The Alpine Uproar (32 page)

“No. But Vida knows all, and sometimes she knows when to keep her mouth shut.” The sheriff lowered his voice. “We got a domestic violence call back in … March? April? Your ex-reporter, Scott Chamoud, got it off the log and put it in the paper, but as usual we withheld names and didn’t give a specific address, just that the incident occurred at Spruce and Second streets.”

“The trailer park,” I said, vaguely recalling the item.

Milo nodded. “You got it. Anyway, Bill Blatt and Doe Jamison responded. The disturbance was between Holly and Mickey. She was pregnant with her third kid and demanding
that Mickey pay her off. As so often happens with those domestic battles, they’d both calmed down by the time the deputies got there. Luckily, they didn’t turn on Bill and Doe. That’s why we hate to get involved in domestic brawls.”

“I know. Jack Mullins got a broken arm once and Sam Heppner got hit in the head with a fireplace poker.”

“Concussion,” Milo recalled. “Sam spent three days in the hospital. I suppose you’ve already figured out that Vida squeezed the names and details out of her nephew Bill.”

I was puzzled. “I don’t recall her mentioning it. That’s odd.”

Milo chuckled. “She can keep some things under those weird hats of hers. Hey, what’s Ginny doing up front?”

“Amanda needed some personal time,” I replied, not wanting to go into the details. It was almost eleven-thirty. I still had to proof Vida’s copy and go over Leo’s ads.

“Cute baby,” Milo said, taking a big sip of my coffee. “Brendan?”

“Brandon.” I realized that the sheriff was making uncharacteristic chitchat. Stalling for time, maybe. “Hey, big guy,” I said, “it’s Tuesday. Do you remember what that means?”

Milo’s innocent expression was also unlike him. “That tomorrow is Wednesday?”

I sighed. “You know damned well it’s our deadline. And if you don’t then you haven’t paid much attention for the last fourteen years.”

He shrugged, pushed back in the chair, and stood up. “I know when I’m not wanted. See you.”

I watched him stop in the newsroom to talk to Mitch and Leo. The three of them seemed to be yukking it up. Ten minutes later, Vida reappeared and came into my office. “Have you read the Lofgren-Sanford engagement copy yet?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“I must make a change. The would-be groom’s first name is Ronald, not Donald.” She grimaced. “That’s the trouble with handwritten announcements these days. The younger generation has horrid penmanship. Imagine! Not teaching cursive or penmanship in the schools. What’s to become of this country?”

“They can’t tell time on a clock with hands,” I said. “It’s all digital.”

Vida agreed. “Oh, yes! As for spelling, they don’t use actual words. When I was at my daughter’s house for dinner the other night, I happened to see Roger’s cell phone. Goodness, do you realize what can be done with those devices? I knew that some of them could take pictures and play music, but Roger’s is the latest model, and I can’t even begin to recall all of its functions. I glanced at the screen and saw what is called a text message.” She picked up one of my memo pads and wrote, ‘u r : (me 2 c u 2’ followed by what looked a backward
C
.

I shook my head. “What’s that last thing you put down?”

“It’s supposed to be a crescent moon,” Vida replied. “As you know, I’m not an artist.”

“I can make this out,” I said a bit sheepishly. “It’s shorthand for texting. Some of these symbols show up in e-mails. You must’ve seen them in the ones you get for the paper.”

“Rarely,” Vida snapped. “The people who send me e-mails are usually older and wiser.”

That was probably true. “Okay, I think the message says ‘You are sad. I am, too. See you tonight.’ The moon—I think—means night, and it makes sense in context.”

“Oh, heavens!” Vida scowled at the notepad. “I upbraided Roger for this sort of thing, but he laughed and insisted everybody does it. Maybe they do, in which case I should apologize to him. He’s merely communicating in a more up-to-date manner. I seldom reproach him, and now I feel mortified.”

“You shouldn’t,” I said. “Frankly, I find this sort of thing an abuse of the English language.”

“Yes,” Vida allowed, “that’s why I was upset. He’s been to college and I felt he should know better. Now I realize he’s ahead of the curve when it comes to technology.”

I couldn’t look Vida in the eye. If her grandson took an AK-47 to the mall and shot down six innocent shoppers, she’d make excuses for him. I tossed the used page in the wastebasket. “Why was Roger sad?” I asked, hoping that it was because he’d been hired for a full-time job.

