The Alpine Legacy (5 page)

He had, however, used the room for storage. Among his treasures was a mason jar filled with pennies, some of which he insisted were rare. The jar was gone from the windowsill. So were his autographed Mariners baseball and several of his heavy-metal tapes.

Cursing, I rushed into my bedroom. My mother's pearls were missing, along with some of my other less expensive jewelry. Pulling out dresser drawers, I saw that an old fox boa that had belonged to my paternal grandmother was also gone.

The closet had been searched, but I couldn't see that anything had been taken. I told myself that it was probably just as well that I'm unable to afford a lavish lifestyle.

I glanced in the bathroom, but saw nothing to alarm me. The shower curtain was pulled aside so I could see that no one was lurking in the tub. Finally putting the piece of wood down on the hearth, I dialed 911.

Beth Rafferty was on duty and expressed sympathy when I told her what had happened. “I can send Jack
Mullins or Bill Blatt.” she informed me. “It shouldn't be long unless we get a wreck out on the highway.”

I thanked Beth and hung up. Then I poured a stiff bourbon and water before checking the front door. The lock was simple, and apparently had been jimmied. Again, Milo had told me to get a dead bolt. Stupidly, I'd put it off. Without the sheriff to nag me, I'd gotten careless when it came to safety precautions.

I was almost finished with my drink when Milo himself showed up fifteen minutes later. “I just got home and was getting out of my car when I heard your call come in,” he said, shrugging out of his regulation jacket. “I told the deputies I'd handle this.”

“Thanks, Milo,” I said, feeling relief sweep over me. “You're going to be mad. I never got the dead bolt.”

He scowled at me from under his heavy sandy brows. “That's really dumb. You know damned well we've had more break-ins around here since the college opened.”

“Yes,” I said meekly. “Can I fix you a drink?”

“Not until I've checked the place out,” Milo replied, returning to the front door. “Jeez, this was like opening a Crackerjack box. Easy as pie.” He shook his head, apparently at my stupidity. “They picked the lock. It's the original, isn't it?”

I said that it was. A couple from Everett named Jor-genson had built the log house as a winter ski retreat back in the Fifties when there weren't any other homes on Fir Street. In fact, it had been a dirt road.

“I don't know why the hell you didn't replace the damned locks,” Milo declared. For good measure, he kicked the door shut.

“Maybe that's why I got it cheap,” I muttered. “By the time I bought it, the Jorgensons were half-dead and could hardly stand up, let alone ski.”

“So what's missing?” Milo asked, gazing around the living room.

“Nothing in the living room that I can tell.” I had written down the items and handed the list to Milo. “There may be some other stuff, but I'll probably only find out if I need whatever it is later.”

Milo looked up from the list. “Liquor? Drugs?”

I pictured the cupboard that served as my liquor cabinet. “I didn't notice anything when I fixed my drink. Bourbon, Scotch, gin, rum, vodka—I think it was all there.” I paused and made a face at Milo. “You know I don't do drugs, not even weed.”

“I mean prescription drugs. Painkillers and tranquil-izers. You got any of those?”

“You know better,” I said testily. “Excedrin is my drug of choice. I keep it in the kitchen and it's still there. I took one just before you came.”

“I'll check for prints.” Milo said. “You build me a Scotch, okay?”

“Okay.” Strangely, I hadn't thought about fingerprints. If there were any, no doubt I'd smudged some of them in my frantic search of the house. Surely the burglar had worn gloves. They always did in mystery novels. Besides, it was twenty degrees outside.

I'd built a fire in the grate by the time Milo finished. “I'll have to take your prints,” he said, placing his kit on the coffee table. “Too bad I don't have Adam's.”

“What do you think?” I asked after he'd finished and I'd cleaned my hands.

The sheriff was lounging in one of my matching easy chairs. In bygone days, we would have sat together on the sofa with my head against his shoulder.

