The Alpine Legacy (28 page)

I obeyed. Moments later, Tom stomped back to the porch, sign in hand. It read,
YOUL FRY
.

“Charming,” I remarked. “I wish I'd be harassed by people who can spell. You should see some of the letters I get. Especially the ones addressed to Emmy Lard.”

“I've seen a few like that in my time,” Tom said grimly. He took the sign directly to the fireplace and stuffed it in the grate.

I threw my arms around his waist. “God, but I'm glad you're here. I'm scared.”

“You? Scared?” Tom hugged me tight. “I didn't think that was your style.”

“It isn't. Not as a rule. But this caper is creepy. Look, it isn't quite four, and it's already getting dark.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” Releasing me, Tom knelt by the hearth and began to build a fire. “Have you ever thought of this scam as Milo's cry for help?”

“What?” I was incredulous.

“He's stumped. Or baffled, as they say in the headlines.” Tom paused while he stuffed kindling on top of the
wretched sign and a handful of old newspapers. “He can't ask you for help, because you and he are on the outs. Dodge has pride, you can see that. By putting you in this rather awkward position, he knows you'll knock yourself out to help solve the case.”

“That's Machiavellian,” I responded. “Too much so for Milo.”

“Maybe not consciously,” Tom said as he lit a match. “But I'll bet that's part of it. He's feeling desperate. Didn't you say he made a wrongful arrest a while ago?”

“He did,” I admitted. “It could have gotten really ugly, but he bailed himself out.”

“So he's feeling unsure of himself.” Tom sat back down next to me. “What do you want to do first?”

I stared at him. “About what? Solving the stupid case?”

Tom nodded. “Where do we start?”

“I already did. I've talked to Dean Ramsey and Victor Dimitroff and the Eriks family—you're right,” I interrupted myself. “I haven't even officially met Aaron Conley.”

“When should we drive down to Baring?”

I glanced outside. Despite the encroaching darkness, there was no sign of a new snowfall. “Now. The pass is open, and the main thoroughfares in town are plowed. But if we take my car, we'll have to dig it out first.”

“The rental will do,” Tom said, getting up to make sure the fireplace screen was secure. “It has studded tires.”

Ten minutes later, we were waiting at the railroad crossing for the Christmas train from Leavenworth to pass. Every December, the Bavarian-style town on the other side of the summit put on a tree-lighting ceremony. It was an event that Alpine could have borrowed if not stolen, but no one in town could agree on exactly what
kind of festivities we should host. Maybe Crystal should have gotten up in arms about that issue. I would have ridden the hobbyhorse right along with her.

I glimpsed happy tourists through the windows. Every year, I promised myself I'd drive to Leavenworth and enjoy the ceremony. And every year, I got too busy to do anything but run in place. Feeling frantic didn't make my spiritual journey any smoother.

The safety barriers went up and we crossed the bridge over the Sky, heading for Highway 2.

“It's beautiful up here,” Tom remarked as we wound our way downhill past small waterfalls that were frozen in place and trees heavy with new snow.

“It's a long winter, though,” I pointed out. “Actually, the snow came late this year. I don't think they've had any yet over in Leavenworth. The altitude there is much lower than in Alpine.”

The cross-state highway was busy on a late Saturday afternoon. The ten-mile stretch between the turnoff to Alpine and the whistle-stop of Baring was familiar to me, but relatively foreign to Tom. He took his time, not risking to get around the slow-moving trucks that blocked our way.

We passed the ranger station, the road that led into Skykomish, and tiny Grotto, with its modest little sign. Then, just as the river edged closer to the highway, I showed Tom where to turn for Crystal's cabin.

“It's peaceful up here,” he said, steering cautiously up the twisting road where the bare vine maples arched over us like a portal. “Except for the occasional murder, of course.”

“Of course.” I smiled a bit thinly. Was Tom trying to talk himself into something? “It's contentious, though. Little things become big things. Cleaning the bird poop
off Carl Clemans's statue in Old Mill Park can trigger a small war. The money—all one hundred bucks of it—could be better spent on planting begonias around the flagpole. The next thing you know, the town is up in arms. People who think that little places like Alpine are utopias don't really understand what goes on.”

