Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (17 page)

Steve headed back the same way his wife had come. Donna had gone to the big window that overlooked the front yard. She didn't speak until her husband returned with a coffee can full of various items, including a small screwdriver that seemed to be Donna's choice of implement. She set the painting on the floor and knelt down beside it.

“I have a feeling I know where you two are going with this,” she said softly. “Frankly, it's sort of exciting.”

Steve got down on his haunches to watch his wife, their heads close together. I smiled to myself. I'd met Donna a few years after Art had been killed and was glad she'd found another good man. Steve had been teaching at the high school for only a year when they started seeing each other not long before I moved to Alpine. I'd never known Art, but Milo and Donna had both held him in high esteem.

“It's not signed,” Donna announced, taking the painting itself back to the window. “It was done in a bit of a rush, as if the artist had a deadline. Or,” she added, coming over to sit between Milo and me, “he wanted to please someone.”

“He?” I echoed.

Donna's smile was ironic. “You're thinking Craig, right? So am I.”

“Nothing on the back?” Milo asked.

Donna shook her head. “The fact that it's in a frame indicates he did it for someone. This is very raw, only suggestive of Craig's real talent. I'd guess he painted this in his late teens or early twenties, just as he was discovering himself.”

My husband frowned. “Damn. How do you get in touch with Laurentis?”

“I call him on his cell,” Donna replied, carefully setting the picture on the coffee table before standing up. “Craig does have means of communication. He doesn't ever pick up, but eventually he calls back. Is there some reason you need to talk to him?”

“Well…” Milo rubbed at the back of his head, then gestured at the painting. “This was dug up yesterday at the dump site where the body was found last week. You heard about that, I suppose?”

Both Wickstroms nodded, though it was Steve who spoke. “Any idea who it is?”

“We're working on it,” Milo replied. “If there's a connection between the picture and the body, and if Laurentis is the painter, he might be able to help us with our investigation. I know, it's a lot of ‘if's.”

It was Donna's turn to make a face. “You realize Craig is anti-authority? I mean, any kind of government person.”

Milo nodded. “That's where you—and Emma—come in.”

Donna and I exchanged looks. “I think we just got Dodge-smacked,” I said. “Have you heard from Craig since you sold his painting?”

“No,” Donna replied. “That usually means he's being very intense about what he's currently working on. No one has seen
him in town—at least no one has mentioned it—since early spring. But that's typical.”

I hadn't seen Craig since he'd been recovering from a gunshot wound in late November. He always came to Alpine by stealth, usually at night. I wondered if he lived mostly off the land, somehow foraging enough to stay healthy. But for all I knew, he ordered food online and had it delivered to some pickup destination.

Milo was more interested in how to get to Craig. “Any way you can lure him into town, Donna?”

“I send his money to his Wells Fargo account in Monroe,” she said. “The only way he'd show up is—maybe—if I coaxed him into bringing his new painting. I have no idea when it'll be finished. Sometimes he'll work on one painting, then abandon it for months, even years, and start something else.”

I could sense that under his laconic pose, the sheriff was frustrated. “I guess we'll have to set a trap for him.” He poked me in the shoulder. “You're good at that sort of thing. Work it out.”

Steve and Donna laughed. I didn't.

—

“You're a beast,” I informed Milo after we left the Wickstrom house. “If Donna can't get Craig into town, how the hell can I?”

“How'd you meet him the first time?” my husband asked. “Didn't you fall on your ass or some damned thing?”

“Yes.” I stared straight ahead. “Maybe I could fake my own death.”

“See? That's a start.”

I heaved a big sigh. “I'd love to interview him, but he wouldn't go for it,” I finally said after we were almost home.
“If I could think of an angle that would appeal to his artistic sensibilities rather than anything personal…something that would challenge him.”

Milo pulled into the driveway. “Keep thinking.”

As soon as we got inside our not-so-little log cabin, I called RestHaven to inquire after Ren Rawlings. A brisk female voice informed me Ren was resting. I asked if this would be a good time to visit her.

“Please try again later,” the voice said.

