Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (16 page)

“Are you kidding?” my husband shot back. “That's not a bad motive these days. Especially in Seattle. Ever look at the real estate ads in the
Times
?”

I nodded. “It's crazy. But you're right. Especially with the kind of people Conley probably hung out with. Musicians, mainly. The Hoods!”

“Not all musicians are druggies or troublemakers,” Milo said.

“No, I mean Aaron's band,” I explained. “That's what it was called when he met Crystal in Oregon. It was named for Mount Hood, not for crooks. But that band broke up then. I think.”

“That's not a lot of help,” my husband muttered as we followed the Skykomish River and began to gain altitude.

I decided to shut up and enjoy the AC. And the scenery. It was that golden time of evening when the sun filtered in misty shafts among the vine maples, alders, and evergreens along the highway. As traffic diminished, Milo exceeded the speed limit. I figured he could drive the often hazardous road in his sleep. I glanced at him to make sure he wasn't doing just that. He was wide awake, but frowning slightly.

“Why the pensive look?” I asked.

“We just passed Baring a couple of miles back,” he replied. “I suppose Rosie and Des are getting better acquainted.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “He seems like a decent sort.”

“I hope so,” Milo allowed. “She's a nice woman. Good-looking, too.”

“Oh?”

My husband grinned at me. “No, I'm not lusting after her. Jeez, Emma, stop fussing.”

“I'm not. Really. You could've gone after her a long time ago.”

“Not my type.” He reached out to muss my hair. “She's too nice. I knew what I wanted and it was you.”

“Keep both hands on the wheel,” I warned him. “You're going almost seventy-five. We're not in SkyCo yet. Do you want to get busted by a SnoCo patrol officer?”

“They know me,” Milo replied complacently. “I could always put on the flashing light.”

“So what were you thinking about besides Rosemary and Des's budding romance?”

He sighed. “Ellerbee. He's an L.A. type. He forks out a few grand for a place he's never seen to somebody he's never met? It doesn't matter that he wouldn't know Aaron Conley if he fell into that hot tub. Even if Conley's still alive and drugged up in Edmonds, it sounds damned odd.”

I explained what Des had told me about choosing Crystal's—and Aaron's—former home. “I think you're naturally suspicious of Californians. You're almost as bad as Vida.”

Milo shot me another glance. “What did California ever do for you?”

“Okay,” I admitted, “Tom was based in San Francisco for years. But being dead, he's not uppermost in my mind anymore. Thank God. Leo is from
Southern
California and I like him.”

“As much as I like Rosie?”

“Yes, that's about right. Now we're even.”

“Leo didn't always wish otherwise, did he?”

“He did not. But he got over it. The last thing I needed was a romance with one of my employees.” I gritted my teeth. “Are you really going to pass that truck?”

“Yeah. Watch me. How the hell do you think I chase down speeders on this stretch of highway?”

“I don't want to think about it,” I retorted, closing my eyes. When I opened them, we were passing by Skykomish. The little town was bathed in the mellow setting sun as a half-dozen people strolled between the old Skykomish Hotel and Maloney's Store. The river ran low, Prussian blue, with white riffles over the big boulders. A moment later I could see Mount Sawyer, rising above Tonga Ridge.

It took only five minutes before we turned off to Alpine. I could sense my husband relax. And slow down—which was a good thing. Just as the old green truss bridge was in sight, the railroad crossing bells rang and the safety bars started to lower.

“Damn!” Milo cussed, looking at the dashboard clock. “The
Empire Builder
's fifteen minutes late. It's eight o'clock. Where did we pass it?”

“We didn't. It probably went by while we were in Sultan.”

Unlike the long BNSF freight trains, the
Empire Builder
was relatively short. I envied the passengers who sat in comfort, gazing out the windows, especially the ones in the two sleeper cars and the dining car. “Let's take a train trip this fall,” I said.

Milo was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Where?”

“Across the country. Or Canada.”

He thought for a moment. “Canada. I'll bet the scenery's better.”

“Well…parts of it, maybe. Do you really want to go?”

Milo mulled again as the train moved out of view. “It'd take over two weeks to go both ways. That's a long time to be away from the job.”

“We could fly one way and go by train the other way,” I suggested.

The safety guards began to lift. “I wouldn't mind seeing Newfoundland and Nova Scotia,” the sheriff said, waiting for a VW and a panel truck to move. “There's supposed to be some good fishing there.”

I envisioned downtown Halifax with quaint shops. “How far east have you ever been?” I asked.

“Montana,” Milo replied as we crossed the tracks. “It was after the divorce was final and I wanted to get away. I fished the Jefferson River south of Bozeman. Got some nice cutthroat and rainbows.”

“Did the trip make you feel better?”

“Not really. But at least it was a change.”

“I wish I'd been there,” I said as we continued up Alpine Way.

