Mudlark (14 page)

We painted and grazed in the kitchen and painted some more. Bonnie's soup was tasty, though less
interesting than mine. Jay took a couple of official calls and Tom one. Two reporters left messages. We kept
painting. By ten I had to admit that everything except the floor was looking as good as it was going to look. Tom
thought we might get away with two coats of acrylic. Jay held out for three. Bonnie yawned. I sent her home, and
we headed for our bedrooms. Darla and Freddy were brooding over the computer.

As Jay and I snuggled into the big bed, the first rain hit the French doors. I listened, drowsing.

"You ought to drive to the hospital tomorrow," Jay murmured.

"To see how Lottie's doing?" Rain rattled the windows. "You're right. It's my turn."

"Flowers."

I nestled against him. "She'll be in intensive care. Jay?"

"Mmn?"

"I don't like taupe."

He didn't answer. The wind gusted and the rain poured down. I decided to let my grievance ride.

I drove to Kayport in my old Toyota, which was rapidly approaching classic car status, around nine
Saturday morning. At that hour, Darla hadn't yet appeared, and Freddy was still asleep. I had no idea how late he
had worked on the computer. We had touched up the walls and woodwork, and Tom, Jay, and Bonnie were gearing
up to finish the floor when I left.

I had decided to leave the final transformation to them, partly because the sight of the taupe walls
depressed me and partly because I needed to shop. We were out of Coke, beer, bread, cold-cuts, coffee, and butter,
and I had my holiday meal to buy for. I also decided to stop at the hospital. Matt would appreciate the gesture.

The previous night's rain had blown inland, but it was still overcast and whitecaps scalloped
Shoalwater Bay. I took the county road that paralleled Highway 101. On weekends, the main route attracted a
maddening combination of RVs, sports cars, high-wheel pickups, ancient Lincolns, and rusty beaters. This was a
holiday weekend.

The Ridge Road, as it was called, ran along the bay. Thick groves of pine and spruce, intermingled with
laurels and other evergreen brush, grew up to the narrow shoulder. On either side of the road, bulldozers had
shoved out clearings for mobile homes. More pretentious dwellings dotted the bay side. Where the forest gave way
to open pasture or cranberry fields, very deep drainage ditches hugged the asphalt.

There was little traffic. I kept the Toyota at the speed limit. About three miles south of the town of
Shoalwater, I had to slow to forty for a tiny old man driving a long, long Cadillac, vintage 1975. As I waited for a
straight stretch where I could pass, a jacked-up pickup drew in behind me and began tailgating.

I gritted my teeth and kept a respectful distance from the Cadillac's bumper. The pickup nudged closer,
so close I could see little through my rear window but the truck's electric-blue bug shield. The old guy oozed down
to thirty-seven miles an hour. I kept my distance.

Finally we rounded a blind curve dominated by tall spruce, and the road stretched ahead, clear for half
a mile. I depressed my turn signal, glanced back, and hit the accelerator. As I began to pull left, the pickup roared
past me, horn blaring. He almost knocked my side-view mirror off.

I braked, swearing, glanced ahead and passed. The old man peered at me through the steering
wheel.

I settled back at the speed limit and took a long, calming breath. I hadn't seen the license number of the
rapidly vanishing pickup, though it had Washington plates. It was silver-blue and muddy, and I had caught a
glimpse of a driver and a passenger, both wearing baseball caps, and a gun rack. Not exactly a rare sight on Ridge
Road. Reporting the incident would be a waste of energy. AAA ought to propose a new category of reckless
endangerment, DIT--driving under the influence of testosterone. Fat chance. The driver had not been a teenager. I
chugged along, nerves sparking.

At its south end, the peninsula widens. Ridge Road crosses the state route that leads east along
Shoalwater Bay and west to Kayport. I turned west and entered a sluggish stream of tourists.

Kayport is technically a river port, fronting the mouth of the Columbia where the ship channel crosses
the treacherous bar. From the marina, which shelters commercial fishing boats and private pleasure craft in
democratic juxtaposition, I could just see the long bridge south and the odd, upthrust mountains beyond Astoria. I
should have crossed the river to shop in Astoria because the prices were lower there, but I didn't feel like wasting
an hour driving back and forth.

