Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (26 page)

—

It's unusual for the sheriff and me to be speechless at the same time. But we both stared at Dean and then at each other. “Dean,” the sheriff finally said in his laconic manner, “I think you could use a look-see from the medics.”

Dean kept protesting, but Milo told Dwight to have the medics return after they dumped off Ellerbee in the ER. “You and Jack keep an eye on Ramsey,” he continued. “I have to interrogate another witness.”

Jack poked his head out from around the other side of Dean's office door. “Who is it?” He saw I was still crouched on the floor by Dean. “Oh. Right. The Little Woman.”

Milo hauled me to my feet as the deputies came into the hall. I glared at Jack instead of Dwight for a change. The sheriff then pulled me into Dean's office. To my surprise, he slammed the door behind us.

“Take a seat,” he growled, going around Dean's desk to sit in his office chair. “What in hell is up with Ramsey?”

“Ask him,” I retorted. “Did you hear his so-called confession?”

“Yeah.” Milo sat back and lighted a cigarette. “You want one?”

“Yes, but you'll have to bust both of us for smoking in the federal courthouse.”

“Good. I don't know about you, but I could use a little peace and quiet about now.” He lighted a cigarette and handed it to me. “We can use Ramsey's coffee mug for an ashtray. Okay, unload, you little pain in the ass.”

“I don't know any more than you do. Really. I figured Des killed Wes, but that'd mean he was up here several years ago. In fact, he told me he'd been in the area before, but claimed he didn't know about Alpine until he read the cabin ad.”

My husband rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I can't question Ellerbee in the ER or talk to Ramsey until he calms down. He may be in shock. He may be crazy. Why would Dean kill Conley?”

“If he's telling the truth,” I said slowly, trying to reconstruct the distraught man's spate of words, “it may've been an accident. I suppose they met somewhere, maybe at the cabin. They had Crystal in common.”

“Or they got into it over her,” Milo murmured. “Even dead, Crystal could cause problems.” He paused. “How come you first fingered Des?”

“Even if Des told me he didn't know about Alpine, I suspected he'd been here when his brother was living at the cabin. Someone must know if the place has been vacant for all these years. It certainly hasn't changed much since Crystal died. I guessed Des came up here a few years after the murder and the brothers quarreled. Aaron ended up dead and a panicky Des buried him at the dump site.”

“Emma's wacky theories survive.” The sheriff stared at the ceiling. “Go on. This might start making sense.”

“Fine. I'm getting to the revised part.”

“Revisionist history. Why not?” Milo was still staring at the ceiling.

“If Dean's not crazy and really killed Aaron, that scenario still plays. Des wouldn't know his brother was dead. He shows up at some point, can't find him, steals his credit cards, and takes off. We should've checked into Des's background.”

Milo nodded slowly and finally looked at me. “He may be wanted in several states as Aaron Conley, not as Desmond Ellerbee. I'll check that out. Somebody should have him on a surveillance camera.” He paused, listening. “I think the medics are back. Let's stay here and make out.”

“Milo…”

“I'm kidding,” he said. “I've got to go to the hospital and check on both patients. Maybe one of them will be lucid. And no, you can't come with me.” He put out his cigarette in the mug and stood up. “I'd ask how you got in the building, but I really don't want to know.”

I'd let my cigarette burn down so far that it had gone out on its own. “You're not mad at me?” I asked, pulling at his short-sleeved regulation shirt.

“Hey,” Milo said, putting his hand over mine, “if you can't stay mad at me, how the hell can I stay mad at you? But move that hand before it touches my brawny arm, okay? I've got work to do.”

I found Mitch out in the hall with the deputies. Apparently the courthouse had been reopened. “I got good outside shots of the medics leaving and reloading. The deputies have been filling me in,” he added with a touch of reproach.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I honestly couldn't talk. I was trying to help Dean Ramsey. He was the second one headed for the hospital.”

“Mullins told me,” Mitch said. “This is your story, I assume.”

“This story is such a mess that we'll both work on it,” I assured him. “Are you going back to the office?”

Mitch checked his watch. “I can't. I've got a date at ten-thirty with the Bartons. The ethnic series, with their Irish and Greek backgrounds.”

