The Alpine Legacy (23 page)

But I wasn't completely giving in. “You got my hopes up after that weekend at Lake Chelan,” I said, sounding dangerously close to a sulk. “That should never have happened. I was doing just fine until then.”

“So was I.” The words sounded hollow, and Tom immediately took them back. “No, it wasn't. I was hanging on by a thread. I needed you. I needed to feel alive again. If that's selfish, then there it is. And now I'm here.”

“For what?” The sulky note lingered.

Tom set his glass down on the side table and put his hands behind his head. “I don't know. That's what I came to find out.”

For some unknown, perverse reason which is so much a part of my emotional makeup, I wanted to stall. “Tell me about Sandra. What happened? How did she die?”

“I thought Leo told you,” Tom replied, looking pained.

“He did. That is,” I clarified, “he told me she took an overdose of something-or-other.”

“That's right,” Tom retorted. “Did you think I'd killed her?”

I didn't detect any humor in his tone. He was wearing his belligerent expression. I'd forgotten how daunting that was. But under that sophisticated, gentlemanly exterior lurked a man who did battle in the newspaper wars. Tom hadn't gotten where he was without being tough.

“Of course not,” I declared. “But was it deliberate or accidental?”

“On her part?” The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth as he saw me nod. “I honestly don't know. Sandra
had threatened suicide so often. It was one of her favorite ploys to keep me in line. She'd actually attempted it four or five times, but she was so well acquainted with her medications that she always managed to pull through. I'm guessing—if only because it makes me feel better—that she wanted to kill herself. The kids had moved away, so had some of her closest friends, and her older relatives were dying off. Her coterie of sympathizers was shrinking.”

My initial reaction was contempt, but it was quickly replaced by pity. How pathetic to live life only to gain the compassion of others. It was a waste, and I said so.

“Yes,” Tom agreed, “it was. Sandra was smart, she was beautiful, she'd been given everything. I suppose that was the problem. Her wealthy parents had spoiled her. She never stopped wanting to be spoiled. And, to be fair, she was unstable, even when I met her. Like a fool, I thought marriage—and motherhood—would change her.”

“We don't change,” I said sadly. “We simply become more of what we already were.”

“So it seems.” Tom had removed his hands from behind his head and was finishing his drink.

“Do you need a refill?” I asked.

“I don't know.” He gave me another wry look. “Do I?”

“Probably. You've had a long drive,” I added hastily.

“Yes.” As I took his glass, he grabbed my wrist. “I've come a long way. Have you?”

I was trembling. “I don't know,” I said. “I'm still in shock.”

“Should I go?” Tom looked very earnest.

I shook my head. “No. Please. Let me collect myself. I'll get us another drink.”

He released my hand and I staggered out into the kitchen. I was getting more ice when I heard the crash. Spilling several cubes on the floor, I dashed out into the living room.

“What was that?” I cried.

Tom was at the picture window that looks out onto my front yard. “Christ,” he murmured with a startled laugh as he bent down to pick something up. “This is crazy. It's a brick. With a note.”

“What?” I was incredulous as I joined him.

He held the note in his hands. “It was tied to the brick,” he explained, and with a look of disgust, handed me the folded tablet-sized piece of paper. “What's all this about?”

With shaking hands, I unfolded the note. It had gotten wet and the ink had started to run, but it wasn't too difficult to make out the big block printing.
Killer whore
, it said.

“Damn!” I gasped, then stared at the jagged hole in my front window. “Damn, damn, damn!”

Tom put an arm around my shoulder. “Call a glazier right away. You can't get along without a new window in this weather.”

I looked up at Tom. “Are you kidding? There's one glazier in town, and if you think he'll dash out on a Friday night, you're nuts. This is Alpine.”

Tom looked vaguely nonplussed, then examined the window's two-foot gash. “Have you got any heavy cardboard?”

“Somewhere.” I was already shivering, and snowflakes were swirling on my hardwood floor. “I'll check.”

Five minutes later, I was back with part of a box and a roll of duct tape. Tom had collected the broken glass and put the shards in a bowl.

“Did you see anything?” I asked.

“You mean who threw the damned brick? No. I was sitting there, admiring your Monet print, and suddenly there was a crash. I turned around.” He paused, getting to his feet. “And by the time I realized what had happened, the SOB must have taken off.”

