Idaho Code Page 5

  Part of the surprise at Burt Wood’s sudden return and subsequent death was that everyone had assumed he was dead already. The conventional wisdom was that “people like that” came to no good end. Even the gossips who weren’t homophobic took note of the fact that Burt and Frank had disappeared just before the start of the AIDS epidemic. If they took off for some gay Mecca like San Francisco, what were the chances they’d escaped the plague?

  The men’s disappearance was also tied in with some monetary malfeasance. Money had gone missing from the Lewis County Assessor’s Office—a quarter of a million in property tax revenues. The money later reappeared just as mysteriously, and the mayor claimed that there’d been an accounting error. No one believed it. He was a rich man, and people just assumed that he’d made up the difference from his own pocket.

  My eyes met Sylvie’s. “I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing to say. I’m sure this has been absolute hell for you.”

  She shrugged. “It’s okay. I don’t feel much like the grieving daughter. My father was gone a long time, and the truth is my mother and I were better off without him. It was almost like attending a stranger’s funeral this morning.”

  “Still, it can’t have been easy. Your mom took you out of school after he left.”

  “She sent me to a private school in Washington. She thought it might help.”

  “I missed you. Did it help?” I added quickly.

  She shook her head. “Not really. It was only twenty-five miles from here, not far enough to make a difference. Eventually, I learned not to react when someone mentioned it. I grew a pretty thick skin. Thick enough to come back here for high school.”

  “We were moving in different crowds by then.”

  She smiled. “You and Tipper Schwartz, the dynamic duo.”

  “You and . . .” I stopped abruptly. I didn’t know who her friends were in high school. I was certainly aware of her, painfully aware, but she was someone I daydreamed about in the hallway, not someone I’d have had the nerve to approach.

  She said lightly, “I tended to keep to myself.”

  “Kids can be rotten.”

  “I don’t hold it against them. What did they know? They were just repeating what they’d heard at home.” She shut her eyes and rubbed the lids with her fingers. Then, smiling again, she leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “Do you remember playing under the kitchen table while our mothers drank herbal tea and talked about passing the ERA? We must have been about five or six.”

  I laughed. “I remember sitting under the kitchen table and eavesdropping, pretending I was Harriet the Spy. Listening to adult conversations was one of my favorite pastimes. Everything they said seemed to be in some sort of code, and I kept thinking if I listened long enough, I’d be able to figure it out.”

  Sylvie’s expression grew serious. She hesitated, and I took a long sip of my now-cold, sickeningly sweet mocha.

  “Bil, the reason I wanted to talk to you is that your brother . . .”

  I waited. She looked away from my face and down at the table.

  “Sam was in jail with my father,” she continued. “I was hoping you could tell me about that.”

  Though I should have been expecting this, I wasn’t. I might attend funerals to pick up dates, but Sylvie had more important concerns. I said, “Of course. What do you want to know?”

  She looked relieved. “I don’t know. Anything. What did he say to your brother? How long were they in the cell together? How did my father act?”

  “Well, I know that they weren’t together for long. I think it was only fifteen or twenty minutes. Your father was clearly not well when the deputies brought him in, and he collapsed shortly thereafter. I don’t know how to answer your other questions. I haven’t talked to Sam about it.”

  “You don’t know if my father said anything about where he’d been or why he came back?”

  “If he did, Sam hasn’t mentioned it. My brother had no idea the man was your father—none of us did until that report came out in the newspaper. My mother was shocked to death.” Sylvie flinched. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Unfortunate turn of phrase.”

  She waved this aside. “You don’t need to be delicate with me. I’m asking you all of this because . . .”

  I guessed what she was trying to say. “Because the autopsy suggested something wasn’t quite kosher? Let me guess, the sheriff’s department has launched an investigation, but they aren’t telling you or your mother anything. They’re just running around, asking questions and acting mysterious.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Because getting information out of them is like squeezing blood from a turnip. Whenever Sam’s arrested . . .”

