Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (21 page)

I had no intention of going back to the
Advocate
, however. Seeing that Vida's Buick and Mitch's Taurus were both gone, I got into my Honda and headed for RestHaven. Reminding myself that I wasn't fully alert, I exercised caution on the route to River Road. Traffic—such as it is in Alpine—was light. Maybe some people were still on vacation. Or they were in the hospital. That was a story in itself. I couldn't recall a time when they'd run out of beds in all the years I'd lived in the Valley of the Sky.

I spotted the Yukon and a cruiser parked by RestHaven's main entrance. The sheriff wouldn't be glad to see me, but we both accepted the adversarial nature of our jobs. I got out of the car, took a deep breath, and marched into the rotunda.

I didn't get far. A lean man of average height with hollows under his cheekbones blocked my way before I took a half-dozen steps inside. “Ma'am,” he said in a soft voice, “may I see your RestHaven ID?”

He wasn't in uniform, but despite the gray slacks and navy blue summer shirt, I guessed him to be Sid Almquist. “I'm Emma Lord from the
Advocate
. I don't think we've ever met, Sid, but I know who you are.”

Sid flinched. “This isn't a good time to visit, Ms. Lord.”

“That's why I'm here. I just came from the sheriff's office.”

He looked puzzled. “You work for the sheriff
and
the newspaper?”

I felt like saying I certainly did, since I had to feed Mr. Law Enforcement. Briefly, I argued with myself: Truth or Dare? “I'm here to see Ren Rawlings. I know where her room is. I've visited her before.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible right now,” Sid said. “We're in the middle of a patient reorganization.”

“You mean you're moving patients around?”

Sid looked uncomfortable. “It's an internal process. Tomorrow might be a better time to call on your…friend.”

“Okay.” I smiled. “As long as I'm here, is Kay Burns free? I have some PR-related queries for her.”

“She's in a staff meeting,” Sid replied, not looking me in the eye. “Sorry. Maybe you can phone her this afternoon.”

I had no choice but to surrender. “Thanks, Sid. See you later.” I left the building. But I had no intention of leaving the premises. I got in the Honda and drove from the parking area to where Milo had left the Yukon under the porte cochere. Unless he wanted to move the cruiser and then reverse all the way back down to River Road, he wasn't getting away without telling me what was going on. I almost laughed, an indication that I was finally waking up.

But ten minutes later, I was growing impatient. Seeing Fleetwood's BMW pull in, I got out of the Honda. “You're late,” I called to him. “If you get past security, I'm going with you. Or has Rosalie already told you all?”

Spence looked as irked as I felt. “The lovely Rosalie is incommunicado,” he declared, checking his Movado watch. “I've got twenty-five minutes before the hour-turn news at eleven. I'd better get something by then. Sleeping with our sources isn't doing us much good. Maybe we should deny them the pleasure of our company.”

“I can't,” I responded. “I'm legally wed.”

“Alas, you are. I don't understand your taste in men. You're a woman of culture. Don't you long for a night of Verdi or Brahms or—” Mr. Radio stopped speaking as the sheriff hauled Iain Farrell out of the building while Jack Mullins rushed to open the cruiser's back door.

“What the hell?” Milo yelled, spotting Fleetwood and me. “Move those vehicles! Now!”

“See you at headquarters,” Spence murmured, hurrying to the Beamer.

I got into the Honda, waiting for Spence to get out of my way. Milo and Jack were behind their respective wheels. I could practically feel sparks flying out of my husband's hazel eyes. But my foot almost slipped off the accelerator when I saw Jack Blackwell exit RestHaven. Without a glance at any of us, he strode toward the parking lot.

Spence had pulled onto the verge at the bottom of the sloping driveway. Maybe he figured Milo and Mullins were going to turn on the sirens. I followed Mr. Radio's lead, but there were no warning sounds as the Yukon and the cruiser went by us.

As we reached the arterial at the Icicle Creek Road, I noticed Blackwell's new silver Lexus was behind me. To my surprise, he followed us to the sheriff's instead of heading for his mill. When we all arrived at once, several curious pedestrians stopped to gawk.

“Where's your camera?” Spence asked after we got out of our cars.

