The Alpine Quilt (10 page)

Ben leaned back in his chair. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were,” I said grimly. “The worst of it is, I can’t make any sense out of it.”

Ben gazed indifferently at the hole in the sleeve of his blue cardigan sweater. “The problem is when the insulin was added to the cookies, right?”

“Yes, and who did it.”

“Were all the cookies Gen brought the same kind?”

“I don’t know. I could ask Charlene, or someone else who was at the party. In fact,” I went on, realizing I’d been remiss in making plans for a follow-through of the investigation, “I should ask someone else. Several of them, in fact.”

Ben twirled in his swivel chair. It was a novelty for him. When I’d visited my brother in Tuba City a few years back, he’d had a very uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chair with a wicker seat. “Will Vida help?” he asked. “She must know the members even better than you do.”

“That’s the problem.” I gave my brother a vexed look. “Three are related to her—Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt and Nell Blatt, who Vida usually doesn’t speak to, and Ella Hinshaw, who’s kind of gaga. Frankly, Vida doesn’t seem too interested in Gen’s death. It’s not like her to be so lacking in curiosity. I’m pretty sure that Vida and Gen had a falling-out a long time ago.”

“Vida can hold a grudge,” Ben remarked. “That’s too bad.”

“I know,” I agreed. “Don’t you remember when I told you a few months ago about Thyra Rasmussen and how Vida loathed her because she’d once stepped on Mrs. Blatt’s prizewinning gourds?”

“Which happened fifty years ago at least?” Ben’s expression was wry. “Yes, I remember. I suppose this rift with Gen was over some trifling thing, too. It’s a shame, but it happens.”

“Yes, it does,” I said. “But in fact, Mrs. Rasmussen was just plain mean. I knew her, too. She was a magnet for hostility.”

“Hostility needn’t always be hatred,” Ben pointed out.

“True.” I knew what my brother was thinking.
Hate the sin, love the sinner.
That was easier said than done with someone like Thyra.

But Genevieve Bayard didn’t strike me as being cut from the same cloth as Thyra Rasmussen. On the other hand, I didn’t know her. I’d only spoken to her once on the phone.

Maybe, judging from Vida’s attitude toward Gen, once was enough.

Nor had Vida’s attitude changed. “Of course Annie Jeanne didn’t poison Genevieve,” she asserted when I asked her to come into my office after lunch. “But I can’t say I’m grieving. I’ve no time for that Bayard woman, dead or alive.”

I’d closed the door behind Vida to give us privacy. “Why not?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.

Vida looked away, gazing at the calendar from Harvey’s Hardware with its full-color picture of Tonga Ridge. The photo, like all those that had graced Harvey Adcock’s calendars over the years, had been taken by Buddy Bayard.

“I’d rather not discuss it,” she finally said, looking back at me. “It was a long time ago, but there are some things that are just too despicable to talk about.”

That didn’t sound like Vida. “Gosh,” I said innocently, “Gen must have made a lot of enemies in the old days. How did she manage to keep her buddies in the BCTC?”

“I have no idea.” Vida was looking very prim.

“Were you ever a member?” I asked, still hoping to sound casual but not succeeding very well.

Vida took umbrage. “Are you interrogating me?”

“Of course not.” My expression was ironic. “I’m doing what I always do when there’s a local homicide. I’m trying to figure out whodunit. In the past, you’ve always helped me—tremendously. I’m just curious why you don’t seem interested this time around.”

“Genevieve hadn’t lived here for years,” Vida replied. “Nor do I think she was purposely poisoned. And, no, I never belonged to the Burl Creek Thimble Club. My mother did, but she was clever at crafts. I wasn’t.” Vida looked down at her big hands with their stubby fingers, as if to blame them for her lack of talent.

“Let me fill you in,” I said. “Then maybe you’ll be more interested.”

“I doubt it.”

Nevertheless, I told her everything, even breaking my promise to Milo not to reveal the part about the cheesecake crust containing the glipizide. I hated doing it, but I was that desperate to engage Vida in the crime.

“My, my,” Vida said after I’d finished, “that
is
rather intriguing.”

“Then you’ll work on the story with me?”

Vida blinked twice behind her big glasses. “I didn’t say that.”

“Why not? You said the case was intriguing.”