“Okay. I'll see you later.” I walked away, feeling as if I was departing from a Greek tragedy with comic Irish overtones. There really are times in life when you don't know whether to laugh or cry.

N
aturally, Vida pounced on me when I returned to the office. “How could I miss all the excitement? Alison had no idea where you'd gone. Nor could I reach Billy. I called Lori, but she's such a sad sack lately, and insisted she didn't know what was happening at the courthouse.”

I summed up what had occurred as if I were writing the lead paragraph. If I could remember what I said, maybe I could use it in print.

“How very odd,” Vida murmured, adjusting the cork hat. “My, I'd almost forgotten how much trouble Crystal caused in the first place. I never met her after she moved back to this area. I feel remiss. How soon do you want to leave for Kay's? I already fetched my casserole. As I recall, it has pork, sweet pickles, potato puffs, and…I forget. Very hearty.”

I avoided wincing. “I can't visit Kay,” I said. “At least not before lunch. I have to get this story online.”

“That's fine,” Vida responded. “The casserole hasn't yet thawed, though it will in this weather. Just as well, if Kay wants it for supper.”

Sometimes it's better to say nothing at all, especially about Vida's cooking. “By the way,” I inquired, “has Mitch asked for help with his ethnic roots series?”

“He mentioned it yesterday,” Vida replied. “I told him the
Doukas family that lived near the old Camp Two site had moved some years ago to Cle Elum. I don't recall why they did such a thing. The family still owns Doukas Realty.”

Unable to provide a reason for what Vida no doubt considered irrational behavior, I went into my office. I had to hedge about what had gone down at the courthouse. No one yet had been charged with a crime. The only hard news out of the sheriff's office was Kay's charge against Blackwell. I wouldn't go online with that, despite my threat to make Black Jack's abuses public. I'd wait for our next edition, as I always did when an official complaint was lodged.

I was still mulling when I saw Spence come into the newsroom, pausing to make his obeisance to Vida. A few moments later, he was in my office, sitting down in a visitor chair.

“I come as a humble beggar,” he announced, not looking even faintly meek. “I'm at sea about the courthouse lockdown. Lori informs me you may have some knowledge. She's apparently in the dark.”

“Funny you should ask,” I said. “I was just trying to sort through it to see how I could post what went on. Let's call it unsubstantiated.”

“That doesn't help me with the eleven o'clock hour turn,” Spence retorted. “An intelligent inkling might suffice.”

“ ‘L.A. screenwriter locks county extension agent in his office after his cabin burns down'?”

Spence stroked his hawklike nose. “And both men end up in the ER? I believe you omitted something.”

“Dean Ramsey didn't want to be locked in his office.” I sighed. “Okay, here's what happened and good luck if you can sort it out.”

When I finished, Mr. Radio looked bemused. “A pity I wasn't around when this Crystal person got whacked. Are you taking Ramsey's confession seriously?”

“As I told you, he did mention the word ‘accident.' For all I know, the guy we knew as Conley may have passed out from his drug habit and Dean accidentally backed over him with his car.”

“It'd all be simpler if the dump-site corpse had been Myrtle Everson,” Spence remarked. “Oh, well. I suppose I could use the word ‘rumpus' to describe what went on at the courthouse. As for the confession, I await official word from the bellicose love of your life. I'm told he's gone to the hospital.”

I nodded. “I guess we both wait, though everybody in the county must be asking why the courthouse was closed down.”

“Rumors abound,” Spence said. “Delivery of smallpox samples stolen from a lab in the Distant East. Eleanor Jessup having a hair-pulling match with Bobbi Olson. Mayor Baugh being throttled by Jack Blackwell. And so on.” He made a spinning gesture with his index finger.

“No bomb scare?” I asked.

“Too common, as are deranged people shooting innocent victims. Let's give the locals credit for some imagination, however…localized. Except for the Distant East, of course.” He stood up. “I suppose I could go with an apparent hostage situation. No demands, obviously.”

“Good luck. I like your ‘rumpus' description. Maybe I'll steal it.”

Spence looked disdainful. “It's mine. You can use ‘ruckus.' ” He sketched a bow and left, whistling.

Mitch returned just after eleven. “Simon Doukas was ailing, so his wife, Cece, filled in. Did you know Mimi Barton and Kay Barton Burns were given Greek first names in an effort to placate Neeny Doukas?”

