Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (12 page)

“That's it?” I said, noting that Vida was filling the goodies tray only with various types of muffins. No wonder Mitch, Leo, and Kip were hanging back.

“You expected Ren's bio?” Janet retorted. “Ah! Here comes Carrie Starr. I love her. She always wants to go somewhere with or without Dr. Bob. Let me know if you and Dodge decide to have a honeymoon. Some people figure you've been on one for at least ten years. Why not? I'm damned envious.” She greeted the dentist's wife and rang off.

“…more wholesome and much healthier,” I heard Vida lecture my trio of male staffers. “You may be slim, Mitch, but you must consider your arteries.” With that, she adjusted the beribboned straw boater and stomped off to her desk.

Great
, I thought,
now my employees will not only be glum, but they'll mutiny
. I felt like Captain Bligh.

Leo, however, was undaunted. “Say, Duchess, what kind of technical difficulties did you have last night on your show? Couldn't Fleetwood help you out?”

“Fie on you, Leo,” Vida snapped. “Spencer wasn't at the station. Presumably he was comforting Rosalie Reed.”

I leaned back further in my chair as both staffers moved off to their respective desks. I heard Leo ask why Dr. Reed needed comfort. Vida replied that things were a bit unsettled at RestHaven, but added archly that she wouldn't dream of prying. Leo shut up.

Even if I'd been hungry, my perverse nature wouldn't permit me to partake of Vida's muffins. I've nothing against muffins, but in an ornery-off, I can give my House & Home editor
a run for her money—or her muffins. I did, however, have to inform her about Hortense Cobb's funeral. I emerged from my office and marched to her desk.

“Thursday?” Vida said after I'd relayed the message. “Very well. The rest of the Cobb family must be poor at organization.” She turned to the stack of mail Alison had just delivered.

I went back to my office. Mitch showed up at nine-thirty to tell me what I already knew about the sheriff's log. He asked for my take on what he termed the Stalker. “Is it a story,” he inquired, “or hysteria?”

“Stalker?” I echoed. “That's a bit strong. He's been reported as lurking, though. Did the sheriff have anything new about the guy?”

Mitch shook his head. “Nothing solid. Mrs. Everson thought a man had been following her in an older model van. She couldn't give a decent description of him or the vehicle. It happened last night when she was coming home from a meeting at the Methodist Church.”

“Bebe Everson is prone to hysteria,” I said. “Especially if it involves anything to do with her long-missing mother-in-law, Myrtle Everson.” I lowered my voice. “Ask Vida why things are unsettled at RestHaven. I'm already off to a bad start with her. By the way, are you going to do the native-roots series?”

“If you think it'll play,” Mitch replied. “I started putting together a list of locals who have different ethnic backgrounds. So far I've got five blacks including your pastor Father Kelly, six Asians—Deputy Fong being one of them—nine Hispanics, mostly college students, and the longtime Irish, Greek, and Italian families.”

I nodded. “Then go with it. Buddy Bayard is French, by the way. So is Crazy Eights Neffel, whose real last name is Neville, but I suspect he'll tell you he came from outer space and is really a Neptunian.”

“I'll leave him off the list,” Mitch said. “Do you think it's a series? Three stories, maybe?”

“Why not? It's good filler and you can use family photos.”

My reporter started to turn away, but stopped. “Got a question on the Greek family—Doukas. I've heard Vida mention the name, but I found only a listing for Simon Doukas, the attorney. Are there any other Doukases still around? I got the impression the family was a bunch of big movers-and-shakers at some point.”

“Simon's the son of Neeny Doukas,” I explained. “Years ago the family was quite large and owned half the town. Neeny's been dead for years, though he was still here when I moved to Alpine. His first wife had died and he remarried before moving to Palm Springs. I don't recall any children besides Simon.” I grimaced. “I'm not on good terms with him. We got off to a bad start.” There was no point in mentioning that Simon had called me a whore because I'd arrived in Alpine with a son and no sad story of a former husband.

Mitch gestured in Vida's direction. “So I go to the primary source?”

“Who else?” I said. “There may've been other kids who moved away. Like a lot of rich, powerful men, Neeny was hard to get along with.”

“Right,” Mitch said. “Coming from Detroit, I'm well acquainted with robber barons and corrupt labor leaders.” Upon that note, he headed straight to his desk, apparently disdaining the muffins.

Since Mitch was doing the ethnic series, I figured I might as well take on Desmond Ellerbee. Not wanting to pester Rosemary, I called Directory Assistance for the number and was rather surprised that he was listed. I thought an L.A. film-script writer might seek anonymity while the creative juices were flowing.

“I'm flattered,” he declared after I introduced myself. “I didn't think anyone up here in this woodsy world would care about Hollywood types.”

