter Beth sent it to me. They had a safari night at the country club she and her husband belong to in Tacoma. Beth thought I’d enjoy wearing it. And I do. Have you no sense of adventure?”
“Not when it comes to hats,” Leo replied. “I suppose that under the right circumstances, it could be quite … adventurous.”
Vida caressed the band that went around the crown. “It’s real. A lawyer friend actually wore it on safari last year. He donated it to the safari night auction for the Mary Bridge Children’s Hospital. Or is it a clinic? I don’t recall, but it’s in Tacoma.”
“I’ve never been to Tacoma,” Mitch said, having recovered from stifling his laughter. “What’s it like?”
“It’s quite large and very busy,” Vida said, sitting down at
her desk. “Too large and too busy, in my opinion, but not nearly as dreadful as Seattle. I often feel sorry for Beth because she has to live there instead of in Alpine, but her husband’s law practice is very lucrative.”
“And free hats,” Leo noted.
Vida glared at Leo. “Not
free
hats! Beth paid a hundred and sixty dollars for this. The bidding was quite ferocious.”
“I stand … or sit corrected,” Leo said, running up the white flag and sinking his teeth into a raspberry Danish Kip had brought from the Upper Crust.
I chose a maple bar, being in a prosaic Monday morning mood. By the time the mail arrived shortly after nine-thirty, it dawned on me that the letters, emails, and phone calls about the mayor’s plan were beginning to dwindle. That was typical of readers’ attention span. I decided to follow up with another editorial to convince SkyCo residents that this was the wave of the future and they’d better get used to it. Of course, that wasn’t necessarily true, but I’d say it anyway.
Leo came in a few minutes later to show me the mock-up he’d put together for all of our merchants who sold gardening and yard supplies.
“I know we ran something like this in our spring special edition last month,” he said, “but everybody got off to an early start because of the warmer weather. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give it another shot. Harvey Adcock at the hardware store and the folks at Mountain View Gardens liked the idea, and then everybody else including Delphine Corson fell into line. I think I’ll take her out to dinner just for the hell of it.”
I was surprised, given that Leo had dated our local florist a few years earlier and found her too eager to take their romance to a higher level. “Isn’t that a bit risky?” I asked.
Leo chuckled. “Just because my ex seems inclined to forgive if not forget doesn’t mean I have to live like a monk. Say, I tried
to track down that company Roger’s working for, but I can’t find a local or even an online listing. I asked the Duchess about it. She was kind of vague, though she did say their main offices were out of town. I wonder if she gave us the right name. I tried to Google them.”
“Any luck?”
Leo shook his head. “I found several. One in Chicago, another in the Southwest, even one in Australia. But nothing local.”
“It may be a subdivision of a bigger company. Call Amy, Vida’s daughter. She ought to know.”
“Good idea,” Leo agreed. “I’d like to include them in this garden ad. They must do outdoor parties, including rentals like tents and canopies.”
My ad manager went on his way. Vida and Mitch had left on their rounds. Maybe my House & Home editor was giving the Fritzes another try. I finished my editorial, though it wouldn’t exactly rock readers out of their complacency. I was in a quandary about Helena Craig’s confidences. If there was a story, it should go to Mitch. But for now, I’d hold off. High school hookers were as touchy a subject as I could think of. In fact, I preferred not thinking about them at all.
Mitch didn’t return until after ten. He usually had covered the sheriff’s office and the courthouse by nine-fifteen. I expected him to come into my office with major news but saw him pouring a coffee refill and picking up his second or third raised doughnut. I decided to get more coffee, too.
“Anything of interest?” I asked after he sat down at his desk.
“Yes, but I don’t know what it is,” he replied with a quirky expression. “It’s the sheriff. Maybe you already know.”
“I do not,” I said, sitting in his visitor chair. “If I did, I wouldn’t have to ask.”
“Okay, I’ll believe Dodge practices extreme discretion at home. It just seems strange when his wife is an inquisitive journalist.”
“That’s why,” I said dryly. “I even tried feminine wiles early on, and he told me I didn’t have any.”
“But you married him anyway,” Mitch said, sounding bemused.
“Yes. I couldn’t resist his utter lack of charm. So what was or wasn’t going on with the sheriff?” I asked after taking a sip of coffee.