Having known Vida since childhood, somehow Kip could never call her by her first name, a habit that she never discouraged.
“My, yes.” Vida’s voice was musing. “I wonder now … is this where I should start my advice column?”
“You’re going to do an advice column?” Kip asked in surprise.
Vida glanced at me. “We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Emma? Is the timing right?”
I had to think about it. “Maybe,” I hedged. “If you do, it might be better to run it in the paper.”
“If I have room,” Vida countered. “That’s often a problem. I wouldn’t want to shortchange my responses to …” She stopped and her ears seemed to prick up like a cat’s. “The sirens again. Dear me, that sounds like something very bad.” Turning swiftly, she headed into the newsroom and out to the front office.
I thanked Kip again and followed Vida, who was standing in the open doorway looking out onto Front Street. “A big wreck,” I explained, giving her a quick rundown of what I knew.
“I heard the sirens as I was finishing lunch with Maud Dodd,” Vida said. “That was the ambulance, wasn’t it? It didn’t turn at the main intersection so it must be headed for the hospital on Pine Street.”
We waited a few seconds. The siren stopped, indicating thatVida was probably right. I was about to speak when I heard a second siren. “The medic van,” I murmured. “More than one injury, and maybe a fatality.”
Vida shook her head in dismay. “That short stretch between Index and Alpine has so many narrow shoulders and sharp curves. Something must be done by the state highway department.”
“You know I’ve written several editorials urging the state to widen the road,” I said. “It’s not just speeding or drivers trying to pass other vehicles when the visibility is poor, but they crash into trees and rocks and whatever else is too close to the highway.”
“So treacherous,” Vida murmured. “Not to mention 522 on the other side of Monroe. There’s a reason it’s called ‘the Highway of Death.’” She shuddered. “The medic van sounds as if it’s going to the hospital, too. Goodness, I hope no one we know is involved.”
Once again, the siren stopped nearby. Several pedestrians had gathered along Front Street and a few others had come out of the various businesses, including the Venison Inn. One of them was Bunky Smythe, a recent addition to the USDA Forest Service. He was neither gawking nor speculating, but rushing to his official van.
I ran after him. By the time I’d covered the half-block between our office and the Venison Inn, Bunky was behind the wheel.
“What’s happening?” I yelled at him.
He swiveled to look at me and hesitated. We’d only met twice since he’d been assigned to the area in the early summer. “Ms. Lord?” he called and saw me nod. “A couple of people got killed right by the ranger station. Got to go.” He pulled out into traffic as I stepped back.
Vida had followed me. Her expression was grim. “Two dead?”
“That’s what Bunky said.”
“They don’t take dead people to hospitals.” She hurried to her Buick, which was parked next to my Honda. “I’m going to find out who’s being admitted.”
I started to say that Mitch would know, but stopped. There was no way short of physical force to keep Vida from her quest. Mitch—like the rest of us—would have to get used to our House & Home editor occasionally treading on toes.
I finished my turkey sandwich and tried to figure out the topic of my next editorial. Another Highway 2 improvement piece was timely, but none of the other rational arguments I’d used so far had done much to wring money out of the state’s budget. I culled through my file of possible subjects, but remained uninspired. After over a half-hour of futility, Mitch finally returned. He came straight into my cubbyhole, somber, but in control. “That was ugly,” he said, slumping into one of my visitors’ chairs. “The
“My, yes.” Vida’s voice was musing. “I wonder now … is this where I should start my advice column?”
“You’re going to do an advice column?” Kip asked in surprise.
Vida glanced at me. “We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Emma? Is the timing right?”
I had to think about it. “Maybe,” I hedged. “If you do, it might be better to run it in the paper.”
“If I have room,” Vida countered. “That’s often a problem. I wouldn’t want to shortchange my responses to …” She stopped and her ears seemed to prick up like a cat’s. “The sirens again. Dear me, that sounds like something very bad.” Turning swiftly, she headed into the newsroom and out to the front office.
I thanked Kip again and followed Vida, who was standing in the open doorway looking out onto Front Street. “A big wreck,” I explained, giving her a quick rundown of what I knew.
“I heard the sirens as I was finishing lunch with Maud Dodd,” Vida said. “That was the ambulance, wasn’t it? It didn’t turn at the main intersection so it must be headed for the hospital on Pine Street.”
We waited a few seconds. The siren stopped, indicating thatVida was probably right. I was about to speak when I heard a second siren. “The medic van,” I murmured. “More than one injury, and maybe a fatality.”
Vida shook her head in dismay. “That short stretch between Index and Alpine has so many narrow shoulders and sharp curves. Something must be done by the state highway department.”
“You know I’ve written several editorials urging the state to widen the road,” I said. “It’s not just speeding or drivers trying to pass other vehicles when the visibility is poor, but they crash into trees and rocks and whatever else is too close to the highway.”
“So treacherous,” Vida murmured. “Not to mention 522 on the other side of Monroe. There’s a reason it’s called ‘the Highway of Death.’” She shuddered. “The medic van sounds as if it’s going to the hospital, too. Goodness, I hope no one we know is involved.”
Once again, the siren stopped nearby. Several pedestrians had gathered along Front Street and a few others had come out of the various businesses, including the Venison Inn. One of them was Bunky Smythe, a recent addition to the USDA Forest Service. He was neither gawking nor speculating, but rushing to his official van.
I ran after him. By the time I’d covered the half-block between our office and the Venison Inn, Bunky was behind the wheel.
“What’s happening?” I yelled at him.
He swiveled to look at me and hesitated. We’d only met twice since he’d been assigned to the area in the early summer. “Ms. Lord?” he called and saw me nod. “A couple of people got killed right by the ranger station. Got to go.” He pulled out into traffic as I stepped back.
Vida had followed me. Her expression was grim. “Two dead?”
“That’s what Bunky said.”
“They don’t take dead people to hospitals.” She hurried to her Buick, which was parked next to my Honda. “I’m going to find out who’s being admitted.”
I started to say that Mitch would know, but stopped. There was no way short of physical force to keep Vida from her quest. Mitch—like the rest of us—would have to get used to our House & Home editor occasionally treading on toes.
I finished my turkey sandwich and tried to figure out the topic of my next editorial. Another Highway 2 improvement piece was timely, but none of the other rational arguments I’d used so far had done much to wring money out of the state’s budget. I culled through my file of possible subjects, but remained uninspired. After over a half-hour of futility, Mitch finally returned. He came straight into my cubbyhole, somber, but in control. “That was ugly,” he said, slumping into one of my visitors’ chairs. “The
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