“Why?” I asked. “Is she asleep?”

“Yes. Call back this evening. Have a pleasant afternoon.” The hang-up seemed to echo in my ear.

I started for the backyard, where Milo had headed as soon as we got home. But my husband was now stalking into the kitchen, the cell at his ear, and a thunderous expression on his face. “Have you seen their car?” he growled at whoever was on the other end. “I'm not sure what year, damnit. Hold on.” He turned to me as I paused by the sink. “You got any idea how old that Subaru the kids were driving might be?”

“I didn't remember it was a Subaru,” I admitted. “What's wrong?”

He gave an impatient shake of his head. “I'm guessing a 1994,” he informed his caller. “You've got the license number. Maybe they camped out. Ask Mrs. Van Doren if they had any gear. And make damned sure the other parents besides her are on board with this. I got the impression a couple of them may've split up…. Right. Keep me posted.” He clicked off and stuffed the cell into his shirt pocket. “That was Sam Heppner. As you have deduced, my little sleuth, the Sultan kids have gone missing.”

I waited for Milo to grab a beer out of the fridge before following him back outside. “You mean they didn't come home last night?”

“That's right. Josie's mother called the SnoCo sheriff's office and they told her to call us. I don't think Mrs. Van Doren knows we're in a different county. Her brain may be in a different world.”

“Has Sam been looking for them?” I asked.

“Only in town,” Milo replied, sitting down in the patio chair. “I told him to pull in Doe early if he needs her. She's got those Muckleshoot instincts for finding things—and people. It'll mean overtime for her, but I'm betting those kids went off on a logging road and got stuck. Or lost. Sam's already alerted the park rangers.”

“The kids must have cell phones,” I pointed out.

“They do, but they aren't answering. The dumb asses probably forgot to charge them.” Milo popped the top on his Budweiser. “Maybe they'll find Vida. What's for lunch?”

“Whatever you can fix,” I replied. “I'm not eating. This weather ruins my appetite.”

Milo shot me a look of mock dismay. “You'll get so small I won't be able to find you in the dark.”

“Dubious.” My response was halfhearted. “I'm worried about Ren. She isn't able to talk on the phone.”

“Not your problem,” my husband said. “You can't take on everybody else's troubles. You don't really know the woman.”

I scowled at Milo. “You went to see her.”

He folded his arms and sighed. “So I did. But that's because she thought someone was trying to kill her.”

“Can you guarantee someone isn't?”

“Hell, I can't guarantee somebody isn't trying to kill
me
.” He took my hand. “I don't want to see you worrying about people all the time, okay? You want to get wrinkles?”

“I've already got turkey neck,” I said.

“You don't look like a turkey to me.” He squeezed my hand. Gently. “You look like a cute little baby chick—”

The sheriff's cell rang. “Now what?” he muttered, dropping my hand and yanking the cell out of his pocket. “Dodge.” His long face grew increasingly annoyed as he listened to whoever was on the other end. Then his shoulders slumped. “Okay, Sam, I'll take over.”

I heard sirens in the distance. “What?” I asked as Milo clicked off and stood up.

“Doe's in Seattle at some family gathering,” he replied. “Gould's on the desk, Fong worked the night shift, and I forgot Blatt had a vacation day and took Tanya over to Lake Chelan. They like it over there, but I'll bet it's at least ninety degrees. There's a big wreck out by the road into Alpine Falls, so I've got to help look for those dumb-shit kids. Betsy O'Toole spotted the lurker outside their house and got a vague description of the guy. If he shows up here, don't offer him one of my Budweisers. And stay put, okay? I'd better change into my uniform. I'll grab some takeout at the Burger Barn.”

Disconsolately, I watched my husband lope back into the house. It crossed my mind to ask if I could tag along, but I knew he'd say no. I sat staring at our house, still not quite used to the new addition out back. After I heard the Yukon leave the garage, I felt antsy. Somewhere nearby, fireworks were going off, probably in the cul-de-sac down the street. I hoped the dry shrubs and trees wouldn't be set ablaze by careless Fourth of July celebrants.

