Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (15 page)

“Hey, you're the sheriff. I'm just a humble journalist.”

Milo seemed to purposely take the turn off Highway 2 a mite too sharply. “You were never humble. If you were, you might not be such a pain in the ass.”

I punched him in the upper arm. “Why don't you arrest yourself for reckless driving?”

“Why don't you call Ramsey? Didn't the daughter he had with Crystal stay with you before he moved the rest of his new family here?”

“It took him a long time to get settled,” I said, recalling the chaos Amber Ramsey and her son had caused during their extended visit. “For a flake, she was a good mother, but lazy. Gosh, her kid—Danny—must be in third grade by now. Amber married a guy from Woodinville and moved there a couple of years ago. Vida wrote up the wedding.”

Milo headed straight up Alpine Way. “Did he look like as big a geek as I did in my wedding picture?”

“I don't remember if there was a picture,” I replied. “You've improved remarkably over the years.”

“You should've seen me in high school,” he said, taking a
left onto Fir. “No, you shouldn't. You'd have run for your life.”

“Hey, I was no teen queen,” I retorted. “I was lucky I got guys to go with me to the Blanchet Winter Ball and senior prom.”

“You must've changed fast if you caught Cavanaugh's eye when you were in college. You were engaged before that. Or am I mixed up?”

“I met Tom after I got engaged to Don,” I replied as we pulled into the garage. “That's when I broke the engagement.” Milo already knew I'd said yes to Don when he proposed not long after my parents were killed in a car accident. Ben had just been ordained and I was alone. At twenty, I needed to belong to somebody. Don was older and rather serious, finishing his engineering degree after doing his stint in the military. He seemed like sanctuary. Then I met Tom. I thought I'd found the love of my life. Poor Don was collateral damage.

After opening all the doors to let in some air, I confronted Milo in the living room. “I had a thought while we were calling on Des. I didn't want to mention it until we got home.”

Milo looked up at the beamed ceiling. “Good God. What now?”

“If the body is Conley, is it possible he's Ren's father?”

My husband lowered his head and rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows. “Yes, it's possible. He could also be Amelia Earhart in drag. Or Elvis. I think I'll go sit outside now.”

“Rats,” I said under my breath. This was when I needed Vida. She wouldn't have scoffed at my nutty idea. Even if it was a wild guess, Vida would have examined it closely, turned it this way and that, seen its merits—small as they might be—and at least considered the possibility. Now I wasn't merely mad at her for being mad at me, but for defecting
over a long weekend. On a whim, I picked up the phone and dialed Amy.

“Just checking,” I said. “Any word from your mother?”

“No,” Amy replied glumly. “Maybe she did go to Shelton. There'd be a lot of traffic, so she might've stayed somewhere overnight. I've tried to call her cell, but she won't pick up if she's driving. Sometimes she doesn't think to recharge it. Mom doesn't really care for cell phones, you know. They cut out on her too often. She thinks, as she puts it, ‘they're all for show and not much for go.' ”

I didn't know that, thinking that any form of human communication including smoke signals or notes washed up in a glass bottle would suit Vida just fine, since she always has to know everything. “She might've decided to stay the weekend visiting…your son,” I suggested. It was hard for me to mention Roger's name without gagging. “Have you spoken to him recently?”

Amy's voice dropped. “No. He's only allowed so many calls.”

“She may stay two nights as long as she's there,” I babbled for lack of anything more comforting to tell her daughter. “She might have had car trouble and is waiting to have the problem fixed.” Maybe she was trying to help Roger escape and they'd both been arrested. I kept that thought to myself. “Her Buick has quite a few miles on it by now.”

“Not really,” Amy said disconsolately. “You know she doesn't leave Alpine often except to visit my sisters and then sometimes we drive.”

“Look,” I began, sounding stern, “if anything happened to your mother, you'd hear about it. Aren't you listed as an emergency contact?”

“Yes, and Beth and Meg,” Amy replied. “But what if she's been kidnapped?”

I leaned back on the sofa. “Ah…that's not likely.” The picture of anyone insane enough to try to make off with Vida was so bizarre that I had to force myself not to laugh. Naturally, O. Henry's “The Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. “Really, Amy, if there's been a serious problem, you'd hear about it from your mother or…someone calling for her.” I didn't want to say “the authorities.” That sounded a bit grim.

