Part 6 (1/2)

SIX.

”WHY,” I DEMANDED EVEN BEFORE I SAT DOWN IN MILO'S visitor's chair, ”didn't you mention that Jack Blackwell and Patti Marsh were at the Icicle Creek Tavern Sat.u.r.day night?”

Milo, looking a bit sleepy, scowled. ”Because they weren't. What's with you?”

I sat down. ”You're sure about that?”

”Christ!” Milo s.n.a.t.c.hed up his pack of cigarettes. ”Yes, I'm sure. You saw the witness list. h.e.l.l, if I thought I could add that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Blackwell to it, I'd have done it. In fact, I'd put him at the top.”

If there was no love lost between Patti and me, there was plenty of hostility between the sheriff and the owner of Black-well Timber. Years ago, when the sheriff's job was still an elected position, Jack had run against Milo. The two had never gotten along, and when a murder investigation involved Patti's former son-in-law, Jack hadn't liked the way Milo handled the case. The two men had almost come to blows at Mugs Ahoy. The voters had reelected Milo by a wide margin, but Jack and his ego had neither forgiven nor forgotten.

”I ran into Patti Marsh at Parker's,” I explained while Milo lighted his cigarette. ”She got ...” I hesitated, not wanting to admit that Patti's original intention in bringing up Delphine's name had involved annoying me. ”She told me that Delphine had an expensive designer bracelet that Gus Swanson had given her. Patti saw it on Sat.u.r.day.”

Milo shrugged. ”So?”

”So where did Patti run into Delphine?”

”How the h.e.l.l do I know? The beauty parlor? The grocery store? At the corner of Sixth and Front?” He took a second puff on his cigarette and regarded me with skeptical hazel eyes. ”Don't go trolling where you know d.a.m.ned well there aren't any trout. You know I hate guesswork.”

I did know, and felt a little foolish for dumping speculations in the sheriff's lap. ”Okay. Have you talked to Jica Weaver?”

”Heeka?” Milo's long face looked puzzled. ”You mean Berentsen's girlfriend? Dwight Gould went to Snohomish to interview her this morning. He's not back yet.” He stopped to sip coffee from his NRA mug. ”How'd you hear about her?”

”I'm a reporter, in case you've forgotten. She came to me. And Jica's name is p.r.o.nounced the way I said it, like Jose or Juan. She stopped by the office to insist that Clive Berentsen's innocent. When I told her I couldn't print that-at least not now-she went off to see Spencer Fleetwood at KSKY”

”Dwight won't swallow that.” Milo looked dour. ”He'd like to put Blackwell's name on the suspect list, too. Dwight's never gotten over his ex-wife Kay dumping him for Jack Black-well.”

”Kay and Jack were married for only about ten minutes, as I recall,” I said. ”That was before my time, but didn't she leave him for another guy and move to Everett?”

”Yeah, and after a couple of years she divorced him and married somebody else. Dwight doesn't know where she is, and what's more he doesn't give a d.a.m.n. It's no wonder he's stayed single all these years. It's a good thing he and Kay never had kids. That's the tough part when marriages break up, with the wife getting the better custody deal.”

The sheriff spoke from experience. His own wife had left him for another man while their children were still in their teens. Old Mulehide, as he called Tricia, had remarried and moved to Bellevue across the lake from Seattle. Milo had seen less and less of his kids as the years went by. Though he sometimes expressed regret, I wondered if, in fact, he was relieved. The sheriff had enough mayhem, mischief, and even murder on his plate without adding a big serving of typical parental woes.

I tipped my head to one side. ”Are you feeling okay? You look a little peaked.”

Milo shot me a sour glance. ”I'm fine. I don't give a d.a.m.n about fancy labels and sniffing corks and all that ritzy c.r.a.p. I don't like wine and it gives me heartburn. Did you forget I don't have a gallbladder?”

”Hardly. Though sometimes I think you forget,” I said. ”I won't lecture you, though. I'm not fond of wine, either. I a.s.sume Delphine was paying.”

”If she wasn't, why would I drink that sour stuff?”

”So it was a bribe,” I said, making an attempt at nonchalance.

”I guess.” Milo puffed, exhaled and sipped. ”Dumb idea. She knows you can't keep secrets in this town.”

I tried to phrase my question in a detached, professional manner. ”Then why did she ask you to dinner? Did Delphine want to talk about what happened Sat.u.r.day at the ICT?”