“In a car?” I asked as Tom bent down to apply the cardboard.

“I don't think so,” he replied. “My guess is whoever did it was on foot. They may have parked in that cul-de-sac down at the corner.”

“Rats.” Then I brightened. “There must be footprints. Maybe I should call Milo.”

“Go ahead,” Tom said, carefully applying tape to cardboard and glass, “but I doubt he'll get anything by the time he arrives. It's probably too late right now. Look out there, it's practically a blizzard.”

Tom was right. The flakes were small but thick, blowing down from the north and piling up against the house. “Bummer,” I muttered. “I'd love to catch that jerk.”

Finishing his task, Tom stood up. “What set whoever it is off?” He glanced at the note, and his face darkened with anger.

I let out a big sigh. “Let me get our drinks first. Then I'll tell you all about it.”

Having spent his career in newspapers, Tom wasn't surprised by the brick-throwing business. But he was shocked when I told him that an attempt had been made to set me up as Crystal Bird's killer.

“Who hates you both?” he asked when I finally wound down.

I stared at Tom. “I never looked at it quite that way. I don't know that Milo has, either.”

“I remember Milo,” Tom said with a thin smile. “He's not the sharpest scalpel in the surgery tray.”

“He's not dumb,” I said in a defensive tone. “Milo goes by the book. He has to.”

“You're very protective of Milo,” Tom remarked.

I tried to be casual. “We have to work together, especially on big investigations like this. Believe me,” I added,
hoping I didn't sound bitter, “when we've had … disagreements, the cooperation level all but disappears.” I didn't go further; I had no idea what, if anything, Tom had heard about Milo and me from Leo Walsh.

Tom's expression was noncommittal. “Milo didn't fall for the setup?”

“The setup?” I wasn't sure what he meant. “You mean by the killer? No, he didn't.” I didn't add that Milo knew me too well to fall for it. There was no need for Tom to find out how well the sheriff and I really knew each other. Not now, at any rate. “Besides, I think Milo may have known Crystal on a personal basis.”

I told Tom about the phone call from Milo the night of the murder, and also added some of the other details, including Victor's accident, Nat's drunken driving, and Aaron's arrest.

“It sounds pretty complicated,” Tom said with a smile. “But you enjoy these homicidal puzzles. By the way, are you going to call Milo to report this?” He gestured at the picture window.

“I'd better, if only for the record.” Dutifully, I picked up the phone. Sam Heppner answered. He sounded surprised in his own quiet way, then asked if I wanted an officer to patrol the house.

“No, Sam, but thanks,” I said. “You've got what—two men?—on duty and there's bound to be some more nasty accidents. I'm fine.”

“But this isn't the first incident,” Sam pointed out. “Your house was broken into a while back, right?”

“Right.” I hesitated, wondering if in fact the two occurrences might not be linked. “Still, it's okay. People who throw bricks usually don't burgle as a sideline.”

“Maybe.” Sam sounded grudging. “It's up to you.”

I reiterated my statement about the deputies being needed elsewhere. Sam didn't argue further.

When I'd hung up, Tom asked me more about the break-in. “It was over a week ago,” I told him. “But I'm not sure that's when the sleeping pills were taken. Any number of people had been in the house since I last took them. In fact, I think the burglary was kids. They took the kind of things that kids take.”

“It could have been a cover,” Tom pointed out.

I admitted that was possible. Despite the cardboard, the living room still felt chilly. Going over to the fireplace, I threw in another log.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked, standing between Tom's chair and the sofa.

“I was going to take you out,” Tom said, then added wryly, “if you didn't throw me out first.”

“It's snowing too hard to go anywhere,” I said. “I've got plenty of stuff in the freezer. Steak? Chicken? Pork chops?”

“Pork chops,” Tom replied with a wistful smile. “Do you know how long it's been since I had home-cooked pork chops?”

“I thought you and Sandra had live-in help,” I said, perching on the sofa's arm.

“We do. We did,” he corrected himself. “Sandra had a full-time nurse, a housekeeper, and a cook. Only the nurse lived in. We had gardeners, too.” He lifted his head, giving me a glimpse of that profile that looked as if it had come off an ancient coin. “I sold the house this summer and bought a condo on Nob Hill. I don't need servants. I don't want them. It was never my style.”