Amy finally rang off. Briefly, I felt sorry for Ted, but he was just as big a ninny—to use one of Vida's own words—as his wife. If they hadn't been a pair of ninnies, Roger might've survived his grandmother's spoiling without turning to a life of crime.

I joined my husband on the patio. “Disconnected,” he said as I sat down next to him.

“Huh?”

“Conley's cell,” Milo clarified. “If it was Conley, which I doubt.”

I stared at him wide-eyed. “You're speculating.”

“Well…” He ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. “It does fit. You know I like things to fit.”

“Do you think he was murdered?”

Milo uttered a brief sigh. “Why else would anybody bury him at the dump? An outside shot is a drugged-up Conley breaking into a house, getting himself killed, and the owner panicking. It can happen.”

I touched his arm. “Then you've got an unsolved murder.”

Milo stared at me. “Right, from at least five years ago. Where do I start?”

“Am I still deputized?”

“Yeah,” the sheriff replied, leaning back in the chair. “Call Ramsey. Do your newspaper thing. Tell him you're writing a story about his job.”

“I can't say that,” I said. “I'd have to actually write it. The
county extension agency doesn't do much that's newsworthy, with so few farms around here. The last time we had a story out of there was a warning about bad cheese.”

“You'll think of something,” Milo asserted complacently. “God knows you've practiced enough bullshit on me over the years to wring out information.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Often to no avail. You're a hard case, Dodge. I rarely had much luck with you.”

His hazel eyes sparked. “Oh?”

“Never mind.” I got up. “I'll call Ramsey now. Maybe he's got some new fireworks warnings we can put online.”

I couldn't find Dean's home phone in the SkyCo directory. Then I remembered that after a deal in Alpine had fallen through, he'd bought a house in his hometown of Sultan, thirty miles west of Alpine. I had to call Directory Assistance for the number. It felt so warm inside that I was too lazy to dial the number and paid the extra charge to let the operator connect me.

A woman answered. If I'd ever known Dean's wife's name, I'd forgotten it. “Mrs. Ramsey?” I said. “This is Emma Lord from
The Alpine Advocate
. Is Dean home?”

“Is something wrong?” she asked in a startled voice.

I was also too overheated to bother lying. “No, I have a question for him about the background on someone he once knew many years ago. A man,” I added, in case she thought I was asking about an old flame of her husband's.

“Just a minute,” she said. “He's outside.”

After a few seconds passed, I heard her call Dean's name. Any exchange between them was muffled. I guessed that Mrs. Ramsey had put her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Hi, Emma,” Dean said in his pleasant voice. “Has the courthouse caught fire?”

“Not yet,” I replied, deciding to get straight to the point. “This coming week there's an article about a screenwriter
who's renting the cabin Aaron Conley inherited. I'm taking a trip down Memory Lane. Do you know where Aaron went after he moved from Baring?”

“Gee,” Dean said after a long pause, “I haven't thought about Conley in years. I didn't know he was still around. I don't think I've seen him since he was let out of jail to attend Crystal's funeral.”

“He was released not long after that.” The truth was that I couldn't remember the exact sequence of events. My main impression of Aaron was that when he wasn't in custody, he was high on something, but basically harmless. “Except for the funeral, did you see him at any other point back then?”

“How do you mean?” Dean sounded wary.

I had started to perspire.
To hell with it
, I thought.
Milo should be making this call
. “Did you read this week's
Advocate
?”

“Yes, I always go through it,” Dean answered stiltedly.

“Then you know about the dump-site body,” I said, having unpeeled myself from the sofa to go back outside. “The sheriff has no way of knowing who it is. Could the belt buckle belong to Conley?”

“Didn't the picture of the buckle have a peace symbol on it?” Dean asked, sounding less tense. I told him it did—and having reached the patio, I shoved the phone at Milo. “You're on, Dodge. It's Dean.”

With a glower for me, he spoke into the phone, “I can't keep the remains forever. If it is Conley, we should try to track down any relatives. Do you know if he had family?”

I'd sat down, watching Milo scowl.

“Okay,” he continued, “I thought maybe you knew him better than that. You did post bond for Aaron after I busted him on the bum checks rap. Thanks. I may be in touch with you later.”

