Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (13 page)

“Hi,” I greeted her. “Are you waiting for Vida?”

“No,” Marje said, her once pretty face fading as she approached middle age. “I hoped you'd come this way. I'm worried about Aunt Vida. I suggested a checkup with Doc Dewey just now, but she fobbed me off. I really don't think it's physical, but that mess my idiot cousin Roger left for her to deal with. How is she at work?”

“Sour,” I replied as we continued on across Fourth. “She's not speaking to me unless it's strictly business. I don't know what to do. I keep hoping somebody—Buck Bardeen, namely—can get her to stop blaming the world for Roger's imprisonment.”

“Buck's stumped,” Marje said as we passed the Chamber of Commerce office in the Alpine Building. “He's very fond of Aunt Vida. I think he'd like to marry her, but even before all this happened, she wasn't keen on the idea. She's too independent.”

I smiled wryly. “I thought I was, too. I was wrong.”

“Aunt Vida's never admitted being wrong,” Marje said sadly. “Nobody in the family—except maybe Aunt Mary Lou—has ever been able to stand up to her. We all hoped Buck was made of sterner stuff. Has she talked about Roger since he went to jail?”

“Never,” I replied. “She's too embarrassed. It's stupid. Everybody knows what happened. Deep down, I think the worst part of it is that she knows she's guilty of spoiling him rotten. I hate to say it, but Amy and Ted did a poor job of parenting.”

“We all knew that from the start,” Marje said as we reached the corner by the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. “She hasn't seen Roger since he went to the Shelton facility. I offered to go with her a couple of weeks ago, but she refused, saying she didn't want to see him caged like an animal with all those real criminals.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed. “He's always been sort of
un
real.”

Marje smiled ironically. “I can't tell you how many family get-togethers he's ruined with his bad behavior.” She stopped at the corner. “I've gone out of my way to get back to the clinic, but I knew Aunt Vida was heading in the same direction toward the gym. She's writing up the Golden Agers program they're starting in the fall. Maybe she should sign up and work through her problems on the new equipment.”

“I'd pay to see that,” I asserted.

Marje shrugged. “It won't happen. She'd rather internalize.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, she put a hand on my arm. “I feel as if I'm bad-mouthing Aunt Vida. But the truth is, she's the heart and soul of our family. Oh, the others might complain and not always agree with her, but…she's the source of our strength in so many ways. We feel rudderless when she's not acting like herself.”

“Tell me about it,” I said, glancing across the street at the
Advocate
office. “I'm starting to feel as if I'm the skipper of a sinking ship.”

Marje nodded. “I understand. At least it's too hot for an iceberg.”

That, I thought, as Vida's niece went on her way, was cold comfort.

—

The cabin that had once been owned by Crystal Bird looked much the same as I remembered it. Tucked into the woods off Highway 2, it seemed to have weathered nicely. Yet I couldn't help shuddering as I went up to the small front porch. Even though I hadn't been the one to find Crystal's body floating in the hot tub, that was where I'd left her on the night that she'd been killed. I'm not fanciful, but I sensed an unease hovering over the setting, as if the dead owner haunted the place.

Des's cheerful smile dispelled the feeling. “The local publisher,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “I hope you won't ask to see what I've written so far. I'm still in the concept stage.”

“Don't worry,” I assured him, recognizing a rocker and a faux kerosene lamp I recalled from my previous visit. “Who did you rent from? I lost track of the ownership some years ago.”

“One Aaron Conley,” Des said, indicating I should sit on a cut-velvet Victorian settee that wasn't part of the previous decor. “Everything was done online or over the phone. I gather he moved some time ago.”

I nodded. “He and the previous owner were separated but hadn't divorced. He lived here for at least a short time.”

“Right.” Des chuckled, reminding me of Rosemary's initial impression. He was no love god, but his pleasant face crinkled nicely and his blue eyes had a humorous glint. “He struck me as an aging activist,” my host continued, “keen on the environment. And music, given some of his comments.”

“Aaron had a band when I knew him,” I said. “Maybe he
still does.” I'd let Rosemary fill in Des about Crystal's murder. I doubted it would spook him. He seemed well grounded, and as a writer, he'd probably be intrigued. I launched into my role as interviewer. Des's background was the same as what Rosemary had told me, though he gave more detail about his early years in the movie business.

“Until recently,” he continued after taking a break to make us each an iced mocha frappe, “I've been more of a script doctor than a writer of original screenplays. Oh, I've dabbled, working with my own concepts, but this is the first full-length, non-spec script I've done. I decided to do it on location, as it were. I'd never heard of Skykomish or Alpine until I started looking for rentals in the area.” He paused to make a comical face. “So here I am, in the forest next to a couple of old logging towns.”