“I wasn’t referring to the case,” Vida responded. “I meant the homemade cookies. I don’t think Genevieve ever baked so much as a cupcake as long I knew her.”

My shoulders sagged. “That’s hardly the point. She was in Spokane for over twenty years. She could’ve been baking marzipan and Russian rye and marble cake for all you know.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“Okay, so maybe Roseanna baked the cookies for her,” I allowed, and sent my mind off on a different, frightening tangent. I pushed the thought aside. “Maybe she bought them at the Upper Crust, or even at the airport. There wasn’t much time in between her arrival in Alpine and the party that night.”

“That sounds more like Genevieve,” Vida conceded. “You should ask Roseanna. Of course, Milo will do that as well. I assume he’ll have to search the Bayard kitchen, if, in fact, the cookies were made there.”

Did I sense that the fish was cautiously circling the bait? “I’d think,” I said slowly, “that if you and Gen didn’t get along, there’d be others who didn’t, either. Like your mother, for instance.”

“I told you,” Vida said adamantly, “I don’t wish to discuss it. Please, Emma, let’s stop talking about Genevieve Bayard. I don’t even like to mention her name.”

The fierceness in Vida’s gray eyes told me that she wasn’t going to nibble after all. I couldn’t believe it. But I had to let it go.

“Fine, I’ll shut up.” I rose from my chair. “I’m going to see Buddy and Roseanna now.”

Vida also stood up. “I have several stories for next week. The Skylstads are going to Boise to spend Thanksgiving with their daughter, who owns a pet-sitting service. Edna Mae Dalrymple just returned from a library conference in Yakima. There are two weddings over the weekend. My page will be full, I assure you.”

I didn’t doubt it. But I was still irked.

Buddy and Roseanna were both at work. She was behind the front desk; Buddy was in the studio, photographing a newcomer to Alpine High School who hadn’t yet had his senior picture taken.

“It’s Jason Crowe,” Roseanna explained, “the son of the Upper Crust owners. It’s hard for kids to change schools in their senior year.”

“That’s true,” I said. “By chance, I bought the paper right after Adam graduated in Portland. How are you and Buddy doing?”

“Ohhh . . .” Roseanna ran a hand through her blond curls. “It’s rough. We’ve finally tracked down somebody in Spokane who knew Gen’s attorney. We’re waiting to hear back from him. Then maybe we can find out if she had special wishes about her burial. Meanwhile, we’re still going nuts trying to understand what happened. Our sheriff isn’t very forthcoming.”

I gathered that the Bayards didn’t know exactly how Gen was poisoned. “It’s a mess,” I allowed. “It’s a hard story to cover, but at least we have several days before the next edition. You’re on a tighter schedule, I’m afraid.”

Roseanna grimaced. “Gen’s not going anywhere. As Janet Driggers told me, Al doesn’t hand out weekend passes at the mortuary.”

That sounded like Janet. She was a rambunctious woman with a runaway tongue, and I couldn’t help but like her for it. “Gen must have had some fine qualities,” I said. “Obviously the women from BCTC liked her.”

“I guess so,” Roseanna said without enthusiasm. “Maybe it was my fault that I never warmed to her. Who knows?”

“Gen certainly went out of her way to bake all those cookies for the club members,” I remarked. “She must have had to hustle.”

Roseanna grinned, the first smile I’d seen since before the tragedy. “Bake? Gen? We stopped at the Upper Crust after we got back from Seattle. She practically cleaned the place out. It’s a good thing we called ahead. Ah.” She turned around as a medium-size adolescent with straight black hair and rimless glasses emerged from the studio. He was already undoing the tie that he wore with a white shirt and navy slacks.

“All finished, Jason?” Roseanna inquired. “We were just talking about your parents’ bakery. Have you met Emma Lord, the newspaper owner?”

He looked at me as if I were cat dirt, but put out a hand. “Hi.”

“Jason works at the bakery, too,” Roseanna said, poking keys on the computer that sat just below the reception counter. “How’s that going?” she asked the youth as his invoice was printed out.

Jason shrugged. “Okay.”

I kept my distance as Roseanna explained the billing procedure to Jason and told him how soon he’d see the contact prints. After the transaction was complete, Jason Crowe slouched out the door.

“Typical for his age,” Roseanna murmured. “What else can I do for you?”