I watched Milo ring off. “Dare I ask why?”

He shrugged. “There's still something off about the Ramsey-Conley connection. I sure as hell never bonded with Mulehide's latest ex.”

“I don't think Crystal dumped Dean for Aaron,” I pointed out. “Dean sounded scared.”

Milo was lighting a cigarette. “Oh?” He flicked the lighter before he spoke again. “Maybe he has a reason.”

I hadn't thought about that.

A
long about five, Milo suggested we drive into Monroe for dinner and stop off to visit Tricia's parents in Sultan as we'd planned to do when we thought we were going to Bellevue.

“I'm trying to remember what Conley was like,” I said, “at least when he wasn't high. I vaguely remember his hair was about the color of those strands on the corpse. Frankly, he was kind of nondescript. You think he got into it with his drug dealer?”

Milo shrugged. “That's as good a guess as any. Or a fight with another druggie. That's the trouble with that stuff. It leads to a lot of other bad things. Getting high doesn't always make you mellow.”

I considered my husband's words. “Can you offer an educated guess and ID him?”

The sheriff shot me a baleful look. “I don't guess. You know that. But if were a betting man, I'd say it's him. And I'd only say it to my wife.”

“Okay,” I said, getting up. “Forget the ID and let's get in the SUV with the AC and head on out. It'll be six by the time we get to Sultan.”

Milo, who had started to doze off a few moments earlier,
seemed reluctant to get out of the chair. “Let's eat in Monroe first.”

That was fine with me. We were on the road by five-thirty. Traffic still wasn't too bad, though it worsened the closer we got to Sultan and Monroe. Maybe Vida was right about the exploding population creeping up on us. We'd just turned off Highway 2 and were on Fryelands Boulevard by Lake Tye when Milo's cell rang.

My husband swore. “What now?” He hit the gas and pulled into the restaurant parking lot. “Dodge,” he barked into the cell before shutting off the ignition.

I watched his jaw set as I heard a high-pitched woman's voice at the other end. “Look, Amy,” Milo finally said, “it doesn't matter if Fuzzy Baugh's missing, it's forty-eight hours before I can put out an APB.”

Amy lowered her voice, but I could still hear her, though I couldn't make out what she was saying. “Okay,” the sheriff responded wearily, “here's what I'll do. If she hasn't shown up tomorrow by six o'clock
in the evening
, call my office and have…” He paused, apparently trying to remember who'd be on duty. “…Doe Jamison put out the APB.” He waited for Amy to speak, making a
blah-blah
gesture with his free hand. “I get all that, Amy, but we receive traffic advisories and conditions from everywhere in the state. Your mother's not some addled old lady. Even if you don't know where she is, I'm damned sure she does. I have to hang up now. I'm working on an investigation out of town. What? No, it has nothing to do with your mom. Take it easy. You're working yourself into a fit.” He clicked off and looked at me. “Dumb ass. Where do you think Vida is?”

“Visiting Roger,” I replied. “If she has to make the three-hundred-and-fifty mile round-trip in all the holiday traffic, she might as well spend the long weekend in Shelton. To my
knowledge, Vida hasn't seen him since he was shipped to the facility there.”

“Did she mention anything about leaving town to you or to any of the rest of your crew?”

“She's not really speaking to me, remember,” I replied. “If she told Leo or anyone else, I never heard about it. And I probably would, if Vida said she was going to see Roger.”

“She might not admit it,” Milo said, opening the door. “Let's get out of here. It's heating up with the AC turned off.”

The restaurant had its own AC. Either out of habit or needing a drink after talking to Amy, Milo headed for the bar. “They serve food in there,” he informed me, steering me in that direction. “I ate here last month when I had to attend that law enforcement meeting and got stuck with a couple of the Skagit County guys I've known forever.”

“Right,” I drawled. “And you didn't call me until almost six to let me know you weren't coming home for dinner.”

“I didn't know that until…never mind. There's a spot for two in front of the bar.”

For a change of pace, I ordered a screwdriver. Milo stuck to Scotch. I admired the simple yet pleasing decor. “I saw some brave souls sitting out on the terrace,” I remarked.

“Tourists,” my husband said, cradling his glass. “Probably from some part of the country that has plenty of hot, even humid, weather.”

