Idaho Code Page 6

  Francie didn’t waste any time, either. She was off like a shot, down the street and round the corner, dragging the redhead behind her. My mother, narrowly missed by a pickup truck heading north and a motorcycle heading south, took a flying leap at the curb and wound up doing a belly flop onto the sidewalk.

  I pushed my chair back from the table, spilling cold mocha onto A. J.’s lap.

  “Goddamn it, Bil!”

  “Sorry,” I said, not pausing to savor the moment. “Gotta go!”

  I reached Emma a few seconds later.

  “Oh Bil,” she cried, bursting into tears. “They think your brother has killed someone!”

  Chapter 5

  That someone was Burt Wood. In the next two hours, I learned plenty of information to pass on to Sylvie. Somehow, though, I didn’t think it would win me any Brownie points with her. I learned that the alias Wood gave to the arresting officer was Charlie Gibb. As the officer had recently played that role in Cowslip Community Theatre’s revival of Our Town, he didn’t believe him. Wood was thrown into Sam’s cell to sober up and remember his real name. Less than an hour later, he was dead. They found out Wood’s real name via an anonymous tip.

  Contrary to my mother’s scaremongering, no one had formally accused my brother of murder; they had decided to hold him for questioning. It took a Herculean effort to squeeze this information out of Donny Smith, who was still claiming that he couldn’t talk to us because he was under orders from Lieutenant Young. When we asked to speak to Young, Donny said that he wasn’t available. My mother continued to ask questions, reading meaning into each of Donny’s furtive looks and poking him in the ribs every chance she got.

  Eventually, the county prosecutor, Alice Campbell, showed up and explained that Wood had apparently died of an overdose. The theory seemed to be that Sam had smuggled something into jail—something meaning drugs—and given it to Wood. When Emma pointed out that Sam had only been in jail with Wood for fifteen or twenty minutes, and that he was already complaining of stomach pain when they brought him in, Campbell said that it was closer to an hour, plenty of time for Sam to have given him some illicit substance. She also said that Sam was the only witness as to when exactly Wood began complaining.

  They were waiting for the complete autopsy results, including some blood tests and an analysis of Wood’s stomach contents.

  My mother smiled sourly. Without those results, she argued, they couldn’t hold Sam. Alice Campbell smiled back at her. They were holding him on the assault charge. It was a grim face-off. We knew Campbell fairly well; she was one of Naomi’s law-school cronies, a grasping yuppie with political ambitions. In the end, Sam was arraigned, and his bail was set high. My parents had to cough up a thousand dollars. Nilsson posted Sam’s bond on Saturday morning, and my mother picked him up at the county jail at ten o’clock, just in time to take him to his ten-thirty chemotherapy appointment.

  I offered to go with my mother, both to the jail and to chemo, but she refused, saying that she preferred to speak to him alone first. Emma seemed certain that the autopsy results would clear him. I wasn’t so sure. The experts in Spokane would be able to pinpoint the exact substance that had killed Burt Wood, and if it was anything Sam was known to use or suspected to sell, he was headed to the pen.

  Emma dropped me off at the Toyota dealership on the way. Hugh decided that as long as he was splashing out the cash, he might as well loan me the money for my truck repairs. I accepted, graciously. Ain’t too proud to beg is my motto. When I got back home, Ruth and Sarah were perched on the living-room sofa, and my father was asleep in Archie Bunker.

  “Just the woman we wanted to see,” said Sarah. She gestured at the recumbent Hugh. “Sleeping Beauty has not been forthcoming. What’s this about Sam taking an ax to someone?”

  “An ax?”

  “Emma left cryptic messages on our answering machines last night,” Ruth explained. “Mine said that Sam was being treated like an ax murderer. Can you tell us what’s going on?”

  “I can try.” I sat down in Edith and extended the footrest. “First, he didn’t use an ax, and it probably wasn’t murder. The cops think Sam had a stash hidden on him when he was arrested at Safeway last week. They think he passed it on to Burt Wood, who took it and died. If they can prove it, we’re probably looking at involuntary manslaughter.”

