Doc with a shake of his head. He was looking extremely tired, and I couldn’t say that I blamed him. “I wonder when the loggers will start trying to kill each other?”
“I thought they signed a truce for Loggerama,” I said with a grin. “When do you get done with your shift?”
He looked above the bar at the old clock featuring the Hamm’s beer bear. “Ten minutes,” he said with a grateful expression. “This seems like the longest two hours of my life. It wears me down, girlie. I’d rather do surgery. Dr. Starr should be along any minute.” His lined face became unwontedly grim.
I led the way to the door, but halfway across the room I paused to greet the Driggers and the Vickers. Patti Marsh had returned to her table where she sat alone, sending malevolent glances in her daughter’s direction. After an exchange of pleasantries, I began to pick my way through the tables again. I saw Cody and Marje leaving just ahead of us, about a minute after Curtis Graff had come into the tavern. The brothers ignored each other. Or, more likely, Cody was too bleary-eyed to recognize Curtis. Marje had herfiancé by the arm, propping him up. Milo had been right: Cody Graff hadn’t needed a third beer. He looked as if he could barely make it to the parking lot.
It was fortunate that Marje Blatt was going to do the driving. At least Cody would get home alive and in one piece.
I couldn’t guess that I was only half right.
I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in until nine-fifteen on Sunday morning. Mass at St. Mildred’s was at ten, and I could shower, dress, grab a cup of coffee, and get to church in under three-quarters of an hour. I was just about to struggle out of bed when the phone rang. Shielding my eyes against the bright morning sun, I groped for the receiver. It was Milo Dodge.
“Emma,” he said, sounding tense. “I’ve got some bad news.”
My brain wasn’t quite on track yet. “What?”
Outside, I could hear the blare of trumpets. The high school band was assembling just a block and a half away, practicing for the big parade.
“There’s been an accident,” said Milo, with the sound of male voices in the background. “Durwood Parker ran over Cody Graff last night. Cody’s dead and Durwood’s back in jail.”
I fell back on the bed, one hand on my head. Sunday wasn’t going to be a day of rest, either. Except, of course, for Cody Graff.
Cha p ter Seven
C ODY G RAFF HAD been struck down out on Mill Street, just west of the turnoff for Burl Creek Road. A weeping Durwood had turned himself in shortly after six A.M . He knew he wasn’t supposed to drive, he told Milo, but he figured that if he took just a little spin on a quiet Sunday morning, nobody would be out on the road.
“We’ll have to charge him with vehicular manslaughter,” Milo told me after I got to the sheriff’s office two blocks up from
The Advocate
on Front Street. I’d gone straight from mass, which Father Fitzgerald had cut short due to Loggerama.
“You know the prayers,” he’d announced from the pulpit, so it’s at home ye’ll be saying them.” His parishioners were grateful, since the little wooden church was already unmercifully hot. We were also spared Father Fitz’s meandering sermon of the week, which frequently came out of a time warp and often featured The Hun and The Red Menace.
“Poor Durwood,” I sighed. “How’s his wife doing?”
Milo shrugged. “Dot’s pretty upset. She said she knew this would happen some day. I told her to get a good lawyer, somebody from Seattle maybe.”
“Can’t you release him on his own recognizance?”
Milo sat down heavily in his imitation leather chair. “It’s Sunday. He can’t post bail until tomorrow. What can I do?” He gave a helpless lift of his shoulders.
A silence fell between us. I was the first to break it, suddenly aware that we seemed to have forgotten about the dead man. “What on earth was Cody Graff doing out byBurl Creek Road at six in
“I thought they signed a truce for Loggerama,” I said with a grin. “When do you get done with your shift?”
He looked above the bar at the old clock featuring the Hamm’s beer bear. “Ten minutes,” he said with a grateful expression. “This seems like the longest two hours of my life. It wears me down, girlie. I’d rather do surgery. Dr. Starr should be along any minute.” His lined face became unwontedly grim.
I led the way to the door, but halfway across the room I paused to greet the Driggers and the Vickers. Patti Marsh had returned to her table where she sat alone, sending malevolent glances in her daughter’s direction. After an exchange of pleasantries, I began to pick my way through the tables again. I saw Cody and Marje leaving just ahead of us, about a minute after Curtis Graff had come into the tavern. The brothers ignored each other. Or, more likely, Cody was too bleary-eyed to recognize Curtis. Marje had herfiancé by the arm, propping him up. Milo had been right: Cody Graff hadn’t needed a third beer. He looked as if he could barely make it to the parking lot.
It was fortunate that Marje Blatt was going to do the driving. At least Cody would get home alive and in one piece.
I couldn’t guess that I was only half right.
I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping in until nine-fifteen on Sunday morning. Mass at St. Mildred’s was at ten, and I could shower, dress, grab a cup of coffee, and get to church in under three-quarters of an hour. I was just about to struggle out of bed when the phone rang. Shielding my eyes against the bright morning sun, I groped for the receiver. It was Milo Dodge.
“Emma,” he said, sounding tense. “I’ve got some bad news.”
My brain wasn’t quite on track yet. “What?”
Outside, I could hear the blare of trumpets. The high school band was assembling just a block and a half away, practicing for the big parade.
“There’s been an accident,” said Milo, with the sound of male voices in the background. “Durwood Parker ran over Cody Graff last night. Cody’s dead and Durwood’s back in jail.”
I fell back on the bed, one hand on my head. Sunday wasn’t going to be a day of rest, either. Except, of course, for Cody Graff.
Cha p ter Seven
C ODY G RAFF HAD been struck down out on Mill Street, just west of the turnoff for Burl Creek Road. A weeping Durwood had turned himself in shortly after six A.M . He knew he wasn’t supposed to drive, he told Milo, but he figured that if he took just a little spin on a quiet Sunday morning, nobody would be out on the road.
“We’ll have to charge him with vehicular manslaughter,” Milo told me after I got to the sheriff’s office two blocks up from
The Advocate
on Front Street. I’d gone straight from mass, which Father Fitzgerald had cut short due to Loggerama.
“You know the prayers,” he’d announced from the pulpit, so it’s at home ye’ll be saying them.” His parishioners were grateful, since the little wooden church was already unmercifully hot. We were also spared Father Fitz’s meandering sermon of the week, which frequently came out of a time warp and often featured The Hun and The Red Menace.
“Poor Durwood,” I sighed. “How’s his wife doing?”
Milo shrugged. “Dot’s pretty upset. She said she knew this would happen some day. I told her to get a good lawyer, somebody from Seattle maybe.”
“Can’t you release him on his own recognizance?”
Milo sat down heavily in his imitation leather chair. “It’s Sunday. He can’t post bail until tomorrow. What can I do?” He gave a helpless lift of his shoulders.
A silence fell between us. I was the first to break it, suddenly aware that we seemed to have forgotten about the dead man. “What on earth was Cody Graff doing out byBurl Creek Road at six in
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