The Alpine Yeoman (34 page)

I wondered the same thing, given that Roger was not a so-called adult. For all I knew, he still liked eating a gallon of ice cream and a vat of chocolate pudding. I couldn’t comment on the idea. “For now, you should make an appointment with Marisa,” I said.

“I shall. My niece Judi is her secretary, you know.”

I did know. Another of Vida’s sources, though to my knowledge, Judi hadn’t been subjected to her aunt’s inquisition as often as Bill and Marje Blatt. Judi was a Hinshaw and, thus, a relation only by marriage. Maybe Marisa had managed to insist upon her secretary’s discretion.

I’d barely gotten back to my office when Mitch appeared. “Freeman’s a brick wall,” he said, standing in the doorway. “The two Pedersen girls have officially withdrawn from school. Their mother sent a note saying they were going to spend the next couple of months with their father in Maltby and go to whichever high school is around there.”

“Ms. Pedersen told Vida they were with their dad. Did you get some good pictures?”

“I think so. A couple of the track team practicing and the baseball team getting ready to play Arlington. A half dozen other shots inside the school, including an overhead view of the study hall. The custodian was replacing some lightbulbs, so I got up on the ladder. Lots of bowed heads, pretending to study. Or sleeping.”

“Sounds good. We can use the track team on the front page and the baseball shot inside. Maybe the study hall one could
go on page three opposite my editorial, which is also soporific.”

Mitch chuckled obligingly and headed for the back shop. The issue was shaping up, though the real news couldn’t yet be told. Not only was Sam Heppner a taboo subject, but all we had so far on Fernandez’s murder was speculation. I was no more keen than Milo on going public with guesswork. Frustrating as it was for all of us, Mitch’s article would be vague, the usual “ongoing homicide investigation,” with a standard quote from the sheriff. Our readers wouldn’t care. The victim was an outsider. They probably figured his killer was, too.

Shortly before five I called Tanya to ask if she’d be with us for dinner. She apologized for not letting me know sooner and said that an old girlfriend who lived in Sultan had asked her to spend the night. Shelley’s husband was out of town on business, and she didn’t like staying alone. Besides, she added, sounding a bit miffed, Bill was on night duty again. Better Bill than Milo, I thought and hung up.

I made a dutiful stop at the Grocery Basket, which took longer than usual. I hadn’t done any big shopping in over a week. Betsy O’Toole, who was facing out the bottled juice section, noticed my almost full cart and grinned.

“Helping Jake and me feed our own hungry mouths,” she said. “Thanks, Emma. How much has Milo added to your grocery budget?”

“In terms of money or items?” I shot back. “Try thrice.”

Betsy laughed. “Thrice is nice—for us. Any way Leo could work that into our ad?”

“Dubious,” I said, “unless you want a photo of me going to the store’s ATM to get more cash.”

Betsy laughed some more, her pretty face temporarily not showing the strain of the long hours she put in helping her
husband run the store. “You didn’t linger long after Mass yesterday. You missed the gossip about the high school.”

I moved my cart closer. “Such as?”

“Some of the parents whose kids will be in high school this coming fall are thinking of sending them out of the area. To Sultan or one of the other schools in Snohomish County. Someone mentioned Eastside Catholic in Bellevue.”

“Why?” I asked, figuring it was prudent to play dumb—and not too hard for me to do, since I wasn’t sure what Betsy was talking about.

“Oh, you know the reasons some of the stricter Catholic parents give—birth control, abortion, blah blah. This time it’s rumors about girls with loose morals who aren’t being supervised properly at home or at school. It all sounds pretty outrageous to me. We sent our kids to Alpine High and didn’t have any big complaints. One of the most outspoken is Shirley Bronsky. You know she subs at the high school sometimes, though she’s usually in the lower grades. I thought I’d let you know what’s current on the parish grapevine. Any chance of Milo converting?”

“He’s already converting—our house into Hampton Court Palace. My husband’s religion is fishing.”

“That’s true of a lot of guys around here. I’m glad Jake’s not one of them or I’d be running the store by myself. Hurry back, Emma.”

We parted ways. A few minutes later I was at the cash register, where the total came to a hundred and forty-six dollars and thirty-two cents on one of the sleek new registers the O’Tooles had recently installed. I figured I’d paid for at least two of them.