Milo chuckled. “I wish you had, too.” He sobered just before turning off onto Fir. “No, I don't. I needed that time to figure out how to live on my own. Even at that, it took me another five, six years to really recover. By then, you showed up. That helped.”

“You were so low-key when we met, very different from—” I stopped, staring at our front yard, where four figures stood by the porch.

“Damn!” Milo grimaced. “It's those kids from the Burger Barn.” He pulled into the driveway, stopped short of the garage, and all but exploded out onto the lawn. I scrambled from the SUV to join him.

“Slow down,” I heard the sheriff bark at the teens. “One at a time.”

“Like Jeb just said,” the dark-haired boy with the mullet asserted. I assumed he was Alex, who had been blocked from my sight at the Burger Barn. “What we found at the dump site is an old painting in a frame with glass over it. Is there a reward for that?”

“No,” Milo snapped. “Somebody tossed it. It's a
dump site
.”

“Hey, wait,” the ginger-haired girl protested. “Me and Danielle seen on TV where a lady found a picture at a garage sale done by some famous guy and it was worth megabucks. What if this one's like that? Shouldn't somebody check it out? It's in the car.”

The sheriff started to say something, thought better of it, and turned to me. “Is Donna's gallery open this weekend?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “She'd be closed now, but she might open up for part of tomorrow because of tourists coming through town.”

My husband mulled briefly. “Show it to Mrs. Dodge,” he finally said. “She knows something about art.”

Jeb and Josie took off down the drive. For the first time, I noticed an older dark green sedan parked on the verge halfway between my property and the Marsdens'. It took them only a minute to come back with a Safeway grocery bag.

Milo addressed Alex. “Did you kids get permission from my office to search the dump site?”

“No,” Alex replied. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” Milo said curtly. “Didn't you see the crime scene tape?”

“Sure,” Alex responded. “That's why we went there. I mean, like if we're supposed to solve a puzzle, that's why we wanted a look.”

Danielle's dark eyes were wide. “We saw the hole where the body was found. That really creeped out Josie. But we did some digging of our own. Let Jeb show you what we got.”

Jeb offered the grocery bag to Milo. “Here. Take a look.”

The sheriff removed the framed picture. I stood at his side—and gaped in amazement. The glass-covered painting of a river or creek was crude yet realistic. It appeared that the artist had been experimenting with rudimentary style. It also looked very much like an early rendering of
Sky Autumn
. Somehow, I stifled a cry of shock.

A
pparently, Milo also saw the similarity and ordered the teens to come inside. He went ahead to open the front door; I followed behind him. The kids straggled in, the boys trying to show some bravado while the girls tried not to giggle. Maybe it was suppressed nervous laughter. Or they thought they'd really unearthed a gold mine.

“First,” Milo said, having commandeered the easy chair, “don't ever tamper with a crime scene again. You got that?”

His hazel eyes could have ignited a fire in the newly upholstered sofa the girls were sitting on.

“Yeah, but…” Jeb began, then thought better of it as my husband leaned slightly forward.

“Second,” Milo went on, “how much digging did you do at the dump?”

The boys, who were sprawled by the coffee table in front of the sofa, exchanged glances. “Not much,” Alex finally replied. “It was hot this afternoon. We sort of messed around in that creek.”

The sheriff leaned back in the easy chair. “No other discoveries?”

Both boys shook their heads vehemently. “No,” Jeb asserted. “We thought we was lucky to find what we did on the first try.”

Josie spoke up. “Is it worth anything?”

“That's up to the local gallery owner to decide,” Milo responded. “I want your names, addresses, phone numbers.” He looked at me. “You got something handy for them to write on?”

“I think so,” I said in my meekest fake voice and smiled benignly at the teens. “Be right back.”

From the kitchen, I could hear Milo ask how long the kids planned to stay in town. Jeb thought they'd hang out for a few more days. It depended on which parent had a spare car he or Alex could drive.

“We don't have to turn our report stuff in until we go back to school in September,” Danielle was saying as I handed Josie a tablet and a couple of pens. “When can we have the picture back? I mean, to show we found something that's maybe worth money.”

“That's up to Mrs. Wickstrom,” Milo replied. “She's the art expert.”

Josie looked at me. “I thought you knew about art.”

“Not as much as Donna Wickstrom does,” I said, not having to fake humility this time.

It took the teens five minutes to write down their information, pausing to confer with each other a few times. Apparently at least one or two of them had parents at different addresses. When they'd finished, Milo stood up.

“Thanks,” he began. “When you come here the next time, report to my office first. There's always someone on duty. You got that?”

Alex said yes and the others nodded. I half-expected my husband to shoo them out the door, but they left without further ado.

“Were my kids that clueless?” he asked, leaning against the open door. “Was Adam?”

“Adam was stupefyingly vague,” I said. “But he used proper grammar around me. Usually. When he wasn't mumbling.”

