The Alpine Xanadu (26 page)

“That’s true,” Tanya agreed, looking at her father before turning back to me. “It’s cognitive behavioral therapy, but it has to be taken very gradually and very slowly. I’m not ready yet to do that. I’m still dealing with the part that requires identifying the stress points of the trauma itself to figure out exactly which thoughts are genuine and which might be distorted or irrational.” She glanced back at Milo. “I thought you understood that.”

“Sorry, honey,” he said, putting out his cigarette. “You know I’m not up on all that shrink stuff.”

His daughter shifted uneasily on the sofa. “It’s not ‘stuff,’ Dad. It’s therapy. What would help is if you and Mom would sit in on the sessions when I finally find someone who can treat me.”

Milo took a deep drink of Scotch. “Unless they’ve got somebody at RestHaven, you won’t find anybody around here. Hell, most law enforcements have their own shrinks. SkyCo can’t afford that. In fact, we’ve never had one in the whole county until now.”

“That’s okay. I’m not ready to deal with anything more than sorting through my memories and thoughts. That could take months.”

I didn’t dare look at the sheriff. Instead, I stood up and announced I had to check on dinner. I caught most of their conversation, which somehow had switched to his other children. Brandon
and Solange had been living together for a year and were considering marriage. Michelle’s partner was a surgical nurse at the Shriners Hospital for Children in Portland. I’d done a series on the facility for
The Oregonian
some twenty years earlier. A flood of memories overcame me as I mashed the potatoes. I wondered how I’d managed all those years, trying to juggle my job with single parenthood. Maybe I’d never had time to think about it, but it hadn’t been easy. The only other thing I heard Tanya say was that she wished her father wouldn’t smoke.

We got through dinner without any more references to Tanya’s emotional problems except for her telling us she was now on Prozac and that it would take some time before she could tell if it was helping her. Dessert was chocolate chip ice cream. We lingered briefly at the table before Milo announced a little after eight that they’d better head to his house. I noticed he didn’t say “home.”

Tanya thanked me and said she hoped she would see me again. Milo gave me another quick kiss. I couldn’t look him in the eye. I knew I’d see the reflection of my own dejected state. And then they were gone, their figures blurred by the rain. Tom’s two orphaned children had wanted no part of me. Tanya had a mother, so she didn’t need me, either. And I had no magical powers as a fairy godmother. The only way I could make myself useful was to clean up the kitchen and try to stop feeling more sorry for myself than I did for Tanya.

I
WANTED TO TALK TO
B
EN, BUT IT WAS AFTER TEN ON THE
D
ELTA
. Probably too late, if my brother had gotten up to say Mass. I considered phoning Vida, but she would pontificate at length about Tanya’s lack of spunk, which would be worthless. And annoying.

I thought of calling Adam, but the connection was always so uncertain in his remote Alaskan village. I could email him—it was only six in St. Mary’s Igloo. But typing my woes had no appeal. It’d sound like one of the letters Vida received for her advice column.

By nine o’clock I’d tried to distract myself by cleaning out Adam’s closet. I was debating about giving away the snorkeling gear Adam had used in Hawaii when my doorbell sounded. Feeling uneasy, I asked my caller’s identity.

“Your archrival,” Spencer Fleetwood said in his mellow voice. “Is the coast clear for our weekly rendezvous?”

“You jackass,” I said, opening the door. “You must’ve noticed that the sheriff’s Yukon wasn’t parked outside.”

“I certainly did,” he said, brushing rain off his latest top-of-the-line all-weather jacket. “I wouldn’t admit to him that I’m escaping the clutches of a would-be seductress.”

“It’s not me,” I said. “Who are you talking about?”

“May I?” he asked, indicating the easy chair after removing the jacket and hanging it on the peg that Milo usually used.

I almost said no, but relented. “Go ahead. But that chair—like its owner—belongs to Dodge.”

“You needn’t remind me,” Spence said, sitting down. “I don’t suppose you’d care to offer me an adult beverage?”

“Why not? I could use one myself. What’ll it be?”

“A simple brew. Dark ale, if you have it.”

“I’ve got Henry Weinhard. Stay put. I assume you want a glass.”

“Please. I guess Dodge to be a bottle man. Do you find me effete?”

“You’re a lot of things, but not that,” I said over my shoulder as I entered the kitchen.

