might’ve been made because Doc Dewey and Dr. Sung couldn’t handle more than two emergency cases.”
“Maybe.” He gazed at the screen of his cell phone, poked something on it and turned to his computer monitor. “I asked one of the medics—Amundson?” He saw me nod. “I asked him if this O’Toole kid was an experienced driver. Amundson didn’t know.”
“Frankly, I don’t know what the O’Toole boys do for a living other than working as courtesy clerks at the Grocery Basket. Maybe he was making a produce run for his dad at the store.”
“Want me to check it out?” Mitch asked.
I paused. “Yes.” My reporter’s inquiry would be strictly business, more discreet than if I pried into the O’Tooles’ private life.
“I’ll go in person,” Mitch said, getting up and grabbing his jacket.
Before he could reach the door, Vida tromped into the newsroom. “Well now!” she exclaimed, fists on hips and black patent-leather handbag dangling from one wrist. “I ran into my nephew Billy at the hospital. He’d gone there to check on the Wenatchee couple who were involved in the accident.” She took a deep breath. “It seems that Mike O’Toole was driving that produce truck because any pre-weekend run was usually made by Clive Berentsen. Doesn’t that beat all?”
SEVEN
“M IKE O’T OOLE’S A TRUCK DRIVER?” I EXCLAIMED AFTER taking in Vida’s announcement. “What do you mean by ‘pre-weekend run’? I thought most of the Grocery Basket’s deliveries were made by truckers outside the area.”
“They are,” Vida said, taking off her coat and sitting down at her desk. “But surely you know that the O’Tooles have a truck they use when they run out of certain items and have to restock, especially in the winter when Stevens Pass is closed to drivers from the eastern side of the mountains. In this case, the store had run out of pumpkins and other gourds. Apparently, half the town is getting ready early for Halloween.”
In my mind’s eye, I pictured a white truck with an overflowing wicker grocery basket painted on the cab’s doors. “Of course,” I said. “I’ve seen it parked behind the store a zillion times. It’s old. I suppose I thought it was a bit of nostalgia, or maybe for local customer deliveries.”
“It
is
old,” Vida replied. “It belonged to Jake and Buzzy’s father, Millard, who started the store years ago. But the truck’s still used and well maintained. I believe it’s some kind of Dodge.”
Mitch nodded. “It was a 1968 Dodge Fargo A100. As a guy from the Motor City, I can tell you that if the truck’s been kept up, it’s worth at least five grand. Or was, until it went in the river.”
Vida leaned forward, her gray eyes suddenly cold as she stared at Mitch. “Trucks can be replaced. Children cannot. Consider how the O’Tooles must feel right now.”
Mitch’s own gaze didn’t waver. “I’d rather not.” He turned away and studied his computer monitor.
Vida shot me a questioning look. I shrugged and went into my cubbyhole. Five minutes later, Leo returned.
“Fleetwood had taken off for the accident site before I could get to the station,” Leo said, standing in the doorway to my office. “I waited around for him and when he didn’t show after fifteen minutes, his engineer-of-the-month from the college told me his boss was trying to do a remote, but was having problems. I left, but not before I asked the kid if a Ms. Weaver had visited KSKY in the last couple of days. He—his name is Cole Something—said she’d come by last night but Fleetwood was gone so she ‘floated,’ as the kid described it, out the door.”
“Not a bad description of Jica Weaver,” I remarked. “Maybe Cole has a future in journalism. If there
is
a future these days.”
“Sad but true,” Leo said, coming closer and leaning on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs. “By chance, I decided to stop by the Grocery Basket to check on their plans for the autumn
“Maybe.” He gazed at the screen of his cell phone, poked something on it and turned to his computer monitor. “I asked one of the medics—Amundson?” He saw me nod. “I asked him if this O’Toole kid was an experienced driver. Amundson didn’t know.”
“Frankly, I don’t know what the O’Toole boys do for a living other than working as courtesy clerks at the Grocery Basket. Maybe he was making a produce run for his dad at the store.”
“Want me to check it out?” Mitch asked.
I paused. “Yes.” My reporter’s inquiry would be strictly business, more discreet than if I pried into the O’Tooles’ private life.
“I’ll go in person,” Mitch said, getting up and grabbing his jacket.
Before he could reach the door, Vida tromped into the newsroom. “Well now!” she exclaimed, fists on hips and black patent-leather handbag dangling from one wrist. “I ran into my nephew Billy at the hospital. He’d gone there to check on the Wenatchee couple who were involved in the accident.” She took a deep breath. “It seems that Mike O’Toole was driving that produce truck because any pre-weekend run was usually made by Clive Berentsen. Doesn’t that beat all?”
SEVEN
“M IKE O’T OOLE’S A TRUCK DRIVER?” I EXCLAIMED AFTER taking in Vida’s announcement. “What do you mean by ‘pre-weekend run’? I thought most of the Grocery Basket’s deliveries were made by truckers outside the area.”
“They are,” Vida said, taking off her coat and sitting down at her desk. “But surely you know that the O’Tooles have a truck they use when they run out of certain items and have to restock, especially in the winter when Stevens Pass is closed to drivers from the eastern side of the mountains. In this case, the store had run out of pumpkins and other gourds. Apparently, half the town is getting ready early for Halloween.”
In my mind’s eye, I pictured a white truck with an overflowing wicker grocery basket painted on the cab’s doors. “Of course,” I said. “I’ve seen it parked behind the store a zillion times. It’s old. I suppose I thought it was a bit of nostalgia, or maybe for local customer deliveries.”
“It
is
old,” Vida replied. “It belonged to Jake and Buzzy’s father, Millard, who started the store years ago. But the truck’s still used and well maintained. I believe it’s some kind of Dodge.”
Mitch nodded. “It was a 1968 Dodge Fargo A100. As a guy from the Motor City, I can tell you that if the truck’s been kept up, it’s worth at least five grand. Or was, until it went in the river.”
Vida leaned forward, her gray eyes suddenly cold as she stared at Mitch. “Trucks can be replaced. Children cannot. Consider how the O’Tooles must feel right now.”
Mitch’s own gaze didn’t waver. “I’d rather not.” He turned away and studied his computer monitor.
Vida shot me a questioning look. I shrugged and went into my cubbyhole. Five minutes later, Leo returned.
“Fleetwood had taken off for the accident site before I could get to the station,” Leo said, standing in the doorway to my office. “I waited around for him and when he didn’t show after fifteen minutes, his engineer-of-the-month from the college told me his boss was trying to do a remote, but was having problems. I left, but not before I asked the kid if a Ms. Weaver had visited KSKY in the last couple of days. He—his name is Cole Something—said she’d come by last night but Fleetwood was gone so she ‘floated,’ as the kid described it, out the door.”
“Not a bad description of Jica Weaver,” I remarked. “Maybe Cole has a future in journalism. If there
is
a future these days.”
“Sad but true,” Leo said, coming closer and leaning on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs. “By chance, I decided to stop by the Grocery Basket to check on their plans for the autumn
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