We sat in comfortable silence, the hum of conversation enveloping us like so many grasshoppers out in the backyard. Except when I thought about it, I hadn't yet seen a grasshopper this summer. After a couple of minutes had passed, I noted that Milo looked worried.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

He took a quick nip from his drink and leaned forward. “Where
is
Vida? I don't think she went to see Roger. She
would've told Amy and Ted if she had. Have they visited him since he went to Shelton?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “She never talks about him.” Milo's doubts bothered me. “But where else would she go?”

“Buck Bardeen doesn't know?”

I shook my head. “It
is
worrisome.”

“Damn.” Milo reached for his cigarettes, noticed there were no ashtrays, and decided against brazening it out. He was, after all, out of uniform and out of his jurisdiction. “Maybe,” he said, “it's an attention getter, like a cry for help. You keep telling me she's not herself, which is sometimes bad enough.”

That idea jarred me. “But where would she go? She can't be just driving around in weekend traffic.”

Milo ran a hand through his hair. “How the hell would I know? Doesn't she know people up and down the Highway 2 corridor? You've talked about her and the colonel getting together with out-of-towners.”

“I suppose Buck would check with them,” I said. “She hasn't talked about him much lately. He might've criticized Roger and made her mad. He probably still thinks the kid should have joined the military.”

“Maybe I should talk to him,” Milo muttered. “I don't really know the guy, though I've met him a couple of times. He seems like a stand-up type. Typical ex–air force.”

We both were silent again. Vida almost seemed to be in the bar with us—as unlikely as that might sound. But so commanding was her presence, she had that effect even when she was nowhere in sight. When we spoke again, it was of other things, including an equally depressing topic, the Mariners' seventh loss in a row earlier in the day. Milo had listened to some of the broadcast outside on the radio. No wonder he'd started to nod off by the ninth inning.

After we finished dinner—Alaska King salmon for my husband, clam chowder and a salad for my heat-deadened appetite—we found a phone directory to look up Dean Ramsey's address. They lived on Elm Street, which struck me as odd.

“Elms aren't native,” I quibbled. “Do they have a Palmetto Drive?”

Milo shot me a sideways glance. “You're kind of picky, aren't you? If somebody plants an elm, they can grow in this climate. At least this far down from the mountains.”

I turned mulish. “I still think it sounds weird. I'll bet Tricia's parents live on Orange Blossom Avenue.”

“They're on Cedar,” my husband replied, taking a sharp left off Highway 2 onto Main Street in Sultan. “Does that make you feel better?”

“I feel fine now. I don't suppose the Ramseys have AC.”

Milo didn't comment, obviously preoccupied with finding Elm Street and the Ramsey residence. It was easy to do, with GPS and Sultan being about the same size as Alpine. Their older, frame house was painted a dull red, with a well-kept garden and a brick fireplace.

The front door was open, but we didn't see anyone inside, so Milo banged the brass knocker. A faintly harried-looking woman with graying dark hair appeared from a room off a short hallway. She regarded us with alarm. “Can I help you?” she asked in an uncertain voice.

Milo didn't offer his hand, but instead held out his wallet to show his official sheriff's ID. “I spoke to your husband earlier today,” he explained. “My wife and I happened to be in Sultan so I thought I'd stop by to clarify a couple of things about the body we found.”

Obvious relief swept over Mrs. Ramsey's plain yet pleasant features. “Oh, gosh, he isn't here. He just left with our kids for
something going on at the fairgrounds in Monroe. Is there anything I can do?”

“Probably not,” Milo replied, putting the wallet back in his pants pocket. “I may be in touch with him later.”

“I'll tell him.” Mrs. Ramsey's soft brown eyes widened. “Is this about that Conley person?”

“Right,” Milo said. “Did you know him?”

“No.” She paused. “Would you like to come in? It must be hot out on the porch in the western sun.”

“Sure,” I said, maybe to prove I existed. I was beginning to feel as if I might as well be with Vida, playing the stooge as I usually did when she dominated conversations. “I don't think we've met. I'm Emma Dodge.”