  “What was supposed to be in this stash?” Sarah asked.

  “Campbell didn’t say. Pot, heroin, Drano—who knows? We’re waiting for autopsy results.”

  Ruth nodded as if this made sense. “The lab in Spokane is backlogged right now. I sent some blood complements up there on Monday, and they haven’t come back yet. It usually only takes two or three days.”

  “Anyhow,” Sarah said, “why do they think Sam gave Wood anything? Since when has he shared dope out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “Gave, sold. The DA thinks Sam is a big dealer,” I replied. “He’s supposed to be Cowslip’s answer to the Medellin.”

  “Oh really?” she laughed. “Then why is he always borrowing money from me?”

  “You, too?” said Ruth.

  “And me three,” I added. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. I think they’re just looking for a way to get him off the streets. He’s been arrested four times since June, and now twice in seven days. You can’t blame them for trying.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you can.” Ruth stood up and stretched. “I’ve got to get going. I’m on call in the ER this weekend. Tell Emma I stopped by, and ask her to keep me posted.”

  When Sarah stood up as well, I said, “Leaving so soon? You don’t fool me, either of you. You only stopped by this morning because you knew Sam had chemo and that Emma would be out. She’s convinced you were secretly at home last night, screening your calls.”

  “I had a date,” Sarah protested.

  “And I was working,” Ruth said. “Naomi may have been screening calls, but then she has even more reason to be wary of Sam’s dramas than the rest of us. She said Emma was trying to get her to take him on as a client yesterday.”

  “True. She stuck to her guns, though. As things now stand, he’s getting a public defender.”

  “You be careful, Bil,” Sarah advised. “I know you live here now, but you’ve got to quit getting sucked in. How’s school going?”

  “Just fine. I don’t need a babysitter. Besides, if I don’t take an interest in Sam’s affairs, where will my sisters get their information? You’ll have to go right to the source.” I pushed Edith into the full reclining position, closed my eyes, and yawned.

  “Don’t you start,” Sarah laughed. “You’re just like old man narcolepsy over there.”

  “I heard that,” Hugh said.

  Half an hour after they left, the crunch of tires on gravel jarred me out of a fitful sleep. I glanced over at the chair next to me. A fly was buzzing around my father’s head. He kept on snoring.

  Sam was first through the front door. He said, “I didn’t give that guy shit” and, “Fucking stupid prosecutor” to no one in particular, then locked himself in his bedroom. Emma stopped at his closed door. Ordinarily, she would have beaten it down.

  She knocked gently. “Sam?” Silence. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  Though she looked tired, and I felt sorry for her, I didn’t say anything. My mother despises pity. I picked up my mangled Muscle & Fitness and pretended to read it.

  Emma spent the next hour whipping through the house like a tornado—she mopped, waxed, and dusted. Our place was usually a midden, and the cleanest of us could generously be described as a slattern. My mother wasn’t working off her stress, she was telegraphing a message. At some point, I got swept up in the excitement and found myself washing four days’ worth of dirty dishes. Hugh opened one eye when Emma began vacuuming around him. Otherwise, he didn’t stir. When the place was sparkling like the Crystal Palace, Emma sat down at the kitchen table and asked me to hand her the phone book. It was the first time she’d spoken to me since
she’d gotten home.

  She called Bucky’s Salvage and arranged to have the junked cars towed out of our yard.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the receiver, “would you please hang this up?”

  “I think you forgot something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Aren’t you going to call a locksmith to get Sam out of his bedroom?”

  “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”

  “You could kick the door down,” my father said, passing behind Emma on his way to the coffee pot.

  “So, the somnambulist rises,” Emma observed. “Did you have a nice nap?”

  Hugh sat down heavily, splashing coffee on the newly waxed table. “A bit noisy. Especially the vacuuming.”

  Emma nodded. “I’ll speak to the maid about that.”

  “So,” said my father, slurping loudly, “when are we going to be treated to the tale of the jailhouse corpse? Is Ted Bundy still in his bedroom?”

