A MID A LOT OF THUMPING, THUDDING, AND CUSSING, THE sheriff took down the double bed. I kept out of his way. It was only after he’d finished putting up the new one that I realized the sheets I’d ordered hadn’t yet been delivered.
“What do you mean, we don’t have sheets?” he bellowed. “You’ve had three weeks to get the frigging things. Is Adam sending them by dog sled from Alaska?”
“Maybe I should’ve checked with Ronnie Blatt,” I said humbly. “I placed the order online from Penney’s at the end of January.”
“What year?” Milo grumbled, kicking at a screwdriver on the floor. “Damn it, I should’ve followed my instincts and gone back to the office.”
“To do what?” I inquired, still docile.
He took out a blue-and-white handkerchief and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I had Sam and Doe collect Wayne’s gear from the site. I wanted Todd Wilson from the PUD to check for tampering or other safety flaws. It looked fine to me, but I wanted to be sure. Now I have to figure out how Eriks could have gotten fried.”
“How long had he been dead?” I asked, sounding less meek. “You never told me who found him.”
“Marlowe Whipp, coming back from the end of his River Road mail route. Marlowe practically needed an ambulance ride, too. He swore he blacked out for a minute.”
“He often does that on his route,” I remarked. “No doubt that’s why he drops so much mail along the way. What time was that?”
“Around one-thirty,” Milo replied. “Eriks hadn’t been dead for more than a few minutes. He was still warm when we got there. Nobody else has come forward to say they saw anything, but the weather was bad. That’s probably why Eriks wasn’t up on the pole. But it doesn’t explain why his body was on the ground and not inside the van. His PUD jacket wasn’t on quite right, either. Maybe he got hit while he was putting it on or taking it off. There’s something not quite right about any of this.”
“That does make electrocution suspicious,” I murmured. “Did you say he wasn’t wearing gloves?”
The sheriff looked pained. “Right. Eriks was the kind of macho guy who might not always wear them. I suppose there could be hot wires in the van. I’ll ask the PUD about that. It could’ve been lightning. It’d help if a witness turned up. But once you get past Ed’s old villa, there aren’t a lot of houses. Those big Bonneville cross-state power lines go right through there, and somehow they discourage home owners.”
“The river narrows about fifty yards from there, too,” I recalled. “Flooding’s another problem.”
“True.” Milo stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “You didn’t put Doc’s report online, did you?”
“No. I wasn’t sure what to say at this point. You hadn’t made a formal statement, and Doc’s conclusion is … awkward.”
“Good,” Milo said, giving my rear a squeeze. “Want to try this thing out? You didn’t make dessert. I’ll settle for seeing if the springs work.”
I hesitated, but saw the gleam in his hazel eyes. Didn’t the man ever get tired? But that too-long enforced separation made me forget that I’d been shortchanged in the sleep department without Milo lying beside me. “Why not?” I said, grabbing his shirtfront. “But we’ll have to fake it with the short sheets.”
“Fake it, hell.” He unzipped my bathrobe. “With you it’s the real thing. Took long enough, though.”
“But worth it,” I sighed as we fell onto the bed. And forgot about putting on the sheets.
Morning has never been a good time for either of us. We both tend not to talk much and move like automatons. Milo left ten minutes before I did. I arrived at the Advocate under still cloudy but rainless skies, finding only Amanda and Kip on the premises. Leo had the bakery run, and Mitch showed up as I was stalling in the newsroom waiting for Vida. I wondered if she’d mention Holly’s release from jail or wait until Rosemary Bourgette made the official announcement.
“I hope,” I said to Mitch, “you have better luck with the RestHaven people than I did. In fact, I really messed up with Farrell.”
“Woo and Hood, right?” Mitch remarked, standing by the coffee urn as if he could will it to finish perking. “How come Woo didn’t follow Vida’s show last night?”
“I meant to call Vida,” I said, “but I got … distracted. By the way, the autopsy report’s in on Eriks. Dodge should have something to say about it. There’ll also be an announcement from the prosecutor’s office on another matter, but I’ll handle it. I don’t want to overload you.”
Mitch’s lean face was tired. “That’s okay. Work distracts my mind.”
“Yes,” I murmured, “I’ve had times like that, too.”
The coffee was done. I let Mitch fill his mug first. Leo showed up just as I was heading for my office. “Where’s the Duchess?” he asked, noting Vida’s empty chair. “She’s never late. Flu?”
“Amanda didn’t say she called in sick,” I said.
Leo shrugged. “Maybe she knows her show last night was a dud.” He began to place bear claws, three kinds of doughnuts, and poppy seed muffins on the tray. “I agree with Ronnie’s closing statement, though.”