”She's already given a statement. Delphine and Gus were at a table where they couldn't see much.” Milo flipped through a yellow legal-size tablet. ”Sam sketched the layout of the tavern. Delphine and Gus were here,” he said, shoving the floor plan at me and pointing his finger. ”The pool table is over there beyond the bar,” he went on. ”They probably couldn't see much from their table, unless the fight spilled out into the customer section. Delphine said she could hear yelling and cussing and a big commotion, but not what actually happened. Gus backed her up with basically the same kind of statement except for one thing. He added that there was a brief lull-his word-just before everybody started yelling again.”

”Did anyone else mention that?”

”Not so far. Frankly, the eyewitness statements are a mishmash.” Milo leaned back in his chair. ”What else would you expect from a bunch of people who were at least semi-drunk?”

I nodded. ”Leo and I are going there tonight to take a look at the place. I haven't been there in years, not since ...” I clamped my lips shut.

”Don't remind me,” Milo said, turning the tablet around so he could see it. Suddenly, he frowned. ”You and Leo? I thought the new guy was covering this case.”

”He is,” I said, starting to get up. ”But I want to refresh my memory.”

”With Leo?”

It dawned on me that without intending to, I'd turned the tables on Milo. Or, given the off-and-on nature of our relations.h.i.+p, maybe small snack trays would be more apt than tables.

”I've got to make sure there aren't any glitches this time around,” I said. ”I trust Mitch because he's experienced, but he's still not used to small towns. Leo offered to take me there because Spike Canby is an advertiser. He got mad at us for suggesting in his ad that customers went there to get killed.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t,” Milo declared. ”Spike's ad is the size of a postage stamp.”

”That's the other thing.” I winced slightly as I picked up my heavy handbag from the floor. ”Leo's coaxing Spike into buying more s.p.a.ce.”

”He's a tight b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Good luck with that.” He gestured at my handbag. ”What do you women carry around in those satchels? Shoes? Or barbells?”

”The older we get, the more stuff we need to keep from looking like hags. I've got surgical instruments in here so I can do my own face-lift.”

Milo regarded me with a faint frown. ”Your face looks fine to me.”

”Thanks. Your eyes must be going.”

”Hey,” he said as I turned toward the door, ”where are you heading?”

I turned around. ”To Pie-In-The-Sky for a sandwich. Why?”

”They've got soup there. Want to pick up a bowl of chicken noodle for me? With those good crackers? Oh, and a piece of blackberry pie.”

”Sure,” I said. ”See you in a bit.”

Emma Lord, Nursemaid to the Sheriff, I thought, trudging past the post office and the highway department to the Alpine Mall. Emma the Sap. At the corner of Front and Alpine Way, I stopped for one of the town's two traffic lights. Across the street, I could see Old Mill Park with its statue of the town founder, Carl Clemans, and the original mill that had been turned into a museum. The maple, mountain ash, and cottonwood trees had turned from gold to bronze. I gazed to my right, looking up at Mount Baldy. Hardly any snow remained, unusual for the fifty-two-hundred-foot peak. Summer had been too dry and too hot. There had been several forest fires, though thankfully not near Alpine. The ski industry would be in peril if we didn't get heavy snow this coming winter. Drought was almost a foreign word to the residents of western Was.h.i.+ngton, but now it was becoming part of our daily vocabulary. I couldn't write editorials begging Mother Nature to send us rain, but I'd done a couple in August and September about conserving water and electricity. Averill Fairbanks had written me a letter insisting that Alien Forces from Venus had built a s.h.i.+eld around the earth and had figured out a way to make our planet dry up so that the Venusians-whom he described as looking like gra.s.shoppers-could use all the water for themselves. The concept of gra.s.shoppers in a bathtub eluded me, but I'd printed the letter on the editorial page because it was signed and not libelous. Except, of course, to the Venusians, who weren't subscribers.

As usual, the line at the pie and sandwich shop was long. I stepped behind Marje Blatt, Vida's niece and the receptionist at Alpine's medical clinic. Marje wore a starched white uniform, which she and Doc Dewey preferred to the casual attire that often made medical pract.i.tioners indistinguishable from the window-was.h.i.+ng crew. She was a few inches shorter than Vida, but stood straight as a phone pole.

I tapped her shoulder. ”Hi, Marje.”

She turned slowly, bright blue eyes studying me as if she were trying to remember if she'd seen me on a WANTED poster. ”h.e.l.lo, Emma,” she said. ”Aren't you overdue for your annual checkup?”

Brisk and business-like as usual, I thought. ”I'll call in the next few days,” I said. We both knew that I'd forget.

”I'll send a reminder.”