“We had a movie filmed here several years ago,” I said. “A local young woman was the costar. We're not completely primitive. I thought perhaps I could stop by this afternoon.”

“Yes,” Des said in his pleasant voice. “Why not? I'm making dinner for Rosemary, but it'll be a simple meal, fresh and organic.”

I translated that as something my husband would proclaim fit only for goats to munch in the backyard. After assuring Des that Rosemary would be delighted with Southern California cuisine, we settled on two o'clock for the interview. He asked if I needed directions; I told him I'd once visited a previous occupant. I didn't add that my hostess had been murdered shortly after I'd left. I'd leave that detail to Rosemary over glasses of California Pinot Grigio.

Shortly before noon, I noted that my staff was on hand, so I made an announcement. Summoning Alison from the front office and Kip from the back shop, I informed my curious employees that I was breaking precedent by not opening the office on Monday, the Fourth of July.

“Don't worry,” I went on, seeing Leo looking puzzled, Mitch faintly bewildered, and Vida staring at me as if I'd lost my mind, “you'll get paid for the day off.”

No one spoke for at least thirty seconds. I was about to return to my office when Vida broke the silence: “Well now. I suppose you and your husband are taking the weekend off for your long-delayed honeymoon. Am I correct in assuming next week's edition will be only eight pages?”

“No, on both counts,” I asserted. “We'll go at least twelve, maybe sixteen. Milo has to work this weekend.” I turned on my heel and beat a retreat to my sanctuary. I heard
someone—probably Leo, being the only one who'd dare—utter a stifled laugh.

Damn
, I thought, sitting back down at my desk.
Nothing cheers Vida these days
. I thought she'd be pleased to have a free day with Dippy or Buck or just working in her garden. Maybe I'd have to crawl to her on my hands and knees before she'd come around. What really troubled me was that even the most abject apology might fail. I vowed I'd do whatever it took. The status quo was untenable.
The Alpine Advocate
without Vida was unthinkable.

Thus, I tried not to think about it. But of course I could think of little else.

T
he morning had taken its toll on my appetite. I'd do my good deed for the day by visiting Ren Rawlings at RestHaven. I'd interviewed emotionally disturbed patients a few times when I worked on
The Oregonian
. Generally, my subjects had been more cheerful than their austere surroundings. At least the local facility was new. For comic relief, I could always recall its days as Casa de Bronska.

Upon arriving at RestHaven, the first person I recognized was Iain Farrell, who was heading toward the entrance. He paused a few feet away, looking puzzled. “Ms. Lord?” he said, sounding unsure.

“Yes,” I replied. “I'm here to see Ren Rawlings. How is she today?”

His heavy, dark eyebrows came together. “You're a friend?”

“I know Ren,” I said, feeling my face tighten. “She called last night to ask me to visit her.”

“I see.” Farrell's gray eyes veered off toward the main desk. “Very well. I must ask you to keep your stay brief. Nor should you excite her. She's in a very fragile place.”

I refrained from asking if that “place” was made of French crystal or English bone china. “Is she on medication?”

He made an impatient gesture with his right hand. “A mild
sedative. Merely to calm her while we ascertain the proper treatment. Excuse me, I'm late for a luncheon engagement.” He brushed past me in his haste to exit the premises.

The serious young Samoan woman had been replaced by a freckled-faced young man with overlarge ears. “Unit Six,” he said, checking his monitor. “Please turn left on the second floor.”

I thanked him and headed for one of the two passenger elevators. As lazy as the Bronskys were, I marveled they'd never thought of installing one for themselves. Or maybe an escalator in case they all couldn't fit in the elevator. The other elevator door opened. To my surprise, the sheriff got out—and started walking right by me.

“Milo!” I called sharply.

He turned around. “Emma.” My husband didn't look pleased to see me. “Okay,” he said, moving closer. “I'm guessing you're here to see Ren. Good luck with that. I'd rather interrogate Crazy Eights Neffel.”

“Why,” I asked, ignoring the stare of the young man behind the front desk, “did you interrogate her? I was invited, as you may recall.”

He sighed. “She called my office saying somebody was trying to kill her. Yeah, I know she told you the same thing, but Mullins took her semi-hysterical call a half hour ago. I figured it was either send Dwight Gould or go in person. You know Dwight—he's not Mr. Tact.”

“Well? Is there cause for concern?”

Milo had taken off his regulation hat and was scratching behind his ear. “Hell, I don't know. Ren's definitely scared of something. Farrell came in when I was there and gave her a shot. She started to calm down after that. For all I know, she may have gone to sleep.”

“I saw Farrell when I arrived,” I said, lowering my voice almost to a whisper. “He's a real jerk.”

