Part 29 (1/2)

”Say,” I said, turning back to Milo, ”where was Fleetwood?”

”On the other side of the infirmary,” the sheriff replied. ”He did his broadcast from Cedar, not Cascade. Doe Jameson was over there. She refused to be interviewed. Doe told him she was busy and to buzz off.”

I laughed. ”I still don't know her, but I'm getting to like her better all the time.”

Milo pulled himself up out of the chair. ”Doe's not going to like working the desk until we get somebody to replace Toni. I hope I can find a new hire fast. Toni should never have left without notice. That p.i.s.ses me off.”

”Now, Milo-” Vida began.

But the sheriff waved aside her disapproval. ”You're lucky I didn't say something worse. Like what Toni could do with herself. She may not have been the sharpest knife in the butcher block, but at least she could handle the job once she learned it.”

”Perhaps you should insist that she stay on until you do find someone else,” Vida said, rising from the rocking chair to accompany Milo to the door.

The sheriff shrugged. ”She's already bought her plane ticket.”

”So?”

”Look,” Milo said to Vida, ”it's a ha.s.sle, but frankly, Toni's been a pain in the a.s.s the last few weeks anyway. On top of it, Beth's a mess. I need to get somebody in that office who isn't a train wreck.”

Vida neither argued nor reprimanded. ”I suppose you know what you're doing,” she said.

Milo gave her a dirty look. ”I already did what I had to this week. I caught Tim's killer. Now I'm going home and work my way through a half rack of Budweiser.”

The sheriff left.

”He really isn't going to do that, is he?” Vida said in a horrified voice.

”No,” I replied. ”But he needs to unwind.”

”He needs to eat,” Vida declared. ”If I were a wagering woman, I'd bet that he's hardly stopped to have a decent meal all day. I should have offered to make him something. Scrambled eggs, perhaps, or an omelet.”

I didn't want to contemplate what outrage Vida could commit with eggs. Years ago, she'd prepared breakfast for me when I was laid up with a minor injury. The toast was barely browned, the bacon was burned to a crisp, and the scrambled eggs had somehow managed to come out both watery and lumpy. There had even been bits of sh.e.l.l in them. I'd been unable to finish the meal and had given the excuse of an upset stomach. Which, after a few bites, was true.

”Good grief!” Vida exclaimed.

”What?”

She stared at me, her eyes wide. ”Eggs. It's all about eggs. Why didn't I think of that before?”

I didn't know what Vida was talking about. Nor would she tell me.

”I have to think,” she insisted. ”I may be wrong. Please, Emma, be a dear and don't ask any more questions.”

Baffled, I surrendered. I was too tired to argue, and the Excedrin was wearing off. ”In that case, I'll go home.”

”Yes, you do that. And be careful. You're limping rather badly.”

Despite the cautionary words, Vida practically shoved me out the door.

As I was about to turn off Fir into my driveway, a car came from the other direction. I had my blinker on, so I waited for the other vehicle to pa.s.s by. But it didn't. The driver-without any right-turn signal-swerved abruptly, narrowly missed my mailbox, and stopped on the verge where the gra.s.s met the gravel that led to the street.

Slowly, I made the turn, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. In the dark, I could just barely recognize Toni Andreas. She had gotten out and was going around to the trunk. I pulled into the carport. Slowly, I opened the door and emerged on tired, aching legs. Toni was coming toward me, carrying a big carton.

”Can I leave this stuff with you?” she called as she walked toward the carport.

”What is it?” I asked wearily. It was almost ten o'clock. I really didn't need any more burdens or impositions on this hot, horrible day.

She joined me at the back door. ”Just some things I don't want to take with me to Alaska. I don't have any place to store them. You're a baseball fan, aren't you?”

I nodded. ”I didn't know you were, too,” I said, opening the door and letting Toni enter ahead of me.

”I'm not.” She dumped the carton on the kitchen table. ”Ooof! That's heavier than I thought it was.”

The unmarked carton was sealed with strapping tape. ”What's in it?” I asked, wondering if I should listen to see if the d.a.m.ned thing ticked.

”I'm not sure,” Toni said in her vague manner. ”Baseball stuff. Tim asked me to keep it for him. I don't care about baseball, but I hate to throw it away. I'd have asked Sheriff Dodge to store it-I know he's a sports fan-but he's mad at me. Then I thought of you.”

”I see.” But I wasn't quite sure what I meant. ”When did Tim give this to you?”

Toni shrugged. ”I forget. Last spring? Around Easter, maybe.”

Easter. April. The opening of baseball season. ”Did Tim say why he wanted you to keep this box?”

”He wanted it to be in a safe place,” Toni replied.

”It wasn't safe at his house?”

”I guess not,” Toni replied, then looked at me as if I were the one who was short on brain cells. ”It wouldn't have been, would it?”

I thought she meant the fire. But I didn't think that was what Tim had been trying to say.

”Maybe,” Toni went on, ”I'll figure out what to do with it after I get settled in Fairbanks. I'll let you know.” She started for the back door, but stopped. ”The thing is, Tim said if Tiffany had a boy, he wanted him to have what's in the box.”

I gave Toni my best impersonation of an investigative reporter's stare. ”Why don't you give it to Tiffany?”

Toni looked faintly exasperated. ”Because,” she responded in a tone that suggested she really was dealing with a nitwit, ”Tiff would have thrown the box away. That's why he gave it to me in the first place, don't you see?”

”Yes,” I said. ”I do.”

That's what I'd been wondering all along.

TONI LEFT. I gazed at the carton for about ten seconds before I got out my kitchen shears and cut the strapping tape. Inside, the items were safely preserved in varieties of plastic: a baseball signed by members of the 1995 Mariners' team that had played for the pennant; scorecards autographed by Alex Rodriguez, Ken Griffey Jr., Edgar Martinez, and Randy Johnson; a full-color poster signed by Chris Bosio commemorating his 1993 no-hitter; two fielders gloves, one bearing Jay Buhner's autograph, another with Ichiro Suzuki's signature in English and in j.a.panese; an alb.u.m of baseball cards in mint condition, most signed by all-star players from all over the major leagues-Derek Jeter, Sammy Sosa, Barry Bonds, Curt Schilling, Roger Clemens, Cal Ripken Jr., and many, many more. There were signed photos, autographed game programs, and even a few roster cards with the players' names written in by several famous managers.

I had no idea how much these items were worth on eBay. Maybe none of them individually would bring in more than a few hundred dollars. But taken altogether, the collection was probably worth several thousand. Yet, from what I understood, Tim hadn't tried to sell many of these treasures. Suddenly I could imagine Tiffany, pregnant, standing on her feet for long s.h.i.+fts at the Grocery Basket, berating her husband for not cas.h.i.+ng in. And threatening to destroy his beloved souvenirs in retribution.

As a woman, I felt sorry for Tiffany. As a baseball fan, I sided with Tim. I wished he'd collected coins. Then I wouldn't have been torn.