Milo was late getting home, arriving shortly before six. It was just as well. I was less than a half hour ahead of him and had just finished putting away the groceries. He entered the
kitchen, setting a big brown paper bag on the counter before kissing me.

“I went to the liquor store,” he said, shrugging out of his regulation jacket. “I replenished our supplies. Try not to lavish any of it on the Nelson gang and their hangers-on.”

“I won’t. Any luck tracking down Heppner?”

“Not yet. I’m going to change before I make our drinks. I don’t see any sign of dinner.”

“I grocery shopped,” I called after him, since he was already out of the kitchen. I’d forgotten I had the leftover chicken from our Leavenworth dinner. It’d keep. If Milo had had a bad day—and who hadn’t?—he might as well eat lamb chops. I already had the potatoes in the oven. I might have balked at the concept of two ovens, but that would be handy when I needed to bake and broil at the same time.

I was readying fresh broccoli when he reentered the kitchen. “Heppner doesn’t want to be found,” he said, taking Smirnoff vodka, Crown Royal whiskey, a highland Scotch with a label I didn’t recognize, and a bottle of rum out of the paper bag. “It’s not going to be easy looking for him. We have to play it low-key, with the deputies making so-called discreet inquiries instead of asking, ‘Where the hell is that damned Heppner?’ Even Gould will have to try to be tactful.”

“At least you know he was at the 7-Eleven,” I said cheerfully.

“Big help. Mullins already checked with them. He bought cigarettes. That’s not exactly a lead.”

“I don’t recall seeing Sam smoke.”

“He quit about eight years ago.” Milo poured our drinks. “I guess his current crisis made him start again. Is Tanya coming?”

I told him she’d gone to stay with a friend in Sultan. “Shelley. Do you remember her?”

“Yeah. Nice girl. She married a civil engineer who works for SnoCo. They have a fairly big spread on the river. Hey—you’ve got lamb chops.” He mussed my hair. “You look tired. Bad day at your place, too?”

“Yes. Vida had a meltdown. Go sit. I’ll join you in two minutes.”

Milo went out to the living room. I heard him sigh as he sank into the easy chair. By the time I flopped onto the sofa, he was smoking, sipping his drink, and looking as weary as I felt.

“Roger?” he said.

“In a way,” I replied, kicking off my shoes. “Holly’s got an order for joint custody of Dippy.”

“Well … she
is
his mother.”

“That cuts no ice with Vida. Also, Roger and Ainsley flunked reconciliation. Maybe she’s smarter than we thought.”

Milo snorted. “If she spent the night with Roger, she’s still a dumb-ass. Where would they spend it? Not in that van, I hope.”

“Don’t ask me. It wouldn’t have been at the Hibberts’ house. I don’t think Amy and Ted would approve.” I paused to take a drink of Canadian Club. “Ainsley’s old enough to have friends who might live on their own. Even if the Sigurdsons asked, they wouldn’t rat her out.”

“Not my problem,” Milo said. “They’re both adults. Legally, anyway. I figure Roger’s still about twelve otherwise.”

“That’s generous. Say, what were you reading today when I came into your office? You hardly noticed I’d arrived.”

“Oh—background on Visalia, where Dobles is from. I’d never heard of it, but it’s good-sized, with a population of over a hundred thousand. I was trying to figure out how a food inspector who, I assumed, works for the state can afford a Porsche. I found zip on him. Maybe he inherited a bundle of money.” He paused to sip from his drink.

“And?” I prodded.

“I learned a lot about the San Joaquin Valley. It’s got a big Latino population, most of them getting screwed by their employers, especially agricultural workers. They raise several kinds of crops, but one of the biggest moneymakers is dairy cows. Reading all that makes me wonder how bad things are in this state on the other side of the mountains.”

“Gee, don’t tell me you’re going on a social justice rampage.”

“It wouldn’t do any good around here,” Milo replied. “Everybody is too damned complacent. Fuzzy’s plan may fall flat for lack of interest. Hell, we can’t even get a new bridge over the Sky.”

“Blame that on the county commissioners,” I said. “They’ve been debating the issue almost since I got here. It’ll fall down before they do anything about it. All the more reason to get rid of them.”

“Maybe you should write an editorial about it.”

I glared at Milo. “I already did.”

“Oh. Guess I should check it out. I’ve been kind of busy.”