“You know Milo won't let us take pictures,” I said, noting that the sheriff had entered his domain. “Besides, I'm a lousy photographer.”

“We might as well wait until they get Farrell inside,” Spence said. “What's with Blackwell? He's getting out here, too.”

“Ask him,” I suggested. “He probably won't insult you.”

“I think I will.” Spence moved onto the sidewalk. “Jack, my good man, are you making news or just being another interested observer?”

I felt like gagging at Mr. KSKY's unctuous approach. Jack turned to speak but didn't break his stride. I noticed the right side of his face was bruised and swollen. He kept moving. “That bastard Farrell attacked me,” he called to Spence. “I'm filing a complaint. And no, I don't want to be on the radio. Go comfort your girlfriend. He slugged her, too.”

My media colleague staggered slightly. “What?” But Blackwell had gone inside. “Jesus, Emma,” Spence said. “I should check on Rosalie. Damn, why didn't I stay put?”

“Can you call her?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I'll do that now.” He turned away and got out his cell.

I decided I might as well beard the lion's den. There wasn't anything I could do to help Spence. I paused to see if Mitch's car was parked by the
Advocate
, but a FedEx truck blocked my view. The news was happening in the sheriff's office and I was on the scene.

Milo, Mullins, and Farrell were nowhere in sight. Dustin looked bemused as he listened to Blackwell. Lori seemed agog.

“Are you bringing charges?” the deputy asked Black Jack.

“You bet your ass I am,” Jack replied. “Why do you think Dodge busted the SOB? He took a swing at your boss, too.”

Dustin handed over a form. “If you'd like to sit, sir, you can—”

Jack made a slashing motion with his hand. “I can do this standing up.” He glanced at me. “I'll bet she can do some things standing up, too. But Dodge already knows all her moves.”

That did it. I stomped over to Jack and didn't give a damn
that he was more than half a foot taller and at least fifty pounds heavier. “Thanks, Blackwell. You just inspired this week's editorial. I'm going to write about how you treat the women in your life. Patti Marsh may be too chicken to complain about you beating the crap out of her, but I'm not. Go ahead, sue me. I'll see you in court. I'd love to see you try to deny the truth in public. We won't need a humor piece in this week's edition. You'll provide all the laughs from Alpine Baldy to Mount Sawyer.”

The bruise wasn't the only thing that turned color on Blackwell's face. He actually bordered on puce. I didn't care. I was so mad that I was almost shaking. I wished he
would
hit me. But I knew he didn't dare. I made a clucking sound and whirled away from the world-class abuser.

Milo entered from the hallway as if on cue. He stopped before coming into the area behind the curving counter. “What's going on?” he inquired, glancing from Blackwell to me and finally to Dustin.

“Ask Jack,” I said. “He's the one with a complaint. I feel
good
.”

But Blackwell had snatched up the form and was storming out the door. Dustin expelled a big breath of relief. Lori started to giggle.

The sheriff, however, did not looked pleased. “Come into my office, Ms. Lord,” he said in a chilly voice.

I obeyed, though I suddenly felt a bit wobbly. I couldn't recall when I'd been so infuriated. But anger is depleting. I practically fell into one of the visitor chairs. I noticed Milo had left the door open.

“Well?” he asked, looking very business-like.

“Blackwell insulted me—again.” I paused to rub at my forehead. “I told him I was going to write an editorial about how he beats up women.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.” I felt foolish and self-righteous at the same time. “I should. It's not right. How many women got beat up around here over the three-day weekend?” I was regrouping and gathering steam. “We did a series on abuse earlier this year. Maybe it's time to do a follow-up. Dwight mentioned several domestic brawls in the last few days.”

“Four,” Milo said without inflection.

“Four reported,” I countered.

The sheriff just looked at me.

“What?” I yipped. “You expect me to let that asshole say terrible things to me and I should act like mealymouthed Patti Marsh?”

Milo seemed to relax. “Hell, I almost got into it with him at RestHaven. He's looking for a way to can me before the county commissioners are history. You know Jack and I've never gotten along.”

I scowled. “Are you telling me what to write in my newspaper?”

He considered the question. “Yeah, I guess I am. I shouldn't do that. I don't like it when you tell me how to do my job.”

