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“Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “If they were on drugs or drunk, anything's possible.”

“It's a moot point,” Milo said unhappily. “There's no way to prove Murray killed Ursula. Doc Dewey thinks
he'll survive, which means he's going to get off scot-free.”

I heartily sympathized with the sheriff. “Wasn't there
some
evidence of a struggle? He had motive, opportunity, and probably some kind of record, at least as a juvenile.”

“So?” Milo threw back the last of his Scotch. “The ME's report showed minimal bruising, which could have been caused from the rocks or the underbrush. What happened, I'm guessing, is that Ursula passed out by the river. Murray either planned it that way, or took advantage of the situation. He held her under until she was dead. Try to prove it. As for his previous record, that doesn't count, especially not if he was a kid at the time.”

“But Betsy saw them drive by,” I pointed out, getting up to refill Milo's glass.

Milo grimaced. “Betsy thought it was Doubles. She'd make a lousy witness on the stand. Did Murray admit to you that he even met Ursula, let alone killed her? Did he admit it to Doubles?”

“No,” I replied glumly. “I'm not sure Warren really believes Murray drowned Ursula. Oh, he knows what a horror the guy is, but I don't think he wants to believe that his former stepson committed murder just to get back at him for allegedly causing Alexis's death.”

With a rueful look, Milo accepted the fresh drink from me. “That's another thing—it's a reverse motive. When there's money involved, people usually kill for gain. In this case, Murray killed to prevent somebody else from getting the loot. It would sound damned odd in court.”

“Revenge isn't odd,” Vida noted. “That's the real motive. I find it most credible. I'm sure that his mother's death preyed on Murray's mind all these years. Ursula not only was going to offer Warren a life of ease, but she was taking Alexis's place. Murray must have resented that usurping of his mother's place. If you interviewed people who knew him, they might provide some enlightening information.”

“Maybe,” Milo said. “Maybe not. Felton's a head case for sure. Which means he may have kept it bottled up. It could be that he never thought of actively taking revenge on Doubles until he ran into him at that party or whatever it was.”

That struck me as likely. While Murray may have spent the last decade brooding over Alexis's tragic death, his quest for vengeance might not have manifested itself until he saw Warren again.

“He wants to be caught.” The words tumbled out of my mouth and out of the blue.

Vida and Milo stared at me. “What do you mean?” my House & Home editor demanded.

“Murray never had to show himself to anybody in Alpine—except Ursula,” I said in a rush. “Yet he wants everyone to know how clever he is. That's why he came here tonight to ask me to write that article. It wasn't just that he wanted Warren brought down, Murray also wanted the world to know how clever he was in managing it. If that meant being charged with homicide, so be it. He's never been punished for anything. A father would have disciplined him. Murray's crying out for a stern paternal hand.” I turned to Milo. “I'll bet you five bucks you could get a confession out of him. He not only wants to brag, he wants attention, he wants to finally have some limits set. When we reprimand our kids, it's because we love them. Murray has never felt loved, except by Alexis, who abandoned him as surely as his real father did. He's still a little kid, misbehaving to see if anybody cares.”

“Bull,” said Milo.

“Rubbish,” said Vida.

Neither could daunt me. “Trust me on this. Murray may not be aware of how his mind is working, it's probably all subconscious. That's why he's been a show-off all his life. It wasn't enough to be a weekly newspaper reporter, he had to pretend he was in television.”

“I thought he wanted to meet Carla,” Milo said, apparently not yet buying into my pop psychology.

“Carla was a ruse,” I said. “It was a cover to get to me. I'll bet he never heard of her until he broke into my house and found her name in
The Advocate
or in my Rolodex.”

“Really,” Vida remarked acidly, “it's a wonder Carla didn't want to meet him! He sounds just her type.”

I ignored Vida. “Come on, Milo. What have you got to lose?”

“Well …” He rubbed at one eye with the palm of his hand. “Nothing, I suppose. I'll have to wait until he's in better shape.”

“If nothing else, you can charge him with breaking and entering,” I said. “False representation, too.” But I wasn't backing down.

Vida condescended to lend me a smattering of support. “Criminals must never go unpunished. Do you want the voters to lose confidence, Milo?”

The sheriff glowered at Vida, then raised his glass. “What the hell. I can give it a shot.”