I’d hoped Buddy would come into the reception area, but he didn’t. “I wanted to make amends with you two for pulling the darkroom business,” I said. “I know it won’t be the same in terms of immediate cash, but I’d like to ask Buddy to take some color photos for the paper. Stock shots, that we could use anytime. That’d give him exposure—excuse the expression—to wider markets so that he’d eventually make more money.”

Roseanna looked thoughtful. “That’s considerate of you, Emma. Are you talking about the kind of scenic stuff he does for Harvey Adcock’s calendar?”

“That, plus more arty-type pictures,” I replied. “He could show off his creativity.”

Buddy emerged from behind the velvet curtains that led into the studio. “Is this appeasement?”

I should have guessed he’d been eavesdropping. “Call it what you like,” I said, trying not to be annoyed. “Let’s face it, Buddy—you’ve pretty well cornered the market in Alpine. Losing our darkroom business won’t put you and Roseanna and the kids out on the streets. I just don’t want any hard feelings.”

Buddy came over to where I was standing by the reception desk. “Oh—hell, Emma, I don’t want to end up in a feud, either.” He offered his hand, which I took. “It was just bad timing. And now, with Ma’s death . . .” He released his grip on me and threw both his hands into the air. “Heck, life’s too short. I think you’ve got a good idea. I’d like to try some different kinds of photography. I get into a rut, especially after taking almost a hundred high school senior pictures. I feel stale.”

“I understand,” I said. It was true: I could do only so many county commissioner reports, weather stories, and local features before I felt like a robot. One of the things that kept me going was that it could be worse: I might be rewriting Ed Bronsky’s autobiography.

“How’s Annie Jeanne?” Buddy inquired. His voice was noncommittal, as if he wasn’t sure whether she’d purposely killed his mother or not.

“She’s back at the rectory, but still very distraught,” I replied. “I’m sure she’s completely innocent, though that doesn’t make her feel any better. She seems so genuinely fond of your mother. I don’t suppose you’d know of anybody around here who wasn’t?” Except Vida, I thought to myself.

Neither of the Bayards could name anyone who hadn’t been on good terms with Gen. Vida wasn’t mentioned, which I found curious. She certainly made no secret of her dislike.

“Ma had been gone from Alpine long enough,” Buddy added, “that she never got involved in some of the local feuds. As for Spokane, I wouldn’t know. She was such a private person.”

Roseanna was leaning on the counter. “I don’t ever recall Gen mentioning anyone she’d quarreled with except for disagreements at work. But they weren’t serious. On the other hand, I don’t remember her talking about friends, either.”

“What about the man she had living with her?” I asked. “Do you think he’s still around?”

Roseanna shook her head. “The last few times we visited, there was no sign of him. I guess they broke up. For all I know, he could be dead.”

“Surely the attorney must know who he is—or was,” I pointed out.

Buddy and Roseanna exchanged glances. “We didn’t ask,” Roseanna said. “I mean, Gen didn’t want us to know about him when she was alive, so what’s the point of finding out who he was now?”

“She could have left her money to him,” I said.

“No,” Buddy responded. “About two years ago, she made a simple will and left it all to me. Not that it’s any fortune. Ma liked nice things, especially clothes. That’s why she always worked for apparel stores; she could get discounts. And she wasn’t an investor, except for some Nordstrom stock. I suppose in the end we’ll get around ninety thousand dollars, including the condo sale, the stock, and her savings.”

That sounded like a substantial sum to me. Roseanna, however, spoke bitterly. “It’ll help pay for the kids’ college tuition when they get beyond Skykomish Community College. It’s only fair, since Gen didn’t do diddly-squat for them when she was alive.”

Buddy frowned at his wife. “Don’t harp on that. Let’s forget all the negative stuff. Ma’s gone, it’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. There was a killer in Alpine, and it wouldn’t be over until he or she was found. What really bothered me was that Buddy and Roseanna didn’t seem to care.

I wondered why.

TEN

Bayard’s Picture Perfect Photography Studio was located next to the state liquor store. I decided to replenish my bourbon and Canadian whiskey supply, which had been depleted by the arrival of Ben. I was also low on Scotch, the sheriff’s drink of choice. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw Darlene Adcock, Harvey’s wife, mulling over wine selections.