After he'd served the frappes, we moved out to sit by the hot tub. I tried not to visualize Crystal at our last—and only—meeting, stark naked and contemptuous in the warm water. She'd defied the snowy night, but couldn't deter her killer. I forced myself to focus on my next question, asking Des if he had any characters in mind.

“I do,” he replied, fingering his dimpled chin. “I learned Alpine was founded in 1910. Oh, the drama of the nearby train tragedy that killed over ninety people occurred at Wellington soon after Carl Clemans set up shop would make a great opening visual. Especially since news of the wreck was sent out from Alpine. Or Nippon, as it was still called before the name was changed. But I wanted the town to be already established, if raw.” He paused to sip his drink.

“That makes sense,” I remarked, realizing he'd done his homework, maybe on his first visit to the logging museum.

“Thus,” Des continued, “I thought I'd start the story in 1915, focusing on two loggers—one from Norway and one
from Georgia. A contrast of two men with very different backgrounds, and yet both risk takers. I gather that's part of the logging mentality.”

I asked more about his process, a buzzword I loathed, but felt was necessary to prove I wasn't a small-town dinosaur.

Des waxed eloquently for the next few minutes while I jotted down words and phrases that might capture his exuberance. It was getting very warm under the mid-afternoon sun and all I could think of was that Milo and I would never nod off in the backyard again. We'd been shortchanged on sleep. Furthermore, I itched in several places, no doubt from the bugs that had attacked me during the night.

Shortly before three, Des wound down. I felt as if I'd gotten enough for a lively feature. If nothing else, he was semi-exotic compared to most of SkyCo's summer visitors. As he saw me out, he suddenly snapped his fingers. “I've got it!” he exclaimed. “A hook for the film! I knew it'd come.”

“Dare I ask what it is?”

He smiled enigmatically. “Secrets. Everybody has them.”

I smiled back. “I suppose so.”

I left, wondering what secrets Des had. He seemed very open. But I'd been fooled before. For Rosemary's sake, I hoped I wasn't playing the fool this time around.

T
he long day wound down without incident. At a quarter to five, I realized I didn't know if Milo planned on going to Bellevue for dinner at Tricia's. I needed to find out because I didn't have anything on hand that was easy to cook in what had to be eighty-five-degree weather.

“We're not,” he informed me over the phone. “Everybody on the road is screwing up. We've had four wrecks this afternoon, including one possible fatality. Laskey already knows—he heard the sirens. Where've you been?”

“I've been sequestered, hiding from Vida and writing a so-called sprightly feature for next week,” I replied. “Does the veto of tonight mean we'll go tomorrow instead?”

“Maybe. Let's see how everything plays out. Can you cook pork chops on the grill?”

“No, but you can,” I said—and hung up on him for a change.

I looked into the newsroom. I saw only Leo and it appeared he was bailing out. He caught my eye as his face grew sheepish.

“I'm catching a late plane to L.A.,” he said when I went out to join him. “With the three-day weekend I might as well make it a family event. I can take the red-eye back Tuesday morning and be here by nine. I've got everything pretty well in hand for the next edition. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “It's probably cooler in Santa Maria than it is here.”

“It is, actually,” Leo said. “Averages in the low seventies this time of year. Maybe we can revive our family fireworks tradition. We had to stop it when the only thing that really got lit up on the Fourth was dear old Dad. I damned near blew out an eye the last time I shot off one of those big rockets. I hear traffic's a bitch. I hope I get to Sea-Tac on time.”

I wished him luck and a happy visit. And, as I always did when Leo was reuniting with his ex-wife and the rest of the family, wondered how long he'd remain on the job. I decided I was done with work for the day. After bidding Alison a happy weekend, I set out for the Grocery Basket to buy pork chops and several packages of disposable diapers for my namesake. On the way home I stopped at Parc Pines to drop off the baby gift. Walt Hanson came to the door, but said both Amanda and little Emma were sleeping. That was fine with me. I was tired—and hot.

Milo arrived home five minutes after I did. “Let's eat out again,” he said, tossing his regulation hat somewhere in the vicinity of the peg by the door. “My freaking fan broke and Harvey hasn't got his new supply in yet. I'll dig one out of the basement of my house tomorrow.”

“Mine's been broken all week, jackass,” I yipped. “Don't kiss me.”

My husband looked vaguely dismayed. “Why not?”

“You're all sweaty. I'm all sweaty. Besides, you forgot. You were too busy shooting off your face.”

“Hey…” he began, looking dejected. Or rejected. I couldn't tell the difference and I didn't really care. But he stopped. “I'll change, then we can head for the ski lodge.”

“But I already bought the damned pork chops!” I yelled after him.

“I don't give a shit if you bought the whole hog. We're eating out.” He and his voice disappeared into the bedroom.

I flopped down on the sofa. Maybe I should change, too. Before I could make up my mind, Milo reappeared, half undressed. “Hey, let's take a shower together. That might be fun.”

