I said.
“Right,” said Milo.
Tim Rafferty worked the morning shift at KSKY, and I wasn't going near the place. I'd wait to catch him after work. He and Tiffany had moved in together a year or so ago. I planned to give them both a call in the mid-afternoon.
“Such a rush,” Vida remarked that morning. “I don't understand why Brian Conley had to be shipped out of here as if he had to keep an appointment.”
“Vida,” I said with a smile, “you resent anybody who leaves Alpine, even if they happen to be dead.”
“It's unseemly,” she declared. “I'm calling Al Driggers to find out what all the hurry was about.”
Hoping that Al had recovered sufficiently from the flu to deal with Vida, I went back into my cubbyhole to handle the first phone calls of the day. Several pertained to Tim Rafferty's confession, as I knew they would. Others either complimented me or complained about the special edition that had come out the previous day. Those in favor felt that we'd done an outstanding job of keeping Alpiners apprised of local news. The critics didn't understand why we couldn't have gotten the Rafferty story into the Tuesday Extra. At least two people griped that the
Advocate
had never come out on a Tuesday, and now their whole week was out of sync. Another crank insisted that Vida couldn't spell “toilett.”
Just after eleven, Toni Andreas called to say that Alfred Svensen, known familiarly as Sven, was in town and that the arraignment would take place at the courthouse before noon. I debated whether to send Scott or to go myself. But Scott was at the sheriff's office, trying to get Jack MuUins to tell him what kind of evidence had been found at either the Hartquist or the O'Neill property. Jack, naturally, was playing it close to his chest.
Vida had finally gotten in touch with Janet Driggers. “That makes sense,” she said as I came into the newsroom to get a coffee refill. “Janet says Al still isn't feeling well, and with Oscar Nyquist's service coming up Saturday morning, they thought it best to dispatch Brian Conley as soon as possible. Oscar should have a very large turnout.”
I agreed, though I didn't see how the number of mourners would increase Al and Dan's workload. Vida announced that she was going with me to the arraignment.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” she avowed.
We arrived at the brown brick courthouse at eleven-thirty. The old-fashioned rotunda with its WPA muralsof loggers, miners, and railroad workers was crowded with curiosity seekers.
“My, my,” Vida murmured. “The Hartquists have certainly drawn a crowd.”
Most of those who milled about on the worn mosaic tile floor greeted Vida like the old friend or relative that she was. I left her to work her way through the gathering and headed straight for the courtroom. It was a drab place, with fir-paneled walls, a bank of vertical windows on the street side, and the hardest wooden benches this side of the pews at St. Mildred's.
Our superior court judge of long standing had become incapacitated the previous autumn, and in his stead was a fortyish woman originally from Monroe. Marsha Foster-Klein was her name, and a brisk demeanor was her game. She was already in her place when I slipped onto the high-backed bench that was reserved for the press. Marsha, who wore her pale blonde hair in a Dutch bob, was giving hell to a teenaged D.U.I. I didn't recognize. In a county as small as SkyCo, the judge was forced to handle everything but speeding tickets. I was informed by the bailiff that Judge Marsha had already handed down the ruling on Doc Dewey's postmortem of Brian Conley: death by foul play, by a person unknown. That came as no surprise.
Hearing a commotion nearby, I turned, half expecting to see Vida shaking off overly inquisitive pests. Instead, I spotted Spencer Fleetwood, Gucci shades in place and wired for sound.
“This is Spencer Fleetwood, live and direct from the Skykomish County courthouse,” I heard him
“Right,” said Milo.
Tim Rafferty worked the morning shift at KSKY, and I wasn't going near the place. I'd wait to catch him after work. He and Tiffany had moved in together a year or so ago. I planned to give them both a call in the mid-afternoon.
“Such a rush,” Vida remarked that morning. “I don't understand why Brian Conley had to be shipped out of here as if he had to keep an appointment.”
“Vida,” I said with a smile, “you resent anybody who leaves Alpine, even if they happen to be dead.”
“It's unseemly,” she declared. “I'm calling Al Driggers to find out what all the hurry was about.”
Hoping that Al had recovered sufficiently from the flu to deal with Vida, I went back into my cubbyhole to handle the first phone calls of the day. Several pertained to Tim Rafferty's confession, as I knew they would. Others either complimented me or complained about the special edition that had come out the previous day. Those in favor felt that we'd done an outstanding job of keeping Alpiners apprised of local news. The critics didn't understand why we couldn't have gotten the Rafferty story into the Tuesday Extra. At least two people griped that the
Advocate
had never come out on a Tuesday, and now their whole week was out of sync. Another crank insisted that Vida couldn't spell “toilett.”
Just after eleven, Toni Andreas called to say that Alfred Svensen, known familiarly as Sven, was in town and that the arraignment would take place at the courthouse before noon. I debated whether to send Scott or to go myself. But Scott was at the sheriff's office, trying to get Jack MuUins to tell him what kind of evidence had been found at either the Hartquist or the O'Neill property. Jack, naturally, was playing it close to his chest.
Vida had finally gotten in touch with Janet Driggers. “That makes sense,” she said as I came into the newsroom to get a coffee refill. “Janet says Al still isn't feeling well, and with Oscar Nyquist's service coming up Saturday morning, they thought it best to dispatch Brian Conley as soon as possible. Oscar should have a very large turnout.”
I agreed, though I didn't see how the number of mourners would increase Al and Dan's workload. Vida announced that she was going with me to the arraignment.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” she avowed.
We arrived at the brown brick courthouse at eleven-thirty. The old-fashioned rotunda with its WPA muralsof loggers, miners, and railroad workers was crowded with curiosity seekers.
“My, my,” Vida murmured. “The Hartquists have certainly drawn a crowd.”
Most of those who milled about on the worn mosaic tile floor greeted Vida like the old friend or relative that she was. I left her to work her way through the gathering and headed straight for the courtroom. It was a drab place, with fir-paneled walls, a bank of vertical windows on the street side, and the hardest wooden benches this side of the pews at St. Mildred's.
Our superior court judge of long standing had become incapacitated the previous autumn, and in his stead was a fortyish woman originally from Monroe. Marsha Foster-Klein was her name, and a brisk demeanor was her game. She was already in her place when I slipped onto the high-backed bench that was reserved for the press. Marsha, who wore her pale blonde hair in a Dutch bob, was giving hell to a teenaged D.U.I. I didn't recognize. In a county as small as SkyCo, the judge was forced to handle everything but speeding tickets. I was informed by the bailiff that Judge Marsha had already handed down the ruling on Doc Dewey's postmortem of Brian Conley: death by foul play, by a person unknown. That came as no surprise.
Hearing a commotion nearby, I turned, half expecting to see Vida shaking off overly inquisitive pests. Instead, I spotted Spencer Fleetwood, Gucci shades in place and wired for sound.
“This is Spencer Fleetwood, live and direct from the Skykomish County courthouse,” I heard him
Similar Books
