Part 4 (1/2)

”Sorry,” I said, looking around to see if anyone nearby had noticed my mild oath. Thankfully, no stares had been turned in our direction. ”It just occurred to me. Tim's death is being treated by Milo-and for all I know, the rest of the deputies-as if his loss is of no consequence. Granted, he wasn't one of our more outstanding citizens, but I don't like it. He was a human being, about to become a father, and now he's dead, and has left Tiffany to raise their child alone. It isn't right that his murder should be relegated into a cut-and-dried burglary gone wrong.”

Vida slipped back into her original place. ”You're right. It's not fair to the Parkers, either. We can't let Milo slough this off. They deserve better. They are Alpiners, after all.”

We returned to the office, determined to make sure that Tim Rafferty didn't become an unsolved mystery.

BY THREE O'CLOCK, I was growing anxious to finish my lead story. Scott's fire photos were outstanding. Thanks to Kip's high-tech expertise, we could use color with good resolution. I decided to run the most dramatic picture four columns and six inches deep on the front page. Scott had captured the brilliant orange flames and flying sparks against the dark backdrop of the trees that climbed up Tonga Ridge. We'd put two other pictures, including the close-up of the firefighters, inside on page four. Vida had cropped Tim and Tiffany's wedding photo to show only the groom. The head shot would go on the vital statistics page. It was the only obituary in this week's edition.

”That's really sad,” Ginny said, looking at Tim's photo. ”He's just about my age, and now he's dead. It's kind of scary, isn't it?”

Kip nodded solemnly. ”He's just a few years older than I am. He'll never get to see his kid. What did I hear on TV a while ago? n.o.body's guaranteed tomorrow.”

Ginny s.h.i.+vered. ”It makes you think.”

”Ah,” Leo sighed, stubbing out his cigarette in a ceramic ashtray he'd swiped from the Flamingo in Las Vegas, ”mortality. Even the Young must face it. Consider the rest of us, every day a step closer to the grave.”

”Stop that!” Ginny glared at him. ”You're creepy!”

My ad manager c.o.c.ked his head to one side. ”Truthful. Realistic. Down-to-earth. Or under it, if you will.”

In agitation, Ginny ran her fingers through her curly red hair. ”I'm just thinking of Tiffany. I don't know how she's going to raise a baby by herself. She's so . . . helpless.”

”She'll have support,” Vida put in. ”She has parents and grandparents.”

”Women can manage as a single parent,” I a.s.serted. ”I did.”

”That's different,” Ginny said, her plain face very serious. ”You had a college degree; you were smart. You weren't like Tiffany.”

My own expression was ironic. ”I think that's a compliment.”

My office manager flushed. ”It is-I guess. But Tiffany is-” She stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. ”Gosh, I'd better pull Tim's cla.s.sified ad. Or should I?”

In addition to her other duties, Ginny handled our cla.s.sified section. ”What ad?” I asked, feeling stupid.

”The one he's been running for months,” she replied. ”The baseball stuff.”

Leo handed me a copy of the previous week's Advocate. ”Here. It's under 'Hobbies and Toys.' ”

Admittedly, I rarely read our cla.s.sifieds. They were the purview of Ginny, and by extension, Leo. Only a half-dozen ads were listed under HOBBIES & TOYS. It was easy to pick out Tim's: MLB All-Star baseball memorabilia; autographed, authentic, mint condition.

An e-mail address and Tim's phone number were included. ”Tim's been running that?” I asked.

Ginny nodded. ”For a long time. Maybe since last winter.”

”He's got some cool stuff,” Kip said. ”One time at the Venison Inn I saw an autographed Ken Griffey Jr. baseball from his days as a Mariner. It was in a case. Tim said he could get five hundred dollars for it.”

”Where'd he get this memorabilia?” I asked.

Scott, who had just hung up the phone, came around from behind his desk. ”He's been collecting for years. Tim told me once he had an autographed baseball card showing Griffey when he played in the minors in Bellingham. Tim got it when he was going to Western Was.h.i.+ngton up there. I don't know how much he bragged, but he swore he had items signed by Alex Rodriguez and Randy Johnson when they were Mariners. Other guys, too, and not just the M's. I think he bought some of it on eBay.”