“I know what goes on,” Tom said as he parked behind the dirty white van that had almost run me down in the middle of Front Street. “I own several small-town papers, remember?”

“It's not the same as living in those small towns,” I said.

Tom didn't respond, but got out of the car and stood gazing up at the cabin. “So this is the House of Death,” he said as I joined him. “It looks pretty ordinary.”

“That's the secret of all these little Edens tucked away amid nature's glory. They're very deceptive.”

Tom knocked three times. We could hear loud music, mostly bass, inside. Finally, the door opened to reveal Aaron Conley, dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He could have been on the beach at Malibu instead of in a snow-covered cabin at Baring.

“I know you,” he said, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “You're from the paper.”

He started to close the door, but Tom had already put out a hand. “Hold it. We just want a few minutes of your time. Don't you want to have your side aired?”

Boom-thump-whump-boom
went the bass. I flinched as we stepped inside.

“My side of what?” Aaron said in a sullen tone. “And who the hell are you?” He jabbed his thumb at Tom.

“Turn that thing down,” Tom ordered in an irritable voice.

“What thing?” Belligerence was written large on Aaron's bearded face.

Crystal's CD player—now legally Aaron's—was in a corner, by some bookcases. Tom strode across the room and punched the power button.

“There,” he said, putting out a hand to Aaron. “I'm Tom Cavanaugh, a longtime friend of Emma Lord's. How do you do?”

The return to quiet—and civility—apparently had an effect on Aaron. He shook hands docilely enough, then sat down on the leather couch. The coffee table in front of him bore an almost empty bottle of wine and a bong. I recognized the smell of marijuana.

“What's up, man?” Aaron asked, slouching on the couch.

Not having been invited to sit, I leaned against the bookcase. Tom stood in the middle of the room, hands in pockets. “We hear your alibi's shot,” Tom said in an amiable tone. “Now what?”

Apparently Aaron wasn't on the Presbyterian grapevine or its extensions. “Hey, I don't give a shit,” he said with a little laugh. “I didn't do Crystal. She was cool.”

“Even though she left you?” Tom asked.

Aaron raised both hands. “So? Shit happens. We weren't doing it for each other anymore. What's to save?”

“What about Amber?” I asked.

“Amber?” Briefly, Aaron looked mystified, then he grinned, revealing a space between his front teeth. “Oh, you mean Lolita. She booked. Long time ago.” The grin faded, but his pale blue eyes seemed hopeful. “Has she turned up?”

I shook my head. “No. I take it you haven't heard from her?”

“Hell, no.” He lighted a cigarette, of the legal, if still lethal, variety. “She wouldn't have shit to do with me. Not anymore. She was a real little priss.”

“I thought you called her Lolita,” I said.

Aaron laughed. “That was
my
perception, not hers.”

“Is that why she ran away?” I asked. “Because you made moves on her?”

“Hell, no.” His face fell. “At least, I hope it wasn't. I never thought about that.”

“Why did she leave?” Tom queried as he sat down on a ladder-backed chair that had thrift store written all over it.

“Amber and her mom didn't get along,” Aaron replied from behind a blue haze of smoke. “You could call it a personality clash.” He laughed again. “Hey, you guys don't really think I killed Crystal, do you? Man, I'm clean on that one. I was puking up my guts in an alley behind some tavern down the road.”

“Really,” I said in distaste. “And now you're nicely settled in. Do you plan to stay in Baring?”

“Why not?” Aaron gave me what might have passed for a friendly grin. Or maybe it was a leer. “I snowboard. This setup's perfect for the winter, a hell of a lot cheaper thanTahoe or even Timberline.”

Moving a pile of what appeared to be literary magazines from a leather hassock, I, too, sat down. “Tell me, Aaron, why did you come to see Crystal?”

He shrugged. “Why not? Like I said, we were mates. As in friends. No hard feelings. I was in Seattle, chilling with some guys I'd met in L.A. I thought, what the hey? I'll go see Crys. That's what I always called her. Crys.”