“No. What are their real names? Aphrodite and Hera?”

“Nothing so heroic,” he said, leaning on a visitor chair. Mimi is Mercia, meaning ‘compassion' or ‘forbearance.' Does that suit her?”

“She's very kind,” I said. “Mimi put up with my brother when he subbed for Father Den, so I consider that forbearing on her part.”

Mitch smiled faintly. “I was gone when your brother was here at Christmas.” He looked at his notes. “Given Kay's marital history, her name doesn't suit her as well. It's Kassia, which means ‘purity.' ”

I started to laugh, but stopped. “Kassia?” I repeated.

“Right.” He frowned. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said hastily. “I've heard that name recently in another context. Odd how that happens with an unfamiliar name or word.”

“Then it doesn't turn up again for a long time,” Mitch remarked. “I'm seeing the Bartons about their Irish roots at four, so I'll go home from there. What can I do with the courthouse story?”

“Not much,” I said. “I won't post anything online until we get official word from the sheriff's office. Can you check in with them before lunch?”

Mitch seemed to brighten, though it was always hard to tell. “Sure. I'll stop in on my way home to lunch with Brenda. I'll call if I find out anything useful you can post.”

“Thanks,” I replied, smiling. “I gather rumors are rampant.”

He shrugged. “In Detroit, the incident would be a mere kerfuffle.”

I didn't remind Mitch that he wasn't in Detroit. I had other things to consider—such as Kassia Barton aka Kay Burns. Vida was on the phone. I'd suggest an early lunch, but I didn't want to miss Mitch's call from the sheriff's office. I thought about calling Milo, but he'd still be at the hospital or coping with the paperwork he loathed so much.

A few minutes later, Vida stopped by, looking vexed. “Amy still feels puny. She's suffered from migraines since the fall, you know.”

“I didn't know,” I said. Maybe they'd been brought on by Roger's first serious brush with the law back in October. He'd certainly given me headaches over the years. “Is she having a migraine now?”

“Yes, and it's quite severe,” Vida replied, scowling. “Ted can't leave work, so I must take care of Dippy and see what I can do for Amy. Really, mind over matter can cure a great many ills. My daughter would've benefited from Faith's good sense and Christian ethic. In any event, I won't be able to go to lunch.”

“That's okay,” I assured her. “But can you wait five minutes?”

“Well now…of course.” She sat down. “Is something wrong?”

“No. What was the last name of Kay Burns's third husband?”

Vida counted to three on her fingers. “Arthur. I don't recall his first name. She met and married him in Seattle. He was later killed in a vehicular accident. He fathered the son who lives in Leavenworth.”

“That's sort of what I remembered,” I said—and followed up with what Milo would have called one of my wild and wacky theories.

Vida, however, grew thoughtful. “Oh, my,” she finally said softly, “doesn't that beat all? Why, if your conclusion proves to be true, then Kay is Ren Rawlings's mother. Do you intend to confront Kay? Or suggest such a thing to Ren?”

“I don't know what to do,” I admitted. “Ren's so fragile and Kay might laugh in my face. The odd thing is that Ren told
me she sensed her mother was nearby at RestHaven. Maybe she is.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Vida rose from the chair. “Kay as a hippie? Well, having left to live in the city, heaven only knows what madcap ideas she might've gotten. She was still in her twenties back then. Oh, my! But,” she went on, her gray eyes glinting behind the big glasses, “who is Ren's father?”

“Mr. Arthur?” I suggested.

Vida frowned. “Perhaps. We were sent wedding announcements of her marriage to him a year or so later. I merely mailed a nice card. Kay's matrimonial adventures were an unwelcome expense. She didn't have the nerve to send any notification when she later married Mr. Burns. I really must dash. Poor Dippy will be wanting his lunch. Maybe I'll take the casserole to Amy instead of to Kay. My family may appreciate it more than she would.”

They may even have an antidote
, I thought. But I beamed at Vida and wished her well. It was almost eleven-thirty. Mitch had just gone out, so I took a chance and called Milo.

