The Alpine Xanadu (10 page)

I fought an urge to cuss Milo aloud. “It’s the burst of warm weather. Have Kip put both items online and check to see if sandbags are at the ready.”

As Mitch went off to the back shop, I all but had to put my hands behind my back to keep from calling the sheriff and giving him hell. Being engaged made no difference when it came to Milo—or his staff—recognizing what was news. Granted, we’d agreed to keep our personal feelings separated from our professional dealings. But even before we’d ever slept together, neither he nor his employees seemed able to tell a news item from a hat rack.

I’d written my interviews with Reed and Farrell as best I could, given the little amount of information I’d gleaned from them. We’d have to run bigger mug shots to take up space in the special edition.

By five o’clock I was tired and ready to head for the Grocery Basket to pick up something for dinner. Leo, Vida, and Kip had already left. The last thing I needed was Jack Blackwell charging through the newsroom just as I turned off my monitor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jack demanded, leaning on my desk and glaring at me with narrowed dark eyes. “Has Patti been here bad-mouthing me and telling tales?”

“One question at a time,” I said, forcing myself to stay calm. “Patti was here briefly. She didn’t bad-mouth you.”

Jack looked as if smoke should be coming out of his nostrils. His saturnine features may have seduced a lot of women, but I was immune. “Bull,” he snarled, standing up and folding his arms across his chest. “Why else would she come here? You’re not exactly best pals.”

I hesitated, wondering if I would violate confidentiality. I wasn’t going public with Patti’s outburst, so I opted for candor. “She wants everyone to know she’s not making the alleged attempts on your life.”

Jack scowled. “I never thought she was. She’d hire somebody to do that.” He paused for a second. “What do you mean, ‘alleged’?”

“It’s a newspaper term for something that’s not yet proven.”

Jack waved a hand in protest. “Hell, that dumb bastard of a sheriff couldn’t prove it was February! How he’s kept his job all these years beats the crap out of me. He must be paying somebody off.”

“If that were true,” I said through taut lips, “then you would know. He’s responsible only to the county commissioners, and you are one.”

“That doesn’t mean those other two goofy old farts would tell me.”

“May I quote you?”

For a moment I thought he might vault across the desk and slug me. But except for turning red, Jack stayed put. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t push me, Blackwell.”

He took a deep breath. “You’re right. Dodge hasn’t done squat to investigate my complaints. Sure, I can’t stand the S.O.B. and the feeling is mutual, but can’t he do his damned job?”

It occurred to me that Jack—even more so than the oblivious Mitch—wasn’t aware of my relationship with the sheriff. It was no surprise, given his self-absorption with all things Blackwell.

“He had Cal check your brakes. Were you notified of the results?”

“Cal.” Jack looked disgusted. “He’s in Dodge’s pocket. Vickers told me it was an amateur job and they wouldn’t have failed completely.”

“He ought to know,” I said. “Count your blessings. There were no witnesses to whoever tried to run you down in the country club parking lot that night, and the bullet was never found.”

“The damned bullet went into the holding pond,” Jack retorted. “As for whoever tried to hit me, I had a rip in my slacks to prove it.”

“Torn pants won’t ID anybody. Sorry, Jack, I may not be a cop, but I know that without solid evidence, the sheriff’s hands are tied.”

“Bullshit.” A sneer formed on his thin lips, making him look as if he should be twirling a long, dark mustache. “Dodge has you fooled, too.”

I shrugged. “I think he does a good job. You’re still mad because you ran against him and lost your ass at the ballot box.”

“To hell with you,” he said, turning on his heel to bolt out of my office. I heard Mitch say something to Jack, but there was no response. Putting on my jacket and grabbing my purse, I went into the newsroom.

“What’s with him?” Mitch asked. “I only interviewed Jack once, when the mill was testing new uses for sawdust. He seemed okay then.”

“As long as Blackwell sticks to business, he’s fine. Otherwise he’s a jerk. What do you make of the so-called attempts on his life?”

Mitch turned thoughtful. “Didn’t he can your neighbor recently?”

“Doyle Nelson, the tree poacher? Yes, not long before the incident with the maples in November. But he and his eldest son are in jail. The two younger kids are in juvenile detention awaiting sentencing for setting fire to my carport. I’ve no idea where the wife—Laverne—is. Their house is vacant. Maybe she’s with her relatives in Index. Vida would know.”