“I should hope so.” Vida set her teacup down in its saucer. “It wouldn't do for the community—or Murray Felton—to feel that there are loopholes in the law.” Vida sighed. “Such a nasty man. I can't think how his mother let him get away with being so naughty.”

I kept my mouth shut. I didn't dare tell Vida that what had made me suspicious of Murray was Verb Vancich's comment that somebody had recently reminded him of his nemesis at the sportswear shop. It had been Murray himself, all grown up, but Verb's memory had preserved him as the wretched boy trying to swipe a team jersey. I had thought that Verb meant Roger. To say as much to Vida was pointless. I might as well fantasize about Milo grilling Vida's grandson as the unrepentant perpetrator of some heinous crime. In my dreams, the rubber hose and
the thumbscrews were back. I leaned against the sofa and smiled.

Sometimes life has a strange way of resolving conundrums. Murray Felton did not confess to Milo. Instead he laughed in the sheriffs face. I lost my five-dollar bet. But meanwhile Milo had intensified his questioning of the Mount Sawyer crew. Two of them had biked down the mountain in search of weed that Friday night. They had seen Murray with Ursula. Thinking they had come upon a playful pair of lovers, the young man and the young woman from Sultan had hidden themselves in the woods, hoping to get a rush from watching riverside passion. Instead they had seen Murray return to his car, where he brought out a pair of shoes. In puzzlement, they observed him putting one of the shoes on the woman they had assumed was his willing sex partner. But the woman remained prone at the river's edge. Now disturbed, the couple called out to Murray, asking if something was wrong. Murray had bolted, jumped into his car, and driven off. He had dropped the other shoe in his wake. The young woman had picked up the shoe while the young man went down to the river. Discovering that Ursula was dead, the duo from Sultan had fled back up the logging road on their motorcycles. They had wished no involvement in what might be a capital crime. It was only during a plea-bargaining session that the truth had come out.

Milo was ecstatic. On Friday, the day after the revelation, he and I had lunch at the Venison Inn.

“Eyewitnesses, that's what it takes.” He gloated over a double cheeseburger and fries. “Circumstantial evidence will only get you so far in front of a jury.”

I was elated for the sheriff. “Does that mean you won't quit your job?” I asked with a wry little smile.

Milo's glee faded. “I have to serve out my term. Next
year, when the election rolls around, we'll see how I feel.”

That was when I unveiled my editorial campaign. Milo seemed pleased, if dubious that such changes could be made. “Look at KingCo,” he pointed out. “They haven't had an elected sheriff for years. But now they're talking about going back to the old way. The trend isn't for appointees.”

“Screw the trend,” I said. “This isn't KingCo, it's SkyCo. Let's face it, Milo—you're damned good at what you do.”

Milo made a disparaging gesture with the hand that wasn't holding the cheeseburger. “What'd I do? Let some bastard break into your house so that you could figure out he'd shoved Ursula's kisser into six inches of the Sky?”

Emphatically I shook my head. “You did what any good law-enforcement official does—you kept after possible witnesses until you found somebody who'd seen something. Who else did you interview besides the Mount Sawyer gang?”

“Sheesh.” Milo's eyes rolled up to the Venison Inn's grease-and-smoke-stained knotty-pine ceiling. “Between my deputies and me, we talked to about sixty people, forty of whom live along the route between Betsy and Jake O'Toole's house and the place on the river where Ursula was killed. Not one of those morons saw a damned thing, except Betsy, who IDed the wrong guy. Boy, does she feel like a dumb-shit.”

“A
rich
dumb-shit,” I pointed out. “She and Jake and Buzzy and Laura won't have any more money troubles. I don't know how much that matters to Jake and Betsy, but it may mean the world to Laura and Buzzy.”

“You mean Laura'll take Buzzy back?” Milo inquired between french fries.

“She already has,” I replied. “With them, it was always money, or the lack thereof. So often, that's at the root of
marital problems. Not sex, not in-laws, not indifference, but paying the bills. Unfortunately there's no quick cure for the Luccis.”

“Yeah,” Milo said in a bemused tone. “I hear Delia packed up and moved to Monroe yesterday. What the hell will she do there?”

“Who knows? It's too bad that the story about Luce suing Dr. Randall was a fabrication on Murray's part to mislead us. Money wouldn't have hurt there, either.” I sighed, thinking of Delia cast adrift on the social and economic waters of an unknown town.

