from the Baptist church’s Fall Follies.” She paused, then spoke away from the phone, presumably to Roger. It sounded as if she were cautioning him not to pull the pin on a hand grenade, but I probably didn’t hear her correctly. “There are several things bothering me,” Vida said, the worry coming through in her voice. “It’s odd that Marv Petersen never called back. I don’t like that, either.”
I, too, had found the lack of communication peculiar. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to think that there’s a buyout in the wind after all?”
Vida’s sigh was eloquent. “I’d hate to think it. But it’s happening everywhere. Hardly a month goes by without some big bank taking over a smaller one somewhere in the state. I suppose it’s unrealistic to believethat … Eeeek!” Vida’s screech startled me. “Roger is throwing up! All this violence! I must run!” The phone clicked in my ear.
Attributing Roger’s stomach troubles to gluttony rather than gore, I wasn’t alarmed. I was, however, disturbed. I hardly knew Linda Lindahl, but her death had shaken me. As if suffering from an aftershock, I found myself suddenly unnerved. I checked both doors to make sure they were locked. I left the light on in the carport. I spent five minutes staring out the front window. The snow was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see beyond my split-rail fence. Surely no homicidal maniac would be out in this kind of weather.
Or so I told myself as I prepared for bed an hour later. When the phone rang just before midnight, I was still awake. Anxiously I picked up the receiver and said hello. There was a slight pause before the caller hung up.
A wrong number, a coward like me. I hadn’t had the courage to tell the Whistling Marmot that I’d made a mistake in dialing. A few minutes later, I drifted off to sleep. I’d expected grisly dreams, of bodies stuffed in rotting logs, of murderers lurking in the shadows, of Roger eating Fritos.
Instead, I dreamed of Tom Cavanaugh. It was a familiar, frustrating dream I’d had for over twenty years. We were working together on
The Seattle Times
, and trying to conduct our affair with the utmost discretion. In the dream, as in real life, we were always trying to find an opportunity to be together. Unlike real life, we never did. The city editor, my ex-fiancé, Tom’s wife—someone would intrude to keep us apart. Every time, the dream ended on the same note, with me sitting alone, watching Tom walk away. Never once had I ever dreamed of making love with Tom, not even after our ecstatic reunion at Lake Chelan the previous June.
It had been twenty years since we’d been together. We hadn’t even seen each other for almost that long. When Tom’s mentally unstable wife, Sandra, had gotten pregnant about the same time I had, all hope of marriage had evaporated. Stubbornly, I refused Tom’s help.
I’d headed for Mississippi where Ben had his first parish in the home missions. When I returned with little Adam, I put Seattle behind me and finished my schooling in Eugene, at the University of Oregon. After graduation, I’d gone to work for
The Oregonian
in Portland. There Adam and I remained until I got the opportunity to buy
The Advocate
.
It was then that Tom reentered my life, having heard about my purchase through his weekly newspaper grapevine. He had been based in Sandra’s hometown of San Francisco for years, using her inherited money to fund his entrepreneurial activities. Or what was left over from that money after paying for bail bondsmen, lawyers, court costs, fines, hospitals, and custodial care. Sandra may have been rich, but she didn’t come cheap—not in terms of upkeep or emotional erosion. It was a testament to Tom’s character that after twenty-five years, he wasn’t as crazy as she was.
I was still thinking about Tom the next day after returning from Mass. I’d had to put chains on the car because Alpine was now under five inches of snow. Had it been
I, too, had found the lack of communication peculiar. “Don’t tell me you’re beginning to think that there’s a buyout in the wind after all?”
Vida’s sigh was eloquent. “I’d hate to think it. But it’s happening everywhere. Hardly a month goes by without some big bank taking over a smaller one somewhere in the state. I suppose it’s unrealistic to believethat … Eeeek!” Vida’s screech startled me. “Roger is throwing up! All this violence! I must run!” The phone clicked in my ear.
Attributing Roger’s stomach troubles to gluttony rather than gore, I wasn’t alarmed. I was, however, disturbed. I hardly knew Linda Lindahl, but her death had shaken me. As if suffering from an aftershock, I found myself suddenly unnerved. I checked both doors to make sure they were locked. I left the light on in the carport. I spent five minutes staring out the front window. The snow was coming down so hard that I couldn’t see beyond my split-rail fence. Surely no homicidal maniac would be out in this kind of weather.
Or so I told myself as I prepared for bed an hour later. When the phone rang just before midnight, I was still awake. Anxiously I picked up the receiver and said hello. There was a slight pause before the caller hung up.
A wrong number, a coward like me. I hadn’t had the courage to tell the Whistling Marmot that I’d made a mistake in dialing. A few minutes later, I drifted off to sleep. I’d expected grisly dreams, of bodies stuffed in rotting logs, of murderers lurking in the shadows, of Roger eating Fritos.
Instead, I dreamed of Tom Cavanaugh. It was a familiar, frustrating dream I’d had for over twenty years. We were working together on
The Seattle Times
, and trying to conduct our affair with the utmost discretion. In the dream, as in real life, we were always trying to find an opportunity to be together. Unlike real life, we never did. The city editor, my ex-fiancé, Tom’s wife—someone would intrude to keep us apart. Every time, the dream ended on the same note, with me sitting alone, watching Tom walk away. Never once had I ever dreamed of making love with Tom, not even after our ecstatic reunion at Lake Chelan the previous June.
It had been twenty years since we’d been together. We hadn’t even seen each other for almost that long. When Tom’s mentally unstable wife, Sandra, had gotten pregnant about the same time I had, all hope of marriage had evaporated. Stubbornly, I refused Tom’s help.
I’d headed for Mississippi where Ben had his first parish in the home missions. When I returned with little Adam, I put Seattle behind me and finished my schooling in Eugene, at the University of Oregon. After graduation, I’d gone to work for
The Oregonian
in Portland. There Adam and I remained until I got the opportunity to buy
The Advocate
.
It was then that Tom reentered my life, having heard about my purchase through his weekly newspaper grapevine. He had been based in Sandra’s hometown of San Francisco for years, using her inherited money to fund his entrepreneurial activities. Or what was left over from that money after paying for bail bondsmen, lawyers, court costs, fines, hospitals, and custodial care. Sandra may have been rich, but she didn’t come cheap—not in terms of upkeep or emotional erosion. It was a testament to Tom’s character that after twenty-five years, he wasn’t as crazy as she was.
I was still thinking about Tom the next day after returning from Mass. I’d had to put chains on the car because Alpine was now under five inches of snow. Had it been
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