Chapter 10

Thursday, June 27

Phil’s body had been released to a sister, who lived in the Amundsen family’s home town, Sandusky, Ohio. He was to be cremated in Kingston and interred in Ohio.

In Leaufroide, a memorial service had been arranged for Thursday afternoon.

Phil was not a religious practitioner, but to accommodate the sensitivities of the majority of staff and others who knew Phil, a Unitarian Universalist minister, a woman who hosted several AA meetings at her church, was enlisted to conduct the service. The eulogist was Grant, who recounted Phil’s long career in service to the rehabilitation of people enslaved by drugs and alcohol. Oddly enough, the informal wake that followed took place at a local chain restaurant renowned for their creative libations. Go figure.

The weekend came and went, and I heard nothing from the Leaufroide police.

Monday, July 1

First thing on Monday, all staff members received an e-mail from Grant announcing his resignation, effective at the end of July. As it turned out, his accumulated leave would more than cover the intervening days, and his office had already been cleaned out. In effect, Grant was already history.

Of course, the main topic of conversation in the bakery centered around the question: Now what?

At nine that morning, I placed a call on my cell phone to Chet Weaver’s cell phone. Since his office was just down the hall, it might have been that I was being a bit paranoid. But as the saying goes, even paranoids can have real enemies.

“Gary?” he said. “I thought I just saw you in your office.”

“Yeah, that’s where I am. With the door shut.”

He gave a tolerant chuckle and said, “Okay, what are you up to now? Finally looking for an AA sponsor?”

“No, this is a lunch invitation, for today, at my house.”

“Oh, but it’s spaghetti day in the bakery. I love that meat sauce.”

“I’ll have them save you some to take home. We’re having barbecued country style ribs and a salad up at the house.”

“In a half hour lunch break?”

“Yeah, probably not. We’ll call any overage a supervisory conference. Or, if you feel guilty, you can work late, whatever. So, noon okay?”

“Ah, I don’t --”

“Is this where I remind you that I’m your supervisor and can visit plagues upon your house?”

He chuckled again. “You know, that autocratic attitude of yours is wearing a bit thin.”

“Let’s hope so. Maybe we can help ease that burden.”

“Now I am intrigued.”

“You remember where we live, right?”

“You don’t want to drive up together?”

“Ah, no. And maybe don’t mention this to anybody, okay?”

“Whatever. See you a few minutes after twelve hundred.”

“Thanks, Chet.”

“Chet, you know Sheriff Plummer, right?” I’d brought Chet out to the deck, in back, after greeting him at the front door.

“Sure. He sometimes calls me when a vet gets into difficulty. Are you here for lunch, too, Sheriff?”

“Call me Tate, Chet. Actually, I’m here specifically to meet with you, but Gary has never seen a meeting that couldn’t be improved by serving food.”

Chet turned to look at me, but I made myself busy with the grilling meat.

Chet was a blocky guy of average height. His physique was that of a man who could break a seaman rating over his knee. He wore a short flat top so neatly trimmed that it looked like he’d stopped at the barber on the way up to the house. He wore a navy-blue polo shirt tucked into khaki chambray trousers and over tan desert boots. It wasn’t exactly a military look, but it had that whiff.

I had arrived early and brought the fully-cooked shoulder blade cuts from the refrigerator to the gas grill. I had pre-cooked the ribs the night before in water to which I’d added some chicken bouillon and a liquid smoke product. I called it my wet-smoking process. It worked just as well with chicken. I liked to finish the smoked-flavored meat with an appropriate barbecue sauce on the grill or under the broiler.

Greta brought out a large bowl of tossed salad greens. “Hi, Chet. Hungry?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m starting to feel like the main course.”

I said, “Very perceptive. Sit down, please. You too, Tate. These will be up in three or four minutes.”

Greta said, “We’ve got lemonade, iced tea, or cold tapwater. Name your poison.”

We gave Greta our beverage preferences and she went back into the kitchen. Tate drew out a chair and sat at the table. Our backyard looked out on a rising mountain slope. The grander view, out over town and the valley beyond, was found on the front side of the house. Even so, there were no houses behind us, just National Forest. it wasn’t too shabby for a backyard view.

Chet, looking a bit uncertain, asked, “So what’s this about?”

I said, “I’ll tell you, as soon as Greta gets back. Go ahead and sit. I promise, this will be painless. Anguishing maybe, but nothing that will require inpatient care.”

Tate said to Chet, “Ignore him. He just likes to turn everything into a drama. You should have heard him after that bonk on the head. We finally had to take him to the hospital just to get him to shut up.”

Chet gave Tate a questioning look. “You two are friends?”

“Sure, were BFFs,” Tate said, then leaned toward Chet, as if to speak in confidence, but I could hear him well enough. “It’s this program I volunteer with called Be A Friend. It’s like Big Brothers, you know, but this one pairs the volunteers with clumsy and misguided adults.”