Never sure if my husband was kidding, I resisted the urge to dump the rest of my drink on his head and went out to start the lamb chops. They were good-sized, nice and thick. Milo would eat three.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. We both did our best to put aside the problems of the day. I was still getting used to the idea of having a husband to take care of me. All the independence I’d fought for so long and had come to cherish seemed to belong in a different world. I liked the new one much better. Whatever happened tomorrow wouldn’t matter. We could cope with it together.

That, as it turned out, was an understatement.

T
UESDAY MORNING
V
IDA WAS TIGHT-LIPPED WHEN SHE ARRIVED
only a couple of minutes after I did. The pith helmet had been replaced by a blue velvet beret that might have been jaunty if she wasn’t so glum. But it was deadline day, which meant she plunged immediately into work.

It was only after I’d poured coffee and plucked a cinnamon twist from the pastry tray Mitch had just filled that I realized I’d completely forgotten to ask Milo about his meeting with Mayor Baugh and the county commissioners. I raced into my office to call the sheriff.

“What now?” he growled. “You can’t miss me already.”

“I missed asking you about the meeting with Fuzzy and the commissioners. What happened?”

“It didn’t,” Milo replied. “Hollenberg’s sick. It’s been put off until he either gets better or croaks.”

“You might—I repeat,
might
—have told me that.”

“That nothing happened? Jeez, you must be hard up for news.”

“I am, actually. There’s a lot going on, but I can’t go public. What’s wrong with Hollenberg?”

“How do I know? The old geezer must be close to ninety. Call his wife. She’s damned near as old as he is.” The sheriff hung up.

Maybe Vida knew. She usually did. “What,” I asked, going out to her desk, “is this about Leonard Hollenberg being sick?”

For once, Vida looked stumped, no doubt a measure of her concern over the custody battle. “I’ve no idea. I’ll call my niece Marje.” She picked up the phone. I went back to my office.

I spent the next half hour wondering how Mitch should write his story on the homicide investigation. He’d left on his rounds, so I hoped he could find out something that might be more interesting than “The Sheriff Is Baffled.” I’d often threatened to use that in the paper when Milo was being particularly closemouthed. I supposed I couldn’t do it now that we were married.

Vida tromped into my office a few minutes later. “I couldn’t get through to Marje,” she said. “The phones are always so busy first thing in the morning. I called Violet Hollenberg instead. Leonard has a bad chest cold. She’s fussing that it could go into pneumonia. I suppose that’s possible at his age, though Violet is a terrible fussbudget. For all I know, he merely has the sniffles. He was able to attend the commissioners’ meeting last night, according to Mitch.”

“Leonard
is
kind of old,” I pointed out.

Vida pooh-poohed that idea. “Age is only a number. People who dwell on being old actually get that way. If Maud Dodd sends me one more compilation of everybody’s aches and pains at the retirement home, I think I’ll get the vapors. At least that suggests a rather pleasant and nostalgic ailment. Bunion removals, abscessed teeth, and all these replacement parts aren’t news, they’re a medical report. New knees, new hips, new whatevers. Most of those ninnies could use a new brain.” She harrumphed and plodded off to her desk.

Mitch had already submitted his article clarifying the dropout situation at the high school. I was a bit skittish about running
it, but Helena Craig had already gone public on KSKY, so I felt obligated to clear up any misconceptions. That five inches would go below the fold.

When Mitch returned, shortly after nine-thirty, he looked very pleased with himself. “I think we may have a lead story. Dodge is finally getting some word out of Yakima County about the dead guy. He’ll let us know when everything’s set.”

“It’s a miracle!” I exulted. “Make sure he does. He’s probably forgotten—again—that it’s our deadline.”

Mitch’s grin turned to puzzlement. “You mean he …?”

“So he claims, though I recently explained why the paper doesn’t come out ten minutes after it goes to the back shop. I suspect he’s forgotten. Or doesn’t remember which day is our deadline. I’d like to think he’s putting me on, but I honestly don’t know.”

Shaking his head, Mitch went to the coffee urn.

Just to remind Milo, I called him.

“He’s not here,” Lori said. “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Did he leave town again?”

“I don’t think so. Everybody’s on high alert.”

“Gosh, Lori,” I said in mock amazement, “that smacks of news. Any way you could give me an idea of what it’s about?”

“Not really,” she replied, sounding as if she might not know. “It involves the state patrol, though. I only know that because two of their troopers were here a few minutes ago. The boss man left right after that.”