  I decided to shelve curiosity and make myself scarce. “Excuse me,” I said. “I have to see a man about a horse.”

  Emma waved a hand at me, irritated. “There’s no need to go haring off. Your father and I are not going to argue. He’s going to drop the subject.”

  Hugh drained his cup. “Horseshit, Emma. You can’t have it all your own way.”

  My parents rarely argue, much less fight, but when they do, it drags on for days and there’s no living with them. Hugh retreats into stone-faced silence as Emma gets more outrageous.

  The Holy Spirit descended in the form of a ringing doorbell.

  “It’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” I said happily. “I’ll get it.”

  So much for divine intervention. It was not the Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormon missionaries, or even the Girl Scouts. Instead, Granny and Helen Merwin stood on the front porch, staring like a couple of extras from Village of the Damned. Granny smiled. Helen’s expression didn’t change. She always looked at me as if I were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

  “Come in,” I said. “Watch out for the hole.”

  Granny expertly negotiated the empty space, but Helen tripped, catching the toe of her shoe on the edge of the doorframe. It dropped down into the abyss below. “Oh sh—” she began. Then she looked at my grandmother and amended it to “darn.”

  “I’ll get it,” I said, dropping to my knees and reaching into the gap. I tried not to think of the garter snakes I’d seen slithering around the steps all summer long. I closed my eyes and groped around. Luck was on my side. I found the shoe without touching anything slithery.

  Helen stood there, lopsided, her arms folded across her chest. She held out her hand, and I gave her the shoe.

  “I’ll need to rinse this off,” she sniffed.

  “Won’t that ruin the leather?” I asked, knowing full well that she was wearing cheap vinyl church pumps. Helen squinted at me. There are many, many advantages to having drag queens as friends, particularly if your own family can’t tell the difference between a tennis shoe and a Gucci loafer.

  “The bathroom is this way,” I said. “Emma, Hugh, we’ve got company!”

  At the sound of the doorbell, my father had vanished out the back door. He was on the patio now, doing a very convincing imitation of someone repairing a barbecue grill. He waved cheerfully through the window at my grandmother. Behind Granny’s back, Emma gave him the finger. Granny settled herself down at the table.

  “So,” my mother said, “can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d prefer tea. Iced if you have it.”

  “I don’t have it. How about coffee?”

  “Actually, we do have tea,” I volunteered. “It’s just not made. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  Emma glared at me. Once my mother is mad, she finds it nearly impossible to behave gracefully. Everyone within reach gets it.

  Helen came out of the bathroom, her hooves successfully re-shod. I smiled at her sweetly. She made a lemon-sucking face. She’d abandoned the Mafia widow look today for nun-in-training. Her hair was scraped back into a tight French braid, and she had on a conservative blue dress with a round white collar. Having so recently stared with lascivious intent at her good-looking cousin, I found it disconcerting to look at Helen. She was almost pretty. If she’d smiled more, or at least refrained from pulling sour faces, she might have been as attractive as Sylvie. She had a nice body, or so I suspected, anyway. I stole a look at her legs as she sat down—smooth and muscular with well-turned ankles. Nice ankles, nice body, but odder than a football bat. Helen was one of the strangest people in Cowslip, and that was going some.

  She was twenty-nine or thirty and, for time immemorial, had worked part-time in the Cowslip College Library. She was one of Sarah’s paraprofessional subordinates. Occasionally, my sister felt sorry for her and took her out to lunch. Afterward, she was always sorry she’d bothered. With a host of annoying habits to choose from, Helen had one that rose above all the others—she hummed incessantly. It was always just under her breath, and Sarah took it to be indicative of her mood. In staff meetings, she might hum “We Shall Overcome.” In crowded elevators, she hummed show tunes. Emma once asked her how her parents were doing, and Helen hummed three bars of “Send in the Clowns.”

  Now she was humming “Rock of Ages.”

  “Tea, Helen?” Granny asked.

  “Tea, yes. That would be fine.” Helen looked around our clean but less-than-well-appointed kitchen and wrinkled her nose suspiciously.