I decided to play along. “I was so lucky when Tate chose me. He’s teaching me to shoot a gun and his wife is a really good cook, she makes cookies for me. And she’s such a jokester. She keeps whispering in my ear that, when Tate and I go shooting, I should pretend to shoot at him, but to try to miss real close.”

Greta came back with four ice-filled glasses and the pitchers of lemonade and iced tea.

With Greta on hand, Chet asked, “So what’s the big mystery?”

I was transferring the ribs to a serving platter but I paused to say, “Chet, Greta and I think you should apply for the Center’s administrator job.”

It took him a moment to process that. He said, “What, you mean Grant’s position?”

Greta said, “Yes. We think you’d be great in that that job.”

“Why me? What about one of you?”

I shook my head and made a sour face. “I’m a program guy. I like working where the rubber hits the road. And though Greta would do a bang-up job, I’d be the one forcing her out of bed to go to work every morning.

“But you, you’ve got the chops. You’ve commanded larger groups of people, and on a warship, under conditions a lot less pleasant than what we have at the Center. And you know how to deal with your superiors, in all manner of situations. You know how to say ‘aye-aye’ to their bullshit and then figure out a way to make it work.”

Greta said, “You’re all been-there-done-that, but for Gary and me it would be on-the-job training.”

Chet looked skeptical. “You don’t think Jimmy will want the job?”

I said, “We expect he will, which is why we started our own search for a better replacement. We both thought of you first thing. You’d be perfect for it. And the county and the Center would be well-served, way better than it’s been.”

He was quiet for a moment, then looked at Tate, who’d been quietly eating. “What about you? What’s your interest in this?”

Tate nodded toward me. “Better ask him.”

Chet looked back at me and I said, “Tate’s our bumblebee who is to carry the Chet pollen to the ears of certain county commissioners.”

They were all looking at me weird. “Okay, bad analogy,” I admitted. “Try this: He’s a foot in the door of county admin. He’s here to get to know you, so he can give an honest appraisal.”

Chet took a sip of his tea and said, “You’ve been thinking about this some, haven’t you?”

“Ever since the first rumor of Grant’s resignation floated last week.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve been kind of enjoying the quiet life.”

Greta asked, “Did you have the impression that Grant worked at a frantic pace?”

“Well, no, but I don’t think I’d do things like he did.”

“Exactly why we need you in that job,” I said

“I’ll give this some serious thought, but you two have to realize, there’d be no special treatment, no favorites.”

“Allow me to reiterate: exactly why we need you in that job.”

“And why Jimmy shouldn’t have it,” Greta added.

There was a long moment of silence, then Tate asked, “What kind of ships did you serve on?”

Greta and I let them talk to each other for a while. They had the service in common. Tate had been in the Air Force for six years with their military police Security Force and Chet had retired as a command master chief petty officer in the US Navy.

While they talked, Greta and I cleared the table. For a light dessert, she set out a plate of oatmeal crisp cookies. They were based on my Mom’s memorable “mistake” cookie recipe, as she’d once forgotten to put any leavener into the mix. The resulting cookies -- thin, crisp oatmeal wafers -- became my favorite.

Twenty minutes later, Greta and I were on our way back to the Center.

“Did Tate say anything?” she asked.

“No, but does it matter, I mean, to what we want to see happen?”

“Well, it would help if he was a booster, but I see your point.”

“I’m sure Tate will help. They seemed to be getting on fine, and Tate’s a quick study. He can smell bullshit with one hand tied behind his back.”

“I’m not biting, you said that on purpose.”

Tuesday, July 2

Liz was next to be brought aboard the bandwagon. She had contacts in both the County Clerk’s office and the Administrator’s office, and her husband’s prominence in the business community lent her the cachet of political influence, at least to my thinking. We hadn’t really talked since the week before, when she told us about the missing money. I hadn’t avoided her, but, when we had been in contact, during the course of the work days, I had not pressed her for information about the missing money.

Tuesday morning, she came into the bakery for a muffin and coffee at seven, still earlier than her normal seven-thirty arrival. It was the first day that Denny had started at five o’clock with me. He hadn’t been exactly chipper, but he seemed awake enough, and he had things under control; I was mostly coaching. With Denny taking over, I would soon be retiring from my six-month stint as the bakery’s mental health rehab technician.

I knew I was going to miss it. For one thing, I liked baking and cooking. I sometimes wondered if a career as a professional chef might not have suited me better than the professional do-gooder career I had chosen. On the other hand, the work of a professional chef in a successful restaurant was pretty hectic, so the appeal had some limits. Nothing would ruin an enjoyable pastime faster than being forced to do it to a tight schedule.

