Part 22 (1/2)
”Hang on.”
Rick must have set the phone down outside. I could still hear the Erlandson boys yelling and yipping, along with an occasional word of caution from their mother. At last, Rick returned and gave me the Royces' number in Monroe.
I got their answering machine, which informed me that they were unable to take the call, but would get back to me-or whoever was calling-as soon as possible. Temporarily stymied, I wondered what I could do next to occupy myself. Nothing strenuous-it was too hot for real work. Maybe I'd write an e-mail to Ben in Milwaukee. I hadn't been in touch with my brother for over a week.
I'd just gone online when there was a knock at my open front door. I looked up from the sofa and saw Cookie Eriks, looking agitated.
”Come in,” I said, setting the laptop aside and getting up. ”Is something wrong?”
”No.” Cookie shook her head in a frantic manner. ”Not really. Could I get a gla.s.s of water?”
”Sure,” I replied, starting into the kitchen. ”This way. Don't tell me you're out walking in this heat.”
Cookie shook her head. ”My car broke down.”
I filled a gla.s.s with ice. ”Right here?”
She shook her head again. ”About a block away, at Third on Fir. I was going to the mall.”
Cookie had gone out of her way to reach the mall from her home in Icicle Creek. After filling the gla.s.s with water from the tap, I handed it to her. ”I don't get it,” I said frankly. ”Let's go back in the living room. It's cooler there, with the fan.”
Cookie flopped down into one of my easy chairs. ”I couldn't help myself. I had to drive by the house. I mean, what's left of it.”
”Oh.” That made sense, at least in terms of Cookie's route. ”Unfortunately, it's just rubble.”
”Yes.” Cookie's expression was dismal. ”It's not smoking or anything now. It's just . . . nothing.”
”Everyone feels terrible about it,” I said. ”How are you coping?”
”Not well.” Cookie regarded me as if the question was futile. It was, of course. ”Anyway, I got as far as Third and that was when the car broke down. I think the radiator overheated. May I use your phone to call Cal Vickers?”
”Sure.” I picked the receiver up from the end table and gave it to Cookie. ”Do you know his number?”
”Yes. It's an easy one to remember.”
I went in the kitchen to get a cold Pepsi while Cookie made the call. She was disconnecting when I returned.
”They're coming with the tow truck in half an hour,” she said. ”I don't need to be there. I'm glad. There's no shade where I left the car.”
”How's Tiffany?” I inquired.
”She's feeling better, I think.” Cookie sipped her water. ”She's exhausted, of course. I don't know when she'll be able to go back to work. Maybe she shouldn't.”
”Dr. Sung can advise her about that,” I said. ”It's a fairly long time until the baby arrives.”
”Well . . . yes, but . . .” Cookie's voice trailed off. ”You know Sheriff Dodge quite well, don't you?”
The question seemed guileless. ”Of course. We're friends as well as working colleagues.”
”Does he know what he's doing?”
”You mean with the homicide investigation?”
”Yes.” Cookie s.h.i.+fted uneasily in the chair. ”He came to our house twice this afternoon, asking for Wayne. The sheriff was wearing regular clothes, but he acted as if he'd come on business. I know he lives just a few doors down from us, but it seemed . . . odd. In fact, it upset me.”
”Did Milo talk to Wayne?”
”No.” Cookie lowered her eyes. ”Wayne wasn't there.”
”Then why would you be upset?”
Cookie started to take a sip of water, but the gla.s.s slipped out of her hand. It bounced on the carpet, spilling the contents all over her sandal-clad feet. ”Oh! I'm sorry! I'm so clumsy!” She bent down to retrieve the gla.s.s.
I was on my feet. ”I'll get a towel,” I said. ”Don't worry about it. In this weather, ice water probably feels good.”
”What?” Cookie picked up the gla.s.s-and dropped it again. ”Oh, no! What's wrong with me?” she wailed.
I stopped halfway to the kitchen and turned back to her. ”Hey-you've been through a terrible time. You're probably ready to collapse. Sit, take a deep breath. I'll take care of the water. The gla.s.s isn't broken.” I gave her a gentle shove into the chair. ”I'll be right back.”
I collected the gla.s.s, went to the kitchen, got out a clean gla.s.s, filled it with more ice and water, and grabbed a towel off the rack by the sink. When I returned, Cookie was crying softly.
”Go ahead,” I said, setting the gla.s.s down on the side table and putting a hand on her shoulder. ”You're ent.i.tled.”
Cookie dried her eyes with her fists and shook her head. ”I'm . . . trying to be . . . brave . . . for Tiff. She . . . needs . . . me.”
”Of course she does,” I soothed. ”But she seems to be holding up rather well.”
”She's strong,” Cookie replied, the tears staunched. ”She's tougher than she looks.”
Was there irony in Cookie's voice? Probably not, though I felt there should have been. Maybe tough wasn't the right word. Selfish could be more apt.
Cookie made no attempt to reclaim the water gla.s.s. Maybe she was afraid she'd drop it again. Instead, as I sat back down on the sofa, she leaned forward and stared at me with searching eyes. ”Why do you think the sheriff wants to talk to Wayne? What could he possibly know?”
I shrugged. ”Maybe Milo wanted to hear more about Old Nick. Maybe he's trying to figure out if Tim had any expensive sports memorabilia stored somewhere other than in the house. Maybe he's just double-checking alibis.”
”Alibis?” Cookie's body jerked into a rigid position. ”That sounds awful! As if Wayne was a suspect!”
”A poor choice of words on my part,” I said in apology. ”It's routine. I'm sure he's asked everyone connected to the family about where they were that night. Hasn't he asked you already?”
Cookie scarcely moved a muscle. ”We were home. We watched TV until we went to bed around eleven. The phone woke us up a little after midnight with the terrible news.”
She'd rehea.r.s.ed that story. Maybe it was true. ”That's what you told the sheriff?”
”Yes.” She still didn't move, except for her thin lips. Suddenly, jerkily, she got to her feet. ”I must go. Cal should be coming. I'd better ride with him to the service station.”
I followed her to the front porch. Cookie didn't turn around. She kept walking at a brisk pace, turning left at the street's edge until she was out of sight.