The Alpine Legacy (24 page)

“How come?” I had a feeling I wasn't going to like the answer.

“Kelsey got herself into some trouble,” he replied, the blue eyes solemn. “She had a boyfriend in New York, where she'd gone to work after she dropped out of college. He fancied himself a writer, but was making ends meet by working for a messenger service. It turned out that he was delivering more than messages.”

“Drugs?” I put in.

Tom nodded. “Anyway, Kelsey got pregnant. To my
horror, she wanted to marry this moron. It killed me to interfere, but I had to. Oh, I went back to meet him—his name was Thor, for God's sake—and he was everything I'd dreamed of—in my worst nightmares. I'll be damned if I know how she could have picked such a loser.”

I could hazard a guess, but I didn't. Kelsey had grown up mothering her mother. Sandra's death had left a hole in her life. I suspected she'd been looking for someone else to take care of. But I wouldn't rub that in.

“Anyway, I talked her out of it,” Tom continued, putting his plate aside. Maybe just talking about Thor had caused him to lose his appetite. “I tried to be reasonable, and to my amazement, it worked. God, she's only twenty-four—why should she screw up the rest of her life?”

I'd been twenty-one when I'd gotten pregnant with Adam. Had that event screwed up my life? Maybe. Through the misty vista of twenty-six years, I wasn't sure. If it'd been screwed up, I'd done it myself.

“So what happened?” I asked.

Tom uttered a heavy sigh. “That was the hardest part. If she wasn't getting married, Kelsey decided she'd have an abortion. I hit the roof.”

I winced. “Oh, Tom,” I said, “that must have been rough.”

“It was. We spent two days arguing about that.” He gave me a wry smile. “It only took six hours to talk her out of Thor.”

“And?” I felt like I was watching a soap opera and had come to the end of the Friday episode that leaves viewers on the edge of their seats.

“She finally gave in,” he said, “but not on spiritual or moral grounds. Kelsey began to see the baby as a replacement for her mother.”

“So how's she handling it now?” I asked with a sense of relief.

Tom made one last foray into his second pork chop. “The baby's not due until mid-February. She quit her job the first of December, and is moving back to San Francisco next week. Graham will be home around then for Christmas, too.”

Graham was Tom's elder child, the boy with whom Sandra had become pregnant while I carried Adam. In her case, fertility and stability hadn't gone hand in hand.

“Well,” I said, with an uncertain smile, “you're going to be a grandfather.”

Tom ran a hand through his hair, which, I realized, didn't come quite as far down on his forehead as it used to. “Yes. Strange, huh? You wish you could be a grandparent, and I'm not quite as enthusiastic over the prospect.”

“So what will Kelsey do?” I asked, never having met the girl and only having seen a high-school graduation photo that had depicted a pretty blonde with an air of innocence. I wondered what she looked like six years later with innocence lost.

“She'll stay with me,” Tom replied. “The condo has two bedrooms. Three, really, if you count the den. We'll work out the rest of it after she gets there.”

“I see.” Unfortunately, I thought I did, and my heart sank. Like Kelsey, Tom couldn't seem to free himself from caring for someone else.

Maybe he read my mind. Tom reached out and grabbed my hand. “You understand the position I'm in, don't you?”

“Do I?” The words sounded shaky.

“It doesn't change my feelings for you,” he said quickly, squeezing my fingers. “I swear it, Emma. I still love you.”

“Great.”

“Shall I go?”

“Where?” I started to laugh. “Poor Tom, wandering in
the blizzard. We'll find him curled up against a western hemlock, frozen stiff as a two-by-four.”

“Please. Don't be a smart-ass.” Tom stood up, pulling me with him. In the process, I knocked my knife on the floor and upset the salt-and-pepper shakers.

“Don't,” he commanded, and his voice was gruff. Then he was kissing me and I wasn't laughing anymore. The hysteria was gone; so were the tears that had threatened to spill.