Mitch frowned. “Is money really that tight around here?”
“We’ve been stalled for years,” I said. “The voters keep turning down every ballot measure for improvements, including school levies. They’re just too damned thrifty.”
Vida made her entrance. “Emma! Language, please!”
“Good morning to you, too,” I retorted. “We have muffins. They’re not fattening.”
“I’ve already breakfasted,” she said, removing her tweed winter coat before adjusting the chapeau du jour, which was a remarkably ugly taupe-and-red striped fedora. Apparently not in a chatty mood, she sat down and began going through her in-basket. The rest of us drifted to our respective desks and got to work, too. I remembered Mayor Baugh was coming at eleven and wondered why. Fuzzy rarely had anything newsworthy to say, though he could run on about trivialities.
When Mitch returned from his morning rounds, he had the sheriff’s statement. Wayne’s death was being investigated as a possible accident. Milo was hedging his bets. I called him after ten to ask if he knew if Rosemary Bourgette was announcing Holly’s imminent release.
“I haven’t talked to her yet,” he said. “I had Todd Wilson in here looking at Eriks’s safety equipment. It all looked fine to him. He doubted there were any live wires in the van. His guess is lightning.”
“Nothing from you about”—I lowered my voice—“foul play?”
“I don’t have proof it wasn’t a freak thing. I may send the body to Snohomish County to let their fancy equipment have a go. I hate doing it on a weekend. They’ll have a dozen stiffs piled up. We’ll be last in line.”
“Poor you,” I said, meaning it.
“I’m used to it.” He hung up on me. Some things never changed.
I’d just put the phone down when Vida came into my office, looking like a dill pickle. “Well!” she huffed. “The least you could do is let me announce your engagement if you’re planning to get married so soon.”
I gaped at her but hastily recovered. Of course Vida would hear about Milo picking up the marriage license application. The county auditor was another relative, her late husband’s niece, Eleanor Runkel Jessup. “We’re not,” I said.
She sat down, still sour. “Why did Milo request the application?”
I sighed. “He happened to be in the courthouse and …” I paused, wondering if Vida’s tardiness had been caused by a visit to Rosemary Bourgette. “I guess he thought I should know what one looks like. As you may recall, I’ve never been married before.”
“Then you have no immediate plans?”
I shook my head, and felt like saying that we didn’t even have sheets. “If we do, I’ll let you know. I’d want you to be a witness.”
Vida’s face softened. “Would you? That’s very … flattering. But isn’t it time to at least put the engagement in the paper?”
“Let me check with Milo,” I said. “You know we didn’t want it made public those first few weeks after we’d attracted so much attention by almost getting killed. We were going nuts coping with so much at once.”
“True. But let me know,” she said, standing up. “It would be lovely to have a photo of you two for my page this week.”
“Hey,” I said, “how come Dr. Woo wasn’t on after your show?”
“Oh!” Vida adjusted her glasses. “Spencer told me he felt it would be inappropriate with someone dying so close to the facility. He didn’t want Wayne’s death to detract from the grand opening.”
I was puzzled. “That doesn’t make sense. Wayne’s still dead.”
Vida shrugged her broad shoulders. “I gather it was more of an internal thing. Something about disturbing patients and staff. A distraction, perhaps. You know the Chinese are very superstitious.”
“Dr. Woo was born in San Francisco,” I pointed out.
“Oh? Well … family traditions, you know. Very strong among the Chinese. Very admirable, in my opinion.”
I merely smiled—and called Milo again as soon as she left.
“What now?” he barked.
I relayed Vida’s request, including the picture idea.
“I thought she’d already put it in the paper,” Milo said.
“No. I told her to wait. Damn it, don’t you ever read the Advocate?”
“Yeah, sure, but you know how busy I’ve been. Sometimes I only get a chance to skim it.”
I gritted my teeth to keep the argument from escalating. “Just answer the question, Sheriff.”
“Hell,” he said, “she can run the announcement, but forget about the photo. That means spending a couple of hours and big bucks at Buddy Bayard’s studio. Do you really want to do that right now?”
“No, but if I didn’t mention it to you, Vida would pitch a fit.”
“She would. Hey, Scott Melville’s due in about five minutes to talk about the addition to the house. We’re going to add another bathroom.”
“What?” I shrieked. “This isn’t the Taj Mahal, you dolt!”
“Stop fussing. Got to check my notes for Melville.” He hung up.
