The Alpine Yeoman (22 page)

Vida looked askance. “So silly. It’s not as if we have a large staff. Sometimes I think he doesn’t realize he’s not in Detroit anymore.”

“That would be pretty hard for him not to notice,” I said.

Vida put a hand to her imposing bosom. “I should hope so! Can you imagine what it would be like living in such a place? Rust Belt, indeed! It must be comparable to the Dust Bowl.”

It was futile to argue with Vida, but sometimes she succumbed to reason. “I came to Alpine shortly after logging had been curtailed. This town was in bad shape and it didn’t start getting better until the college came along. You’ve also told me about how rough-and-tumble it was during the Depression.
When I was growing up in Seattle, every time Boeing lost a big contract, the city was sunk into gloom. Back then, it was basically a company town. Now look at it—Microsoft, Amazon, Starbucks, Costco, T-Mobile, Nintendo of North America. I could go on, but my point is that cities can rally.”

“And end up like Seattle, with all that horrid traffic and construction? Cranes everywhere, or so my son-in-law Ted told me when he attended a meeting there recently. He thought they looked like giant steel dinosaurs looming overhead. So ugly. If that’s progress, I don’t want to see it here.”

“But we’ve got our own progress,” I pointed out. “I just wrote an editorial about that.”

“So you did.” She frowned. “This morning I had to wait for three other cars before I could get to Front Street and make sure no one had taken my parking place in front of the
Advocate
.”

Then there were times when Vida
didn’t
listen to reason. I gave up. “Which family will you start with?”

“The Pedersens,” Vida replied, obviously having already made the decision. “Mrs. Pedersen’s evasiveness irked me. Most newcomers are pleased to be welcomed to Alpine. I’d like to know why she seemed indifferent to what is basically being a good neighbor on my part.”

I wished her luck. My priority was to find out why Sam Heppner had asked Al Driggers about Fernandez’s body. Back in my office, I called the sheriff, but Lori told me he was still out. After I emphasized that it was business, not domesticity, she promised to relay the message to her boss.

Mitch returned around ten-thirty. “Freeman was home, but he tried to stonewall, as usual,” he said, sitting down. “I persevered in my best UAW-union-local-boss-interview mode. The Ostrom boy was officially noted as dropping out, but not until
last week. Apparently the kid began waffling about joining the navy when he realized he could be sent farther than San Diego.”

“I suppose Helena Craig hadn’t yet heard about that,” I said. “What about the girls?”

Mitch held his hands up in a helpless gesture. “It was never official. The Kramer girl didn’t come back after the Martin Luther King weekend in January. Her mother explained that she had mono.”

“For three months?”

Mitch’s expression was ironic. “That’s what I asked. Freeman said the mother insisted she’d had it before a couple of times, as their doctor in Marysville could confirm. As for the Fritz kid, Freeman said that was confidential, but she’d been suspended and would probably return to school before the end of the year. Knocked up, I figure. She left in early February, so maybe she was beginning to show.”

“Baby bump.” I sighed. “The Pedersens?”

“Unexplained absences. After thirty days, come Monday—they don’t count spring break—both girls will be considered dropouts unless the parents come up with some good reasons.”

“Well … it doesn’t sound as if Freeman has done anything illegal. Did you ask him about Ms. Craig’s allegations?”

“He called them ill-informed.” Mitch grinned. “I mentioned calling on her, but he told me to wait. She’s very sick with a cold.”

“I’ll bet. Good job, Mitch. I’m getting spoiled having a real reporter around here.” I leaned to one side, making sure my House & Home editor hadn’t overheard, but she was gone. “By the way, I’m letting Vida talk to some of the parents. I don’t want to overload you.”

“And you couldn’t stop her with a sawed-off shotgun.”
Mitch stood up. “That’s fine. I don’t shine at doing domestic interviews. Maybe that’s because my own family situation isn’t exactly ideal.”

“How is Troy?” I asked, willing to bring up the Laskey son since Mitch had alluded to the subject first.

“Okay. He’s got seventeen months to go. The Monroe Correctional Complex isn’t as god-awful as some prison facilities. Another inmate is teaching him the electrical trade. The guy’s good. He got busted for disabling bank security in Tacoma. But he’d done it a half dozen times before he got caught.”

“Sounds tricky. How did they catch him?”

Mitch shook his head and laughed. “Somebody hot-wired his car while he was in the bank, so he stood outside to wait for a bus and the police nabbed him. I guess the bus driver was behind schedule.”