“Maybe I shouldn't be sorry I missed a lot of my kids' teen years,” Milo muttered. “When I did see them, they seemed…normal. For kids.”

I went over to him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I always figured you were relieved not to have to deal with their adolescent stuff.”

My husband winced. “I was. But Mulehide always dumped on me anyway. At least it was usually after the fact. Hell, they're my kids. But I felt her taking them off to Bellevue meant they were mostly out of my control.” He covered my hands with his. “Want to go sit outside?”

“Sure,” I replied—just as the phone rang. I was closest, so I went to the end table by the sofa to pick up.

“If that's Amy…” Milo started to say.

“Yes, Glenn, he's here,” I said, glaring at the sheriff. “Hold on.”

My husband sank back down into the easy chair. “What's up?” he asked, trying not to sound irked. I returned the tablet and the pens to the kitchen. By the time I'd opened the back and the garage doors, Milo was concluding what he'd found out about Aaron Conley. I picked up the painting from the dump site and compared it to Craig Laurentis's
Sky Autumn
. There were definite similarities, though looking at them together, the differences seemed more pronounced. A river painting is still a river. Most of the streams that flow westward from the Cascades look alike if there are no recognizable objects or geography in the background.

“Hey,” Milo said into the phone, “Conley doesn't want to be found. Work it out. If you can shake more out of Ellerbee, let me know.” He paused, frowning. “Okay, fine. Maybe I'll give Ramsey one more shot, but meanwhile I'm trying to follow
up on the family angle. You sure you don't have any relatives for him in your background check?” Another, longer pause. “That's possible, especially for a musician. Let me know what you find out…. Will do.” Milo rang off and stared at me. “McElroy can't trace Conley further back than Baring. He thinks it may not be his real name.”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed. “That never occurred to me. But he could've changed it years ago when he started his band. He might really be Helmut Glubbermuckel.”

“I hope not,” Milo said, getting up. “I'd hate to see what Dwight Gould would do if he had to put that down in the log. Let's go outside before somebody else shows up. It's too warm in here, and the sun should be starting to go down.”

“It usually does,” I murmured, taking the phone with me just in case. “I'm grabbing a Pepsi. You want anything to drink?”

“Just ice water. I'll get it.”

“If,” I said, taking a Pepsi can out of the fridge, “Conley isn't his real name, wouldn't he have had to use it when he married Crystal?”

Milo finished pouring water into a glass. “He would if he had to show ID. But would he and Crystal have gone the conventional route?”

“Good point. Maybe not.” I started for the back door. “Are you going to put the Yukon in the garage?”

“Damn. I forgot.” Milo headed out through the side door.

By the time he joined me, I was anxious to broach the subject of the painting. He agreed that it reminded him of Craig's work.

“The question,” I concluded, “is why it was buried in the dump and not thrown out with whatever else might've been disposed of. Doesn't that suggest deliberate hiding of the picture, no matter who painted it?”

“Could be.” Milo took out his cell and punched in a number. “Hey, Dustman, where are you?” He waited for a response. “Okay, the next time you swing around by Carroll Creek and the dump site, take a look at a hole some idiot kids dug there. Let me know how deep and how far it is from where we found the stiff…. Yeah, I'm at home with the Little Woman.” He clicked off.

I grabbed his arm. “I told you never, ever to call me that!”

Milo laughed. “You know I'm teasing.”

I shook his arm “I know it, but does Dustin? Or do you refer to me like that at work?”

My husband looked innocent. “You're Ms. Lord at work.”

“Only Dustin—who has excellent manners—calls me that,” I shot back. “I'm Emma to everybody else. Except Dwight, who I'm not sure has ever called me anything.”

“That's probably something to be thankful for,” Milo said calmly. “You prefer ‘my old lady'?”

“Ohhh!” I punched him in the shoulder. “You're impossible!”

The sheriff gazed around him. “I feel a breeze. Want to roll around on the grass?”

“Not until you convince me you don't call me the Little Woman when I'm not around.”

Milo turned serious. “Hell, you know I wouldn't do that. I never called Mulehide anything but my wife, even when she was pretending I didn't actually exist. Get serious. Do you really think that painting is by your favorite recluse?”

I removed my hand and drank some Pepsi. “I'm not sure. I do think Donna would be able to tell us.”

Milo rubbed his chin. “If the gallery isn't open tomorrow I'll take it over to their house. Want to tag along, my little ball and chain?”

Before I could snarl back at him, his cell rang. “That's close
enough,” he said to the caller. “How deep?…Sounds about right. Thanks, Dustman.” Milo disconnected and sighed. “Less than a yard away, toward the creek. Damn.”

I leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

“I don't like coincidences,” Milo asserted. “You know that. But the painting being buried so near the body makes me suspicious. What if they were buried at the same time? And why?”