“Are you insane? We're both so clumsy we'd kill ourselves.”

He thought for a moment. “You're right. Never mind. Unless you want me to bathe you in the sink. You're small enough, you ornery little twerp.” He disappeared again.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed. I never could stay mad at the sheriff, not even when we were just friends. On rare occasions, I wondered what would have happened if I'd married Tom. Despite having had a son together, despite reuniting infrequently over the years, despite deluding myself that he was the love of my life, I never really knew him. I had enough distance now after six years to realize that I might have been bored to tears. If Milo had nothing else to offer—–and he certainly did—he was never boring.

I told him so when he came out into the living room.

“What brought that on?” he inquired, taking my hands and lifting me to my feet.

“Just thinking how glad I am I married you instead of Tom,” I replied. “Of course he'd have made reservations ahead of time at Le Gourmand.”

“Bullshit,” Milo said after kissing the top of my head. “Even if he had, he probably wouldn't have showed up. There'd have been some kind of family crisis and he'd have taken off.”

“You're right,” I agreed as he let me go. “The man was utterly unreliable. Let me change, okay? I feel grubby.”

“You feel fine to me,” my husband said with a shrug. “I'll wait in the Yukon with the AC turned on.”

I was out of my work clothes and into a simple cotton sheath within five minutes. After climbing into the SUV, I asked if the possible fatality had survived and if he or she was a local. My reporting skills seemed to have faded into the heat haze that hung over Alpine Baldy.

“I don't know,” Milo replied. “It was a younger guy from British Columbia. They took him into Monroe. The damned fool tried to pass on that narrow stretch just the other side of Deception Falls.”

“Was he alone?” I asked as we headed along Alpine Way to the Tonga Road turnoff.

“Yeah. Why do you care?”

“I don't, really. My brain's fried. Why can't we just drive around with the AC on?”

Milo let out an exasperated sigh. “Because, dopey, the ski lodge has AC and they have food. Not to mention that using the AC in the Yukon cuts down on gas mileage.”

“I thought that was a myth.”

My husband didn't comment. It was just as well. We were crossing the little bridge over Burl Creek before the bend in the road and the ski lodge parking lot. After rounding the curve, we saw that the parking lot was jammed.

“Shit!” Milo exclaimed. “Are all these people in town for the Fourth or is everybody eating here because of the AC?”

“Oh, I forgot!” I cried. “Henry Bardeen is having a holiday smorgasbord this weekend. He took out a quarter-of-a-page ad.”

“You mean we have to dish up our own food?”

“Well…maybe it's only in the main dining room. I forget.”

Milo pulled into the
NO PARKING
slot by the entrance. “And I forgot what a total dumb-cluck you are in hot weather. Do you want me to carry you inside, you little twit?”

“No!” I pulled away as far as I could without falling out the door I'd already opened.

Somehow we both reached the lobby without saying or doing anything to further aggravate each other. To prove I wasn't mad at him, but at the weather, I slipped my hand into his. He gave it a squeeze, acknowledging the unspoken apology. After sixteen years, we didn't always need words.

Sure enough, there was a line for the dining room and the coffee shop. We went straight to the bar, where Heather Bardeen Bavich told us there'd be a ten-minute wait unless we wanted to have a drink first. Milo told her that's what we'd do. Heather had to ask a man who was by himself to move down so Milo and I could sit together.

The young bartender who'd been on duty earlier in the week wore a name tag that read,
ROB
. My husband got his attention and ordered our drinks. To my surprise, the middle-aged man with the shaved head sitting next to me turned and held out his hand.

“Howdy,” he said in a semi-raspy voice, “I'm Glenn—two
n
's—from Puyallup.”

Milo leaned over before I could say anything. “I'm Sheriff Dodge and this is Mrs. Dodge.” His tone was much colder than the AC.

“I'll be darned,” Glenn said with a grin. “I'm a U.S. Marshal. I planned to see you this afternoon, but I got stuck in traffic.” He reached around me to shake Milo's hand.

“I'm off the clock,” my husband informed him, his hazel eyes chilly.

“No problem,” Glenn asserted cheerfully. “It's my kickback night.”

The sheriff didn't respond. He was lighting a cigarette and nodding at Rob. “Where's that ashtray Heather found in the broom closet?”

“Coming up, sir,” Rob said. A moment later he set down a small plate imprinted with Loki, the Norse god of mischief and chaos. If I thought Henry Bardeen had a sense of humor, I would have congratulated him. Alas, the ski lodge manager was the serious type.

“Let me tell you about Des,” I said, trying not to look at Marshal Glenn, who was chatting up Bianca, the latest blond bar waitress.

“Des who?” Milo inquired.

“Rosemary's new boyfriend. I interviewed him this afternoon.”

“I can wait to read it.”

“You won't. You never read the
Advocate
.”