My reporter looked vague. “I missed all of that. I didn’t get back to Alpine until things quieted down. It sounds as if you had a rough time.”

I tried not to look taken aback. Granted, Mitch’s main concerns at the time had been his wife and their son. He’d spent most of his career on the
Detroit Free-Press
in a city where crime was more rampant and the coverage of violence was a daily ritual. A small town must seem tame to him. He’d been in Alpine for less than six months. It had taken me close to a year just to get all of the town’s major players sorted out. And I still could get lost in the money branches on Vida’s family tree.

“It was upsetting,” I allowed, having no desire to recount the horrendous experience. If Mitch really gave a rat’s ass, he could read about it in back issues of the
Advocate
.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I’d guess that whoever is harassing Blackwell could be a disgruntled employee. Your Nelson neighbor can’t be the only one he’s ever canned.”

“True,” I said, though I was unable to recall any other recent firings. “I’ll see you tomorrow at RestHaven.”

“Hey,” he called after me. “I’m afraid I spoiled our lunch today. Any chance you’d let me buy dinner for you?”

Controlling my emotions was beginning to strain what little patience I had left. “Thanks, but I can’t tonight. Some other time, okay?”

Mitch looked faintly wounded but forced a smile. “Sure. Next week, maybe.”

It was after five-thirty when I got to the Grocery Basket. I hoped Milo wasn’t home yet or he’d wonder what was taking me so long. Darryl called to me from the seafood section. Wild sockeye salmon filets had just come in that afternoon. I bought sixteen dollars’ worth and a boysenberry pie, allowing me to go through the express lane.

My luck ran out. Ginny Erlandson was arriving as I was leaving.

“Oh, Emma,” she said, assuming her most doleful expression, “are you still mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you,” I responded. “I don’t blame you for wanting to stay home with your kids. I was in a bind when you dithered about whether or not you’d return after your maternity leave was over. How’s the family?”

“Good.” Ginny paused. Nothing was ever completely good with Ginny and Rick. “Well … the older boys had the flu earlier this week. I had to take Bando to Donna’s day care for three days. Now he has sniffles. Rick still thinks things are unsettled at the bank. He’s sure Andy Cederberg is only the temporary president until an outsider is found to fill the job. That Petersen family ruined everything with so many of them dying.”

“That’ll spoil things,” I said, leaning into the door.

“Oh—I just picked up the Valentine pictures of the boys from Buddy Bayard’s studio. Want to see them?”

“Ah …”

Ginny rummaged in her purse. “Oh, drat! I left them in the car.
I got rattled after telling Donna I’d be late collecting Bando. She was stuck anyway because Tiffany hadn’t picked up Ashley yet.”

“Your sister-in-law has the Rafferty kid?”

Ginny nodded. “Only temporarily until Cookie can manage. Probably after Wayne’s funeral.”

“I don’t get it. Why can’t Tiff take care of Ashley?” I nodded toward the checkout stands. “She quit her job here. This was her shift. Is she that upset about her father’s death?”

“Maybe.” Ginny lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “I went to school with Tiff, but I never really got to know her. She was more into boys than books.”

“Or the other way around with her and the boys,” I murmured.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Ginny was smart, but innuendo was lost on her. “Have a good weekend,” I said, and finally got through the door.

Milo wasn’t yet home, so I turned on the oven before taking my jacket off. Ten minutes later, as I put the potatoes in to bake, the sheriff arrived, looking disgruntled.

“Do you know your backyard is solid rock?” he asked, shrugging out of his regulation jacket.

“It
is
built on a mountainside,” I said. “Don’t I get a kiss hello?”

“Huh?” He was taking a sheaf of papers out of an inside pocket in the jacket. “Oh. Sure.” He leaned down and brushed my lips with a halfhearted kiss. “Melville says that’s a problem.”

“For him? For us? For … hey, Scott knows what the terrain is like around here. Is he trying to jack up the price?”

“Hell, no.” Milo reached for the Scotch. “We aren’t putting in a basement, for God’s sake, but he has to sink some pilings into the ground. We do have earthquakes, in case you left your brain at the office.”

“Listen, you big jerk,” I said, shaking a cooking fork at him, “I don’t need more guff today. I couldn’t escape the office until after I had to face off with Jack Blackwell.”