“For company,” she said after we’d exchanged greetings. I assumed she felt an explanation was needed lest I think that Darlene and Harvey spent their evenings getting blotto and rolling around on their Turkish carpet. “The Campbells are coming.”

I tried not to smile, since the phrase reminded me of an old Scottish song. “That’s nice,” I remarked. “I suppose you and Jean will speculate on what happened to Gen.”

Darlene, who is petite and very slender, grimaced. “There’s a rumor going around town that she was poisoned on purpose by Annie Jeanne. Is that possible?”

“No,” I asserted. “Do you honestly think Annie Jeanne is capable of such a thing, especially since Gen was a dear friend?”

Darlene wore a bewildered expression. “I can’t imagine. . . . Certainly Annie Jeanne was thrilled to get together with Gen. You’re right. It’s impossible. But you know how people talk.”

I did indeed. “I suppose Annie Jeanne’s considered something of a character with Alpiners who don’t belong to St. Mildred’s.” And with some who did, I thought unhappily. “She’s been a pillar of the parish for years.”

“Well . . . yes, I’m sure she is,” Darlene agreed. “We’re Methodists, so we don’t hear much about what goes on at St. Mildred’s. Your Debra Barton’s the quiet type. Edith, of course, keeps us up-to-date on the Episcopalians.”

I’d almost forgotten about Edith. Edith Bartleby was the wife of Trinity Episcopal’s pastor. Her refinement was such that I couldn’t possibly imagine Edith being involved in anything as sordid as murder.

“I assume Edith doesn’t carry gossip in her sewing bag?”

“Oh, heavens no!” Darlene giggled. “Edith is the soul of discretion. Of course, she didn’t know Genevieve. The Bartlebys have only been here sixteen years.”

Relative newcomers, I thought. “But the rest of the club did?”

“Yes, I think so.” Darlene was mulling again. “I’ve having a lamb roast. What do you think? A rosé?”

“Try a pinot gris,” I advised, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what it was, but the name sounded good.

“Oh.” Darlene appeared to be checking prices. “Here’s a pretty label. It’s on special. I’ll get two. Not that Jean and Lloyd are big drinkers, but Harvey and I hate to look cheap.”

“Had Jean been close to Gen in years past?” I inquired.

Darlene put the bottles into her cart. “Not particularly. Gen’s best friend in the group was Annie Jeanne, of course. She also was friendly with Nell Blatt and Grace Grundle and Ethel Pike. Although . . .” Her voice trailed off as we pushed our carts out of the wine section.

“Although what?” I asked, steering in the direction of whiskeys.

“Well . . . I seem to recall a spat—nothing serious—years ago between Ethel and Gen. But they must have made up. Gen brought a double batch of cookies for Ethel so she and Pike could eat them on the plane and have some left over for the grandchildren in Orlando. Of course, nobody had the heart to tell Gen that Ethel had developed diabetes in the past few years, but the gesture shows that they must have made up any differences.”

Or not, I thought.

Eleanor Blatt—or Nell as she was more familiarly known—was now on my list of contacts. So was Grace Grundle, though I dreaded paying her a call. Grace had such a large feline menagerie that she could give my neighbor Edith Holmgren a run for the crown as Cat Queen of Alpine.

First, I had to check back at the office. As I walked in the front door, Ginny handed me a half-dozen messages and, with an apologetic look, told me that Ed Bronsky was waiting in my cubbyhole.

Not, pray God, with his manuscript,
I thought as I trudged through the empty newsroom.

But there was no sign of a book-in-the-making. Ed turned in my visitor’s chair, making the wood creak and groan. “Hey, hey, hey,” he greeted me, “I was about to give up. Long publisher’s lunch, huh?”

I shook my head as I squeezed past Ed to get behind my desk. “I had some stops along the way. What can I do for you, Ed?”

He wagged a finger at me. “Ask not what you can do for Ed, but what Ed can do for Alpine.”

My face froze in what I hoped was a pleasant expression. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“First off,” Ed began, suddenly very earnest, “I’m putting the sequel on hold for a while. It’s not writer’s block, but yesterday I was working on chapter twenty-six and I had a brainstorm. What does this town really need?”

Not a brainstorm from Ed.
“What?”

He leaned back in the chair, which made more agonized noises. “A museum!”

“We have one,” I pointed out. “The logging museum at Old Mill Park.”