  “He’s in jail today, isn’t he?”

  It was my turn to flinch. “Damn my mother and her cell phone. I tried to stop her, Sylvie. Honestly, I think she’s possessed by Satan.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. My mother thought it was funny. She said if your mother’s phone hadn’t rung, the service might have gone on forever. The minister . . .”

  “The minister wanted to shoot my mother. He gave her a look that could have curdled milk.” She laughed again and I said, “Look, why don’t I ask Sam some questions? I could find out the details for you, and then maybe we could meet again somewhere. I mean, if that’s okay with you.”

  “That would be great. I’d appreciate it.”

  Her gaze became warm, and a thousand butterflies flapped their wings in my stomach. She opened her mouth to say something else, but our fool of a waiter chose that very moment to turn up, bill pad in hand, and ask if Sylvie was ready to order. In deference to the cold, he’d put a fishing vest on over his dress. I glared at him, but he gave me the same look of studied ennui that he’d been practicing earlier. Then he looked at Sylvie, and it all fell apart.

  Oh great, I thought, it’s a straight guy in a dress. The Cowslip College School of Design was nationally famous, and as a consequence, it drew scores of the ultra-hip from their more natural urban habitats. Our waiter was clearly a design-school denizen. The goatee alone should have clued me in.

  “What can I get for you?” he drawled.

  Sylvie, thank God, seemed oblivious to his fawning. “I’ll have a double latté and a chocolate biscotti.”

  Though he had pen and pad in hand, he wrote none of this down. He just stood there, staring.

  “Thank you,” Sylvie said. “James, isn’t it?”

  He grinned like he’d won the lotto. “It’s Jamie, actually. And your name is Sylvie, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re in my theater design class.”

  “Yeah. Nice to see you. I’ll have a double latté and a chocolate biscotti. Did you want to write that down?”

  “I can remember it.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  It was a clear dismissal, but he continued to stand there.

  “Excuse me,” I said, waving to get his attention.

  “What?” he asked, giving me the briefest of glances before returning his gaze to Sylvie.

  “Would you please get this woman a coffee and biscotti before she dies of hunger and thirst?”

  Sylvie studiously avoided making eye contact. Sensing defeat, Jamie sighed heavily and moped off.

  “And another double mocha for me, please!” I called after him. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly three forty-five. Emma and Hugh were taking their own sweet time in Nilsson’s office. That was fine by me. I hoped they didn’t come out until tomorrow morning. I looked at Sylvie and smiled happily. “What a ma-roon! Prepare yourself. When Jamie gets back, he’s going to pull up a chair and set a spell.”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “What’s the matter, you don’t go for men in dresses?”

  “I don’t go for men,” she said.

  “Oh.” The butterflies came back with a vengeance. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Of course. I understood that you were . . . simil
arly inclined?”

  “Oh yeah. And you can just say lesbian. No need for euphemism, I’m right out there.” It was a wonder lightning didn’t strike me dead. “Do you mind if I ask who told you? Not that I care or anything. It isn’t a big secret.”

  “Tipper Schwartz. I ran into him last night at a Stop the Prop meeting.”

  A meeting I should have attended. That would teach me to return Tipper’s phone calls.

  “So,” I said, “how long have you been out?”

  She gazed at me intently for a moment before replying, “I’m not out completely. I haven’t told my mother yet.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I have a confession to make. I haven’t told my mother, either.”

  She seemed surprised. “Why not, if you don’t mind my asking? Your mother’s . . .”

  “Notoriously liberal? Loudly leftie? A radical freak?” I shrugged. “It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll be disinherited or anything. I guess I’m afraid I’ll be conscripted. My family already looks like the raw material for a sitcom. Black kids, white kids, adopted kids, gay kids. We should all learn to play musical instruments and travel around the country in a motley-colored school bus.”

  She leaned back in her chair, laughing. She had a big laugh, loud and infectious.