I laughed, too. “That story must’ve been on the wire service, but I missed it. Did the guy ever get his car back?”

“No. The thief crashed it on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge.”

My reporter ambled off just as my phone rang. “What now?” the sheriff asked in a beleaguered tone.

“Are you available?” I inquired.

“Jeez, Emma, what’s with you? It’s not even eleven o’clock. I can’t take off right now. I’m busy.”

“It’s business, you big jerk.” I lowered my voice. “It’s about Sam.”

“Shit. Okay, come on down.”

“I’ll …” But Milo had already hung up.

I arrived in less than five minutes and went directly into the sheriff’s office. Keeping my voice down, I relayed Janet’s account of Sam’s request for Fernandez’s body. “I assume it wasn’t official, but personal.”

Judging from the puzzled expression on Milo’s face, he agreed. “That’s damned odd.” He drummed his fingers on the
desk. “I don’t suppose Janet had any idea where Sam called from?”

“She naturally figured it was from here.”

“Right. No way to tell these days, with all the cellphones. Hell, maybe he’s home. We haven’t checked his place since Mullins went out there. He hasn’t been spotted in town. Even Sam has to eat.”

“But no matter where he is, why would he want to claim Fernandez’s body? Do you think he knows this Mrs. Dobles somehow and is acting on her behalf?”

Milo was lighting a cigarette. He took a puff before answering my question. “I wonder if maybe he does. Or else he knows her husband, but I can’t think what the connection would be.”

“Or …” We stared at each other.

The sheriff sighed. “I’d better call Al Driggers.”

“He went to Snohomish. He might not be back yet.”

Milo nodded once. “Okay.” He paused again, looking off at his SkyCo wall map. “I’ve worked with Sam for twenty years. It dawns on me that I don’t know the guy. He might as well be a stranger.”

“Maybe it’s time to find out more about him,” I said quietly.

“Maybe. But will I like what I find out?”

I couldn’t answer that question.

“Okay,” Milo said after a long pause, “maybe I should delegate.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

He leaned closer and dropped his voice another notch. “I don’t want the rest of my staff to know I’m digging into Heppner’s private life. You’re good at that stuff—you’ve done it a hundred times. Just don’t let anybody else in on it. Especially Vida. She’d blab to Blatt.”

“And the rest of Alpine,” I murmured. “Got it.”

“If it costs anything to check into records, use my credit card. You’re on my personal one anyway. Now beat it, so I can get back to whatever the hell I was doing before you showed up.”

I got to my feet. “Keep in mind that if any rumors start flying, they won’t be from me, but from Janet Driggers.”

“Damn!” Milo held his head. “Is there any way you can shut her up?”

“Probably not,” I said. “You could, but the only way I know how would cause me to shoot both of you. ’Bye, Sheriff.”

I left Milo still holding his head.

T
HE ONLY STAFFER IN THE NEWSROOM WAS
L
EO.
“L
UCKY
you,” he said with a dour expression. “You missed Bronsky’s latest madness.”

“Sheriff Pig? Please say no.”

“Yes. He’s getting Marcella Patricelli to make sheriff’s uniforms for stuffed pigs to promote his latest self-aggrandizing idea. Have you told Dodge about this?”

“No, and I hope I never have to,” I said. “If it’s like most of Ed’s inane schemes, nothing will come of it.”

Leo grimaced. “I hate to tell you this, but those two supposed Bellevue hotshots he worked with on his self-published autobiography appear to be encouraging him.”

“Oh, no! They must be desperate!”

“Maybe,” Leo said, “but in this era of rampant self-publishing, Ed’s autobiography seems almost as if he saw the future—and stumbled into it ten years ago. Did you ever find out how many copies of
Mr. Ed
sold?”

“He bragged about ten thousand copies and a second printing, but I doubt he even came close to that. I wondered if he didn’t have enough left over to use as the foundation for the villa that is now RestHaven.”

Vida tromped into the newsroom, holding on to her hat. Or her head. She looked annoyed as she pointed at Leo. “You
didn’t tell me Mrs. Pedersen lived in your apartment building. Shame on you, Leo!”

Leo was obviously puzzled. “Mrs. Who?”

“Pedersen, the mother of the dropouts,” Vida retorted. “Don’t tell me you missed my program.”