Vida looked embarrassed. “I’ve no idea, because I didn’t realize what the letters and numbers meant. Maybe it was the other person who was sad. One of his chums, no doubt. He left not long afterward, and I haven’t seen him since. I must call and apologize.” Her usually purposeful walk slowed as she exited my cubbyhole.

It didn’t take long to go over Vida’s weekly contribution to the
Advocate
. Her style was folksy and would never win any journalism awards. She wrote her features as if they were letters, not newspaper stories. That was fine with her readers, who apparently felt she was taking them into her confidence.

It wasn’t quite noon, so I called Marisa, hoping to catch her before she went to lunch. She was eating in according to Judi Hinshaw, who transferred my call.

I kept my account of Holly’s purported lawsuit short. “And no, I’ve no idea who Holly has hired to represent her.”

“At this point,” Marisa said, “I don’t care if she’s hired Clarence Darrow. If Mickey Borg is lying to the sheriff, his eyewitness story has to be exposed before we ever get inside a courtroom. If Holly formally charges you with assault, it’s a criminal case.”

“Oh for …” I stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Dodge should’ve,” Marisa said. “Didn’t he mention it?”

“No.” Resentment welled up. Was Milo so wrapped up reconciling with Tricia that he didn’t give a damn what happened to me? Or wasn’t he taking Holly seriously? “No,” I repeated. “Except for the hiring of a lawyer, the sheriff didn’t have much else to say. Although,” I added lamely, “he thought that you could handle Mickey Borg on the witness stand.”

“We don’t want to get that far,” Marisa said. “Talk to Dodge. I won’t bill you for something that should go away.”

“Okay.” I remembered something Marisa had told me when she was at my house for dinner. “I hate taking up your time, but the other night you mentioned that awhile back Holly wanted to see you about doing pro bono work for her. Judi told her your services weren’t free. Was Holly trying to get child support from her kids’ deadbeat dads?”

“Yes. I never spoke to Holly, though.”

“So how does she get by? I don’t recall her ever working.”

“That depends on your definition of work.”

“Supporting three kids as a hooker in Alpine?”

“She lives in a trailer and she’s probably on welfare. For all I know, she got another attorney to handle the child support issue. He or she may be the same one she claims to have taken on her lawsuit,” Marisa said, speaking faster than usual.

I realized that Marisa was growing impatient. She wouldn’t be lunching at her desk unless she was busy. “I’ll let you go,” I said, “but I heard Mickey Borg is supposed to be one of kids’ father.”

“That might explain why he’d lie for her,” Marisa said.

“Thanks, Marisa,” I said as Vida stomped into my cubbyhole. “I’ll let you know what happens next.” I hung up.

“I’ve rarely seen the likes of this!” Vida declared, waving a computer printout at me. “It’s an e-mail from Janet Driggers
about Alvin De Muth. He had a wife. Why didn’t that ever come to light?”

“Probably because his wife—or widow, I should say—lives in Colorado,” I replied. “Is there any mention of children? I forgot to ask.”

Vida was still annoyed. “No. Mrs. De Muth is the only survivor.” She scrutinized Janet’s message. “She wants the body shipped to a funeral home in Denver. I’ll write this up now. I’m eating in today.”

As she left my office, Ginny came in. “Rick’s taking the SUV to Bert Anderson’s place. Is it okay if I leave now so I can pick him up?”

“Sure,” I said, noting that it was twelve-fifteen. “Can I hitch a ride? My car’s supposed to be ready, but I’ll check with Bert to make sure.”

“Okay,” Ginny said. “I’ll get Brandon ready to go.”

Bert, however, had bad news. “Sorry, but I got sidetracked. One of Blue Sky Dairy’s trucks had an electrical problem. Can’t let the town go without milk. I’m finishing that job now, so I’ll get back to your Honda as soon as I grab a sandwich. Your car will be ready by five.”

“I hope so,” I said.

I went to the front office to tell Ginny I wouldn’t be tagging along. She offered to fill in again if we had any more problems. I said thanks, hugged her a second time, touched Brandon’s soft cheek, and watched mother and son exit. I got my jacket and purse, planning to run across the street to the Burger Barn. Before I could get to the door, Betsy O’Toole practically bowled me over as she tried to come inside.

“Emma!” she cried. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Why?”

“We have to talk,” Betsy said, her eyes red and her skin so
pale that the freckles had all but disappeared. We were both on the threshold. I was leaning against the door to keep it open. If Betsy came in, we’d have no privacy from Vida. Fortunately, she couldn’t see us from where she was sitting at her desk.