It didn’t take long to pour my Canadian whiskey into a clean glass and add a couple of ice cubes. I opened the Henry’s but would let Spence pour it himself. I never could get the head right on beer.

“Thank you,” Spence said, his dark eyes twinkling. “It’s a pity you aren’t the one who’s trying to seduce me. But then you never did.”

“Gosh, I can’t think why not,” I said, sitting down on the sofa. “Maybe it’s because you always annoy me so much.”

“I thought you thrived on antagonism.” He carefully poured out his beer and, of course, achieved the perfect amount of foam. “Well? Where’s your famous curiosity? And by the way, may I remark that you look like you’ve been through the mill, as Vida would say? Don’t tell me you and the beastly sheriff had a spat.”

“We did not,” I declared. “So who’s the temptress?”

Spence looked genuinely put off. “Kay Burns, RestHaven’s P.R. person. An attractive woman of a certain age, but I’m immune. I believe she has a history, though I didn’t care to ask her about it. I figured that if anyone knew about her, it’d be you.”

“Vida knows more than I do—as usual.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t driving by her house on my way home.”

“I’ll give you the short version. I never met Kay until this evening.”

“Maybe I should’ve gone to Vida’s,” Spence murmured into his glass. “Ms. Burns’s history must go back a long way.”

“It does,” I said, and proceeded to fill in Spence. “By any chance, did she ask you about husband number one, Dwight Gould?”

“I’m still reeling from the information that Gould was ever anybody’s husband,” Spence said. “It’s bad enough that she was married to Blackwell. He’s the one she dwelled on, seeming very curious about what he’s up to these days.”

“Maybe that’s because Tiffany paid Kay a call at RestHaven.”

Spence looked startled. “I thought Tiffany was missing.”

“She is. That’s what makes it interesting.”

He ran a finger down his hawk-like nose. “This becomes very complicated. Maybe Kay wasn’t lusting after my body.”

“I already heard you two were an item.”

“You did?” He grimaced. “When?”

“A few days ago. I was told Kay thought you were a real stud. Maybe I misheard and it was a real dud.”

Spence ignored my jab, which was fine. I felt a touch of remorse. He had been a comfort during the Bellevue hostage crisis and had kept me from going crazy. “Payback,” he’d called it, as I’d been there for him during a family crisis of his own. If we weren’t exactly friends, we were at least companions-in-arms.

“I think,” he said at last, “that Kay suspects Blackwell may have killed Wayne Eriks. Or so I gathered when she wasn’t rubbing my leg with hers and allowing her breasts to brush against my arm.”

“Wow. Where were you? Guzzling beer at the Icicle Creek Tavern?”

“No, I was having dinner at the Venison Inn in the bar, being alone and wanting to stay that way. She joined me. Uninvited.”

“What makes you think she’s fingering Blackwell for Eriks’s death?”

“Tiffany, of course. Wayne wasn’t happy when his daughter
moved in with Jack. Then daughter runs away. Maybe Wayne threatened Blackwell first. Who knows? Tiffany didn’t take off until after her father was dead.”

The scenario was credible. “If Milo had any evidence against Blackwell, he’d haul him in. No love lost there, either. But I’ll be honest—the sheriff hasn’t mentioned Jack as a suspect.”

“Knowing Dodge, that means he has no evidence.”

“True,” I admitted.

“You don’t seem evasive,” Spence said after lighting one of his expensive black cigarettes. “Thus I gather that even in the throes of passion, Dodge doesn’t reveal how his mind is working about a case.”

“His mind is otherwise occupied,” I said.

“I’m sure it is.” Spence gazed at the ceiling. “The method of murder—if it was murder—doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“I know,” I said, but I wouldn’t reveal that Milo had discovered otherwise. I refused to get scooped in my own living room. Mr. Radio and I would have to wait for the formal announcement. But of course Spence didn’t know that was going to happen.

“Where
is
the sheriff?” Spence asked. “Or dare I inquire?”

“Coping with his daughter Tanya.” That was no secret on the grapevine. “She says she has PTSD.”

“Good Lord,” Spence said. “And you don’t after what you and Dodge went through?”

“Guess not,” I said, “unless it’s contagious.”

“You’re both made of sterner stuff.”

“So are you.”

Spence smiled. His expression seemed genuine. “I hope so. I wasn’t in very good shape at the time, though.”

“But you got through it.”

“I did. You helped.” He took a deep drink from his glass. “Kay’s version about who killed Eriks—assuming he was murdered—has merit.”

