minutes,” I said, setting a place at the table. “You insist on medium well when it comes to meat.”
“Not too well done,” Milo cautioned. “I just don't want it to get up and walk out the door.”
“What about Spence?” I inquired. “Was he preening all over the place?”
Milo grimaced. “Well … not exactly. I mean, there's nobody around to preen for at the station.”
“You didn't get any hint that this was a publicity stunt?”
Milo shook his head. “No. How could it be?”
“I'm not sure,” I admitted.
“You and Spence may wind up killing each other one of these days,” Milo said with a crooked grin. “I take it you don't much like competition.”
“Mainly, it's cut into our revenue,” I replied, removing the baked potato from the microwave. “Oh, I realize that when you put out a weekly, you're going to get scooped. But it's the big stories—like Brian Conley disappearing in the first place—that really bother me.
And now this—Tim's confession. It certainly makes me suspicious that he also happens to work for Spencer Fleetwood.”
Milo nodded slowly. “I can see that. You're not hurting for money at the paper, are you?”
I sighed. “We've never had a big profit margin. Spence cutting into it doesn't help. But with Kip MacDuff using the backshop for commercial jobs, we'll get by. I'd just hate to see some of the national advertisers drop us in favor of KSKY. You know, like Safeway and Starbucks and UPS. That would really hurt.”
“I kind of like the music he plays,” Milo remarked in what I took to be a teasing manner.
I put the steak and microwaved potato on Milo's plate, then handed him the salad. “I don't. I'd forgotten how many of those songs from way back when were god-awful.”
“Better than that junk the kids listen to now,” Milo declared, slicing open his potato.
“I'm not entirely sure,” I said, sitting down at the table across from the sheriff. “The lyrics are better today. They're more innovative, more realistic.”
Milo's only response was a grunt. I sipped my drink and watched him eat. With the kitchen full of cooking smells and the crows cawing out in the cedar trees and the soft twilight at the windows, a familiar sense of comfort swept over me. For a long time, I thought I'd lost it, that friendship could never resume where desire had intervened. But this was a different kind of intimacy than the merging of bodies, and I cherished what Milo and I had managed to salvage between us.
“So tell me about Tara,” I said. “I've met her a couple of times, but I don't really know her.”
“Nice woman,” Milo said, putting what looked like about a quarter of a pound of butter on his potato. “Tara lost her husband two years ago to cancer. She was raisedin Montana on a sheep ranch. She met her husband in the Peace Corps in… I forget—one of those countries in Africa they keep renaming. Anyway, they settled in San Francisco.” He paused to eat a forkful of salad. “Her husband, Charlie, was in the banking business. He got transferred north to Seattle after a couple of years. Then, after Charlie died, Tara decided she'd had enough of city living, so she moved up here.”
“I can see that, since she was raised in the wide open spaces of Montana,” I remarked. “All that big sky. Tell me, how does a young man decide to become an undertaker? I've always wondered about that. In Al Driggers's case, he inherited the business. But what about Dan Peebles?”
Milo didn't answer until he'd chewed and swallowed a large chunk of steak. “I don't really know. I gather that both boys—Don's the other one—were a handful growing up. Charlie worked long hours and traveled quite a bit. After their father died, the boys seemed to drift. Tara talked Don into joining the navy, but I'm not sure how Dan ended up in the funeral business. He's got an A.A. degree from one of the community colleges in Seattle. Maybe he's just filling up time.”
“And graves,”
“Not too well done,” Milo cautioned. “I just don't want it to get up and walk out the door.”
“What about Spence?” I inquired. “Was he preening all over the place?”
Milo grimaced. “Well … not exactly. I mean, there's nobody around to preen for at the station.”
“You didn't get any hint that this was a publicity stunt?”
Milo shook his head. “No. How could it be?”
“I'm not sure,” I admitted.
“You and Spence may wind up killing each other one of these days,” Milo said with a crooked grin. “I take it you don't much like competition.”
“Mainly, it's cut into our revenue,” I replied, removing the baked potato from the microwave. “Oh, I realize that when you put out a weekly, you're going to get scooped. But it's the big stories—like Brian Conley disappearing in the first place—that really bother me.
And now this—Tim's confession. It certainly makes me suspicious that he also happens to work for Spencer Fleetwood.”
Milo nodded slowly. “I can see that. You're not hurting for money at the paper, are you?”
I sighed. “We've never had a big profit margin. Spence cutting into it doesn't help. But with Kip MacDuff using the backshop for commercial jobs, we'll get by. I'd just hate to see some of the national advertisers drop us in favor of KSKY. You know, like Safeway and Starbucks and UPS. That would really hurt.”
“I kind of like the music he plays,” Milo remarked in what I took to be a teasing manner.
I put the steak and microwaved potato on Milo's plate, then handed him the salad. “I don't. I'd forgotten how many of those songs from way back when were god-awful.”
“Better than that junk the kids listen to now,” Milo declared, slicing open his potato.
“I'm not entirely sure,” I said, sitting down at the table across from the sheriff. “The lyrics are better today. They're more innovative, more realistic.”
Milo's only response was a grunt. I sipped my drink and watched him eat. With the kitchen full of cooking smells and the crows cawing out in the cedar trees and the soft twilight at the windows, a familiar sense of comfort swept over me. For a long time, I thought I'd lost it, that friendship could never resume where desire had intervened. But this was a different kind of intimacy than the merging of bodies, and I cherished what Milo and I had managed to salvage between us.
“So tell me about Tara,” I said. “I've met her a couple of times, but I don't really know her.”
“Nice woman,” Milo said, putting what looked like about a quarter of a pound of butter on his potato. “Tara lost her husband two years ago to cancer. She was raisedin Montana on a sheep ranch. She met her husband in the Peace Corps in… I forget—one of those countries in Africa they keep renaming. Anyway, they settled in San Francisco.” He paused to eat a forkful of salad. “Her husband, Charlie, was in the banking business. He got transferred north to Seattle after a couple of years. Then, after Charlie died, Tara decided she'd had enough of city living, so she moved up here.”
“I can see that, since she was raised in the wide open spaces of Montana,” I remarked. “All that big sky. Tell me, how does a young man decide to become an undertaker? I've always wondered about that. In Al Driggers's case, he inherited the business. But what about Dan Peebles?”
Milo didn't answer until he'd chewed and swallowed a large chunk of steak. “I don't really know. I gather that both boys—Don's the other one—were a handful growing up. Charlie worked long hours and traveled quite a bit. After their father died, the boys seemed to drift. Tara talked Don into joining the navy, but I'm not sure how Dan ended up in the funeral business. He's got an A.A. degree from one of the community colleges in Seattle. Maybe he's just filling up time.”
“And graves,”
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