The sheriff nodded absently. “He started giving me some guff, but I told him to stick it before I arrested him for interfering with an officer of the law. He backed down fast. I don't trust that guy. Didn't he give you a bad time when you interviewed him last winter? Too bad we weren't married then. I could've busted him for lipping off to the wife of a law officer.”

“Is that an actual crime?”

“No, but it should be.” Milo mussed my hair. “Good luck. I'm off to the Burger Barn. Breakfast came too early this morning.”

Watching my husband lope away though the rotunda lobby, I pushed the elevator button again. The second car's door opened immediately. Two minutes later I was in Unit Six, a small but surprisingly cozy room where I found Ren huddled under a colorful quilt. Her eyes were half closed, but flickered open when I pulled up the only chair in the room.

“Good,” she murmured. “Do you know the sheriff? He just left.”

I didn't want to waste time on my personal life. It was more important to keep Ren focused. “Yes, I've known Dodge for years. He's a fine person, with great integrity. Was he able to help you?”

She rolled over onto her back, resting a hand on her forehead. “He was very kind. But he doesn't understand. He can't, of course.”

For once, I didn't blame Milo for being baffled. “What should he understand?”

Ren's eyes widened. “My mother. She's here. I haven't seen her, but I can sense it.”

“You mean…” I, too, was baffled. “She's a patient here?”

Ren's hand drifted from her forehead to lie like a wounded sparrow on the quilt. “I don't know. Is madness hereditary?”

“That depends,” I replied. “There are probably genetic strains carried from parents to children when it comes to emotional stability.”

“That makes sense.” She smiled wanly. “It's good that something makes sense. Not much does since I came to Alpine.”

“You've been on a bit of a roller coaster,” I remarked. “I'm sorry you didn't get to see more of Donna's gallery. She sells mainly regional items, including works by a local painter who's very talented.”

“Oh?” Ren's blue eyes widened. “Who?”

“His name's Craig Laurentis. I own one of his paintings. It's called
Sky Autumn
. Have you heard of him?”

Ren frowned. “Yes, I think I have. I don't know if I've ever seen his work, though. What does he paint?”

“The scene I have is quite realistic, a rushing river around here,” I explained. “It's very visceral—to me, anyway. His style has changed in the last few years, though. More abstract is the best way I can describe it.”

Ren nodded solemnly. “He's experimenting. That means he's growing as an artist. That's good.”

Pleased that Ren was making sense, I didn't tell her that Craig's more recent work had failed to move me. “Donna's sold several of his paintings,” I said. “He also deals with other galleries in the region.”

“I'd like to meet him.” Ren propped herself up on the pillow. “When I feel better, I mean. But some artists don't like talking about their work.”

“Craig's a bit of a recluse. He's very kind, though,” I added.

“Some people aren't,” Ren asserted, frowning. “I wish I
knew who is trying to kill me. Then I could tell the sheriff. Wouldn't he have to arrest whoever it is?”

“Well…he'd have to get some evidence first, but,” I went on quickly, seeing Ren's alarmed expression, “he might find a reason for questioning whoever the person might be. I gather you don't know, right?”

“That's true.” Her face turned wistful. “I think it's someone who doesn't want me to find out what happened to my mother. And maybe to my father.” She blinked several times as tears welled up in her eyes.

“Have you experienced any actual…” I paused, trying not to further upset Ren. “Actual menace?”

She shook her head. “I sense the danger, though. It's there in the shadows. I wish I knew why my mother seems so close to me here. It's as if she's trying to protect me. Does that make sense?'

I hesitated. “That's a hard question to answer. Maybe you know something that you don't realize, something that's important about why your mother left you in the first place.”

The tears had slipped down Ren's pale cheeks, though her voice was strong when she spoke. “How could I know anything like that?”

I handed Ren a tissue I'd pulled out of the box on the stand by the bed. “That's the problem. You don't recognize it, but something will come along that will trigger the memory.”
And Skykomish County will become the must-see hot spot for international visitors
. To be fair to my big mouth, I knew that memory can play strange tricks.

Ren dabbed at her eyes. “You're so nice. I can't think why.” She sank back down under the quilt. “I'm suddenly very tired. Would you mind staying until I go to sleep?”

I did mind, as I was starting to get hungry, but I wouldn't
leave Ren alone. “Of course not,” I said. “A nap is a good idea.”

She smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Two minutes later, Ren was asleep. She was still smiling.

—

I caught up with Milo at the Burger Barn just as he was polishing off his standard cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad. Before I could say anything, he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

“Vida's in the booth behind me. Her frozen smile felt kind of good on a hot day. She's nailing Marje Blatt to the wall.”

“For what?” I whispered.

My husband shrugged. “The latest medical records. What else?”