“Kids,” Milo replied, sipping his Scotch. “You know the problem. We've had drugs here for years. But now a small percentage of the college students come from bigger
towns. They're dealing to the younger kids. To get the money, our local teens are stealing stuff and selling it over in Everett or even in Seattle. We've caught a few who've gotten really careless, but it's tough.”

“It must have happened a couple of hours ago,” I said. “The snow had covered any footprints or tire tracks.”

“Right. I checked. This time of year, it starts getting dark around four, earlier when it's snowing. Did you ask your neighbors if they saw anything?”

I shook my head. “The Marsdens are in Arizona for a couple of weeks. And you know I'm not very friendly with those people on that side,” I said, gesturing to my right. “They're the ones with the awful kids.”

“Who are old enough to do drugs,” Milo remarked. “I'll call on them when I leave.”

The people who lived in the houses across Fir probably couldn't see anything through the snow. I had no neighbors in back, only the forest and the steep incline of Tonga Ridge. Which, I realized, set my house up as an ideal target for would-be burglars.

We drank for a few moments without speaking, not the old, intimate silence that had seemed to suit us both so well, but with a melancholy that filled the room like bitter incense. Briefly, I longed for the happier days when I could have found comfort in Milo's arms. Maybe the urge was prompted by the cozy fire, the snow coming down outside, the fright I'd had, or the booze. But we couldn't go back. That road was closed, and I had put up the
DO NOT ENTER
sign all by myself.

Before Milo left, he asked if I was afraid to stay alone. In which case, he added hastily, maybe I should call Vida. I assured him I was fine. Burglars, as he well knew, rarely returned in such a short time span.

I watched him lope through the snow to the next-door neighbors' house. He is tall, six-foot-five, and despite his
fifty years, hasn't gone to fat. That amazes me, because, like me, he never works out and, unlike me, lives on TV dinners.

There was something forlorn about his lanky form as he disappeared among the snowflakes. The evergreens that towered over my yard seemed to dwarf him. Up close, Milo seemed so big; walking away from me, he appeared much smaller. I sensed that he was lonely.

That was definitely like me.

I
N ALL THE
excitement over the break-in, I'd forgotten that our bridge club met on the first Thursday of the month. The thought came to me around ten-thirty Friday morning when I was opening the mail, more of which decried my morals and questioned my IQ.

What also occurred to me was that no one had phoned with the usual confirmation. Whoever was hosting the get-together always called the day before we met. This time, I hadn't gotten a reminder.

Heading for lunch through the latest flurry of snow, I decided to take a detour via Sky Travel, which was located across Front Street in the Clemans Building. As I'd hoped, Janet Driggers was on the job. She is a fellow bridge player and the wife of Al Driggers, the local undertaker.

Janet is also very outspoken. She looked up from her own stack of mail as I came in and gave me a big grin. “Well, well,” she said, “if it isn't journalism's answer to Jezebel.”

“Thanks, Janet. I needed that,” I replied, sinking into one of the client chairs. “Did I miss something last night?”

Janet's green eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. “Did you? Who was he?”

I wasn't in the mood to play Janet's ribald games. “I'm talking about bridge club. Nobody called me.”

Janet's pretty face sobered. “Oh.” The phone rang. Giving me an apologetic look, she picked up the receiver. I tuned out as she tried to handle a client who apparently had been stranded at O'Hare in Chicago. “Look,” she said in a sharp tone, “it's not my fault you've been sitting on your ass for three hours. If they say you'll be leaving by one o'clock, believe them. We don't give ticket refunds because Mother Nature is having a tantrum. If you're so steamed, complain to the airline.” She paused and gave me a wink. “Have a nice trip, Victor.”

Janet hung up. “Russian descent. They're terrible cranks. You'd think they'd be more placid since their ancestors were brought up under a commie regime. If you bitched, you got sent to Siberia. Now, where were we?”

“Bridge club,” I said. “Nobody called me, and I forgot.”

“Umm.” Janet picked up her Starbucks mug and took a sip. “You want it straight or with sugar?”