  The hopeful Jamie reappeared with her latté. My second mocha was nowhere in sight. He paused, waiting for some encouragement from Sylvie. When she didn’t give him any, he sighed heavily and scuttled off.

  “Bil,” she said, dipping the biscotti into her coffee, “when do you think you’ll get a chance to talk to Sam?”

  “This evening, I suppose. My parents are at Slinky Nilsson’s arranging his bail. They’ve been in there for nearly an hour. I’m not sure what’s taking so long.”

  “Do you think we could meet again this weekend?”

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Tomorrow if you like.”

  She thought for a moment. “Let’s make it tomorrow night. I’ve got some things to do in the morning and afternoon, but I’ll be free in time for dinner. Would you like to go out? My treat.”

  Underneath the table, my feet did a secret tap dance. “Absolutely. Anywhere, you name it.”

  “Let me think about that. It’ll have to be someplace quiet. Why don’t I call you tomorrow night around seven o’clock?”

  “555-699-6548. I could write it on a napkin for you.”

  “No need. I’ll remember it. I’ve got a head for numbers.”

  Sylvie Wood was a lesbian, and she’d asked me out to dinner. I felt a stupid grin spreading across my face and forced myself to think about something else. It probably meant nothing. She just wanted to know what Sam had to say. I’d wear my best shirt anyway, the dark blue one with the mother-of-pearl buttons. Too bad I’d wiped coffee on the leg of my good pants. I looked up from my reverie to find her staring at me.

  “Do you think my father was murdered?” she asked abruptly.

  I was taken aback. “I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “It seems more likely to me that he had some sort of accident. Who would want to murder him?”

  “You think he was poisoned by accident?” she said, ignoring my question.

  “I have no idea. Has the sheriff’s department confirmed that he was poisoned? The newspaper said that the coroner was waiting for autopsy results from Spokane.”

  “They are. There’s some sort of delay, a backlog or something.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “I asked you that, Bil, because there’s a rumor going around town that he was poisoned. Helen told me this morning.”

  “Helen who?”

  “Helen Merwin.”

  “At the funeral? What an asshole!” Too late I remembered that Helen was Sylvie’s cousin. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I’m sure Helen didn’t mean to . . .”

  Sylvie brushed this aside. “Of course she did. Helen is like that—she can’t resist poking at people until she gets a reaction.” She took a sip of her coffee and then continued in a softer voice, “Bil, please talk to Sam. See if he can remember exactly what my father said and did in that cell. Any small detail would help. I want to know if he was really poisoned, or if this is just more pointless gossip and rumor. Will you ask him?”

  I opened my mouth to say yes, but before I could reply, cold hands reached from behind me and covered my eyes. A familiar voice whispered in my ear, “Guess who?” I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I recognized that voice. Its owner was drawn to political drama like a moth to a flame. I should have known she’d come to Idaho for Proposition One. I sighed heavily and hopelessly.

  “I don’t want to guess who because I’m praying I’m wrong.” I pulled the hands away and turned around to find A. J. Josephs smiling down at me. She laughed, flashing her very white and very expensively bleached teeth.

  “As melodramatic as ever, Bil. Can’t you just say hello?”

  “What do you want, A. J.?”

  “You might ask me to sit down. I’ve been trying to reach you ever since I got here last weekend, but you’re never home. To think I came all the way from Seattle just to see you. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  I noticed then that Sylvie had pushed her chair back and picked up her helmet.

  “Don’t go,” I said quickly. “A. J. is just passing through.”

  “Well,” she hesitated. “I thought maybe . . .”

  “Please stay.” I trained a baleful eye on my grinning ex-girlfriend. “I’m sure you have other fish to fry, don’t you, A. J.?”

  “Nope, not a one.” She plopped herself down on the chair next to me. “I thought you might buy me a cup of coffee, and we could talk about old times.” She turned to Sylvie and held out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m A. J. Bil and I are . . .”