I knew that Vida and Leo had heard me, but I didn’t care. I held my head and wondered how in hell we were going to pay for a larger bedroom, a workshop, and now a second bathroom.
A few minutes later Leo strolled in. “Ahem. Trouble in paradise?”
I looked up from the mail Amanda had dropped off. “The sheriff’s turning the once-small attached workshop into a palace.”
Leo chuckled. “Hey, as a veteran of the child support wars, I can testify that even my income rose perceptibly when our kids hit eighteen. Milo isn’t making starvation wages. His kids have been off the dole for years. Don’t you know his annual salary? It’s a matter of public record.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never checked.”
Leo’s weathered face fell. “You’re kidding!”
“No. My reporters have always handled budgets. I never look at what other people earn. I got into that habit on the Oregonian. It always infuriated me when I saw some worthless civil servant who was being charged with embezzlement and was already making at least four times what I earned as a journalist. It’s a crime that newspaper people don’t get paid enough. Teachers are in the same boat. You know all that. It’s so unfair.”
“It’s also useless to stew about it,” Leo said, leaning on the back of one of my visitor’s chairs. “But if you asked your future husband, I’ll bet he’d tell you he makes at least three times what you do.”
I stared at my ad manager. “He does? You don’t know that.”
“Actually, I do. I checked it out last fall for our Labor Day special.”
“Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know.”
Leo guffawed. “Emma, you must be the only woman in the world who doesn’t want to know what her other half earns. You’re unreal.”
“I don’t care,” I said stubbornly. “If Milo tells me, that’s fine. If he doesn’t, that’s fine, too. I’m not marrying him for his money.”
“Gosh,” Leo said in mock disappointment, “and I thought that’s why you never let me make a serious pass at you. I’m one of the few men around here whose salary you do know because you’re paying it.”
“And it’s not enough,” I said, and meant it.
Leo straightened up and grinned. “I’ll survive. As for Dodge, if it’s not his money, then it must be love. I never thought it’d happen.”
I smiled wanly. “Neither did I.”
Mayor Fuzzy Baugh arrived at exactly eleven. I hadn’t seen him up close for some time and noticed he looked older, even a bit haggard. His dyed red hair had lost any luster it once had. The sparkle in his green eyes had dimmed. In fact, his eyes looked a trifle murky.
“Emma darlin’,” he said, the Louisiana accent in place before kissing my hand. “Love becomes you.”
“Thank you. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked.
He gestured at the door. “May I?”
“Close the door? Yes, go ahead.”
After ensuring our privacy, Fuzzy sat down and grew serious. “You recall that last month I attended the annual state conference of mayors for towns with under ten thousand people.”
I nodded. “We did an article on it.” It was a rather informal affair, more cronyism than politics. There was, however, some beneficial exchange of ideas along with the backslapping.
“A fine article it was, sugar. But,” he went on, “one thing that rankled was our homicide rate. Now, I know some of the people who met their Maker before their time weren’t residents of this fine town or county. That brings up how we count heads. We’ve got just under four thousand folks within what we unofficially call the city limits and almost as many in the county. You know Alpine has never been incorporated.” He paused, apparently waiting for me to say something.
“The commissioners rule,” I said, unsure of what I should say.
The mayor nodded. “I won’t criticize those men who’ve given us long years of service, but Alf Cobb is dead, and Engebretsen and Hollenberg are even older than I am.” He uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe we should rethink our government. This isn’t for publication, but Irene feels it’s time for me to take it easy, travel some, go back to the bayou and put our feet in that fertile black Delta soil. Isn’t your brother there now?”
“Yes, in Mississippi.”
“Then he’d understand. We don’t need a mayor and three commissioners. We’re strapped for funds. What this county and town need is a professional manager. We’d save salaries and election costs.”
I was stunned at Fuzzy’s perspicacity. It was possibly the best idea the mayor had ever had. “It makes sense,” I said. “It should’ve been done years ago, back when the timber industry tanked in the eighties.”
Fuzzy shrugged. “Change isn’t easy here. Out of the mainstream.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s where you come in. You have great power here. You should exert it more often.” He smiled, and I caught a hint of his former sparkle. “You also have a personal stake in this. Think what it would do for your much-respected future mate.”
“Does Milo know about this?”
Fuzzy shook his head. “Nobody knows except you and Irene. If you need facts and figures about places where this has been done, I can get them to you. Bainbridge Island is one example, though they incorporated only the island itself, but it’s a mighty big chunk of property.”
“Can I tell Milo about it?”
The mayor scratched at his temple. “I’d rather meet with him and the commissioners first. I wanted to secure your support now. You’re as smart as you are comely, darlin’, and I value your powers of persuasion.”