“Blackwell’s an easy villain,” I said. “You were at RestHaven about the time Wayne died. Did you see anything?”

If the veiled query about his presence near the murder scene jarred Spence, he did a good job of concealing it. “I was checking the sound setup for the remote broadcast. When I left, Eriks must’ve still been there. I saw his PUD van. It was raining like hell and I didn’t linger.” He grimaced. “Damn, if my timing had been better, I might’ve been an eyewitness. Wouldn’t you have been green with envy?”

“I’d have hoped you’d been struck by lightning,” I said. “Then I could’ve gotten a double scoop.”

“You are crass,” Spence declared. “I like it. It makes me feel better about myself.” He finished his beer and put out his cigarette. “As enchanting as I always find your company, I must go. I shall remain on guard against any further attempts on my virtue by Ms. Burns. Frankly, her taste in men is otherwise deplorable.”

I’d stood up, too. “Maybe the other husbands weren’t as awful.”

Spence put on his all-weather jacket. “I hope so. You look frazzled,” he said seriously. “Are you having doubts about Dodge?”

My head jerked up. “No!”

Spence grinned. “I guess that answers the question. Therefore, I must conjecture that he’s not worrying you, but the daughter’s worrying him. Has she returned to Dad’s nest for the duration?”

“Go away, Spence.”

“Okay.” He opened the door. “God, I’m glad I never had children.” He exited into the rain, which had made small rivulets in my driveway. I was almost sorry to see him go. If nothing else, despite being a phony most of the time, he was basically real. That might not make sense to anybody else, but it did to me. Maybe it was because we were both in the same business, earning a living off other people’s miseries. It made our own seem more bearable.

I went to bed around eleven, but I couldn’t sleep. I stopped glancing at the digital clock shortly before one. I must’ve drifted off
not long after that, given that I was awakened by the alarm at 6:45, the time that Milo got up on workdays while I lingered in bed, waiting for him to get out of the bathroom.

I went through my routine like a zombie. Never alert until after I reached the office, it took me twice as long to do even the simplest of tasks. In the shower, I’d turned on the cold water and forgotten to turn on the hot tap. That should have woken me up, but it only made me mad. I got a piece of bread stuck in the toaster and had to upend the blasted thing to get it out. By the time I went to my car, I wondered if I could drive without running over somebody. At least the rain had stopped, though the gray clouds matched my mood.

“Good morning,” Amanda said in her chipper voice when I somehow arrived at the
Advocate
without a mishap. “Or maybe it’s not,” she amended, seeing my sour face.

“It’s not,” I said, trying to smile. “But I’ll live.”

Leo apparently had gotten to work just ahead of me. He was taking off his jacket when I entered the newsroom. “Hey, babe, what’s wrong?”

“Everything,” I said, but paused at his desk. “Tanya’s back at Milo’s house, so he’s not at mine. Maybe I’m a selfish, horrible person.”

He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I took it, not seeing any sign of Vida. “No, you’re not,” Leo said. “You’re frustrated. Does Dodge feel guilty about this? I mean,” he went on, “I did. Not lately, but my kids were still in their teens when Liza tossed me out. They had problems at school, did minor drugs, shoplifted, got in with bad company. I was here, not there. They never went to jail or went nuts. But I blamed myself.”

“You never told me about any of that.”

Leo shrugged. “Neither did Liza until after the fact. I still felt guilty. Turns out she did, too.”

Mitch entered and stopped short before actually stepping into the newsroom. “Hi,” he said. “What’s up?”

I shook my head. “You don’t want to know. Boss brings family troubles to work.” I glanced at Vida’s vacant chair. “It’s contagious.”

Mitch proceeded to his desk and nodded. “I know. I’ve got a case of it, too. I have to leave early tomorrow to catch a flight to Pittsburgh. I’m bringing Brenda home with me. I should be back at work Monday.”

My reporter’s problems distracted me from my own. “I hope that turns out well for both of you,” I said. “When do you leave?”

“The flight’s at five, so I’ll have to get out of here around one,” he replied. “I should have everything wrapped up by then.”

“That’s fine. Really, I wish you good luck.”

“Thanks, Emma.” His own smile was as feeble as my own.

Leo went over to get his coffee. “Vida has the bakery run. I hope she’s still on the job. Hey, babe—meant to tell you your editorial was good. It should hit home with some of the people around here.”