The other thing I’d miss about the bakery were the early morning hours. It was very peaceful, working there alone. Even with Denny, who wasn’t all that talkative first thing in the morning, I enjoyed a sense of calm and fruitful purpose, kneading yeast dough and baking muffins. Beyond that, one of the advantages of coming in at five o’clock was that I could go home at two-thirty in the afternoon. The Center’s workweek consisted of four nine-hour days, or a thirty-six hour week. Normal business hours were Monday through Thursday, eight to five-thirty.

I wanted to have a word with Liz, so I pre-empted Denny when he turned toward the service counter. “I need to talk to Liz, Denny. I’ll take care of her order.”

She and I exchanged morning greetings and she asked for a muffin and coffee. As I made change for the five dollar bill, I said, “I’d like a private word with you. Do you have five or ten minutes?”

She looked a little worried. “I can’t really say anything about that. The prosecutor doesn’t want me talking about it.”

“No, no, no. Not about your big transposition error. Something else, entirely. Grant’s position.”

With a questioning scrunch to her face and a skeptical tone, she asked, “You want that job? Are you nuts?” Then, instantly embarrassed for her professional gaff in using that slang word in reference to mental illness, she blushed and looked over at Denny. However, he was on the far side of the kitchen, his back turned to us, as he put the yeast rolls in the proofer. I knew that Denny, at this early hour, was running on auto and probably wasn’t even aware of what she’d said, if he had even been able to hear her over the noise of the exhaust fan and the dishwasher and the floor mixer.

I chuckled, “Nope, wrong again. And I doubt Denny even heard you.”

“Oh, I’m relieved, on both counts. If you’d wanted that job, I’d have had a dilemma. I’d really like to see Chet Weaver apply for it.” Then she looked worried, again. “Oh my god, you’re not going to tell me that Greta wants it, are you?”

I said, “You know, if you’d just sat down and talked with me, I could have saved you a lot of grief. Greta and I both favor Chet for the job.”

Relieved again, she said, “Oh, great. But do you know if he’s interested?”

“Liz, you’re ruining my opportunity to sit down and drink some coffee. Can we sit at a table for a couple minutes?”

She shook her head at her own roller-coaster reactions and said, “Oh, sure. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing serious enough to require your sorrow. How about our usual table?” Actually, that corner had recently become my usual table for meeting with police officers to discuss larceny and murder.

She quickly seated herself and as I sat down, she asked, “So, do you think he’s interested? Maybe you could talk to him.”

I held up my finger in a give-me-a-minute gesture. Then I said, “We had Chet up to our house for lunch yesterday. Tate was there, too. We asked Chet to apply for the job.”

“And what did he say?”

“That he’d think about it.”

“Think about it? ‘Til when?”

“He didn’t say. But then they haven’t even advertised it yet.”

“It goes on line today, and in the Kingston, and local papers for a week starting Wednesday.”

“No professional Journals?”

“No. They’re in a hurry. I think Burt has the commissioners worried about things over here -- money things, if you know what I mean.” Burt Rauch was the County Administrator. He was not known as a friend of the Center.

“They know about the transposition error?”

“I think so. But no one is talking about it.” She broke a piece off the muffin and put it in her mouth, then took a sip of coffee. She looked at me and asked, “Why did you invite Tate?”

“He and Commissioner Alcivar get along pretty well. I wanted Tate to get to know Chet better, so he could put in a good word.”

“Will he?”

“I haven’t asked him, specifically, but he knew that’s why he was there.”

“Jeez, there’s just a shitload of stuff you don’t know.”

“And don’t think I don’t know it. What about Phil’s job? Are they advertising for that?”

“Yep. In the same papers, but only for three days. The ad started on Sunday, so today’s the last day.”

“Have you seen any applications?”

She shook her head. “No, they’re going over to county.”

“How come? Why isn’t Jimmy getting them?”

She sighed. “I don’t know if it’s credible or not, but Jenny Raab, one of the new data clerks, said she heard Jimmy was applying for Phil’s position.”

“What?” I practically shouted. Even Denny turned to look. I gave him a wave and a head shake. “Why in the hell would Jimmy want to downgrade? I don’t get it.”

“I don’t know, but Jenny’s sister has my old position in the administrator’s office. She heard talk between a couple of the commissioners.”

“Ah, fuck,” I said. “That means we’ll have to break in a new clinical director. They’ll probably hire some tight-ass yahoo with shit for brains.”

She smiled. “I think that’s exactly the kind of man we need. So why don’t you apply?”

I gave her a sour look. “Gee thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to be buried in the manure heap, in middle management.”

“Well, that’s too bad because, by definition, you are not in middle management. There are no managers below you and three levels above you.”

I sighed and shook my head. “On top of everything else, you have to shatter my illusions, too?”

“The truth shall make you free,” she said, throwing one of my favorite quotes back in my face.

