Part 2 (1/2)

Vida quickly counted on her fingers. ”Four months along. She should be all right. I'll talk to Cookie Eriks. Or perhaps Dot Parker. She is her grandmother, after all, and I still have to interview the Parkers about their Alaska trip.”

I'd forgotten the Parker-Eriks-Rafferty connection. Even after so many years in Alpine, I still had trouble unraveling all the family ties. ”Okay,” I said. ”I'll do the main story, and have Scott handle whatever sidebars we need. You'll write the obituary, of course.”

”Of course,” Vida agreed.

Scott appeared from the back shop, where he'd been conferring with Kip MacDuff, our production manager. ”I should have hung around longer last night,” he a.s.serted with a scowl. ”I left right after you did, so I missed it when they found Tim's body.”

”Don't feel guilty,” I said. In fact, I hadn't driven by what was left of the Rafferty house that morning. It would have taken me only a block out of my usual way down Fourth Street, but I'd doggedly kept to my routine. Seeing the smoking rubble would have been a bad way to start the day. ”I wasn't there, either. Besides, we wouldn't run pictures of . . . Tim's remains.”

Scott nodded. ”I know. But I could have gotten a shot of the firefighters standing over the place where they found the poor guy. A silhouette, maybe, with their outlines against the sky.”

I smiled appreciatively at Scott. He was an adequate writer, but it was his photographic skills that made him so valuable. His artistic talent was inherent, of course, and his technical expertise was growing. The better he got, the more readily he'd be able to market his skills to a wider world.

I didn't want to think about that. Besides, I had work to do. I took a mug of coffee and a sweet roll into my office to start the day. But before I sat down at my desk, I called out to Scott.

”What about the county commissioners? Was there any big news last night?”

Scott set his own mug of coffee down next to his computer screen and came to the doorway. ”They're still arguing over whether the county or the city has jurisdiction out by the fish hatchery. The new bridge over Burl Creek that everybody wants may be inside the city after all, if the Peabodys can ever figure out where their property line ends. Right now, they think it's in the middle of their chicken coop.”

”Anything else?”

”The usual-potholes in the ski lodge road, potential flooding on the Skykomish River, that illegal dump site off Highway 187.” His expression turned puckish. ”And Ed.”

I sighed. ”I was afraid of that. Did he present his bond issue proposal?”

”Oh, yeah.” Scott shook his head. ”That's why the meeting ran on so long. Ed had charts and diagrams and even clips from that j.a.panese TV series, Mr. Pig. Leonard Hollenberg-he's getting really senile-thought Ed was promoting some kind of 4-H thing. Leonard couldn't figure it out, because hardly anybody around here raises pigs, but he thought it'd be a good idea.”

”What? A bond issue? More pig farms? j.a.panese cartoons?”

”More pigs, I guess,” Scott replied with a grin. ”Leonard said he really enjoyed a nice ham on Sundays. Hams don't taste like they used to. He insisted that his complaint be put into the record.”

”Was it?”

Scott shook his head. ”George Engebretsen voted nay to Leonard Hollenberg's yea, and Alfred Cobb was asleep. As usual.”

”So what happened to Ed's proposal?”

”They tabled it.”

”Ooooh-good grief!” Vida, who-naturally-had been eavesdropping, yanked off her gla.s.ses and began rubbing her eyes in that furious and infuriating gesture that indicated extreme disgust. ”Such a trio of ninnies! It's a wonder they ever accomplish anything! Not,” she added, putting her gla.s.ses back on, ”that I don't think Ed is out of his mind.”

I had to put my own mind on our deadline. I'd already written my weekly editorial, a less-than-sterling piece about the need for arterial stop signs at the intersection of Spruce Street, Foothill Road, and Highway 187-or, as it was better known, the Icicle Creek Road. The high school's main entrance faced Foothill Road, and in the past three years teenagers driving their cars out of the student parking lot had caused a rash of accidents. Fortunately, no one had been killed or seriously injured, but it was only a matter of time. I'd hoped that the stop signs would be installed before cla.s.ses started after Labor Day, but Mayor Fuzzy Baugh was dragging his feet. Progress came slowly to Alpine-if at all.

I had the basics for the fire story, so I began writing the first few paragraphs. Any gaps could be filled in later after I heard from Milo.

The phone rang about ten minutes later. I guessed it was the sheriff-but it wasn't.