“I'm Jeanine,” she informed us as we entered a small but well-furnished living room. She gestured at the blue-and-white plaid sofa; I wondered if it was the Ramsey clan tartan. “Dean told me about your call,” she explained, sitting in a matching armchair by the hearth. “He remembered he had a photo of Crystal and Aaron that was taken after they were married. My husband and Crystal parted amicably. It was a youthful marriage between people who hadn't yet found themselves. Very hard on their daughter, Amber. At least she finally settled down and is doing quite well. Would you like to see the picture?”

“Yes,” Milo said in a more relaxed tone. “Is it handy?”

Jeanine virtually sprang out of the armchair. “It's in the kitchen. I'll be right back. May I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” the sheriff replied. “We just had dinner in Monroe.”

Jeanine went off through the dining room and disappeared. Milo pinched my nose—gently. “Having fun?”

“It could be a story,” I retorted,

“But you're Mrs. Dodge.”

“I'm versatile. Watch me turn into Lois Lane.”

Jeanine returned with a standard black-and-white snapshot. “I think this was taken in Portland,” she said, handing the photo to Milo.

“It is,” I agreed, leaning closer to take a look. “That's the Japanese Garden at Washington Park. It's a wonderful place. They have an international rose test garden there along with the zoo and a children's museum. I lived in Portland for many years.”

“I'm from Salem,” Jeanine said. “I met Dean there after he took a job with Marion County. I worked for the state health department.”

I sensed that Milo was growing impatient. “Could I borrow this picture?” he asked in what I knew was feigned deference.

“Well, I suppose so,” Jeanine replied. “I don't think Dean would mind. After all, it's been a long time since Crystal meant anything to him. Of course he didn't really know Aaron at all.”

The sheriff stood up. “I'll have a copy made and give the original back to Dean. Probably Tuesday, with the holiday.”

“That's fine,” Jeanine said, seeing us out. “I'm sorry Dean wasn't home. He'll be disappointed to have missed you.”

We left. “Sorry, my ass,” Milo grumbled after we were in the SUV. “I bet Dean's glad he was gone. He might've been hiding in the bushes.”

“Is the picture any help?” I asked.

My husband shot me a sharp glance as he made a U-turn in the middle of Elm Street. “If you hadn't turned into an ad for the Portland Chamber of Commerce, you'd have noticed more about Conley. Take another look, Lois Lane. He's wearing that hippie belt.”

“Gleep,” I said weakly, staring at the photo. “Hey, I was going for camaraderie, getting Jeanine to loosen up. It works for Vida.”

“You're not Vida. Thank God,” Milo added under his breath.

I put the picture aside. “Crystal's smiling, but she still looks mean. Will you make an official ID now?”

“I can't base that on a buckle. We'll have to try for family members. I'll put Mullins on it. Holiday weekends screw up everything official. What I'd like to know is who the hell is impersonating Conley. And why?”

“Can you use the Internet to track down relatives?” I asked.

Milo turned a corner; I noticed a sign for Cedar Street. “Conley isn't an uncommon name. But we'll give it a shot. Too bad we don't know who played in his band. Do you remember what it was called?”

“I don't recall the original name,” I replied, “but there was a flyer in the drawer at the cabin. Aaron had changed it to Tye Dyed after he moved into the cabin. For the river, I suppose. That suggests he intended to stick around.”

We'd stopped in front of an older, two-story dark green house. Milo smiled faintly. “I guess the Stanleys aren't ready for a retirement home yet. They painted the place since I was here last winter. It used to be white. Let's do it.”

Unlike the Ramsey house, the front door was closed. My husband pushed the buzzer in the door frame. No response. He pushed again. Still nothing. He swore under his breath, then muttered, “They must be out.”

“Clever deduction, Sheriff,” I remarked, following his long, loping strides as he went around to the side of the house.

“Their Nissan Maxima's gone,” Milo said—and grinned. “I'll be damned—Ralph bought himself a new red Frontier pickup.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“He ran a truck repair business,” my husband replied, taking my hand as we walked back to the Yukon. “He made a good living off of it. Let's go home. I'm tired of talking to
people. You can tell me more about the Portland zoo while I nod off.”

“Fine. I'm going to think about Conley. He had a beard back then.”

“So? No way the ME could tell that,” Milo said. “He might've shaved it later.”

I was quiet until we were past Gold Bar. “Maybe whoever killed Aaron wanted the cabin,” I remarked. “Who kills for a roof?”