“Jesus.” Milo finished pouring himself a drink. “Spare me anything about that asshole. I just want to crash. When’s dinner?”

“In about an hour. And where’s
my
drink?”

The sheriff gazed around the kitchen. “Damned if I know. Where’d you put it?”

“I never got a chance to make it!” I yelled. “I just got home a few minutes before you did! Maybe I’d like to crash, too!”

Milo winced. “God, Emma, knock it off.” He took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll make your drink, too.” He opened the cupboard and got out the Canadian Club.

I kept my back turned on him as I poured water into a kettle for the fresh Brussels sprouts. A moment later I felt his arm encircle my neck. “Still mad?” he asked, resting his chin on top of my head.

I leaned against him. “Yes. No. Have I ever stayed mad at you for more than about five minutes?”

“Not that I remember.” His hand strayed to my breasts. “Do you know how weird it is to come home and be able to act like a jackass?”

I laughed. “I can guess. You do a really good job of it. I could’ve sworn you’d had practice.”

“Nope. Never had a chance to say much with Mulehide, even in our earlier years, before she declared war. It was always about her and the problems she’d had with the kids or the house or whatever the hell kind of bug she had up her ass.”

“You need to vent. So do I. But watch where those hands of yours are going or we’ll starve to death.”

“Oh. Right.” He let go of me. “Did the sheets come?”

“I forgot to look. Ronnie usually leaves parcels in the carport. See if there’s anything out there.”

Sure enough, Milo came back inside with a big package from UPS. “This looks like them. Want me to open it?”

“Go ahead. We can put them on after dinner.”

The sheriff went into the living room. I heard him utter a sigh as
he sat down in the easy chair. I smiled as I put the sprouts in the kettle. Despite the hectic day, I couldn’t remember when I’d been so happy. There had been only brief and infrequent intervals of joy with Tom. I’d had fun with Rolf, but looking back, I’d never had the kind of deep feelings for him that led to happiness. The closest I’d come to contentment had been with Milo the first time around. And then I’d sabotaged even that. I wasn’t accustomed to being happy. I shook my head in wonder. How could I have been so foolish all those years when the source of my new state of mind had literally been looming over me for fifteen years? Maybe I was as crazy as any patient at RestHaven.

“What did Blackwell want?” Milo asked when I sat down on the sofa. “He didn’t give you a bad time, did he?”

I shook my head. “He was too busy giving
you
a bad time.”

“That’s not news.” Milo lit a cigarette. “Let me guess. He griped because I haven’t caught whoever’s trying to kill him.”

“Right. Patti had already stopped in to let us know it isn’t her.”

The sheriff passed a hand over his forehead. “Jesus. You got a double dose. I wish they’d get back together. It makes life more peaceful for the rest of us.”

“Seriously,” I said, “do you have any suspects?”

He paused to sip his drink. “Blackwell’s pissed off quite a few people around here, but offhand, I can’t think of anybody who’d want to kill him. He’s got the only mill in town and that’s a big deal. He employs seventy, eighty people. No safety violations, damned few complaints about working conditions. If he wasn’t such a horse’s ass, I’d like him. What I don’t like—besides the personal stuff between us—is his power play with the county commissioners. The way I see it, he’s biding his time until Hollenberg and Engebretsen retire or keel over. Then he’ll find replacements to go along with him and run the county his way. He might do a good job, but I’ll bet his first move would be to can me.”

I stared at Milo. “No. He couldn’t do that, could he?”

“Sure. Oh, he’d have to find a reason, even a trumped-up one—but the commissioners are my bosses. Still, that’s down the road.”

I flinched inwardly, wishing I hadn’t tacitly promised Fuzzy Baugh that I wouldn’t confide in Milo about the mayor’s proposed change in government. “The commissioners may be abolished,” I blurted out.

Milo looked justifiably puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

“Fuzzy Baugh has a plan,” I said, and revealed what the mayor had told me. As was his way, the sheriff didn’t interrupt.

“Jeez, Emma, that’s a shocker. I didn’t think Fuzzy could come up with something like that. It makes a lot of sense.”

“I broke my word, but I know you won’t tell anyone.”

“I sure as hell won’t.” He shook his head, apparently still stunned. “I hope Blackwell doesn’t get wind of this.”