“I didn’t,” Leo said, holding up his hands as if he feared Vida might attack him. “I can’t keep track of all the Scandinavian names in town. Pedersen, Peterson, Petersen—what ever happened to Smith and Jones?”

“If you must know,” Vida shot back, “Johnson is the most common name in the region. Really, after all these years you should pay more attention. Are you sure you know the names of your advertisers?”

“I think of them only as dollar signs,” Leo replied, retreating to his desk. “All I want is their signature on a check to pay your salary.”

Vida glared at him, then turned to me. “Anna Pedersen is indeed a single mother. Living on welfare, I should imagine. She told me her daughters were with their father in Maltby. Then she slammed the door in my face. Imagine!” She clutched at her hat before it slipped down over her angry gray eyes.

“Are you sure that hat fits you?” I asked. “It seems kind of big.”

“Oh?” Vida stared at me before yanking off the hat and tossing it at her desk. She missed. The hat fell to the floor. “You’re right. At our church TULIP festival, we have Secret John Knox presents, like Secret Santa at Christmas. My present was this hat. I suspected at the time—due to her smirking—that my horrid sister-in-law, Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt, had drawn my name. I decided to wear it in case she asks me how I liked it. Of course it’s too big. Mary Lou head’s so swollen with ego that it doesn’t fit me.”

“You’re lucky the tulips are blooming earlier this year,” I remarked as Vida retrieved the hat and plopped it on her desk.

“TULIP doesn’t refer to flowers,” Vida said. “It stands for John Knox’s five points of Calvinism. Total depravity, Unconditional …”

Mercifully, my phone was ringing. Amanda leaned into the newsroom. “It’s the mayor, Emma. Can you pick up?”

Saved by the Baugh
. “Sure.” I dashed into my office, marveling anew at how the straitlaced Knox would spin in his grave if he knew his followers were taking his name in vain to have
fun
.

“I have been remiss,” Fuzzy said into my ear. “I’d intended to call a meeting between the county commissioners and your stalwart husband, but Irene and I’ve had a touch of the flu that’s going ’round. I’m setting the get-together for Monday, being as it’s an off week for the commissioners’ bimonthly meeting. It might be a trifle … shall we say
heated
? It will be closed to the public.” He paused. “You understand, Emma, darlin’?”

I thought I did. “Yes, that’s fine. But Spence may not be happy.”

“You
are
the sheriff’s lady. To appease Spencer, I’m inviting myself to be on Vida’s next program, though I haven’t yet informed her.”

“Can we put the meeting on our website now?”

“Hold off, if you will,” Fuzzy said. “I haven’t issued the invitations, though I’ll do that before the day is done.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “I’ll wait until Milo tells me he’s heard from you.”
Assuming he remembers
.

“Thank you, sugah. As ever, I’m grateful for your discretion.”

I rang off just as Vida charged at me like a warrior going
into battle. If she’d been a medieval knight, her shield would have had curiosity rampant markings.

“So what did our mayor have to say for himself?” she asked, settling into one of my visitor chairs. “Still preening over his proposal?”

“Fuzzy was bringing me up to speed,” I said. “He and Irene have both had the flu.”

“Oh? That could be a ‘Scene’ item. I’m sure he nursed his illness with liberal doses of Southern Comfort.”

“You won’t mention that in ‘Scene,’ I trust.” To divert her, I kept talking: “Did you see any sign of the Pedersen girls before their mother shut you out?”

“I did not,” Vida declared. “They’re supposedly in Maltby, but she opened the door only a few inches. I suspect she’s not much of a housekeeper.” She brightened a bit. “I did, however, find out the name of the company Roger is working for. It’s called Party Animals.”

I must have looked put off, because Vida hurriedly explained: “They provide party supplies for people of all ages. All sorts of themes—Hawaiian, Hispanic, Asian, English garden and tea parties, not to mention all the major holidays. Quite ingenious.”

“It actually sounds like a good idea,” I said, “but I thought it was a short-haul trucking company.”

Vida laughed in a faintly embarrassed manner. “I guess Grams was too thrilled to take in all the details. Of course, Roger was so delighted to reveal his participation in this enterprise that he may have been a trifle inexplicit about the company’s operation.”

Or maybe the dumb cluck was grunting his answers in his usual monosyllabic speech. “You should tell Leo so he can get them to advertise,” I said. “We don’t have much in the way of
party supplies, unless you count the gift shop at the mall or the stationers in the Clemans Building.”