I entered the lot of the shopping mall and pulled into a parking spot near McKay Construction Supply.
Jay wanted a packet of fine-grain discs to sand the first coat of acrylic.

I found the discs, savoring the aroma of raw wood that permeated the big building, and got in line
behind a man with an armload of deck stain and a woman lugging a new toilet seat. Then I spotted the latex paint.
The sight was too much. I bought a gallon of antique white, the same color as the enamel we had used on the
woodwork. I told myself the latex was for the hallway, but I knew I was going to cover at least one of the ghastly
taupe walls with it.

McKay Supply was all business--no chatty clerks or cracker-barrel spectators. Five cashiers ran the
customers through like logs on a green chain. Outside, I stowed paint and paper in the trunk, then moved the car
across the lot to the huge new Safeway.

I was pushing a cart along the produce aisle, looking for mushrooms, when Jean Knight hailed me. We
exchanged greetings, and Jean bored in on the shooting, avid for details.

She was shorter than I, most women are, and a few years older, with a short, curly perm and bright
brown eyes. Jean was a pleasant woman, but I didn't care for this new avidity. I gave her the bare facts.

"Yes, but what was he like?" Her eyes gleamed.

"Hagen? Armed and stupid." I spotted mushrooms. "Listen, Jean, I have a prejudice against blocking
supermarket aisles. I'll meet you at Aho's in half an hour and give you the skinny on the shooting over coffee,
okay?" Aho's was the bakery.

She agreed, grinning, and we moved on.

Since Tom's garden produced everything but obvious California objects like avocados, I didn't dally. I
selected chanterelles and fresh brown mushrooms for a pilaf, got a couple of lemons and a lime, and went on to the
deli and through the checkout line.

Aho's was the only professional bakery on the peninsula, but it was world-class. I had already used
their baguettes to good effect. I chose a couple of sandwich loaves--sourdough and oat bran--and drooped over the
croissants before moving on to dinner rolls. In the end I bought two dozen dill rolls, because dill and salmon go
together, thought of Freddy, softened, and added a bag of tollhouse cookies and a dozen hazelnut biscotti. Then I
ordered a latte and went in search of Jean. She hadn't come in yet, so I took a small booth and sat down to sip.

I was wondering if I ought to break into the biscotti when Jean materialized, trailed by a woman out of
L.L. Bean. It had to be Annie McKay.

Sure enough, Jean was making the introduction. She must have called the
Gazette
office as soon
as I moved on to the chanterelles.

Annie McKay shook hands and settled opposite me in the booth while Jean went off to get coffee. The
editor was about Jean's height, and her cotton cardigan coordinated with the dominant salmon-pink of her Madras
plaid shirt. Her sunglasses rode on the top of her head like an Alice band for trendy grown-ups. I was glad I'd taken
the trouble to shed my sweats in favor of stirrup pants and a big cotton sweater.

"So you're Lark. You've had a strange introduction to the peninsula."

I explained that we'd been in the area three months and made amiable generalizations about the
scenery while I tried to puzzle out who she reminded me of.

"We delude ourselves that our bit of wilderness is unspoiled. God knows it's beautiful, even as it sinks
under the weight of mobile homes and tacky construction." As she raised her hand to smooth her already smooth
blond hair, the large gem on her ring jogged my memory. Annie McKay reminded me of the corpse. She was also
the blond woman I had seen at the fire, clutching a notepad.

I listened to Annie filling me in on the consequences of uncontrolled growth, compared her to Cleo
Hagen, and thought strange thoughts.

After my first wild leap of imagination, I realized Annie had had at least one solid reason to appear at
the scene of the fire. She was the editor of a small paper. Probably her reporters lived in Kayport. She lived in the
Enclave, much closer to Tom's house.

When Annie concluded her impassioned denunciation of clear-cuts, I murmured, "I imagine you're
right. They're certainly ugly. Say, didn't I see you the night Tom's house was fire-bombed? At the fire, I mean."

Her face went blank.

"On the edge of the county road. You were holding a notebook and watching the fire-crew hitch up the
long hose."

Jean had returned with two coffees. She laughed. "Were you at the scene of the crime, Annie?" She
plunked down beside the editor and beamed at me. "Jim says Annie has a great nose for a story."