“You overestimate my influence,” I said frankly. “When was the last time I used my so-called clout to get a levy or a bond issue passed?”
“This is different. We’re talking saving money, not spending it.”
“But it’s still a huge change. Our residents balk at change.”
“That,” Fuzzy said, standing up, though not as easily as he once did, “is why I’m counting on you to change their minds before we change our government.”
Naturally, Vida wanted to know why Fuzzy and I had held a private meeting. For once I kept my counsel. She was annoyed, but I tried to soothe her by telling her to write up the engagement announcement. The vetoed photo, however, set her off again. “What’s wrong with you two? You’re both rather nice-looking. Milo’s aged well. He looks better now than when he was young. You’ve held up nicely, too.”
“Thanks, Vida, but I think most people know what we look like. As I recall, when you thought Milo and I were acting like lovesick teenagers in public, you were quick to point out that we had very high profiles.”
“All the more reason for readers to want to see what you look like when you’re not groping each other in the middle of Front Street.”
“We never—” Mercifully, her phone rang. I fled to the front office to see if Amanda had made out the mid-month paychecks.
She had just finished. “Did I gather,” she said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “that Wayne Eriks tried to come on to you, too?”
I sighed. “Yes, about a year and a half ago. He didn’t get very far. How about you?”
Amanda made a face. “It was just before I started working here last fall. He was doing something with the transformer box on a pole across the street. I’d been watching Oprah and the TV went out, so I saw the truck and went outside to ask if he’d screwed up the reception. I’d seen him around before but never really talked to him. He said he didn’t think so, but maybe he should check his computer in the truck. He went inside the van, then asked me to come take a look—he couldn’t tell which cable went to which house. I started to get in and realized we don’t have cable, we’ve got a dish like everybody else around here. He grabbed me, saying I was the only dish he cared about. It started to get ugly—he was a strong guy—until Marlowe Whipp pulled up in his mail truck. I ran like a deer. Marlowe thought I was chasing him to get our mail.” She laughed. “It was all so dumb, and I almost reported Eriks to the PUD, but then I remembered his son-in-law’s murder and thought maybe it’d unhinged him.”
“That dish bit was the same line he pulled on me,” I said. “I suppose it worked in bars and restaurants, too.”
Amanda shrugged. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but there was something creepy about him—the van, too. At least it felt creepy. Maybe I’m nuts.”
“I wonder,” I said, “if Wayne used the van with women who were more willing. I lucked out—it happened to me on a Saturday in my office, right after Tim was killed. That seemed crass.”
Amanda frowned. “Makes you wonder about Tiff, doesn’t it? Why would she want to move in with Jack Blackwell? In fact, why would Jack want a toddler in his house? Or is she leaving the child with her mother? Maybe Cookie would like the company now that Wayne’s dead.”
“I don’t know what’s going on or even when the funeral will be.” I nodded in Vida’s direction. “But we’ll be brought up to speed as soon as the real source of news puts her ear to the ground.”
“Oh, yes,” Amanda agreed. “How does she do it?”
“Sources, most of whom are related to her in oh-so-many ways,” I replied, seeing Spencer Fleetwood in the doorway. “Mr. Radio,” I said in greeting, but he put a finger to his lips and motioned for me to join him. After exchanging puzzled looks with Amanda, I stepped to the threshold. “Are you the new James Bond?”
“No,” Spence said, keeping his mellifluous voice down. “Is Vida around? I don’t want her to see me.”
“She was on the phone. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you over lunch at the ski lodge coffee shop. Can you meet me there in fifteen minutes?”
I checked my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. “Okay. Why didn’t you just call?”
He gestured at the Bank of Alpine across the street. “I had to make a deposit, so it was easier to come in person. I didn’t see Vida’s Buick. I thought she was out.”
“She’s not, but she got here late and probably lost her regular spot.” A few passersby were beginning to stare at this improbable site for a meeting of the media. “See you there.” I closed the door and wondered what was on Spence’s sometimes devious mind.
Just before noon I pulled into the ski lodge parking lot. Mr. Radio’s Beamer was already there. The sun was trying to peek out as I walked to the entrance. Maybe spring wasn’t as far away as I’d thought, or else we were getting our annual midwinter dose of unseasonably warm weather. That meant a sudden spurt in local growth, only to be followed by a killing frost and more snow. It could also cause avalanches if the white stuff melted too quickly. Ironically, we’d had more snow in November and December than in January. The Stevens Pass ski area had been shut down due to the lack of good powder.