”Are you dead?” Rolf Fisher asked. ”If so, where do I send flowers? And is it proper to wear my yarmulke to a Catholic funeral?”

”I've never seen you wear it yet,” I replied. ”You aren't Orthodox, are you?”

”I'm very unorthodox, as you should know by now,” Rolf responded, ”but that doesn't mean I'm not religious in my own way. Can you come down this weekend? I'll show you my yarmulke if you show me your rosary.”

”I tried to call you last night,” I said. ”You didn't answer.”

”That's because some moron hit a utility pole with his SUV,” Rolf said. ”My home phone's still not working. You didn't answer my question.”

”Oh.” I paused to double-check my calendar, though I don't know why. I knew it was empty. ”When's the concert? Friday or Sat.u.r.day?”

”Sat.u.r.day,” he answered. ”But come Friday anyway. We can go someplace really grand for dinner. There are a clutch of new restaurants I haven't tried. In fact, there are even more old ones I've never been to. I don't get out much.”

I smiled into the receiver. I could picture Rolf, lounging in his chair at his desk, looking dark and lean and alarmingly attractive. ”I hate driving in Friday-night traffic,” I said. ”But maybe I can make the sacrifice. At least your condo is air-conditioned.”

”We'll heat it up in any event,” he responded. ”Oh, darn the world and all its worries! Here comes breaking news out of yet another place I can't p.r.o.nounce. I'll talk to you before Friday.” Rolf rang off.

However earth-shaking the big news might be in Seattle, it wouldn't get into the Advocate-unless it had a local connection. While we subscribed to the AP wire service, we used its material only if there was a Skykomish County angle. Sometimes, when we needed to fill s.p.a.ce, it was a stretch. A logging story, an environmental piece, state and national parks-all could somehow be tied in to our readers' interests if we could get a local comment. Otherwise, SkyCo residents got their news from the outside world via TV, radio, the Internet, and the daily newspapers. The Advocate's audience cared more about one of Grace Grundle's cats getting lost in Old Mill Park than a man-eating tiger on the prowl in Calcutta.

”I'm fighting an uphill battle,” Vida announced from the doorway. ”I may be losing. I wonder if I should.”

It was unlike Vida to surrender on any issue. ”What is it?” I asked.

”It's Elsie Overholt at the Alpine retirement home.” Vida paused, sticking a couple of loose hairpins into her scattered gray curls. ”She's pestering me again about writing that column.”

”You mean the old-timers' thing?”

Vida nodded. ”Elsie's ninety-five if she's a day, and I must admit, she has all her faculties. Or at least as many as she ever had. I suppose it's not the worst idea I've ever heard, especially as people in general live longer.”

Elsie, whose family owned a farm run by her grandson Ellsworth, had contacted Vida earlier in the year about writing a column that would appeal to the older generation. Vida had rejected the suggestion, insisting that there wasn't room on her page. That was true enough, but we could squeeze it in elsewhere if we had to, and Elsie had recently stepped up her campaign to become a regular Advocate contributor. For free, of course.

”We might find room on the editorial page,” I said. My weekly piece filled less than two columns. Letters to the editor took up another column or so, depending on who wanted to nail me to the wall. The rest of the page featured whichever spokesperson had the time to put together an article about the community college, the public schools, the park service, the timber industry, the local churches, or any other general-interest topic.

Vida looked resigned. ”Well. I suppose I'll have to call Elsie back and tell her we'll try it. When we have s.p.a.ce.”

I nodded. ”It might work out. Can she write?”

Vida shrugged. ”She taught in grade school eons ago. She must be at least literate.”

”Okay.” I saw Milo coming into the newsroom. ”Go ahead. Here comes the sheriff.”

Vida moved only enough to let Milo enter my office. If he had something to say that was worth delivering in person, it must be important. My House & Home editor wouldn't miss it for the world.

I looked up at Milo with an inquisitive expression. He didn't sit, but stood looming over my desk, his long face grim.

”Doc Dewey had to s.h.i.+p Tim's corpse over to the medical examiner in Everett early this morning,” Milo said in a tired voice. ”Doc couldn't handle the autopsy on . . . what was left. For once, the Snohomish County MEs weren't real busy, so we didn't have to wait in line.” He stopped, removed his regulation hat, and ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. I sensed that he was stalling, that he hated to say what was going to come next. But he forged ahead. ”Tim died before the fire started.”

Milo stopped again. Vida, who was standing just behind him, looked impatient. ”Well?” she said.