Part 21 (1/2)
”What's with the eggs?” I inquired while Vida turned the car's air-conditioning on full blast.
”Delia's family did have chickens during World War Two,” Vida explained. ”That part made sense. For all I know, there was some relative named Tim who was killed in combat. Or in Idaho. Perhaps Delia named her son for him. Whatever I thought she wanted to tell me apparently was a figment of my imagination. We wasted our time, and I lost my hat. Oh, well.”
”Maybe Delia liked having company,” I said.
”I doubt that she remembers we were even there,” Vida retorted.
”But she'll remember your hat.”
Vida sniffed. ”Indeed. A pity there's no longer a brain operating under it.”
I didn't know why, but I wondered if-for once-Vida could be wrong.
FIFTEEN.
I KNEW VIDA'S criticism of Delia Rafferty was born of frustration, not a lack of kindness. Knowing how keenly she felt about unraveling the mystery that was Tim and Tiffany, I couldn't blame her. After I left Vida's house, I drove to Icicle Creek. I wanted to find out if Milo had spoken with Wayne Eriks.
The Grand Cherokee was in the driveway, but the house was closed up. Maybe Milo was at the Erikses' home, grilling the man I'd suddenly decided was my favorite suspect. I went to the door and rang the bell anyway. I'd rung it a second time when Milo appeared.
”I was in the bas.e.m.e.nt,” he said. ”What's up?”
I asked if he'd seen Wayne.
”He wasn't home,” Milo replied as I stepped inside. ”At least, that's what Cookie told me, although his truck was parked outside. Come on downstairs. It's cooler there.”
The bas.e.m.e.nt was also tidier than the living room. Upstairs, empty pizza and TV dinner boxes usually littered the sofa, chairs, and carpet. I hadn't seen the surface of the dining room table in years, and I avoided the kitchen at all costs. It was as if once his ex-wife had walked out, he'd never bothered to keep house. Yet in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he kept his fis.h.i.+ng and hunting gear in perfect order. Even his tool area was organized, including a large plastic file container that held back issues of his favorite outdoor articles.
”Do you think Cookie was lying?” I asked as Milo rolled an office chair in my direction.
”Probably.” The sheriff leaned against his worktable. ”So maybe you're right. Something's going on with Wayne.” His hazel eyes narrowed. ”I wish I knew what the h.e.l.l was going on in your head about this Eriks and Rafferty bunch. You don't know them that well. What's the deal?”
I wanted to level with Milo. But I couldn't. At least, not about Beth. She could lose her job for not logging a 911 call. I decided, however, to tell him about Wayne.
Milo laughed. ”The SOB made a pa.s.s at you? Jeez, Emma, weren't you kind of flattered?”
”Are you out of your mind?” I all but shouted. ”He's married, he's just lost his son-in-law, he's gross!”
Milo was still laughing, though he apologized. ”Sorry. But haven't I told you it's risky to go around sleuthing on your own? h.e.l.l,” he continued, growing serious, ”you've almost gotten yourself killed a couple of times. Maybe you should keep your investigating to the telephone.”
”I usually do just fine,” I declared, shooting Milo a few daggers from narrowed eyes.
He shrugged. ”You're okay for an amateur. Want a beer? Or did you get your fill with Wayne?”
His words provoked a small smile. ”I guess it is kind of funny,” I said. ”Wayne, I mean. A little groping might be considered an improvement over the phone calls and letters I get calling me everything from a moron to a wh.o.r.e.”
”At least the jerk knew when to stop,” Milo remarked. ”We get some of them who don't. The word no isn't in their dictionary.”
”But you will talk to him again?”
The sheriff nodded. ”Especially if he's avoiding me. Maybe he thought you'd carried out your threat to rat on him. Who knows? I can always start by asking him a few more questions about his sighting of Old Nick. Did his description mesh with yours?”
