priest.”
I shot Milo a dirty look. “He’d be a solid guy if he were a sheriff. We come from solid stock.” I waved a hand at the dirty pots and pans in the sink and on the counters. Bowls and measuring cups and spoons and spatulas littered the counters. Two soiled dinner plates were perched precariously on a butcher block in the middle of the room. “Annie Jeanne makes quite a mess when she cooks. I assume she keeps the rest of the place clean.”
“Father Den never complained, did he?” Milo looked thoughtful. “Den’s a good guy, too. I guess Alpine got lucky when it comes to priests.”
I assumed the sheriff alluded to the sexual scandals that had been wracking the church. “Most priests are decent, holy men. How many nonpriests have you arrested over the years for misconduct?”
Milo chuckled. “At least four Boy Scout leaders, three camp counselors, and a couple of teachers. Not to mention the assorted nonprofessionals, who probably number a few dozen.” He paused, gazing at a half-eaten cheesecake on the counter. “Mmm. Chocolate cheesecake. That’s a great favorite of mine. It looks homemade.”
“It is,” I said dryly. “That’s why it’s still in the pan.”
“Funny Emma.” Milo, of course, wasn’t laughing. “Roast chicken,” he went on, pointing to a couple of small carcasses in the garbage can. “Kind of little, aren’t they?”
“They’re Cornish game hens,” I said. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”
The hazel eyes threw me a sharp look. “Yeah, in fact, you have. But it wasn’t anything about chickens.”
I ignored the remark. “What are we waiting for?”
Milo looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. “Just in case, Dwight’s coming by to take some pictures.”
“So’s Scott,” I replied, “but I’m not sure what of. I’m trying to think what we could run in the paper that wouldn’t look morbid.” I glanced toward the dining room. “Maybe after they remove Gen’s body, Scott can shoot the dining room table. Gen’s Last Supper. Or is that too ghoulish?”
“Not for me,” Milo said, “but I’m not your average sensitive reader.”
Looking grim and still holding his cell phone, Ben entered the kitchen. “I got hold of Buddy,” he said. “He’s pretty shaken up. I told him it’d be better if he and Roseanna waited until Gen was taken to Driggers Funeral Home.”
The phone rang in Ben’s hand. Milo and I kept quiet while Ben responded. “Yes. . . . You’re certain of that. . . . It’s up to you, of course. . . . No, they’re not back yet. . . . Fine, I’ll tell them.” Ben clicked off. “That was Buddy. He doesn’t want his mother sent directly to the mortuary. He says Gen has never had any heart problems and just had a complete physical a month ago over in Spokane. Buddy wants a full autopsy.”
Milo was angry. “Goddamn it, why does Buddy want to make trouble? He knows we have to ship his old lady to Everett. Doc doesn’t have the time or the equipment for a full autopsy.”
Ben offered Milo a sympathetic look. “But you have to comply, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes.” Milo’s voice was still raised along with his temper. “It’s up to the immediate family,” he continued, lowering the volume a bit. “That’s the problem. At least twice a year a survivor wants an autopsy even if the deceased has a chronic history of high blood pressure, heart trouble, or has drunk enough booze to boil six livers. It costs the county money, and it’s a pain in the ass. We’re always at the bottom of the list when we have to ask Snohomish County for help.”
“Gen wasn’t that old,” I pointed out. “I realize that you can get a clean bill of health one day and be dead the next, but I can’t blame Buddy for wanting to know what happened.”
Milo glared at me, and I think he said “candy ass” under his breath. Judging from my brother’s slight smirk, I knew it was something derogatory.
Scott, Del, and
I shot Milo a dirty look. “He’d be a solid guy if he were a sheriff. We come from solid stock.” I waved a hand at the dirty pots and pans in the sink and on the counters. Bowls and measuring cups and spoons and spatulas littered the counters. Two soiled dinner plates were perched precariously on a butcher block in the middle of the room. “Annie Jeanne makes quite a mess when she cooks. I assume she keeps the rest of the place clean.”
“Father Den never complained, did he?” Milo looked thoughtful. “Den’s a good guy, too. I guess Alpine got lucky when it comes to priests.”
I assumed the sheriff alluded to the sexual scandals that had been wracking the church. “Most priests are decent, holy men. How many nonpriests have you arrested over the years for misconduct?”
Milo chuckled. “At least four Boy Scout leaders, three camp counselors, and a couple of teachers. Not to mention the assorted nonprofessionals, who probably number a few dozen.” He paused, gazing at a half-eaten cheesecake on the counter. “Mmm. Chocolate cheesecake. That’s a great favorite of mine. It looks homemade.”
“It is,” I said dryly. “That’s why it’s still in the pan.”
“Funny Emma.” Milo, of course, wasn’t laughing. “Roast chicken,” he went on, pointing to a couple of small carcasses in the garbage can. “Kind of little, aren’t they?”
“They’re Cornish game hens,” I said. “Haven’t I taught you anything?”
The hazel eyes threw me a sharp look. “Yeah, in fact, you have. But it wasn’t anything about chickens.”
I ignored the remark. “What are we waiting for?”
Milo looked as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. “Just in case, Dwight’s coming by to take some pictures.”
“So’s Scott,” I replied, “but I’m not sure what of. I’m trying to think what we could run in the paper that wouldn’t look morbid.” I glanced toward the dining room. “Maybe after they remove Gen’s body, Scott can shoot the dining room table. Gen’s Last Supper. Or is that too ghoulish?”
“Not for me,” Milo said, “but I’m not your average sensitive reader.”
Looking grim and still holding his cell phone, Ben entered the kitchen. “I got hold of Buddy,” he said. “He’s pretty shaken up. I told him it’d be better if he and Roseanna waited until Gen was taken to Driggers Funeral Home.”
The phone rang in Ben’s hand. Milo and I kept quiet while Ben responded. “Yes. . . . You’re certain of that. . . . It’s up to you, of course. . . . No, they’re not back yet. . . . Fine, I’ll tell them.” Ben clicked off. “That was Buddy. He doesn’t want his mother sent directly to the mortuary. He says Gen has never had any heart problems and just had a complete physical a month ago over in Spokane. Buddy wants a full autopsy.”
Milo was angry. “Goddamn it, why does Buddy want to make trouble? He knows we have to ship his old lady to Everett. Doc doesn’t have the time or the equipment for a full autopsy.”
Ben offered Milo a sympathetic look. “But you have to comply, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes.” Milo’s voice was still raised along with his temper. “It’s up to the immediate family,” he continued, lowering the volume a bit. “That’s the problem. At least twice a year a survivor wants an autopsy even if the deceased has a chronic history of high blood pressure, heart trouble, or has drunk enough booze to boil six livers. It costs the county money, and it’s a pain in the ass. We’re always at the bottom of the list when we have to ask Snohomish County for help.”
“Gen wasn’t that old,” I pointed out. “I realize that you can get a clean bill of health one day and be dead the next, but I can’t blame Buddy for wanting to know what happened.”
Milo glared at me, and I think he said “candy ass” under his breath. Judging from my brother’s slight smirk, I knew it was something derogatory.
Scott, Del, and
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