“You
are
considering alternatives, though?”
“Like what?”
“Like—” I stopped. Milo hated it when I tried to help him do his job. I couldn’t blame him—I certainly wouldn’t want him trying to do mine—but it seemed that he was accepting the easy, if plausible, explanation. “Never mind. Can I say that you suspect robbery as a motive?”
“Not yet,” Milo replied. “It’s too soon. Possible homicide, possible arson, ongoing investigation. Keep it vague. You know the drill.”
I sighed. “Okay. Have the state’s arson experts arrived yet?”
“They got into town a couple of hours ago,” Milo replied.
I refrained from snapping at him. “Are they at the site?” I asked, jumping up to look out into the newsroom in an effort to locate Scott.
“They were there when I left half an hour ago,” the sheriff said.
It was a quarter after four. I spotted Scott coming in from the back shop. We had time for him to get a photo and a quick interview. Not that the investigators would know or tell him anything, but at least we’d have their arrival in the paper. I’d already told Scott that I wanted him to follow up every scrap of information in the Rafferty case.
There was no point in badgering Milo further. I’d mention Old Nick’s presence later, when he didn’t already have a full plate and I wasn’t facing a deadline. Scott could handle the sidebar on the arson angle. I’d just hung up the phone when Vida returned, presumably from talking to Tiffany.
“Well?” I said to her after I’d sent Scott on his way. “How’s the widow doing?”
“Tiffany’s a mess,” Vida responded, looking more disgusted than sympathetic. “All she can talk about is what’s going to happen to her and the baby.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “You know how women are when they’re pregnant. It’s all about the child they’re carrying. The rest of the world isn’t very important.”
Vida scowled at me. “Goodness! Was I like that with my three girls?” She paused, apparently thinking back to her own childbearing days. “I can’t imagine being so wrapped up in myself, especially not after the first birth. Of course, you only had one.”
“I’ve seen it in other women,” I countered. “In Tiffany’s case, it’s not as if she has a wide range of interests.”
“Perhaps.” Vida sat down at her desk. She never took notes, and it was obvious that she was anxious to write her story. It wouldn’t take long. Her two-fingered typing was faster than most people’s properly trained efforts. “This will be brief,” she asserted. “What can I say except that she’s upset and concerned for the baby and their future?”
“What about her parents, Cookie and Wayne?”
Vida harrumphed. “It’s ‘poor Tiffany’ this, ‘poor Tiffany’ that. They’re not stupid, but they haven’t got any
sense.
No wonder Tiffany’s such an addlepate. By the way, the funeral’s set for Friday, Faith Lutheran. Not that I ever heard about Tim and Tiffany attending services there. I can’t think why Reverend Nielsen allows it.”
I left Vida to her work—and her indignation. Tim and Tiffany had been married at the ski lodge by a justice of the peace from Monroe. Even though it had been March, there was still snow on the ground, and somebody had played “Winter Wonderland” on the guitar for the recessional. Tiffany had insisted that the guests call the JP “Parson Brown,” even though it was a woman and her last name was Shovelburt.
By five-fifteen, the paper was ready to be sent to Kip in the back shop for his expert final prepublication. At five-sixteen, Spencer Fleetwood strolled into my office.
“Met your deadline?” he asked in his casual manner.
“Why aren’t you at KSKY? Aren’t you a little shorthanded?”
Spence looked chagrined, and I immediately felt callous. “I’m sorry. Really. Have a seat.”
He shook his head. “I thought you might like to have a drink after
are
considering alternatives, though?”
“Like what?”
“Like—” I stopped. Milo hated it when I tried to help him do his job. I couldn’t blame him—I certainly wouldn’t want him trying to do mine—but it seemed that he was accepting the easy, if plausible, explanation. “Never mind. Can I say that you suspect robbery as a motive?”
“Not yet,” Milo replied. “It’s too soon. Possible homicide, possible arson, ongoing investigation. Keep it vague. You know the drill.”
I sighed. “Okay. Have the state’s arson experts arrived yet?”
“They got into town a couple of hours ago,” Milo replied.
I refrained from snapping at him. “Are they at the site?” I asked, jumping up to look out into the newsroom in an effort to locate Scott.
“They were there when I left half an hour ago,” the sheriff said.
It was a quarter after four. I spotted Scott coming in from the back shop. We had time for him to get a photo and a quick interview. Not that the investigators would know or tell him anything, but at least we’d have their arrival in the paper. I’d already told Scott that I wanted him to follow up every scrap of information in the Rafferty case.
There was no point in badgering Milo further. I’d mention Old Nick’s presence later, when he didn’t already have a full plate and I wasn’t facing a deadline. Scott could handle the sidebar on the arson angle. I’d just hung up the phone when Vida returned, presumably from talking to Tiffany.
“Well?” I said to her after I’d sent Scott on his way. “How’s the widow doing?”
“Tiffany’s a mess,” Vida responded, looking more disgusted than sympathetic. “All she can talk about is what’s going to happen to her and the baby.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “You know how women are when they’re pregnant. It’s all about the child they’re carrying. The rest of the world isn’t very important.”
Vida scowled at me. “Goodness! Was I like that with my three girls?” She paused, apparently thinking back to her own childbearing days. “I can’t imagine being so wrapped up in myself, especially not after the first birth. Of course, you only had one.”
“I’ve seen it in other women,” I countered. “In Tiffany’s case, it’s not as if she has a wide range of interests.”
“Perhaps.” Vida sat down at her desk. She never took notes, and it was obvious that she was anxious to write her story. It wouldn’t take long. Her two-fingered typing was faster than most people’s properly trained efforts. “This will be brief,” she asserted. “What can I say except that she’s upset and concerned for the baby and their future?”
“What about her parents, Cookie and Wayne?”
Vida harrumphed. “It’s ‘poor Tiffany’ this, ‘poor Tiffany’ that. They’re not stupid, but they haven’t got any
sense.
No wonder Tiffany’s such an addlepate. By the way, the funeral’s set for Friday, Faith Lutheran. Not that I ever heard about Tim and Tiffany attending services there. I can’t think why Reverend Nielsen allows it.”
I left Vida to her work—and her indignation. Tim and Tiffany had been married at the ski lodge by a justice of the peace from Monroe. Even though it had been March, there was still snow on the ground, and somebody had played “Winter Wonderland” on the guitar for the recessional. Tiffany had insisted that the guests call the JP “Parson Brown,” even though it was a woman and her last name was Shovelburt.
By five-fifteen, the paper was ready to be sent to Kip in the back shop for his expert final prepublication. At five-sixteen, Spencer Fleetwood strolled into my office.
“Met your deadline?” he asked in his casual manner.
“Why aren’t you at KSKY? Aren’t you a little shorthanded?”
Spence looked chagrined, and I immediately felt callous. “I’m sorry. Really. Have a seat.”
He shook his head. “I thought you might like to have a drink after
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