Part 5 (1/2)
”Was he irresponsible?” It wouldn't have surprised me. Some of Tim's actions in the past had reeked of immaturity.
”Oh . . .” Spence seemed to be considering his words as carefully as if he'd been on the air. He'd turned away slightly. I waited, studying the distinctive profile that always reminded me of a hawk or some other bird of prey. ”Not entirely. He enjoyed being a so-called radio personality. But in the past couple of months, he was a no-show three times. He had excuses, always something to do with Tiffany and her pregnancy. But it was d.a.m.ned annoying because he never called to let me know he wasn't coming. This last time-it was Thursday night, before I left town for the weekend-I threatened to fire him if he did it again.”
The fact that Spence hadn't canned Tim was another symbol of our common bond. Only the rawest-or most desperate-of broadcasters would want to work in a small venue like Alpine.
”I gather you didn't believe Tim,” I said. ”His excuses, I mean.”
Spence shrugged. ”From what I can tell about Tiffany, she'd make a medical crisis out of indigestion. That part might be true. But I still blame Tim for not advising me that he wouldn't come to work.”
Our drinks arrived, a martini for Spence, bourbon and water for me. So far, only another half-dozen customers were on the patio. I didn't recognize any of them.
”Did Tim complain about Tiffany?”
Again, Spence was cautious with his answer. ”Not exactly. He joked about being married. I got the impression that he would've been just as happy to keep the status quo. But she wanted a baby, and I suppose he was pressured into making their relations.h.i.+p legal. The Erikses and the Parkers probably insisted.”
”But the Raffertys seemed happy?”
”I've no idea,” Spence replied, putting his expensive sungla.s.ses back on. He was facing west, and the sun was beginning to settle down behind the mountains. ”I hardly ever saw them together. Did you?”
A pair of chipmunks frolicked in the rockery. The air smelled forest-fresh, tinged only with the scent of spices from the restaurant kitchen. I couldn't help it. My mind traveled back to that weekend with Tom. There had been snow everywhere. Leavenworth was decked out for Christmas. It had been a magic time, full of love and laughter.
”What's wrong?” Spence asked, looking curious.
”Nothing,” I lied. ”I was just trying to remember how Tim and Tiffany acted when they were together. Somehow,” I went on, speaking just a little too fast, ”I always seemed to encounter them in some kind of crisis. She was the clingy type. But he seemed willing to protect her.”
”That probably enhanced his masculinity,” Spence said. ”He acted c.o.c.ky, but I felt his self-esteem was fairly low.”
”With good reason,” I murmured. ”I have noticed lately that Tiffany seemed sullen. Of course, when I've seen her she's been at the Grocery Basket on her feet, working. I chalked it up to her being pregnant and feeling miserable.”
Spence ate the olive in his drink and looked thoughtful. ”I wonder if I should tell Dodge about the crank callers.”
”What crank callers?”
He shrugged, though I thought he seemed a bit reluctant and didn't answer right away. I waited in silence, noting that-as always-he was impeccably dressed, wearing a Ralph Lauren short-sleeved tan s.h.i.+rt with cream-colored linen fatigues. His wardrobe wasn't extensive, but what he owned was quality. I often wondered how he afforded it. Maybe he was a prudent shopper. Then again, he'd never had children.
”The usual,” Spence finally replied, signaling for our server to bring another round. ”Probably the same nuts who write you unprintable letters. There's one, though, who's called several times this past month. I don't recognize him. Neither did Rey or my engineer, Craig. In fact, it sounds as if this guy is disguising his voice. I'll admit, the calls have been more personal, not the usual rants about the music or the advertisers or the news.”
”What does he say?”
”I took one of the calls,” Spence said, lighting one of his exotic black cigarettes. He offered me one, but I declined. They were too strong. ”Tim's never been around when the calls have come in. Anyway, this creep said that if Tim didn't get off the air and tend to business-whatever that means-he'd break his face. Rey took the last call over the weekend while I was gone. The guy told him that Tim was a nasty SOB who ought to get run over by a logging truck.”