“Hey.” Milo leaned forward in the booth and grabbed one of my hands. “I can't come over tonight. I've got to drive down to Bellevue to meet Tanya's boyfriend. I kind of think they may announce that they're engaged. If it weren't serious, Mulehide wouldn't have asked me to come.”

The imminent betrothal of Milo's elder daughter was sufficient reason to dump me on a Friday night. “That's fine,” I said, then realized there was a lump in my throat. “You wouldn't leave Alpine, would you?”

Milo's fingers tightened around my hand. “Let's put it like this, Emma. I wouldn't leave
you”

Ed called that night around seven-thirty. It was the old Bronsky, mired in self-pity. “I haven't heard from Dou-bleday,” he moaned. “What should I do? Try another publisher? What's wrong with those people? Don't they know a hot best-seller when they see one?”

“Ed, I tried to warn you that publishers don't read manuscripts as soon as they arrive in the mail. Especially what they call over-the-transom, which means without representation by an agent. You're going to have to wait at least—”

“Random House,” Ed broke in. “Wasn't that the one that Bennett Cerf headed up? I remember him from
What's My Line?
He was sharp. I'll bet Random House would jump at the chance to publish
Mr. Ed.”

“Well, certainly,” I said, knowing that any words of wisdom would be ignored. “Ship them a copy. They'll be agog.” Visions of dismayed junior editors danced through my head, accompanied by an epilogue in which, after several pestering phone calls from Ed, they rushed to Manhattan window ledges and threatened to hurl themselves into traffic.

“Say,” Ed remarked, apparently buoyed by my encouragement, “I have to run for the parish council after all. Did I tell you? Father Den said we broke some rules the other night.”

“I thought so,” I replied mildly. “Go for it, Ed. Father Den needs all the help he can get.” And all that he deserves, I thought. There was no pat solution for the parish problems.

“It'll be another special election,” Ed noted. “A week from Sunday, probably. Now here's my election plan— first, I'm going to hire a musical group to play outside in the parking lot before the Masses this weekend. I'll hand out banners and bumper stickers and buttons. Maybe I'll set up a little stand, with free hot dogs and popcorn and soda. Here's the slogan: Tm Onsky for Bronsky.' What do you think? Either that or, 'Better Ed Than Dead.' Then I could get a professional clown to …”

I tuned Ed out. There were enough amateur clowns in the parish community as it was. Finally, thankfully, a call came in on my second line. With what I hoped sounded like regret, I told Ed I'd better hang up and see who was calling me. It might be important, perhaps something to do with Murray Felton and Ursula's murder.

I was half-right. It had nothing to do with Ursula or Murray, but it was important. It was Adam, calling from Tuba City.

“Hi, Mom. Uncle Ben's saying Mass this weekend in a trailer. Cool, huh?”

It didn't sound cool to me. In fact, it sounded hot, especially in Arizona. “Well, I suppose it beats having a liturgy at the local truck stop.”

“He did that last week,” Adam informed me. “But Tuesday we found this really huge trailer that can hold about fifty people if you clear everything out. After Sunday Mass, we're going to officially lay the cornerstone for the new church.”

“That's wonderful,” I said, and meant it. “When are you going back to ASU?” I appreciated Adam's support for his uncle, but I was tired of having him put me off about his college courses.

“I'm not, not right now,” he replied. “Uncle Ben needs a lot of hands. It's going to take a couple of weeks or more to put up the new building. It won't be anything fancy, just a kind of hall, like the old one.”

I didn't want to discuss architecture. “Which means you'll miss the first week of classes?” Nor did I wait for an answer. “Which means you might as well skip this quarter and just loaf around the reservation? Damn it, Adam, you're too close to a degree to slough off now. Has it ever occurred to you that someday you're going to have to get
a job?

Adam made a noise that sounded like disgust. “I've got a job. Didn't I tell you … ?”

He hadn't. Not in so many words. He told me then.

I didn't want to hear it. But he told me anyway.

Milo returned from Bellevue Saturday afternoon. He wasn't keen on Tanya's fiance. “A computer type,” the sheriff declared as we lay in bed on a warm September evening. “A nerd. They met on the Internet. I don't get what she sees in him.”

“Who knows, when it comes to love?” I traced his profile with my fingers, but felt distracted. “Who knows, when it comes to kids?”