I slapped the tabletop three times with the palm of my hand. “Okay, okay, I’m out. Uncle. I give up. Please stop kicking me.”

Just then, Sue Takahashi arrived for her bakery shift, and Greta was close on her heels.

Greta stopped at the counter for a muffin and coffee, then came over to the table. “What’s up?” she said as she took a seat. “You look glum. Doesn’t Liz like Chet for the job?”

“No, that’s not it. She already liked him for it. Go ahead, tell her,” I said to Liz.

Liz leaned over the table toward Greta. “You know cute little Jenny, the new file clerk?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Liz said.

What the hell? I thought, as I looked from one to the other. Does Liz know about Greta’s other gender preference. Well, I wasn’t going to open that Pandora’s box. Nor did I want to participate in “locker room” talk.

Liz was saying, “Well, her sister works over in my old job in the administrator’s office.”

“Oh, yeah? Is she cute, too?”

Seeing Greta reaching for Pandora’s uncertain treasures, I said, “Could we maybe bring ourselves back on topic.”

Greta grinned at me. “We are on topic. I’ve no idea what bug flew up your nose.”

Prudence being the better part of valor ... No, that’s not right. Valor was never even a consideration. While they discussed the merits of petite versus proportioned, I excused myself, though they barely took notice. I went back to the kitchen and checked with the troops. Denny and Sue had things under control, so I hung up my apron and put on my usual short-sleeved, plaid shirt over the white pocket-T shirt, then headed for my office.

Leaving the Bakery, as I went out the hall door, I heard Greta shout, “What?” So I guess Liz had told her about Jimmy.

I had lunch with Greta. It was meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans, one of my favorites. Then Greta went and spoiled it.

She said, “Liz is right, you should apply.” She chuckled, darkly. “You could be Jimmy’s boss.”

“Jimmy’s boss?” I said. “I’d rather stick this fork in my eye.”

“Nah, you’d be good at it. Instead of working with confused mentally and emotionally ill people, you could work with a passel of people plagued with personality disorders.”

“Nice. You get extra points for the alliteration.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“‘Passel of people plagued with personality disorders.’ All those ‘P’ words.”

“Yeah, Gary, great. That illustrates my point exactly. You have an attention deficit disorder.”

“ADHD is a developmental disability, not a person -- oh, look at the squirrel,” I quipped. Then, more earnestly, “Even if what you suggest about the job is only halfway true, personality disorders are a swamp, a quagmire. I’ll sink in to my knees and when I lift my feet out of the sucking muck, my shoes will be gone.”

She was shaking her head. “Do you remember how you used to moan about what the Adult Mental Health program was like when we first got here? Think back for a moment, then think about how it is now.

“Besides revitalizing the crisis service, you have the Community Maintenance Project providing services on weekends and holidays. Nobody had even considered trying to convince the staff to do that, before.

“And do you see that guy over there?” She was pointing, unobtrusively, toward Denny. “He has a diagnosed mental illness, a serious, chronic mental illness, and he used to be on the client roster, living on SSI. And the program you supervise gave him the support he needed to now be working in a mental health tech position, and you’re the guy that hired him. Do you think Jimmy would have done anything like that when he was running the mental health program?

“And look at this bakery. It’s light years beyond that isolated church basement kitchen. Now the clients and the staff are meeting each other in normal social situations. And we have been admitting fewer people to the state hospital annually than any year since the Vinley Act came into force.

“The outpatient counselors see half again as many people and for shorter courses, they have access to psychological testing, and their ‘new’ used office furniture doesn’t look like World War Two army surplus.

“You’ve increased the program’s revenue by nearly fifty percent; Mental Health’s income is lending support to every other program the Center runs. And guess who’d get to hire the guy or gal to take over your job?”

“Et tu, Brute?”

Just after lunch, Tate called. “When do you get off work?” he wanted to know.

“Fourteen-thirty.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“So I meant to ask, how were things in Yakima?” I said, as I settled into the front seat of his smelly cruiser.

“As great a cook as Louise is, I’ve got to admit, her mother is better.” Tate and Louise had visited her mother over the weekend, leaving Friday morning. We hadn’t had much of a chance to talk after Monday’s lunch.

“You always say that, and I keep trying to imagine how that could even be possible, not without direct divine intervention. When she walks around the house, do her feet touch the floor?”

“O ye of little faith.”

“She’s doing okay, though?”

“She loves the replacement hip. She says she’s thinking about getting all her joints replaced.”

“Bionic Mother-in-Law. Watch out.”

“Anyway,” he said, changing the topic as he drove into town, “I’ve been working my way through the accumulated paper from over the weekend, and I found a message from that state OCI cop, Zach Poitier.”

He got into the turn lane for the interstate ramp and I said, “If you say so. I don’t think you’ve mentioned him to me. Uh, where are we going?”