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“It was just a bad turn,” she reported. “Dr. Flake didn't even put an Ace bandage on it.”

I expressed my relief, waiting for Ginny to make a more exciting, if not unexpected, announcement. But she didn't. Sighing, I began opening the mail.

Carla turned in her interview with a University of Washington forestry professor, which she'd done Friday after arriving in Seattle, and which allowed her to charge the paper for mileage. At twenty-six cents a mile for a total of a hundred and seventy miles round-trip, I was out over forty-four dollars. It wasn't worth it. The forestry prof had hemmed and hawed, and Carla's conclusion was that old-growth timber was … really
old.
I insisted that she call him and try to get some kind of opinion or insight. My reporter started to argue, but must have seen the fire in my eyes. While I no longer was inclined to strangle her, I was still miffed over her breezy message about Milo.

I was getting ready to head for the sheriff's office when Murray Felton called. “Early bird and all that,” he declared. “Do I have news for you!”

“Such as?” I tried not to sound too skeptical.

“Such as your logger buddy sued Wheaton Randall for a million bucks. How's that for openers?”

“I'm not surprised,” I said as Carla ambled into the office. “Luce mentioned having sued somebody last night while we were at a meeting. Did he win?”

“The suit's still pending,” Murray replied. “Now how do you suppose an out-of-work logger paid a high-priced lawyer to file said suit?”

“I did wonder about that,” I admitted, indicating that Carla should sit. “Do you know?”

“I've got a good guess. At least four of the unhappy patients don't have the proverbial pot to etcetera. What I figure is that somebody who really had a hard-on for Wheaton backed this crippled quartet. In other words, Lovely Lady Lord, somebody was out to get him.”

I couldn't help but roll my eyes at Carla. “The old conspiracy theory, huh? Murray, I expect better of you.”

I saw Carla give a little jump. She immediately began to scribble something on a spare piece of paper.

“Hey—rebuke me not,” Murray retorted. “This stuff happens, at least in the Big City. Doctors make big bucks, they spend said bucks on many things, sometimes property. Wheaton and Ursula Randall bought and sold houses the way you and I change our underwear. You
do
change your undies, don't you, sweetheart?”

“Knock it off, Murray,” I snapped, glancing down at Carla's note, which read,
Is this the guy?
I wrote back,
Yes, but forget him.

“So now we're looking at a slightly different motive— maybe,” Murray said. “Somebody who wanted to get both Randalls, one way or another. I'm still digging. What's going on at your end?”

Carla had now written
Why?
and underlined it three times. I waved a hand, trying to tell her to wait. “Not much here, Murray. I'm going to see the sheriff as soon as I get off the phone. The only new development is that Ursula's missing shoe was found at a party site on Mount Sawyer. But that may not mean much.”

“I'll be in touch. Talk to you tonight or first thing tomorrow.” Murray rang off.

I took a deep breath. “Carla, he's a real jerk. You
wouldn't be able to stand him for five minutes. But he's trying to be helpful with this possible homicide. I think.”

Carla, however, wasn't convinced that I had her best interests at heart. “You probably have different standards. I mean, Milo Dodge isn't exactly a Nineties kind of guy.”

“That depends on what century you're talking about,” I said with a straight face. “Now I must dash. Trust me, Carla—you can do a lot better than Murray Felton. He's already losing his hair.” Halfway to the door, I remembered to tell Carla about the imminent appointment of the new community-college dean. “Call Olympia and get the details. I think his name is Talliaferro.”

“How do you spell it?” Carla called after me.

“Ask Olympia,” I shouted, and was gone.

Milo's mood had improved only marginally since breakfast. “I can't give you much,” he announced, looking as if he were trying to hide behind his NRA coffee mug.

“You've got Ursula's other shoe now,” I pointed out. “Doesn't that mean something?”

Milo put the mug down on his littered desk and sighed heavily. “That's the problem. I don't know what it means. We're still trying to build a case.”

“What kind of case?” I asked, feeling puzzled.

“Against one of these morons up on Sawyer.” Milo pushed some papers around, flicking one of them into the wastebasket. “You can't print this, but half the crew we hauled in were high on dope or alcohol or both. They've been growing marijuana up there, and one guy had an assault weapon and some grenades. I can't believe we didn't know what was going on.”

I frowned at Milo. “You mean I can't print that you're dumb? When did I ever do that?”