  “Do you smell something?” I asked. A snotty smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. I was about to let her have it with both barrels when Emma suddenly spoke up.

  “Is that a new hair-do, Mother?”

  Granny nodded happily. “It is. What do you think?”

  Emma took a long, appraising look. “I think,” she said slowly, “that it looks like a bullet from a Remington thirty-ought-six.”

  I tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh.

  “Don’t be silly,” my grandmother replied. “I just got it done this morning. Helen took me.”

  “Suit yourself,” Emma shrugged. “It’s fat in the front and pointed at the back.”

  “What brings you out here today, Granny?” I asked quickly.

  Granny drew herself up. “We’ve been canvassing.” She delivered this sentence as if she were announcing that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii by air.

  My mother sighed. “Another Nazi for county commissioner, I suppose.”

  “I am canvassing,” Granny continued in a throaty rumble, “to garner support for a law that will protect the children of Idaho.”

  Emma rolled her eyes. “And what sort of law will do that? Don’t tell me you’re pushing prayer in school again because you know how I feel about that. Since when do Episcopalians evangelize, anyway?”

  “I’m not evangelizing,” Granny said huffily.

  “You’re not here to save my soul, are you? I warn you, Mother, I’m an atheist. I don’t want Jesus for my personal savior, and he doesn’t want me for a sunbeam. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Helen drew in a breath and changed her tune from “Rock of Ages” to “The Old Rugged Cross.” Granny looked more confused than offended.

  “Emma, really. Helen and I are here to solicit your vote. Yours too, Bil,” she nodded at me. “We’re gathering support for Proposition One, the traditional-values initiative. I’ve got a copy of the text of it here.” She rooted around in her purse, stirring up tissues and half-sticks of gum, and finally pulled out a pamphlet.

  “We’re not interested,” I said, the blood pounding in my ears.

  “Bil’s right,” Emma agreed. “I don’t give a tinker’s cuss about your initiative. It’s sheer crackpottery.”

  “Surely you don’t support special rights for pedophiles,” Helen said.

  “Of course she doesn’t,” I snapped. “What’s that got to do with Proposition One? Look, Granny, put that pamphlet away. I’ll get you some literature from the o
ther side explaining what this thing is really all about. You’ve been bamboozled. My friend Tipper . . .”

  “Tipper Schwartz?” Helen asked, sneering.

  I glared at her. “Yes, Tipper Schwartz.”

  Somewhere along the line, Granny had lost the thread of the argument. “Tipper Schwartz. Isn’t she married to the Vice-President?”

  “That’s Tipper Gore,” Helen corrected.

  “Then who’s Tipper Schwartz? Do I know her?”

  “I doubt it,” I observed tartly. “He’s not a member of the Junior League”

  “Mother,” Emma sighed wearily, “it might not look like it, but I’m actually very busy, so if you’re finished . . .”

  “Of course,” Granny agreed without apparent rancor. She was clearly puzzling over Tipper Schwartz and that had driven everything else from cognitive. “I’ll leave this pamphlet with you. Read it when you have a chance.” She nodded significantly at me to indicate that I was included in this command.

  “No thanks, Mother. We’ve already made up our minds.”

  Granny stood up then and smiled at us. It was an automatic gesture—she always smiled when she entered a room, and she smiled when she left it, just like Miss America. “I’ll leave it here on the table. You might be thinking more clearly later on. I know you’re under some stress, Emma.”

  “What sort of stress?” my mother asked suspiciously. “What have you heard?”

  “I hope you didn’t imagine you could hide this sort of thing,” Granny replied.

  My mother and I both held our breath. If word had reached Granny that Sam was a suspect in Burt Wood’s death, then it was all over town.

  Granny pushed her chair back and gathered up her pocketbook. “Emma, I know that you have a special relationship with Sam, but this really is beyond the pale. I am your mother. And I’m Sam’s grandmother,” she added, clearly as an afterthought. “Naomi told me that he was arrested for hitting a woman. A woman. The shame of it.”

  “The shame,” Helen parroted.