“Maybe my threat will make Jack think twice before he shoves Patti's head into a wall the next time he gets mad at her.”

“Dubious.” Milo drummed his fingers on the desk. “It's a habit. Hard to break—like smoking.” He reached for his cigarettes. “Want one?”

“Yes, please,” I said meekly. “I didn't mean to cause you a problem, but I couldn't stop myself.”

“He ever make a pass at you?” Milo asked after lighting cigarettes for both of us.

“Never.” I shook my head a half-dozen times. “Oh, ugh, what a grotesque thought. Are you mad at me?”

“No.” He chuckled. “I heard most of it. You brought your A game. I hope you never get really mad at me. At least not for more than—what's your record?”

“Eleven minutes.” I set the cigarette in the ashtray. “Please tell me more about what went down at RestHaven. All I've got are bits and pieces. Did Farrell really hit Blackwell and Rosalie?”

Milo ran a hand through his hair. “I'm still not sure what started it. Blackwell came to see Kay Burns. He's been taking part in some charity deal for the Alzheimer's-wing kickoff. Kay's not as fond of her second ex as she is of Dwight. Farrell interrupted the meeting and got into it with Kay—or maybe Jack. Rosalie went to see what was going on. Farrell tried to slug Jack, hit Rosalie instead, and then took another swing at Jack and connected. We busted Farrell on assault-and-battery charges.”

“I'm…flummoxed,” I admitted. “What started the fight in the first place? The mere presence of Blackwell?”

“Lot of ‘he said,' ‘she said,' ” Milo replied. “Kay and Rosalie will have to give statements as soon as they get their acts together. Kay was semi-hysterical and Rosalie was in a state of shock. Hell, maybe she always looks like that. I'm guessing Fleetwood went off to comfort her.”

“I assume so,” I agreed. “Is Farrell giving a statement in his cell?”

“He will be, once he calms down,” my husband said. “After he does that, he can post bail and beat it. I don't want that prick hanging around here.
I
might end up slugging
him
. Are you posting any of this online?”

I considered my options. “You've officially charged Farrell, but I'd like to wait to see why he hit Blackwell. Jack's complaint should fill in that gap. There are two sides to any fight.”

“Let's hope so.” Milo made a shooing motion with his hand. “Now beat it, Emma. I've got work to do.”

I stood up. “You will keep me informed, won't you?”

“Yeah, sure. By the way, if you're going to Pie-in-the-Sky, why don't you pick me up a roast beef—”

I didn't stick around to hear the rest of the sheriff's order. Frankly, he was lucky I hadn't slugged
him
.

—

Mitch felt out of the loop. “I missed all that while I was interviewing Simon Doukas?” he exclaimed after I'd related what had gone on at RestHaven. “I got cheated. Doukas isn't a lively feature subject.”

I refrained from saying that Simon was dead to me. “He's an attorney. You were expecting Clarence Darrow or Johnnie Cochran?”

Mitch shrugged. “He's dry as dust, but he gave me background on the Doukas clan. Grandpa Deeky—Demetrius Doukas—came here from Greece before World War One. He was seeking gold, bragged he'd found some, but worked as a logger. After Carl Clemans closed the mill, Deeky started buying up land. Maybe he did strike it rich.”

“If I ever heard that, I forgot,” I said. “Oddly enough, an old gold mine was involved in one of the first big stories I covered here.”

“A Golden Fleece theme,” Mitch murmured. “Simon's aunt converted to Catholicism. He made her sound like a traitor to the clan.”

“What aunt? I never heard that before.” Maybe Simon thought all Catholic women had loose morals.

“Cassandra,” Mitch replied. “She married a Barton. Isn't that the family that owns the shoe store?”

“Yes, Clancy Barton. He must be Cassandra's son. The dad was before my time here. His sister, Mimi, works in the office at St. Mildred's. Kay Burns is the other sister. I don't recall ever seeing Kay in church.”

“Simon didn't elaborate on them,” Mitch said. “Are you sure you want me to take on this RestHaven brawl instead of going after the French connection with Buddy Bayard?”

“No rush on the ethnic feature. I want to detach myself from Blackwell and Farrell for personal reasons. I don't get along with either of them. You can take a neutral stance.”