He was in, but according to Lori, unavailable. “He only got back about ten minutes ago,” she explained. “He closed his door and told me to hold all calls. In fact, I can see from the console that he's on the phone right now. Mr. Fleetwood's waiting for him.”

Great
, I thought. I was about to get scooped on my husband's news by KSKY's noon report. I thanked Lori and rang off. I didn't dare usurp Mitch's duties by showing up at headquarters. My only hope was that Milo hadn't yet made anything official.

At five to twelve, that hope was dashed, though not as I'd expected. “Here's what Dodge told me—and Fleetwood,” Mitch said over the phone. “Ramsey's being brought in for questioning about a possible assault on Ellerbee. Dean will be
released from the hospital ASAP. According to the sheriff, the county extension agent's suffering from being a jackass, but don't quote him on that.”

“I won't,” I asserted. “I want to maintain a happy home. Is that it?”

“No. Dodge will bring Ellerbee in for questioning in Aaron Conley's disappearance. His wound's superficial, so he'll be released soon.”

“Wait,” I said. “If Dean confessed to killing Conley—who was really Wes Ellerbee—why isn't the sheriff questioning him about that?”

“He will be,” my reporter responded. “But you know Dodge goes by the book. One thing at a time.”

“Of course,” I murmured. “I wish my husband would sometimes consider his wife's responsibilities. At least we're not up against a publishing deadline. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Not according to the sheriff,” Mitch said.

“That figures. Thanks.” I hung up and headed for the back shop to post my reporter's latest news.

There was no point seeing Milo in person. However, I could call on Kay Burns. Vida might not be pleased at being left out, but family was her priority. Not having much appetite for various reasons, including the weather, I got in the Honda and drove to Second Hill.

After what seemed like a long, hot wait outside the townhouse, Kay finally opened the door. “Emma!” she exclaimed. “What a nice surprise. What brings you here?”

“My curiosity,” I replied, following her kimono-clad figure inside. “That's about all that can send a journalist out in the midday sun.”

This time, Kay gestured to the green armchair while she sat down on the sofa. She wasn't wearing any makeup and the
bruise on her cheekbone was ugly. For the first time, I realized she looked her age.

“I was thinking about going in to work this afternoon,” she said, “but I'd rather not show up looking so ghastly. I might frighten the patients. There's already been enough disruption at RestHaven.”

“Does it still hurt?” I asked.

She lightly touched her face. “Not much. I've been icing it. If you're here to ask if I'm sorry I pressed charges against Jack, I'm not.”

“I don't blame you,” I said, “but that's not the reason. It's something quite different. My visit has nothing to do with the newspaper. Please don't be offended. I feel sorry for Ren Rawlings, who, as you may know, came to see me when she first arrived in town.”

Kay again put a hand to her cheek. “Oh. Well, she is a fragile creature. But Dr. Reed is hopeful that with proper medication she can soon be discharged.”

“That must please you,” I said, smiling. “As her mother, I mean.”

The little color in Kay's face turned to chalk. “Oh. Oh, my.” The words were barely audible.

“Kay, relax, please. I bore a child out of wedlock. I'd be the last person to think ill of you.”

“Well…” She passed a hand over her forehead. “Dare I ask how…what did Ren tell you?”

“Almost nothing except your name, Kassia Arthur,” I replied. “She had—maybe still has—no idea what became of her mother. In fact, she thinks she was murdered here in Alpine. Are you the one who called the
Advocate
a week ago Tuesday?”

She nodded. “I'd called Edna Mae about a book I wanted reserved. You know how she chatters. She mentioned Ren was
there, talking about a Kassia Arthur. I was stunned. I called the paper later to find out if she'd made inquiries there, but whoever answered didn't know what I was talking about when I asked for Kassia Arthur. Later, I asked Iain Farrell to call and inquire after Ren—same response.” She smiled diffidently. “Everyone thinks Iain is so intimidating, but he's really rather sweet. I've become quite fond of him.”

That figured. Farrell was single. Maybe he'd end up as Husband Number Five. It would also explain how he'd gotten into it with Blackwell. I felt like saying Iain had fooled me, but Kay had continued talking.

“I'd lost track of Ren after she was adopted. Once she had a real home, I backed off.” Tears glinted in Kay's eyes. “I didn't recognize her when she came to RestHaven. It was like a miracle.”