“Speaking of that sort of thing,” I said, keeping my voice down, “Ren actually made some sense when we started talking about art.”

“Art who?” Milo asked in his normal tone.

“As in paintings,” I said, deciding I might as well speak up, too. “Craig Laurentis's work, mainly. I think Donna may still have one of his new paintings for sale. Ren has heard of him.”

“They'd make a good pair,” the sheriff remarked, lighting a cigarette despite the
NO SMOKING
sign. “Maybe she'd like to move in with him to his cave or shack or wherever he holes up in the forest.”

Kinsey came to take my order. Like my husband, I lacked imagination. I asked for my standard plain burger-fries-salad. Not that there was much choice. With only three places serving a sit-down lunch in the commercial area, the Burger Barn had never felt a need to expand its menu. Their version of fish and chips smelled like bullhead—I'd eaten it once and that was enough. The most exotic item was a weekly special, usually
some kind of chicken on a bun. It hadn't ever appealed to me—or to the sheriff.

After refilling Milo's mug, a quartet of boisterous teenagers sat down across from us. There was no need to lower my voice when I asked Milo for details of his visit with Ren. Even Vida's keen hearing couldn't pick up on what we were saying.

My better half scowled at me. “Why do you think? She wanted me to put a deputy on watch at RestHaven to make sure she didn't get killed. I told her I couldn't. I don't have the staff, especially with a holiday weekend coming up. Anyway, I didn't think Dr. Woo would approve.”

“How did she take that?” I inquired, now raising my voice to be heard over the raucous foursome a few feet away.

“She started to cry,” Milo replied, darting a sharp look at the clueless kids. “I told her I knew RestHaven's security chief and he was topnotch. Hell, for all I know, Sid Almquist doesn't know his ass from his elbow. But Ren stopped crying.”

“She cried when I was there, too.” I winced as a menu turned into a paper airplane sailed past me. The sheriff got to his feet and loomed over the teens, who apparently were too self-absorbed to notice the big guy in uniform across the aisle.

“Any of you got a driver's license?” Milo asked in his laid-back laconic manner.

I had to lean to look around my husband, but I could see only one couple, a towheaded boy and a ginger-haired girl. They both appeared appropriately startled.

“I do,” replied the male teen who was out of my line of sight. “We're from Sultan. Jeb's got a license, too. We never even got a ticket so far. Just a caution for Jeb. Danielle and Josie got learner permits. They just turned sixteen. We're here for a project.”

His rapid, lengthy delivery indicated he was nervous. I tried not to smile. Long before I married Milo, I enjoyed watching
him make people squirm. The enjoyment stopped, however, when I was the object of his official inquiry.

The sheriff took his time studying the license. “Okay, Alex. But tone it down. What's your project?”

The girl in my line of sight looked up at my husband. “Are you the sheriff? If you are, maybe you can help us.”

“Oh? How's that?”

I recognized the faint note of impatience in Milo's voice. I, however, sensed a news story. So did Vida, who suddenly appeared in the aisle with Marje Blatt trailing like a reluctant caboose. My House & Home editor ignored me, but acknowledged the sheriff with a curt nod. She didn't speak, but waited tensely for Milo to finish with the teenagers.

“We got a summer assignment for our junior year,” the ginger-haired girl replied. “Our social studies teacher asked us to investigate something. It could be anything, just so it was something nobody else has figured out. We heard about the dead dude who was dug up here in Alpine, so we decided that'd be our project. Can we come to your office to ask some questions?”

“Call first,” Milo said curtly. “Meanwhile, stay out of trouble.”

He swerved around, almost bumping into Vida's imposing bust. “Hi, Vida. They're all yours,” he said before addressing me. “I'm out of here. You got enough money to pay for lunch?”

“Yes!” I yipped. “I haven't even gotten my lunch yet. Maybe I'll bring it over to your office just to annoy you.”

“Don't even think about it,” he said. “I'm going into seclusion.” The sheriff dumped a dollar and two quarters on the table, picked up his bill, and stalked off down the aisle.

Vida, meanwhile, was interrogating the teenagers. Marje stood patiently waiting for her aunt, giving me an occasional weary glance. Not seeing any sign of Kinsey, I decided to vacate
the premises and see if I could take my lunch back to the office. It was going on one and I had to be at Des Ellerbee's cabin by two. By the time I collected my order at the service counter and paid for it, Vida apparently was still interviewing the Sultan teens. Maybe there
was
a story in their assignment. As I headed for the front door, I saw Marje leave just ahead of me. I assumed she'd given up waiting for Aunt Vida.

When I exited, I spotted Vida's niece lingering at the corner of Fourth by the bank. I usually would've crossed at Third, but decided I might as well stay on the south side of Front lest she think I was avoiding her.