I shook my head. “I've had enough coffee for one day.”

“I'm not talking about coffee, though I should have asked.” Janet heaved a big sigh. “First off, forgive me for the Jezebel crack. I was only kidding.”

“I know,” I said. Janet rarely thought before she spoke. “So what's the bad news?”

Janet made a face. “Some of our fellow card fiends have been upset by the comments in that goofy
Crystal Clear.
The bottom line is that enough of them got their panties in a bunch and felt you shouldn't be included.”

I was stunned. I'd known all the members for almost as long as I'd lived in Alpine. We'd played bridge together for most of those years, and usually got along quite well: Edna Mae Dalrymple, the head librarian; Charlene Vickers, wife of Cal who owned the Texaco station; Darlene Adcock, of Harvey and his hardware store; Linda
Grant, high school PE teacher; Francine Wells of Francine's Fine Apparel. There were more, both regulars and substitutes, but none of these women struck me as mean of spirit.

“Dare I ask who?” I said in a hushed voice.

“Honest, Emma, I'm not sure,” Janet said with a sad smile. “I could guess. But that wouldn't be fair. It was Linda's turn to give the party, and she called me Wednesday night to say that she'd been on the phone ever since she got home from the high school. At least four of our set had balked at including you. She was in a bind, and asked for my advice. I told her they could go screw themselves, but Linda didn't want to create a situation that would break up the club after all these years.”

“So I got screwed instead,” I murmured, then shook my head. “Sometimes I forget how small-minded small-towners can be. Just when I think I've become one of them, I realize I haven't.”

“You never will,” Janet said. “God, Emma, I'm so sorry. But they'll get over it.”

I stood up and gave Janet a bleak look. “Maybe. But will I?”

Getting to Crystal Bird's cabin wasn't easy, especially in snow. There was never much more to Baring than a whistle-stop, though at one time I'm told that a couple of saloons, a boardinghouse, a grocery store, and a barbershop existed to serve the men who worked in one of the two local mills. All are gone now, and Crystal's cabin sits on the site of a former railroad logging spur.

I had to admit that Crystal had fixed the place up rather nicely. I presumed the snow-covered roof was made of cedar shakes, though it could have been tin. The shingled exterior was punctuated with small windows accented with bright red paint. A half-dozen steps led to
the front porch, and the steel door sported a handsomely decorated glass oval. Maybe that was Crystal's compensation for not getting a calla-lily window.

Crystal was wearing a white terrycloth robe when she opened the door. “Emma Lord?” she said with as much enthusiasm as she would have had for a termite inspector.

“Yes,” I replied, then added with a touch of perversity, “Crystal Bird?”

She nodded. Her sideswept bangs were a shock of white; the rest of her hair was golden. The short curls looked damp, and her skin glowed a healthy pink. Without makeup, her small features were bland, except for the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “Come in,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “I've been in the hot tub. Would you care to join me?”

“No, thanks,” I said, following her through the small living room which was filled with old furniture that could charitably be described as antique. “I didn't bring a bathing suit.”

“You don't need one,” she said, her back still to me. “It's only four steps from the kitchen to the hot tub on the deck.”

Crystal didn't need a suit, either. Without embarrassment, she slipped out of the robe and stepped into the steaming tub. Her slim body was in good shape; I suspected she worked out. I eased myself onto a bench and huddled inside my duffel coat. The meeting wasn't off to a good start.

I glanced at my surroundings. The snow had almost stopped except for a few fitful flakes. The deck on which the hot tub sat was small, with the two open sides encircled by evergreens. Candles were placed at intervals on the redwood flooring, and in an alcove where the exterior walls met, I saw a figurine of Merlin, complete with
wand and pointy hat. Tiny crystals flickered in a cave behind him. It took me a few seconds to make the connection with my hostess.

“Care for something to drink?” Crystal asked as she immersed herself up to her neck and rested her head against a blue rubber pillow.