“Very funny,” Milo said, but he didn't crack a smile. “I'm not talking about the guns and the grass and the grenades. That's a matter of record. I mean the part about
the possibility of them being involved with Ursula. Let's say that somehow she ended up sitting by the river in her fancy clothes. One or two or twelve of these crackheads decides to mug her, only to discover too late that she hasn't brought a purse. They get pissed off, and leave Ursula to drown. End of story.”

I looked askance at Milo. “They also leave Ursula's egg-sized diamond on her finger but take one of her shoes?”

Milo shrugged. “They're dopers, drunks. You expect them to be rational?”

“It doesn't make sense.”

“Of course it doesn't.” Milo seemed less tense. Maybe talking through his so-called case had improved his spirits. One of the benefits of our newfound intimacy was that he was more inclined to candor about his job. “The problem is nailing the right perps,” Milo went on. “Somebody has to give somebody up. It'll happen, but it'll take time.”

I gave the sheriff my most sardonic look. “As it is, you have a shoe theft. At least as far as Ursula's death is concerned.”

Milo was unperturbed by my sarcasm. “We've already charged some of them with reckless endangerment. That's not because of Ursula, but some of the campers who were—”

I held up a hand. “Hold it. The way I see it, reckless endangerment is the most you could charge them with
if
they were at fault in Ursula's death.”

“That's true, but—”

“Sheriff, you haven't
got jack.
Neither do I.” Standing up, I grimaced at Milo. “Now let me get out of here to write my nonstory.”

Milo half rose from the swivel chair. “What are you going to say?”

“I don't know yet. What is there to say? 'Ursula Randall accidentally drowned in the Skykomish River Friday
night. Sheriff Milo Dodge is investigating.' What else can I say?”

Milo gave me a crooked little smile and stood up. “Not much. Keep it that way. You want to see a picture of the corpse?”

I cringed. “I do not. Why would I? Ugh!”

But for perverse reasons known only to Milo and God, the sheriff shoved an eight-by-ten glossy across the desk. “This was taken at the scene. There's something about it that bothers me. Can you figure it out?”

Since Milo was asking for help, I steeled myself and gazed at the photograph. It was grainy, dark, and not as gruesome as I'd feared. Ursula was lying facedown in the river, just as Richie Magruder had reportedly found her. She could have been a hiker, pausing for a drink of cool water. I kept staring at the picture, wondering what Milo had meant.

“The main thing that's wrong,” I finally said, “is that she's dead.”

The sheriff wasn't amused. “Keep looking. Of course I could be nuts.”

Then I saw it. “Ursula's got the left shoe on the right foot.” Excitedly I pointed to the glossy photo. “See, the ankle clasp is fastened on the inside.”

“Ah!” Milo took the photo from me and nodded several times. “That means that somebody took off her shoes—or she did, and put one of them back on the wrong foot. Weird.”

I agreed. “Why? Because they were in a hurry? Because somebody came along and they—whoever it was—had to run?”

“Could be.” Now satisfied that he hadn't been nuts, the sheriff tossed the photo onto a filing cabinet. “We'll figure it out. Maybe. By the way, I talked to Buzzy.”

“So did I.” We exchanged notes; the accounts meshed. “Ursula was supposed to come by Friday night and give Laura and Buzzy some money. But of course she never
showed.” I moved back to Milo's desk. “Do you think Ursula may have asked someone to drive her there but they got sidetracked? She'd been drinking, though not with Buzzy, and maybe she realized she shouldn't be behind the wheel.”

Milo considered. “I hope she'd figure that way. Ursula had her license pulled three months ago for one too many DWIs.”

“No kidding!” I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. “Yet she drove that Lexus around Alpine.”

“Very carefully, I imagine.” Milo gave me a dour look. “So who gave her the lift out to Buzzy's end of town?”

“Whoever left her to drown by the river,” I replied, and made my exit.

The story I wrote about Ursula Randall wasn't much longer than the abbreviated version I'd recited for Milo. Vida was handling the actual obituary, so I added only a brief paragraph of identification and the barest of details about the discovery by Richie Magruder. It was only after I'd hit the
send
key on my computer that I realized I hadn't filled Milo in on Murray Felton's latest digging. I started to phone the sheriff, but thought better of it: Murray was speculating, a pastime that Milo despised when it came to investigating crime. Again, I thought of telling Vida about our Seattle source, but my House & Home editor wasn't in a receptive mood.