Ed waved a pudgy hand in dismissal. “That thing’s about the size of our living room and not half as interesting. Old donkey engines, saws, miniature trucks, a bunch of photos—I’m talking state-of-the-art, animation, interactive—the whole bit.”

My expression grew curious. “My goodness—what will it feature?”

Ed cocked his head to one side and looked exceedingly pleased with himself. “Me. What else?”

On purpose, I knocked a pen off my desk. I had to duck my head to keep Ed from seeing the dismay on my face. When I regained control, I bobbed up again and, for a change, decided to show enthusiasm. It might be fun to egg Ed on. It certainly wasn’t fun just to listen to him being a blowhard.

“What will be in the museum?” I finally managed to ask.

Ed waved his hands in the air. “That’s the beauty of it. All of a sudden, these ideas flew out of my head. It’ll be family oriented, because that’s what
Mr. Ed Gets Wed
is all about. Oh, sure, there’ll be the usual memorabilia. Childhood stuff, like my teething ring, my favorite blankie, my booties. Then we’ll move up to grade school and high school and the year I spent at Everett JC. That’ll all be in side rooms. The centerpiece will be a replica of our dining room at Casa de Bronska. We’ll have wax dummies to represent Shirley and me and the kids.”

Why not use the real dummies?
I thought.

“You’ve been to Disneyland, right?” he inquired.

“What?” My head was spinning with ideas of my own. “Oh, yes, years ago with Adam.”

“You know how they have that animated life-size replica of Abraham Lincoln that recites the Gettysburg Address? Well, we’ll have one of me, greeting visitors and reciting some of my favorite sayings.”

Like pass the pork chops?

“Then we’ll have some tab blows,” Ed continued. “I haven’t—”

“Some what?” I interrupted.

“Tab blows,” Ed repeated, emphasizing the space between the two words. “Like the dining room scene, only taking up less space.”

“Oh.” There was no point in correcting Ed. After he called a tableau a tab blow, I was waiting for him to refer to a diorama as an Armani Aroma. “This all sounds very intriguing,” I lied. “Are you asking me to put it in the paper?”

“Not yet, not yet,” Ed responded quickly. “This is background. What I’m thinking about now is going to the county commissioners or the mayor and suggesting a bond issue to raise funds. It’s just too darned bad I didn’t come up with this sooner; it could’ve been on the ballot for the September off-year election. Now we’ll have to wait for March or even the primary next September.”

Whew.

Ed, at his most earnest, leaned forward. The chair made more ominous noises. “The thing is,” he said, lowering his voice, “I want this to be a community project. Oh, I could put up some of the money, of course. But the Mr. Pig Museum will bring in big tourist bucks and help the economy. Everyone will benefit.”

Especially Mr. Pig.
“You’re going to call it after the animated Japanese cartoon based on your book?”

Ed looked surprised. “Of course.” He frowned. “You think I should call it after the book,
Mr. Ed
?”

“It was just a passing idea,” I said, assuming a thoughtful expression. “What about rides? One of those things with little cars that sail around? You could call it When Pigs Fly. A merry-go-round with pigs instead of horses. Cutouts of pigs that visitors can put their heads through and have their picture taken with the Bronsky family. A tunnel of love—call it Pig of My Heart—with cars that look like small pigsties. A chorus line of dancing pigs. Name the restaurant the Trough. Feature little pig sausages, pigs in a blanket, pork sandwiches, pork chops, pork roast, pork rinds, bacon burgers, ham on rye; the possibilities are endless. Let kids root through mud for prizes—”

“Wow.” Ed looked awestruck. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you, Emma?”

I nodded vigorously “You bet. Pig races. Piggyback races. Hog-calling contests. Stuffed pig toys. Piggy banks. The Oink Meter.”

“The what?”

“You know, like those things where you hit a bell—only this one oinks, and see who can make the loudest squeal.” I was beginning to run out of steam.

“I should be taking notes,” Ed declared. “Could you write all this down and e-mail it to me?”

“Sure.” I started to regret my feigned enthusiasm. “It might take me a day or two. That is, I may get some more ideas.”

To my relief, Ed was unwedging himself from the chair. “It’s all worth considering. I’m sure glad to have you on my side.”

Side of pork, side of bacon, side of . . .
I had to stop.