”Yes-but it was getting dark when I saw Old Nick. Neither Wayne nor I could describe features or details. 'Ragged old guy with a beard' is vague. Do you think he's still around town?”
Milo considered the question in his usual deliberate manner. ”Hard to say. It's not typical. They come to get what they need, they take off. They don't like civilization. They don't like people. And in this hot weather, they're bound to be cooler in the forest.”
”Good point,” I said. ”So why is Old Nick wearing a bunch of ragged clothes in ninety-degree heat?”
”Who knows? He's like the Arabs, thinking that clothes keep out the heat.” Milo turned to the near wall where his fis.h.i.+ng poles were lined up on racks. He took one down and fondled it like a baby. ”See this? I treated myself. Top of the line, for salmon and steelhead. I got it through a catalog from the NRA. Graphite, cork handle, terrific action in this spinning rod.”
”Nice. Now if you could only catch some fish . . .”
Or a killer.
THE DAY WAS slipping out of my hands. Everywhere I turned, everybody I spoke with, every lead I tried to follow eluded me as craftily as a ten-pound steelhead would defy Milo's expertise-and expensive new fis.h.i.+ng rod.
I felt glum. My weekend was ruined, my investigative reporting skills were a shambles, and I'd probably wrecked the best chance for romance that I'd had in years. How could I make it up to Rolf? Did he want me to try? Did he really care? I felt like writing myself a ”Dear Moron” letter.
If Milo could treat himself, so could I. Although I'd started to head for home from his house, I took a detour off the Icicle Creek Road and went back to Front Street. Parking was no problem. It was too hot to shop, except at the air-conditioned Alpine Mall. I had no problem finding a s.p.a.ce right in front of Donna Wickstrom's art gallery.
Donna was talking to a young couple I didn't recognize. They were admiring one of the spectacular vases by the gla.s.smaker from Colorado.
”If she has to have it,” the young man said to Donna, ”then let's do it. Her birthday's next Thursday.”
The young woman leaned over and kissed the young man. ”I love you, Derek.”
”You'd better,” he said with a smile. ”Are you sure which one you want?”
She grimaced. ”That's the problem. I can't make up my mind between the two of them. One is perfect for the entry hall; the other would look wonderful in the guest bathroom.” She paused. ”We do have a wedding anniversary coming up in September.”
”Oh, why not?” The husband hugged the wife, but spoke over her shoulder to Donna. ”Can you s.h.i.+p it? We're off to British Columbia for a few days to visit friends in Osoyoos.”
I had drifted over to Sky Autumn. The painting was every bit as glorious as I'd remembered. I stared at it the entire time that it took for the young couple to give Donna their billing and s.h.i.+pping information. Five minutes later, they walked out of the store, arm in arm.
”Mercer Island people,” Donna noted, referring to the Seattle suburb in the middle of Lake Was.h.i.+ngton. ”Aren't they all rich?”
”Not all,” I replied. ”But quite a few of them are. It's prime property, if you don't mind having to take the floating bridge to get there.”
”Anton will be really pleased,” Donna said. ”I know he'll send me a couple of other pieces. Vases, I hope, though he does some beautiful bowls and pitchers.”
”Thank G.o.d for tourists,” I murmured. ”It's too bad we don't have more rich people in Alpine. Tell me, has Ed Bronsky-or s.h.i.+rley-ever bought art from you?”
Donna held her head. ”s.h.i.+rley's been in several times, but she's never bought anything. She looks and looks, but always says she can't make up her mind. She wants cherubs-and I haven't got any unless I order prints from a catalog. Ed told her they'd go with the Italian decor of their so-called villa. In fact, s.h.i.+rley was in last week. She says Ed is thinking of having his portrait painted. She wanted me to recommend an artist. I stalled her. I can't think of anyone who would want Ed sitting for them.”
”Sitting or squatting?”
Donna laughed. ”You choose.” Suddenly, she s.h.i.+fted into her gallery-owner mode. ”Are you still tempted by the Laurentis?”