  “Not on speaking terms,” I finished.

  A. J. continued to hold out her hand. Sylvie shook it politely.

  I sighed. “Sylvie, this is Abigail Juliet. A. J., meet Sylvie Wood. Now, if you’ll just leave me alone . . .”

  “It’s like that, is it?” A. J. asked spitefully. “You certainly work faster than you used to. How long has it been, four months? Five? I’m not even cold in my grave and . . .”

  “I know you,” Sylvie spoke suddenly. “You’re with the Lesbian Avengers. You were at the Unitarian Church last night for the Stop the Prop meeting.”

  “That’s right.” A. J. shut her eyes momentarily for dramatic effect. “I’ve come here to do some political organizing. I got my undergraduate degree here at Cowslip College—that’s how I met Bil. I was about to graduate, and Bil was taking a year off after high school. She was working on the campus grounds crew, planting trees and pulling weeds. I saw her outside one day and that was it, wasn’t it?” She laughed. “We were both going on to the University of Washington in the fall, she for her bachelor’s and me for my master’s, so naturally . . .”

  “Have you finished your master’s yet?” I asked with deliberate malice. When I’d left Seattle, A. J. was on the verge of flunking out. Too many extracurricular activities.

  “I’m taking a semester off,” she replied coolly. “I’m here to bring professional order to the local yokels.”

  “You!” I sputtered. “Professional order?”

  “Well, someone has to whip these people into shape.” A. J. leaned forward, laying a proprietary hand on my arm. “You haven’t exactly stepped up to the plate, Bil. I ran into Tipper last night, and he said he hadn’t seen you for months. He said he wasn’t even sure you were still in town.”

  Nice try, Tipper. I wondered how I could ever have found that hideous, toothy grin attractive. Her teeth were not like Chiclets in a velvet case. They were like sharks’ teeth in a shoe box.

  She reached out and took the mocha from my hand. “You don’t mind, do you Bil? I’m parched.” She took a small sip. “Yuck! That’s cold. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  I thought about slapping her teeth down her throat, but before I could put my plan
into action, she suddenly leaned across the table and spoke to Sylvie. “Wait a minute. Bil said your name was Sylvie Wood. I read about your family in the newspaper. It was your father who . . .”

  “A. J.,” I spoke sharply, hoping to cut her off.

  “Oh shut up, Bil. Her father is some sort of gay martyr. The Avengers thought we might make political use of him. Idaho man, driven from his home by a bigoted society. Returns years later only to die tragically in the county jail, another casualty of homophobia.”

  “A. J.,” I said again, this time so loudly that the bohemians at the next table started from their seats. “Shut up. Once again, you’ve gone too far. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and I for one . . .”

  I never got to finish my sentence. As is always the case with my life, everything went to hell all at once. Over Sylvie’s shoulder, I saw my mother coming out of Slinky’s office. She was clearly madder than hops. Hugh was hot on her heels, sucking on his unlit pipe.

  “Christ in a pushcart!” Emma bellowed. “Have they lost their minds?”

  “Don’t start,” Hugh said. “I don’t want to know what you think. I want to hear what the county prosecutor thinks. If Sam had anything to do with that man’s death . . .”

  I didn’t hear the rest and neither did my mother. She stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, like a deer caught in the headlights. Well, more like a grizzly bear. Her eyes were fixed on a point directly in front of her. I followed her gaze across the road. The two girls who had been looking in the Goodwill window when I’d sat down at the Cowslip Café were now coming out of the Main Street Market. They’d stopped so one of them could light the other’s cigarette. I didn’t know the redhead, but I knew the brunette. She caught sight of my mother, and her sullen face registered first surprise and then fear.

  Emma didn’t hesitate. She set off across the road at what, for a middle-aged fat woman, can only be described as a breakneck pace. As she ran, she howled, “Francie Stokes! I want a word with you!”