“Let’s go to the Venison Inn,” I said, taking Betsy’s arm and moving away so the door could shut.

She tried to hold back. “But I can’t let anyone see me like …”

“You want Vida to see you?”

“Oh. I thought she’d be at lunch.”

“Not today.” I let go of Betsy’s arm. “We can eat in the bar. It’s never too full at lunchtime.”

“I can’t eat.”

“You look like you could use a drink.”

“I could, but I won’t. What would our customers think if they saw me …” She stopped just short of the restaurant’s entrance, using the reflection on the door’s plate glass for a mirror. “Oh, God, I look ghastly. I should’ve put a grocery bag over my head.”

“Let’s go to the bar,” I said. “We won’t have to wait to be seated.”

Inside, I hustled Betsy down the row of booths, talking her ear off about something-or-other to give the impression we were wrapped up in our conversation and couldn’t pause to exchange greetings. The Reverend Poole was sitting with an elderly woman, Scooter Hutchins studied flooring samples under the watchful eye of a well-dressed younger man, four members of the community college faculty including the dean of students were engrossed in the menus, and Stella Magruder’s husband, Richie, was chatting with Harvey Adcock. If any of them noticed our quick passage down the aisle between the booths, they didn’t try to detain us.

“Corner table,” I murmured, nodding as far away from the bar activity as we could get. If Betsy changed her mind about a drink, I’d have one, too. My back still hurt but I hadn’t taken a Demerol since breakfast.

Betsy half fell into the chair, glanced at the array of bottles behind the bar, and opted for a drink after all. “A screwdriver,” she said. “I can pass that off as orange juice.” She started to pick up a menu but let it fall from her hand and expelled a huge sigh. “Emma, I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should talk to Father Den instead of you, but I’m too ashamed. What would your brother or your son say?”

“About what?” I asked, wondering if Betsy had cracked under the relentless stress of the past few days.

The faintest hint of a smile played at her mouth. “I forgot. You’re not a mind reader.” She looked past me toward the bar. “Oh, no—here comes Sunny Rhodes. Can you head her off? She’ll talk me to death.”

I got up and managed to meet the bartender’s wife halfway. “Two screwdrivers,” I said in a low voice. “Betsy’s very upset, so don’t let anybody pester her, okay? I can get the drinks when I see they’re ready.”

“Then come now,” Sunny said. “It won’t take Oren long. Poor Betsy. Poor family.” She shook her head before beckoning to her husband and giving him our cocktail order. “You never know with kids these days, do you? It’s a wonder my hair hasn’t turned white worrying over Davin all these years. Thank goodness he’s out of his teens now.”

“He’s got his AA degree,” I said as Oren Rhodes offered me a sympathetic smile. “That’s great.”

Sunny nodded. “Now if he could just get a decent job. At least he’s stopped hanging out with Roger. That was always a dead-end trail.” She gasped and her blue eyes widened in horror.
“Oh, no! I shouldn’t have said that. Please, please don’t tell Vida.”

I promised I wouldn’t. “I’m not a big fan of Roger’s, either. He hasn’t done anything really stupid, has he?”

Sunny turned away to hand me our drinks. “No. No, of course not. He’s just … Roger. Let me know when you’re ready to eat. We’re shorthanded, so I’m filling in. Good help’s hard to find.”

“I’ll second that,” I muttered, thinking of Amanda.

By the time I sat down, Betsy had regained some of her composure. She raised her glass. “To Mike.”

“To Mike.” Our glasses clicked. “Have you slept recently?”

“Some,” she replied after taking a big sip. “Jake’s so restless. He keeps waking me up.” She sipped again. “You’ve got a deadline. I don’t want to keep you away from work too long.”

“We’re on schedule,” I assured her. “So far.”

Betsy’s gaze roamed around the bar. The usual workmen in their flannel shirts, parkas, and hooded jackets lined the bar stools, knocking back enough beer to get through the rest of the day. I avoided eye contact with any of the customers. I didn’t want to be accused of snobbery for not offering so much as a friendly smile. My gaze fixed on the wall behind Betsy where an old framed photograph showed a logger sitting in front of a donkey engine, the steam-powered hoist used to haul logs out of the woods. His shoulders slumped, his hands rested slackly between his knees, and his clothes were grimy. Maybe he was the donkey puncher, taking a blow while waiting for more timber headed down a steep hill to the yard, the mill, or the holding pond. I wondered what, other than an honest day’s work, was on his mind. Life was said to be simpler a hundred years ago. I didn’t believe it. It was only slower.