Being a baseball fan, I was impressed. ”Did he ever sell any of the stuff around here?”

Scott and Kip both nodded. ”Some of the baseball cards, anyway,” Kip said. ”He had a ton of those. Kids especially bought them because they didn't cost a lot. You know-unless it's a rookie card of a future Hall of Fame player or autographed by some other big name, the cards aren't worth that much.”

Leo was looking bemused. ”No Honus Wagner, huh?”

”Honus Wagner?” Vida repeated. ”Didn't he work in the mill during the 1920s?”

Leo chuckled. ”No, d.u.c.h.ess,” he said, using the nickname that Vida loathed. ”The only wood he worked with was his bat. He played in the first part of the last century, and his card-that's singular, and therefore it's unique-is worth I don't know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

”Oh, good heavens!” Vida exclaimed. ”That's ridiculous! Such a fuss over athletes! I've never understood it.”

Leo shrugged. ”It's big business. Don't tell me Roger has never collected sports items?”

The reference to Vida's spoiled-rotten grandson softened her features. ”Well now-I don't think so. But then Roger doesn't tell his Grams everything. Of course, he's in college now and has little time for hobbies.”

Roger was fumbling and stumbling his way through Skykomish Community College, where he dropped cla.s.ses the same way that I'd always presumed he dropped his dirty underwear. His intention was to major in drama, which, I supposed, was better than majoring in crime. Frankly, I'd always figured Roger's biggest talent was for getting into trouble.

”Gosh,” I said, wanting to keep the topic off of Roger, ”Tim's memorabilia must have been burned up in the fire. I a.s.sume he kept it in the house.”

n.o.body seemed to know, but Kip and Scott guessed that was probably true. I wished I'd known about Tim's collection. It was my own fault for being ignorant. I, of all, people, should check out our cla.s.sifieds on a regular basis. I might have been able to replace a couple of Adam's treasured baseball items that had been stolen during last year's break-in at my house. The fact that Tim was a Mariners' fan only added to my crusade to make sure he didn't become just another statistic. I always rooted for the underdog. So did Tim, or he wouldn't have cared about Seattle's baseball team.

An hour later, Milo called me. ”I heard from the ME in Everett,” he said. ”I figured you'd want to know the results. The paper comes out tomorrow, right?”

After all these years, the sheriff still seemed vague about the Advocate's deadlines. Sometimes I thought he was putting me on, though he certainly wasn't the only Alpiner who didn't understand that the actual production of the newspaper took more than ten minutes.

”What did the ME say?” I asked.

”It was a tough one,” Milo began. ”It seems Tim was killed by a blow to the head. There was enough left of his skull to detect what the ME is pretty sure are wood splinters. He figures it could have been a baseball bat.”

”SO,” MILO SAID, ”Rafferty had a big sports collection? I didn't know that.”

I could hardly criticize the sheriff for not reading the Advocate's cla.s.sified section when I seldom checked it out myself. I proofread everything in the paper but the ads. That was up to Leo and Ginny.

”Maybe that's why he was killed,” I suggested. ”The burglar theory works better now that we know he may have had something worth stealing.” If nothing else, my agreement with the sheriff's theory might goad him into finding a genuine suspect.

”Yeah, maybe.” As usual, Milo wasn't one to jump to conclusions. ”It'd mean that the thief had to take some time. Break in, get caught by Tim, bust his skull, get the goods out of the house-and set the fire to cover his tracks.”

”It's possible,” I remarked. ”You are considering alternatives, though?”

”Like what?”

”Like-” I stopped. Milo hated it when I tried to help him do his job. I couldn't blame him-I certainly wouldn't want him trying to do mine-but it seemed that he was accepting the easy, if plausible, explanation. ”Never mind. Can I say that you suspect robbery as a motive?”

”Not yet,” Milo replied. ”It's too soon. Possible homicide, possible arson, ongoing investigation. Keep it vague. You know the drill.”

I sighed. ”Okay. Have the state's arson experts arrived yet?”

”They got into town a couple of hours ago,” Milo replied.

I refrained from snapping at him. ”Are they at the site?” I asked, jumping up to look out into the newsroom in an effort to locate Scott.