Spence was waiting for me in the lobby. “Let’s skip the coffee shop,” he said, a hand at my elbow. “Too many eavesdroppers. The bar in the restaurant won’t be as busy.”
One of the usual blond waitresses appeared to take our orders as soon as we sat down in the shadow of Odin, Frigg, Loki, and other deities who evoked Nordic traditions. Given that we were in the bar, we both ordered screwdrivers. It seemed wrong not to have a drink. But then it was rare for Mr. Radio and Ms. Print Media to eat meals together.
“You’re not glowing like a bride-to-be,” he said, looking down his hawk-like nose at me. “Have you broken off with the bellicose sheriff?”
“He’s not bellicose,” I declared. “It’s your fault he broke your nose. You took a cheap shot at both of us. How is your nose, by the way?”
He smiled wryly, running a finger from brow to lip. “Not quite like the original, but close. I thought Dodge could take some light-hearted male joshing. I misgauged his feelings. So you’re still a couple?”
“Yes. Skip the history. Why are we here and why is it secret?”
Spence kept quiet while Birgitta or Brittany or Beelzebubba was setting our drinks in front of us. Ski lodge manager Henry Bardeen had a penchant for hiring blondes whose names began with a B.
Spence raised his glass. “To the happy couple, then,” he said.
“Thanks.” I clicked glasses with him. “Well?”
He sighed. “Vida’s show last night was a bomb. Last week’s wasn’t much better. Deputy Mayor Richie Magruder’s composting lecture didn’t light up the airwaves last week. I don’t expect all of her programs to be as electric as some she’s had recently, with her family airing their trauma over the trailer park tragedy or the Petersen banking heir brothers savaging each other, but dull does not become Mrs. Runkel.”
I nodded. “Vida’s been off her feed lately.” I had no intention of telling Spence what I suspected might be the cause.
He frowned. “Buck has finally moved to Alpine, so I assume that’s not the problem. That leaves Roger as the likely suspect.”
“Roger is always a likely suspect,” I agreed.
“I thought he was going back to college or joining the military,” Spence said after a pause. “Do you know if he’s doing either one?”
I shook my head. “She hasn’t talked about him much lately.” That was true—and, in its way, revealing.
“The kid’s too dumb to be a con artist,” Spence said. “You may recall she’s had him on her show more than once. He’ll never make it to a degree, even at a community college.”
“You’re probably right.” I watched Spence light one of his exotic black cigarettes. Like the sheriff, he seemed indifferent to the smoking ban in the bar. Unlike the sheriff, he’d brought along a pocket ashtray. Milo used whatever was handy, including the floor. “Are you going to discuss the lack of content in her recent shows?”
Spence grimaced. “I’d rather not. I’ll wait to see what she’s got in mind for next week. How come she didn’t ask you and the sheriff to be on Cupboard? That would’ve been a natural and a real grabber.”
“She did. We refused. You know we were trying to avoid publicity.”
Spence grinned. “I’d never consider either of you shrinking violets.”
“We try to guard our private life,” I said primly.
He laughed, a cultivated yet somehow pleasant sound. “Please. You were the talk of the town back in December.”
“Stop.” I shot him a warning look. “You know damned well we didn’t do anything except kiss on a street corner.” Before Spence could offer a rebuttal, I went on the offensive. “What I’d like to know is how you get so much news out of RestHaven. I’m pissed. What’s your pipeline?”
He feigned innocence. “Maybe I’m just good at newsgathering.”
“No. You’ve always claimed to be more of a DJ than a newscaster. I know your early history around here, but not what came after that. You originally told me you were from Boston. That was a lie.”
Our waitress returned. We hadn’t looked at a menu. I ordered clam chowder and a spinach salad. Spence said he’d have the same.
“It wasn’t a lie,” he said after the blonde left us. “I did come here from Boston. I lived and worked there at WZLX for over ten years.”
“That’s quite a change,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”
Spence looked pained. His eyes moved to the waterfall and trees etched on the mirror behind the bar. “I met a Radcliffe lit prof. We fell in love and lived together for eight years. She drowned off Nantucket on a faculty outing. It damned near killed me. Boston was the only real home I ever had. I couldn’t stay without her.” He leaned forward. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe me?”
I nodded. His eyes spoke the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t. You know what it’s like to lose someone you love. It all came back to me when Cavanaugh was killed.”
I recalled Spence’s kindness. He’d told me Tom was dead. Milo had already taken off to catch the killer. “You were … very compassionate.”
Spence sat back in his chair. “We won’t talk about it again.”
We didn’t—then. But sooner, rather than later, we would have to.