I was surprised. ”That's strong stuff. My critics only want to run me out of town.”
Spence nodded. ”Exactly. This guy sounds as if he may have a grudge. When I asked Tim about it, he just laughed it off. He said it was probably some drunk he'd refused to serve at the Venison Inn.”
That was possible. I frowned at Spence. ”Do you agree?”
Finis.h.i.+ng his first martini, Spence leaned forward in the patio chair. ”No. Not now, after what's happened to Tim. I suppose that's why I'd better talk to the sheriff.”
But Spence had talked to me first. On a previous occasion, he'd held out on Milo-with disastrous results. I a.s.sumed Spence didn't want to repeat that mistake. I was his guinea pig. No doubt that was the real reason for taking me to dinner out of town.
At least I hoped so.
WE DINED ON veal and crab cakes. We talked almost exclusively about Tim. Spence knew about the sports memorabilia, but had never seen any of the items. He was also aware that Tim did some E-trading, but had rejected his employee's financial advice.
”I've got my own portfolio,” Spence had informed me. ”It's modest, but it's solid.”
Not wanting to drive the westerly route until dusk, we took our time, lingering over cheesecake and coffee. Spence had decided to hire another part-timer from the college. Rey Fernandez would have his two-year degree in December. He'd done an admirable job, but had returned to college in his late twenties and was anxious to move on. Like Scott, Rey had skills that were marketable beyond Alpine.
”I'll see Dodge first thing in the morning,” Spence said as he pulled into the parking s.p.a.ce next to my Honda Accord in front of the Advocate building.
”You should,” I urged him. ”Maybe somebody got some bad investment advice from Tim.”
”That's always a possibility.”
I thanked Spence for his good idea to get us out of town. There were no awkward good-nights with us. Somehow the spark of attraction hadn't struck either of us. A woman was in his life somewhere; I sensed that, and figured she lived out of town, though probably not in Seattle. I'd deduced her existence because Spence's weekend absences had increased in recent months. I could have asked him about her, but I didn't. I don't know why. Maybe I respected his discretion. Maybe she was married.
It was dark by the time we returned, but a light was on in the back shop. After Spence drove away, I went inside to see if Kip was almost finished putting the paper together.
My production manager was working on the front-and final-page. ”It turned out tight,” he said. ”I had to run Scott's arson investigation sidebar next to the main story instead of inside. That meant the jump from your story almost didn't fit on page three.”
”How come? The sidebar shouldn't have taken up more than an inch or two. There wasn't any real news.”
Kip brushed at the auburn goatee he'd been growing since spring. ”There was news after you left. Scott called it in around eight. I tried to reach you on your cell, but you were out of range.”
The mountains had interfered. I'd been on the wrong side of the Cascades. ”What happened?”
Kip turned off the optical character scanner. ”It was an easy fire to figure out. Maybe-just maybe-it wasn't planned. But whoever set it just poured gasoline around the house and lit a match. An amateur, according to the investigators.”
An amateur arsonist, I thought. But a deadly killer. Kip and I stared at each other in dismay.
FIVE.
I CALLED SCOTT when I got home around nine-thirty. First, I congratulated him on getting the latest information into the paper. Then I asked if there was anything I should know that he hadn't included.
”Speculation on Floyd's part,” he replied, referring to Robert Floyd, who had led the state's arson team. ”Like where the gasoline came from, whether it was on-site, or whoever brought it along.”
”In other words,” I interpreted, ”was it premeditated.”
”Right. I talked to Dodge, but he wouldn't say anything at this point.”
”That sounds like our cautious sheriff,” I remarked. ”I'm sorry I wasn't around to take the call. I owe you.”
”Hey-it's part of the job,” Scott replied.
He was right. But in the background, I heard Tamara shout, ”Bonus, bonus, bonus!”