“You were broke,” I said.

“So? What else is new?” Aaron snickered as he puffed on his cigarette. “That's not a crime.”

“Didn't you find it odd that Dean Ramsey posted your bail?” I asked.

“Ramsey?” Aaron frowned, as if he were trying to
place the name. “You mean old Dino. No. He's a straight-up kind of guy. You have to admire anybody who's so totally uncool.”

“Do you think,” Tom put in, “that Dean killed Crystal?”

Aaron looked contemptuous. “Never. That's too weird. Old Dino wouldn't hurt a bug. Besides, why should he care? They split up about a thousand years ago.”

“He doesn't always tell the truth, though,” I remarked.

“Dino?” Aaron scowled. “I don't think so.”

“He told me a lie,” I asserted. “He said he hadn't been in contact with Crystal since she moved here. But that's not true. He talked to her, at least.”

“Could be.” Aaron had turned indifferent as he slugged down the last of the wine.

“Why would Dean lie?” I persisted.

Aaron shrugged again. “Maybe he forgot. Or maybe it was none of your business.” He gazed somewhere in my direction through half-closed eyes.

“Did you know he'd seen Crystal?” I wasn't giving up easily. So far, I considered our visit to Aaron Conley a big fat flop. What was worse, he seemed to be heading for a distant planet. I felt a sense of urgency to get at least a smidgen of information out of him before his spaceship went into orbit.

Aaron picked at something in his beard. “I don't think he mentioned it. But then we never had time for a real one-on-one talk, you know?”

I suppressed a sigh. If Aaron's eyes had been a little foggy when we arrived, what little I could see of them now looked utterly glazed.

“One last question,” I said, getting to my feet. “At the funeral, why did you burst out at Victor Dimitroff so angrily?”

The eyelids lifted slightly, like window blinds on a
faulty roller. Aaron opened his mouth, then hesitated as if he were concentrating. Finally, he spoke:

“Who's Victor Dimitroff?”

“A
WASHOUT
,” I pronounced as we got back into the Taurus. “I don't think Aaron knows what universe he's in.”

“Maybe your next question should be put to Victor,” Tom said, turning the key in the ignition, “to see if he knows Aaron.”

“I talked to Victor at the funeral reception,” I said, “and he certainly knows who Aaron is. He mocked Aaron's kind of music, claiming it has absolutely no value.”

Tom looked dubious. “That doesn't mean Victor knows Aaron on a personal basis. He may only have heard of him from Crystal.”

“Hunh.” I was still annoyed. “We're no better off than before we drove to Baring. The only thing I gathered from that dim-bulb conversation is that Aaron is too flaky to commit murder. Especially a well-planned one like Crystal's.”

“So it seems.” Tom braked before turning back onto Highway 2. “It could be a ruse.”

“I don't think so. You don't, either.”

“But he did have a motive,” Tom said. “A roof qualifies these days.”

“That cabin suits him,” I said. “But why pretend not to know Victor?”

“Don't ask me,” Tom replied. 238

“He must have known Victor. They were both staying with Crystal.”

“Where? The cabin didn't look as if it had more than one bedroom.”

“That's so.” I thought back to what I'd heard about Victor's visit earlier. “You're right. I think Victor was staying at the ski lodge, even if he did hate hotels and such. Maybe that's why he checked in there, instead of going to Crystal's. Aaron was already bunking at the cabin.”

“Might that not rule out a passionate affair between Victor and Crystal?” Tom suggested.

I drummed my nails on my knees. “I'm trying to get a clearer picture of them both. Not to mention Aaron, who is fuzzy by definition. What's coming through isn't exactly passionate relationships. Victor's not the type, Aaron's too mellow, Crystal herself was…cold, detached.”

“You never know about people,” Tom said with a nudge.

“Never mind me. But you're right,” I allowed. “I suppose a man as passionate about his music could also be passionate about a woman. Still, there's something about the Crystal-Victor-Aaron triangle that doesn't ring true.”

“You left out Husband Number One,” Tom said as we continued our steady climb up the pass.