“Yes, I do. At least I skim it.”

“I think I'll write an editorial saying you're a lousy sheriff. If you don't try to strangle me, I'll know you never read it.”

“Didn't you already write one of those a long time ago?”

“I wanted to, but I didn't. You were being uncooperative about an investigation. Instead, I was a trifle snide in my news article. You didn't complain, so I figured you'd never seen it.”

“I didn't. Mullins told me what you wrote.” Milo's eyes sparked as he took a deep drink of Scotch. “He and Nina had one of their discussions about it. She felt my deputies might be too sensitive to put up with your bitchy attitude. They didn't give a shit.”

“I can't even remember who the murder vic was,” I admitted. “You must've arrested somebody.”

Milo shrugged. “Probably. I hope it wasn't one of the times you fingered the wrong killer.”

“Don't remind me,” I murmured.

Heather informed us our table was ready. Bianca was back to serving drinks and Glenn was talking to Forest Ranger Bunky Smythe, who was at the end of the bar.

“Okay,” I said after we were seated between two couples neither of us recognized, “what put you off about Glenn?”

My husband had ordered another round of drinks and was already looking at the menu. “Why does Henry put some of this stuff in Norwegian? What the hell is
suppelapskaus
?”

“How would I know? I'm not Norwegian. Ask Bianca.”

“No thanks. I know what halibut is and that's what I'm having.”

“Me, too.” I put my menu aside. “Answer the question, Dodge.”

Milo scowled. “What kind of federal agent announces his job in a crowded bar? Those guys are tough, but they're usually smoother than that. Yeah, I opened my mouth and told him I was the sheriff so he'd buzz off. But he should've slipped me a card, not broadcast his job. I wonder how many drinks he had before we showed up. His eyes weren't very focused—except on your chest.”

We stopped talking to give Bianca our orders. “Is he a phony?” I asked after she left us.

“The regular U.S. Marshals can deputize citizens under certain conditions,” Milo explained. “A manhunt, for instance. But there's no big deal going on around here. I suspect this guy is just passing through. I don't expect him to show up on the doorstep tomorrow.”

“Maybe he's headed for east of the mountains,” I suggested.

“Maybe.” Milo offered me a cigarette and I was stupid enough to accept. He'd brought the makeshift ashtray with him. “Are you sure you want to go to Bellevue tomorrow if I can get away?”

“Yes.” I leaned a bit closer. “I want Tricia to move on the annulment. Ben and Adam are nagging. She has to understand this is very important to me.”

“Damn.” My husband grimaced. “We
are
married, you know.”

“I know that, but my religion is an important part of my life. It always has been, it's the way I was raised, it's what I believe.” I put my hand on his. “Why would Tricia care, really? She's not getting you back.”

Milo put his free hand over mine. “Hell, she's just making trouble because she doesn't want to see me happy. She thinks you want a big church wedding because you've never had one. That pisses her off.”

I pulled my hand away and sat up. “I don't give a rat's ass about a big wedding. In fact, I don't want one. After the annulment's granted, we can have our marriage blessed by a priest in about five minutes.”

Milo stared at me. “You mean I won't have to buy a damned suit?”

It was my turn to stare back at him—and laugh.

—

The house seemed to have cooled off a bit by the time we got home. I felt much improved and not just because the sun was setting behind the mountains. I felt I'd made my point with Milo about Tricia and the annulment. The truth was that I hadn't thought beyond the goal of getting her to cooperate. The concept of a church wedding had been tucked away in a corner of my mind, but only when I trotted it out at dinner had I realized it sounded silly—and expensive.

We'd gone to bed early—just after ten—when Milo informed me he was going fishing early in the morning. Did I want to meet him for breakfast around nine at the Venison Inn? I told him I would—if he made it nine-thirty. He agreed.

I surprised myself by waking up a little after eight-thirty.
The house felt cooler, though it was another sunny day. Milo had plugged in the coffeemaker, so after showering and getting dressed, I poured a mug to sip while I glanced through
The Seattle Times
. I'd finished reading the comics when someone rang the new doorbell Milo had recently installed. Peering through the equally new peephole, I recognized Marshal Glenn. I mulled. My husband had warned me about opening the door to strangers after an ugly incident I'd had with a drunk from the Nelson house next door. He pressed the doorbell again. He couldn't have seen me inside because I'd left the living room drapes closed against the sun. I held my breath, waiting for him to go away.

After what seemed like at least two minutes, I looked again to see him heading for a black sedan parked on the verge by the front yard. I watched until he was in the car and had driven off. Then I opened the front door. There was a business card tucked under the mat. I frowned, trying to make out the handwritten note:
Sheriff—call me at this number. Urgent matter to discuss
. He'd jotted down what was probably a cell phone number. The card identified him as Glenn S. McElroy, U.S. Marshal for the Western Washington District, headquartered in Seattle.