chagrin to curiosity. “How so?”
I went back over the conversation. “Samantha’s still a minor. I’m wondering who the boyfriend is. Maybe it’s time you called on the parents and did a bigger story about why they moved to Alpine.”
Vida nodded. “Very wise of them to settle here, of course. The one thing I do recall from a very brief phone conversation with Mrs. Ellison was that her husband had been hired by the railroad. She was hoping to get work in town as an LPN. I assume both parents aren’t home now?”
“That’s right. There’s a younger brother, too.” I handed her the phone number I’d written down on a Post-it note. “Maybe you could call them this evening?”
“Of course,” she agreed. “There’s a potluck at the Presbyterian church, but I’ll do it after I get home. We never stay late. I made a sausage casserole that sounds very enticing. It came out of my file.”
Vida might have added the file—or made the dish
with
a file. Her talent for cooking ended with “Face the stove.”
“By the way,” I said as Vida appeared to be getting out of the chair, “Tanya stopped by last night with the Johnson girl’s older sister, now Deanna Engstrom. Do you know the mother? Her current married name is Moro.” For the sake of Vida’s feelings, I avoided mentioning that she lived in the trailer park. “She’s Roy Everson’s sister.”
“Yes,” Vida murmured, “so she is. I’d forgotten that Wanda made an unfortunate second marriage. When they were young, my eldest daughter, Meg, and Wanda were rather close.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “My, my—it’s no wonder you’re following up on the Ellison girl. I do see a pattern, faint as it is. I can’t recall any runaways reported for some time. Before you arrived, when logging had been curtailed and so many families were devastated by the loss of work, there was quite a rash of runaway teens. Some came back, some never did. Very sad.”
“Alpine was still trying to recover when I got here,” I reminded Vida. “Any chance you might pay Wanda a call?”
Vida stood up. “Well … I’ll think on that.” She exited my office.
At least I’d distracted her from whatever was on her mind. Vida used everything short of waterboarding to elicit information from other people, but when it came to her own life, she was agonizingly discreet.
Mitch showed up shortly before eleven-thirty. “Some kind of virus,” he said, standing in my doorway and shrugging out of his jacket. “Doc Dewey told us there isn’t much he can do. It just has to run its course.”
I nodded. “How is she feeling otherwise?”
Mitch brightened a bit. “Better, I think. She’s been weaving more lately and has taken a couple of orders. Of course, she’s fretting about the virus keeping her from finishing the projects on time. I hope she’s feeling good by the weekend. We plan on driving to Monroe to see Troy.”
The subject of the Laskeys’ imprisoned son was touchy, so I merely said I hoped they could do that. I followed up by telling Mitch that Vida was doing background on the alleged runaways. If there was more to it, he’d take over the hard news. I’d already zapped him the items from the sheriff’s log.
I suddenly remembered to ask about the sports car driver who might or might not still be alive in Monroe’s hospital.
“I checked while I was waiting for Brenda at the clinic,” Mitch replied. “He’s been upgraded to stable. Maybe he’ll make it.”
“Good,” I said, not admitting that Milo hadn’t known—or cared. For the sheriff, the accident victim was just another non-local who didn’t understand the hazards of driving on Highway 2.
A few minutes later, Milo called me. “You won’t believethis,” he said, “but your idiot neighbor Laverne Nelson filed a complaint about the noise from the construction going on at your house.”
“What?” I shrieked. Before he could respond, I kept talking: “In case you’ve
I went back over the conversation. “Samantha’s still a minor. I’m wondering who the boyfriend is. Maybe it’s time you called on the parents and did a bigger story about why they moved to Alpine.”
Vida nodded. “Very wise of them to settle here, of course. The one thing I do recall from a very brief phone conversation with Mrs. Ellison was that her husband had been hired by the railroad. She was hoping to get work in town as an LPN. I assume both parents aren’t home now?”
“That’s right. There’s a younger brother, too.” I handed her the phone number I’d written down on a Post-it note. “Maybe you could call them this evening?”
“Of course,” she agreed. “There’s a potluck at the Presbyterian church, but I’ll do it after I get home. We never stay late. I made a sausage casserole that sounds very enticing. It came out of my file.”
Vida might have added the file—or made the dish
with
a file. Her talent for cooking ended with “Face the stove.”
“By the way,” I said as Vida appeared to be getting out of the chair, “Tanya stopped by last night with the Johnson girl’s older sister, now Deanna Engstrom. Do you know the mother? Her current married name is Moro.” For the sake of Vida’s feelings, I avoided mentioning that she lived in the trailer park. “She’s Roy Everson’s sister.”
“Yes,” Vida murmured, “so she is. I’d forgotten that Wanda made an unfortunate second marriage. When they were young, my eldest daughter, Meg, and Wanda were rather close.” She paused, looking thoughtful. “My, my—it’s no wonder you’re following up on the Ellison girl. I do see a pattern, faint as it is. I can’t recall any runaways reported for some time. Before you arrived, when logging had been curtailed and so many families were devastated by the loss of work, there was quite a rash of runaway teens. Some came back, some never did. Very sad.”
“Alpine was still trying to recover when I got here,” I reminded Vida. “Any chance you might pay Wanda a call?”
Vida stood up. “Well … I’ll think on that.” She exited my office.
At least I’d distracted her from whatever was on her mind. Vida used everything short of waterboarding to elicit information from other people, but when it came to her own life, she was agonizingly discreet.
Mitch showed up shortly before eleven-thirty. “Some kind of virus,” he said, standing in my doorway and shrugging out of his jacket. “Doc Dewey told us there isn’t much he can do. It just has to run its course.”
I nodded. “How is she feeling otherwise?”
Mitch brightened a bit. “Better, I think. She’s been weaving more lately and has taken a couple of orders. Of course, she’s fretting about the virus keeping her from finishing the projects on time. I hope she’s feeling good by the weekend. We plan on driving to Monroe to see Troy.”
The subject of the Laskeys’ imprisoned son was touchy, so I merely said I hoped they could do that. I followed up by telling Mitch that Vida was doing background on the alleged runaways. If there was more to it, he’d take over the hard news. I’d already zapped him the items from the sheriff’s log.
I suddenly remembered to ask about the sports car driver who might or might not still be alive in Monroe’s hospital.
“I checked while I was waiting for Brenda at the clinic,” Mitch replied. “He’s been upgraded to stable. Maybe he’ll make it.”
“Good,” I said, not admitting that Milo hadn’t known—or cared. For the sheriff, the accident victim was just another non-local who didn’t understand the hazards of driving on Highway 2.
A few minutes later, Milo called me. “You won’t believethis,” he said, “but your idiot neighbor Laverne Nelson filed a complaint about the noise from the construction going on at your house.”
“What?” I shrieked. Before he could respond, I kept talking: “In case you’ve
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