But I refused to sit outside and mope. So what if I'd only read the sports section of the
Times
before leaving for Mass? I could finish the rest of the paper later. After securing the house, I got into the Honda and drove to RestHaven. It was exactly one o'clock. Milo probably wouldn't be home until Doe came on duty at five.

I avoided Front Street, thinking it would be busy. But a glance to my left by the Icicle Creek Development showed that
downtown was semi-deserted. I continued on to River Road, noting that the Sky seemed to have dropped another couple of inches since Friday. Some preteen children were in the river, shrieking happily as they tossed a couple of inner tubes back and forth. I heard more fireworks after I got out of the Honda and was walking under the porte cochere to RestHaven's entrance. Inside, I blessed the AC as I moved more briskly toward the elevators. The receptionist desk was vacant, but Kay Burns was entering the rotunda from a side door that had once led to the Bronsky drawing room. It was there that Ed's family had dined on their TV dinners at a Louis XV marble-topped table.

“Emma!” Kay exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I want to see how Ren Rawlings is getting along,” I said. “How come you're working today?”

Kay's smile didn't reach her deep blue eyes. “I'm attending a conference in Palo Alto at the end of the month. I don't have much spare time during the workweek to do the research I need for a panel I'll be on. Are you working, too?”

I shook my head. “I know Ren's all alone up here and I felt I should see her. Not to mention that this place is air conditioned.”

“Oh.” Kay frowned. “I happened to be in the psych ward a few minutes ago. You should've saved yourself the trip. I overheard that she's been sedated.”

I didn't hide my surprise. “Why? Did she get violent?”

“No, no,” Kay assured me. “Just very…distraught. Or so I gathered. Dr. Reed was afraid she'd make herself ill. Physically, that is.”

“Poor Ren.” I shrugged. “I suppose I might as well go home. Oh!” I clapped a hand to my cheek. “Is Sid Almquist here today? We should do an article about his new job.”

“I'm not sure,” Kay replied. “You might ask at the front
desk. Nice to see you, Emma. I'm going home to collapse.” She headed for the double doors.

I'd wandered halfway back to the reception area but stopped, making sure Kay had left the building. As soon as she made her exit, I returned to the elevators. A minute later, I was on the second floor, turning left to Unit Six. I could hear voices, but didn't see anyone. The door to Ren's room was closed but unlocked. I stepped inside. Ren was under the colorful quilt, her eyes shut and her face pale. Whatever tan she might've had when we first met had faded. If I couldn't see that she was breathing, I would've thought she was dead.

I called her name, but there was no response. She simply lay there as if she'd been drained of blood. Her slim hands were on the quilt. I carefully picked up the right one. It felt cold, almost clammy. Was that normal? I looked around for a chart but didn't see any patient information. Despite the coziness I'd felt on my earlier visit, the room now seemed more like a tomb. There was nothing personal, not even a glass of water on the stand next to the bed. I patted her hand—an irrelevant gesture—and left.

Entering the hall, I saw Iain Farrell coming my way. His step halted as he saw me, but he kept walking. I nodded and tried to smile, assuming he'd pass me by. But he stopped, his eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here, Ms. Lord?” he inquired with an ominous expression.

“I came to see Ren Rawlings,” I replied. “Is she all right?”

“What do you mean?” he asked as if I'd posed a conundrum.

“Physically,” I replied.

“Of course,” he responded, crossing his arms. It struck me as a defensive gesture. “Her physical health isn't the problem.”

I wouldn't give up. “Then what is?”

Farrell grew patronizing, a tight smile on his thin lips. “Ms.
Lord—do you have a degree in mental health or behavioral sciences?”

My perverse nature came to the fore. “Yes. I majored in clinical psychology at the University of Oregon. Very helpful for a journalist in understanding human behavior.”

“The Oregon school has no such curriculum,” Farrell shot back.

“Oh yes, it does,” I asserted. “It was accredited by the American Psychological Association in 1958.” The only reason I knew that was because I'd written some articles about the psych department for the
Daily Emerald
, the student newspaper.