It probably wasn't. Tom had come from a very middle-class family. His father had worked for the Burke Mill in Seattle. Entering the newspaper business had never been a way to get rich. But marrying money was, and Tom was sufficiently human to be impressed by wealth. Still, I'd always believed that wasn't Sandra's main attraction. Sandra
had been beautiful and smart as well, the whole package. She had also been crazy as a bedbug.

“I didn't realize you'd sold the house,” I said.

“The kids were gone. Why would I want to rattle around by myself in that big place in Pacific Heights? Besides,” he added, “I travel a lot. It didn't make sense not to sell it. At least at the time.”

I eyed Tom quizzically, but he didn't say anything more. For a long moment, we were both silent. He was gazing into his almost empty glass; I was staring at the fire. The reality of his presence in my living room had only begun to sink in. Why had he come? Why didn't I ask?

“Pork chops it is,” I said, getting up and heading for the kitchen. “You want a refill?”

“Half,” he replied, getting up to join me. “I'll fix it.”

While I made dinner, we spoke of other, ne utral things. He was intrigued by Crystal's murder. I was interested in his newspaper empire, which was still thriving despite competition from other media.

“It won't stay that way,” Tom said as we finally sat down in my little dining alcove. “If I were smart, I'd start selling off and buying up TV or radio stations.”

“Why don't you?” I asked, glancing out the window to see that the snow hadn't yet let up.

He gave me a cockeyed grin. “You know why. It's not the same. I've still got printer's ink in my veins. So do you.” Abruptly, he grew serious. “How's
The Advocate
doing financially? Have you ever considered selling?”

I uttered a strange little laugh. “No,” I gasped. “Never. At least not seriously. I mean, as long as we're showing a profit, why would I?”

“That's when you sell,” Tom said in the tone of voice that he must use in high-powered business meetings. “You don't wait until you start losing money, or even flattening out.”

I shook my head. “With any luck, we can hang on until I'm ready to retire. Alpine's growing, Tom. The college has meant a lot to this area in terms of the economy.”

“That's good,” he said between bites of pork chop. “But you're talking about initial impact. Over time, that growth may level off. Let's face it, college students aren't big spenders. Once the plant has been built, money injected into the community comes mainly from faculty and staff. What's the projected growth pattern for the next five years?”

I passed Tom the mashed potatoes for a second helping. “I don't know exactly. But they expect quite a bit of growth. In the next couple of years, they'll be adding at least three new programs.”

Tom gave a single nod. “That's fine, too. But what does that mean? Four, five new faculty members? Another forty or fifty students? And where will they go after they get their two-year degrees?”

I put my fork down next to my plate. “What's your point?”

Tom waved a hand. “Nothing. I was trying to offer some friendly counsel.”

“It doesn't sound as if you're taking it yourself,” I pointed out as I resumed eating.

“True.” His smile was ironic. “Maybe I should. I've been thinking that it's time to pare down. That idea came along after I sold the house.”

Tom was fifty-four. Perhaps he was looking down the road at retirement. I suggested as much, but he shook his head.

“I can't imagine retiring,” he declared. “That's one thing about owning newspapers—if you hire the right people, you can assume a hands-off role. That's why I was trying to steal Leo a while back.” Tom's expression was faintly sheepish.

I recalled the incident, which had resulted in Leo delivering the fateful news about Sandra, and me losing it in the middle of the bar at the Venison Inn. The whole story of my relationship with Tom had come out then, and Leo had been a comfort. But he couldn't explain why Tom had never contacted me in the ensuing months.

“Leo likes it here,” I said lightly. “Why didn't you call me? Why did I have to find out about Sandra from him?”

Tom hesitated before spearing a second pork chop from the oval platter. “I suppose that made you mad,” he said.

“You bet.” I'd finished eating and folded my arms across my breast. “Not an unreasonable reaction, you must admit.”

“Probably not.” Tom didn't seem disturbed, however. “I intended to, of course.”

“And?” I prodded.

He gave a shake of his head. “I didn't do it.”

“Why not?”

He chewed for a moment, then lifted one shoulder. “There was a lot to do after Sandra died. Not just the estate, but because of the way she died. It took me months to get through all the details and red tape. Six months later, when I finally put the house on the market at the end of June, I felt I was out of the woods. As it turned out, I wasn't.”