We were in my bedroom, where all the anger and bitterness and resentment floated away as softly as the snowflakes that fell outside my window. December surrounded us, but inside, it felt like May, and we were young again.

I'
M STILL NOT
sure exactly how or why Tom decided he'd call on Marisa Foxx the next morning, but I think it had something to do with his status as a newspaper baron. Over breakfast, he had conjectured that libel was a viable motive for murder. Somehow, he'd gotten it into his head that if he talked to Marisa, he might find out more about the possible suits that had been filed against Crystal.

“I don't get your reasoning,” I admitted as he prepared to walk through the two feet of new snow that had blanketed Alpine during the night. “Isn't it the other way around? Wouldn't the defendant, Crystal, have more of a motive than the plaintiff? I know how much of an estate she had. It wouldn't make for a very big settlement after legal fees and court costs.”

“Were you going to sue for money or satisfaction?” Tom asked, putting on a heavy pair of boots he'd gotten out of his luggage.

I admitted that money hadn't been foremost in my mind when I'd gone to see Marisa. “Do you think she had some serious dirt on somebody in Alpine?”

Tom allowed that might be possible. “I was thinking that an aggrieved party could get more satisfaction out of murdering Crystal than being awarded a paltry monetary settlement. Not to mention that it would end her
harassment and provide swift revenge.” Then he kissed me and headed off into the quiet morning.

He got about two feet before he sank up to his knees in the snow. “I tried to warn you.” I laughed. “It's far too deep. We have to dig our way out.”

Judging from Tom's expression, I surmised that he hadn't shoveled snow since moving out of his parents' home thirty-odd years ago in Seattle's Fremont neighborhood.

“I don't have hired help,” I reminded Tom as he got back onto the porch, “but I do have two shovels.”

Hands on hips, Tom surveyed the front yard and the street beyond. The snow had dwindled to a few drifting flakes, but it was very cold, fourteen degrees on the thermometer outside my kitchen window. At least three feet of snow had accumulated over the past week with drifts against the house reaching almost to the eaves. The hole in the front window was no longer a problem, since it was packed with driven snow.

“What do you people do in weather like this?” Tom asked.

“We shovel,” I replied as I led the way into the house. “It takes me about half an hour. Usually, the plows are out by now, but it's Saturday. The Peabody brothers like to sleep in on the weekends.”

“I take it the Peabody brothers are the snow-removal crew?” Tom asked dryly.

I nodded. “That's it. Come on, have another cup of coffee. Why don't you just telephone Marisa back and talk to her over the phone?”

Apparently, that idea appealed more to Tom than shoveling did. But coffee appealed to him even more. “Okay, so who do you think might have sued Crystal?”

“Might
want
to, as opposed to actually doing it?” I queried, and saw Tom nod. “Not Nat Cardenas. He'd try everything else before going public. The man's a real
politician.” I paused, thinking about the people Crystal had excoriated in her newsletter. “None of the clergy. They're all pretty decent, and would try to avoid scandal.”

“Scandal?” Tom looked curious.

“Not in that sense,” I amended. “The attacks weren't personal. I meant that some of the issues could cause rifts in the congregation, especially among the women who favor the shelter. As for the county commissioners, they probably never read
Crystal Clear.
I'm not sure if they
can
read.”

“What about Milo?” Tom asked.

“Good question.” I turned slightly as a Steller's jay perched on the windowsill, eyeing me hopefully. “I should feed the birds. Milo won't tell me if he knew Crystal in any way except in an official capacity,” I went on, going to the bread box and getting out several crusts. “If there was no personal involvement, the sheriff may have been giving Crystal advice on burglar-proofing her cabin. It's isolated, and a perfect target for troublemakers.”

Tom was looking thoughtful. “I take it you haven't heard any rumors linking Milo and Crystal romantically?”

The phone rang before I could respond. It was Paula Rubens, sounding not quite like herself. “What's the weather up there like?” she asked in a worried voice.