“Honestly!” she fumed, plopping herself down in one of my visitors' chairs. “This Ursula thing is such a mess! I had to stop by Parker's Pharmacy just now, and I saw Billy, heading off in his squad car. He told me along what lines Milo's mind is running. If you ask me, he's been derailed.”

“You mean the theory about the losers up on Mount Sawyer?”

“Exactly. Now I asked Billy if any of our youngsters were involved.” Vida was looking very prim. “As it turns
out, none of those who were charged came from Alpine. But of course yoir know that from checking the sheriffs log.”

“Carla did the checking,” I replied as the phone rang. “But you're right—she said there were no locals.” I picked up the receiver and heard Francine Wells at the other end.

“Have you seen Betsy OToole?” she asked in a furtive voice.

“Betsy? No, not today, Francine. Why?” I arched my eyebrows at Vida, who looked as if she'd like to snatch the phone out of my hand.

“She was in here five minutes ago and she's on her way to the—Emma, could you meet me for lunch? Or better yet, in private. Your office, maybe. Alicia can watch the shop.” Francine sounded desperate.

“Sure. It's almost noon. Come on by.” My second line now glowed, and I picked it up before answering the obvious question on Vida's face.

“We've counted the votes,” Veronica Wenzler-Greene said. “The new school-board members are Debra Barton and Derek Norman.”

“Oh.” I scribbled the information down and passed it to Vida. “Was it close?”

“Fairly. Debra was a clear-cut winner, but Derek beat out Rita by only eleven votes. Laura O'Toole trailed. Badly.” The principal seemed pleased by Laura's defeat.

I took down the actual tally, thanked Ronnie, and started to say goodbye. “Hold it—this is odd. Even with everyone voting for two candidates, there are at least— what?—fifty more votes than the number of people who usually show up for the Saturday and Sunday Masses. Did the ballot box get stuffed?”

“Not precisely,” Ronnie replied in a strained voice. “But you must realize that many of the parents either aren't Catholic, or if they are, they don't attend Mass
regularly. They voted, however, by stopping in at the vestibule and picking up a ballot.”

“I see. Thanks, Ronnie. Bye.” I gazed at Vida. “The pro-private school parents—as opposed to pro-parochial school—put Derek Norman on the board. Debra Barton was the top vote-getter, no doubt because of name familiarity with the family shoe store. Rita and Laura are out.”

“Yes.” Vida was studying my scribbles. “You expect Debra to act more conservatively?”

“Maybe. I don't know her very well. You do, though.” I made a rueful little face. “How do you think she'll perform?”

“With a certain amount of integrity,” Vida answered promptly. “But she can be swayed by a stronger personality. Debra's not stupid. Not quite.”

I grew silent for a moment. “So we've got Bill Daley, Buddy Bayard, Greer Fairfax, and these two newcomers. Bill and Buddy
should
be reliable. Greer and Derek are the opposition. Neither are Catholic. Debra's the swing vote.”

“It could have been Ursula.” Vida sat back in the chair with her arms folded.

“That's true. I'd almost forgotten. She wouldn't have been swayed by anything.” The thought bothered me. “Nobody gets drowned over a school-board election, right?”

“Arthur Trewes was kidnapped in 1961 when he ran for president of Rotary Club,” Vida said blandly. “His foes hid him in the Overholt barn for two days. Arthur ended up getting very friendly with one of the pigs and made him an honorary Rotary member.”

I'd grown accustomed to the vagaries of Alpine life. “Did Arthur win?” I asked without turning a hair.

“Yes, by acclamation. The pig was voted in as secretary.” Having made her point and digested the school-board vote, Vida now backtracked to Francine. “What bee does she have in her bonnet now?”

I shook my head. “I don't know, but she'll be here any minute. If you have time, go on a scouting expedition for Betsy O'Toole. That's who put the bee in Francine's bonnet.”

“Well!” Vida was galvanized into action. “So I shall. But I haven't quite finished my wedding-and-anniversary copy. Carla should be back with the pictures from Buddy's by now.”

Carla wasn't, but Francine came rushing into the office just as Vida left. “Can I close the door?” she asked breathlessly.

No one was in the outer office at the moment, but I expected both Carla and Leo to return momentarily. “Go ahead,” I said. “Have a seat.”