Annie took a sip of the hot coffee, grimacing, then set the mug down. She gave me a tight smile.
"Reporter's instinct. I didn't stay long."

That was true.

Jean was chattering about the
Gazette
's coverage of local news events and got off on the sports
reporter's brilliant account the state basketball tournament. When she wound down, I asked about her plans for
the school year. I sipped cooling coffee. Annie related an amusing story about a boatload of sport-fishing tourists,
and Jean cross-examined me, but nicely, about the shooting. Annie didn't take notes. In fact, there was no sign of
the notebook.

When I reached the part about the graffiti the evidence team had left in our hall I noticed the time. I had
spent nearly an hour in Aho's. I might as well have driven to Astoria. I disengaged as gracefully as I could and took
my purchases to the car.

The small, two-story hospital stood on a knoll above Highway 101. Because of the peninsula's large
population of elderly residents, the hospital had a good cardiac unit. It provided general care as well, though it was
always in economic peril. A nursing home lay to the north. I found the hospital's visitor lot and went into the
reception area.

As I had supposed, Mrs. Cramer was in Intensive Care and not allowed visitors or flowers. I thanked the
volunteer at the reception desk and was about to leave when Matt entered from the east corridor. I went to
him.

"Lark!" His face brightened. "Did you come to see Lottie?"

"Yes, but they told me she's still in Intensive Care. How is she, Matt?"

"Better, better." He blinked several times. His eyes were bloodshot. "She said my name when she came
out from under the anesthesia. She's much better."

I congratulated him and said I hoped she'd be able to come home soon. Apparently that was the right
wish. He began to tell me all about the excellent home care he would give his wife, how she was looking forward to
seeing his dahlias and the ocean. I listened, impressed by his optimism and saddened by the possibility that it
might be misplaced.

Eventually I remembered the invitation I had left on Matt's answering machine. I translated that for
him. At first he didn't think he could make it, but when I mentioned that Annie McKay was coming, he brightened
again and said he'd try to drop by. Annie was Matt's hero. I told him to be sure to come and gave his arm a pat.

"Thanks, Lark." He beamed at me. "Lottie and I are glad you moved in next door. Glad. We'll see you
Monday."

As I pulled onto 101, what he had said registered and I shivered. "Lottie and I...we'll see you..." Matt
rambled a lot. Was he getting worse? I hoped the "we" was just a manner of speaking.

The traffic on 101 was exasperating but less threatening than the pickup on Ridge Road. I reached
home around one.

Freddy was up and working at the computer. Darla had phoned to say she'd come over Sunday. The
others had beavered away, though, and the first coat of acrylic was almost ready to sand.

My ravenous crew fell on the groceries while I gloated over the floor. It, at least, looked splendid. The
taupe walls loured. Bonnie restrained me from slapping antique white on them by volunteering to help me paint
the hall. We covered the smears and diagrams with one quick coat while Jay, in stocking feet, sanded the
living-room floor for the last time. Tom was laundering his clothes.

Dale Nelson drove up as Bonnie and I were agreeing on a second hallway coat and contemplating the
woodwork. I answered the door.

"Ma'am." He touched the brim of his hat.

"Come in. We were just destroying the scene of the crime."

His invisible eyebrows shot up, and he peered into the hall. "Oh. Guess it's okay. Husband in?"

Jay had been carrying the sander out to the car. He came into the hall from the back of the house. "Hello,
Nelson. Did the sheriff tell you I was off the case?"

"Yeah." Dale entered and shook hands with Jay, looking glum. "I can't say I'm glad. We still haven't
found a weapon in the Cleo Hagen murder. The M.E. says there was sand and salt in the wound, so we're looking for
likely driftwood. The killer probably tossed it in the surf. There were some stray fibers on her clothes. Her handbag
turned up in a dumpster outside the Pig'n Stuff." The Pig'n Stuff was a drive-in near the Shoalwater approach. Near
the resort site, too.

Jay offered the deputy a cup of coffee, and they went back to the kitchen. Bonnie and I looked at each
other.

"I need a coffee break," I said.

She grinned. "Me, too. And I bet Tom could use a cup." She stuck her head in the utility room. Dale
seemed a little alarmed when the three of us entered the kitchen, but Jay wasn't on the case, after all. I saw no
reason why we should be excluded. Bonnie and I had discovered the body.