Startup was just a few miles down the highway, but far enough west and considerably lower in altitude. We didn't always share the same kind of weather. “There was a blizzard last night,” I replied. “Have you checked the radio? They ought to be giving pass reports.”

“Stevens Pass reopens at eleven,” she said. “How is it in Alpine?”

“Bad,” I said. “My street's a mess, but they may have plowed Front and Alpine Way by now. What's wrong, Paula?”

I heard her take a deep breath. “It's probably nothing.
One of my students called a few minutes ago to say that he was cross-country skiing through town and saw the sheriff go into Nat Cardenas's house. Benjy—the student—said he was sure it was Dodge because he's the only one in town with a new red Grand Cherokee. I called Nat, and Justine answered. She sounded very upset, and said she couldn't talk. Do you have any idea what might be happening?”

“None,” I replied, glancing at Tom's curious face. “If I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

“Please do,” Paula urged. “I figure that if the weather up your way is really bad, it must be something important to send Dodge over to Nat's.”

Paula was right. Milo's Grand Cherokee had four-wheel drive, but even that had its limitations in a hilly town like Alpine. However, Nat and Justine lived in the upscale development known as The Pines, where they could probably pay or bribe someone to plow the streets.

“It must be urgent to get Milo out on a morning like this,” Tom remarked.

I agreed. “I'll try to call him in a little while. Do you want to talk to Marisa first? I'll get you her home phone number.”

Not surprisingly, Marisa was in. While Tom wandered into the living room with the gypsy phone nestled between his ear and his shoulder, I tidied up the kitchen. I felt as if I were in a dream. The fresh snow piled outside, the birds in the feeder by one of the big Douglas firs that grew in my backyard, the two of us doing everyday things, like a real couple. But the snow would melt, and so would my dream. Reality was Kelsey having a baby and a two-foot hole in my front window.

Tom's conversation with Marisa was relatively short. Just as I was turning on the dishwasher, he returned with the phone and placed it on the counter.

“Marisa takes client confidentiality seriously,” he said. “I gather you haven't found any cases on file at the courthouse?”

“That's Scott's beat,” I said, then, seeing Tom's puzzled expression, I quickly explained how Scott Chamoud had been hired to replace Carla. “He definitely would have mentioned anything about Crystal that was a matter of public record.”

“Scott didn't miss anything,” Tom said, pouring yet more coffee. “Marisa Foxx was able to tell me that no one had gone as far as to file a suit, and that, in her expert opinion, no one would now that Crystal is dead. However,” he went on, the blue eyes twinkling, “she did say that there had been at least three inquiries. One was somebody in the timber industry, and another was a member of the clergy. Which pastor has the most clout in this town?”

“Nielsen,” I answered promptly. “He's the Lutheran pastor, and they're definitely a majority. The timber-industry person could be Jack Blackwell, who owns a logging company and has never met trouble that he didn't want to make worse.”

“The third party?” Tom asked as he leaned against the counter, mug in hand.

“Me.” I gave him a feeble smile. “I went to see Marisa right before Crystal was killed. How the heck did you get this much out of her?”

Tom's smile was sly. “I told her I was a West Coast publishing magnate canvassing some of the independent weeklies. I wanted to know how often the present owners encountered legal problems. You, apparently, don't get involved in litigation.”

“Luck,” I responded. “And caution.”

“Which then led me to ask about any other publications in the county,” Tom said. “That brought up
Crystal
Clear.
I professed amazement at how such a one-horse newsletter could rile so many people. That was bull, of course. It's always the self-published rags that stir up trouble because that's their owners' intent. If they didn't have an ax to grind, they wouldn't go into the business.”

“That's true,” I remarked. “Congratulations. Frankly, I thought you'd hit a stone wall.”

“I was very magnatelike. I think I impressed her.” Tom grinned over the rim of his coffee mug.

“You're very impressive,” I gushed as the phone rang. Reaching behind Tom, I heard Milo's voice at the other end.

“Good,” Milo said. “You're home.”