Sifting through the phone calls I’d received, I began returning them in order of priority: Rita Patricelli at the Chamber of Commerce; Shawna Beresford-Hall, the new dean of students at the college; Bunky Smythe, forest ranger; and three complaining readers who thought I was an idiot. I was dealing with the last crank when Ginny came into my office.

I finished with the crank and gazed at Ginny. “What’s up?”

Ginny was looking even more serious than usual. “Some man has called you twice—once while you were out and again while you were on the phone. He wouldn’t leave his name or a number, but he said he’d try you at home. I didn’t recognize his voice, although he sounded fairly young, like maybe twenties or early thirties.”

I shrugged. “It may have something to do with the memorial for Hank Sails tomorrow night. You know—we should all come up with our favorite memory or something like that. By the way, Vida and I will be leaving early, probably around four.”

“Oh.” Ginny brightened a bit. “Okay, you could be right. He sounded anxious to talk to you, so maybe he had a deadline of his own.”

I dithered briefly over whether I should pay a call on Nell Blatt or Grace Grundle. I couldn’t face Grace and those cats, so around three-thirty, I phoned Nell and asked if I could stop by.

“Sorry,” she replied in her brisk voice. “I’m washing the living room and the dining room. The holidays are just around the corner, you know. What about the day after tomorrow?”

“Well . . .” I hesitated. The longer the wait, the shorter her memory. “Could I ask you a couple of questions now?”

“Make them short,” Nell retorted.

I could see why Vida and Nell didn’t get along. The sisters-in-law were both imperious, and no doubt had always rubbed each other the wrong way.

“I’ll try,” I promised, and decided to be blunt. “Who do you know who’d want to poison Gen?”

The question didn’t seem to faze Nell. “Nobody, offhand. Except Vida, of course.”

I was shocked. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. The two of them were archenemies after . . . Well, let’s say for a couple of years before Gen left town.”

“What was the problem?”

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “You don’t know, do you?” Nell finally said.

“No,” I admitted. “Although I’m aware that Vida didn’t like Gen.”

“If you don’t know—if Vida’s never told you—then I certainly won’t. We may not be real close, but we
are
kin,” Nell declared. “We keep ourselves to ourselves. If you want to know, ask Vida. I’ve got walls to wash.” Nell hung up.

Asking Vida wouldn’t do me any good. If she hadn’t told me by now, she wouldn’t. My only hope was to spike her drink at Hank Sails’s memorial and make her spill the beans.

What bothered me most was that in a town the size of Alpine tales of a feud between Vida and Gen would be fodder for gossip. Yet no one—except Nell and Vida herself—had suggested a problem between the two women. Such quarrels have long lives in Alpine. Was it possible that whatever had happened was really a family secret? Would any of Vida’s daughters know? And if so, would they betray a confidence? The answer was a resounding
No.
I didn’t think a call to Amy or Beth or Meg would do any good unless I could figure a way to wheedle the story out of them.

So I turned my thoughts to next Wednesday’s editorial. Ben compared my weekly task to his weekly sermons: mull, discard, mull, revise, mull some more, and finally write the damned thing. He had the Sunday readings to rely on; I had the town. We were both expected to be fresh and inspiring.

My mind was a blank.

All I could think of was Ed’s proposed museum. Images of pigs—standing pigs, sitting pigs, talking pigs, singing pigs—clumped across my mind’s eye. I gave up, and concentrated on possible feature stories instead.

As soon as I got home, I removed the rib eye steaks from the freezer and defrosted them in the microwave. Then I checked my messages. There was only one, and it had come in just five minutes before I got home. But when I keyed in the actual call, it was a hang-up. I looked at my caller ID: it read
PAY PHONE
and registered the number, which was local. Could it be the man who had tried to reach me at the office? If so, he’d probably call again.

I went into the bedroom to change clothes. No seductive costume was necessary, so I put on a pair of jeans and a UW sweatshirt. Milo and I were way past the Language of Love. Indeed, I wasn’t sure we’d ever learned it. Looking at myself in the bedroom mirror, I wondered if that hadn’t always been a big part of the problem between us. It wasn’t just that our backgrounds were different or that we didn’t share many interests. We’d reached a stage in our relationship that was one step above using our bodies as convenience stores. Sometimes I felt like a charity, providing comfort for lonely sheriffs.