I admitted I didn't know. “It may not be Craig's work,” I pointed out. “It's not a very good painting, at least not as good as he'd later become. I do wonder why anyone would bother to frame it. It strikes me more as something an amateur would want to show off. If the frame is removed, the artist may have signed it.”

Milo kept staring into space. “Okay,” he finally said. “I'd better have it taken apart by an expert—like Donna. I don't want to screw it up. Speaking of which…” He gestured at the expanse of grass behind us.

“No. I'm still too hot and crabby.”

My husband stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Good. Then take it out on me.”

“You're an asshole!” I shrieked. “I hate you!”

“Good start,” he murmured, lifting me into his arms. “You're even better when you're ornery. This should be fun.”

And so it was.

—

I left Milo reading Sunday's
Seattle Times
at ten to nine as I headed off for Mass. The lower parts of St. Mildred's windows were open and I heard, if not felt, a faint breeze ruffling the trees outside. The pew in front of me creaked as Ed Bronsky and his family tried to get more comfortable. A younger couple had arrived late, squeezing in next to Ed, Shirley, and their five
chunky offspring. I didn't recognize the newcomers. If some of SkyCo's Catholics had left town for the holiday weekend, visitors had taken up the slack. Father Den had returned from his vacation, and his homily was on peace, according to the gospel of the day. He spoke about the difference between inner peace and temporal peace, a suitable subject on the eve of our country's birth. As usual, his words were well crafted, befitting a former seminary teacher, and thus slightly sleep inducing. Den, like my brother, knew that sermons weren't his strong suit, and never went over ten minutes. On this warm July morning, he cut it to seven. In the brief silence that followed, Ed apparently sat on the visiting young woman's purse and let out a stifled “oof!” The nonresidents were able to ignore him, a talent I seemed to lack. Maybe I should pray for it. On the other hand, it'd be un-Christian to ask for Ed to evaporate.

After Mass, I managed to elude Ed by being fleet of foot—and the Bronskys still being wedged into the pew by the couple, who were probably trying to assess the damage done to the woman's purse. I did pause to greet Jake and Betsy O'Toole and Francine and Warren Wells. Even the usually chic Mrs. Wells looked a trifle wilted in our unseasonable weather. Her women's clothing shop didn't have AC.

Milo had migrated to the backyard, apparently having read the Sunday paper, which lay in my chair.

“Do the Wickstroms go to church?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied, moving the
Times
so I could sit down. “Lutherans. They stick fairly close to a traditional liturgy, except maybe Pastor Nielsen gives longer sermons. I gather he's a better speaker than most of the local clergy. If memory serves from their weekly ad, the main service is at ten.”

Milo stretched and yawned. “Okay. Why don't we go see them around noon?”

I grinned at him. “You really want to take your old lady along?”

“Why not? I kind of like her.” He stood up. “Where's your coffee?”

“I was so excited to see you that I forgot to pour it,” I said drily. “I've had enough coffee. While you're up, grab me a Pepsi.”

“That's got caffeine, too, you know.”

“So? I
like
caffeine. It keeps me alert.”

“It makes you hyper,” he called over his shoulder. “That's why you crash into walls and stumble over your own feet.”

I didn't respond. I'd heard it all before. My husband might be right. He'd had to pick up the pieces a few times over the years after I'd trashed my clumsy self. Somehow I'd managed to keep upright since we'd been married. Or maybe I was just getting older—and slower.

Shortly before noon, we arrived at the Wickstroms' well-kept house on First Hill. Their Dodge Durango was in the driveway, indicating they were home. Steve Wickstrom responded to the door chime, looking surprised to see us. He put out his hand to Milo.

“Are we under arrest?” he asked with a faint smile, then noticed the Safeway bag in my husband's hand. “Or did you bring brunch?”

“I've got a question for the local art maven,” the sheriff replied as we entered directly into the living room. “Is Donna busy?”

“Donna's always busy,” Steve replied, “but I insisted she take off today and tomorrow. She wears herself out, between the day care and the gallery. Not to mention keeping up with the house and our two younger kids. Karen's home from the UDub for the summer, but she's working at the public pool as a lifeguard. Have a seat. Coffee?”

We both declined. Donna emerged from the kitchen. “Hi,” she greeted us, looking surprised. “Is this a social visit? Or—”

Milo hugged Donna. They had a history that bonded them, but it wasn't romantic. Her first husband, Deputy Art Fremstad, had been killed in the line of duty. Karen was the daughter Art and Donna had had together. I was already sitting down, so I merely waved at our hostess.

Milo remained standing, sliding the painting from the paper bag. “Take a look at this. You may want to remove it from the frame.” He joined me on the sofa.

“I guess I don't have to worry about fingerprints,” Donna murmured, holding the picture out in front of her. “Steve, can you get me some tools so I can pry off the back of the frame?”