Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (8 page)

“Now I feel old,” Rosemary remarked, glancing at the duo. I looked at the three framed photos on the wall: the TV cast of
Father Knows Best
in a family pose, looking happier than they should be; a sullen James Dean posturing on a movie poster for
Rebel Without a Cause;
the famous photo of Marilyn Monroe standing over a New York City grate with her skirt blowing, as Vida would say, “up to there!” I might've smiled at the thought, but I couldn't.

“
You
feel old,” I said. “I was born in that era.”

Terri reappeared. “Let me take your orders,” she said. “We're short a server today.”

Rosemary hadn't looked at the menu. She probably knew it by heart. “The Eddie Fisher Oh My Pa-Pa-Ya fruit salad and a Diet Coke.”

I saw the special. “Make it a Rosemary Clooney Half As Much Reuben for me. Oh—I'll have lemonade. Thanks.”

Terri hustled away. “She's great,” her sister declared. “I'm lucky. I come from a family where we all like each other. Mom and Dad did a terrific job of raising six kids. I could never do that. Maybe that's why I've stayed single so long.”

My expression was wry. “I waited to get married until I was past having more children. Tell me about the date.”

Rosemary's piquant features lit up. “Yes, the date.” She looked off to one side, as if collecting her thoughts from the
corner of the booth. “He's not drop-dead gorgeous,” she finally said, “but he
is
attractive. To me, anyway. His name's Desmond Ellerbee and I met him Sunday at the Summer Solstice picnic. He thought I was stealing his car.”

“Were you?”

Rosemary laughed. “No. He has a Toyota Avalon that's the same model and color as mine. It was getting so warm and so loud around five o'clock that I wanted to sit away from everybody and collect myself. Chasing four preschool nieces and nephews for a couple of hours wears me out. I went over to the parking area and opened the car door. I admit, I vaguely wondered why I'd left a SkyCo map on the front seat, but I just wanted to crash. The next thing I knew, a man was yelling at me. It turned out to be Desmond. I felt like an idiot.”

“Was he mad?” I asked.

“A little,” Rosemary said, pushing a strand of dark brown hair off her cheek. “But when he saw I wasn't some ditzy teenager trying to steal his Avalon, he asked what the heck was I doing behind the wheel. I told him I was contemplating a midlife crisis. He laughed.”

“Great meet-cute story,” I said, smiling. “I stumbled over my own feet when I introduced myself to the sheriff. I bet you revived.”

“You got that right.”

She stopped speaking as Terri brought our beverages. “Your orders will be up in three minutes,” she said, then leaned closer to her sister. “Have you gotten to the first kiss by the donkey engine in the logging museum?”

Rosemary's brown eyes snapped. “That did not happen! I have a reputation to maintain. Go away!”

Giggling, Terri left us. “Where was I?” Rosemary asked, blushing.

“Somewhere between the Toyota Avalon and the donkey engine,” I reminded her.

She nodded. “Right. Des had come back to his car to get mosquito repellent. We introduced ourselves, then he asked if I was coming or going. I told him neither—I was recovering from chasing small children. He asked how many I had. None, I informed him, and…” She clapped both hands to her cheeks. “I noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so I said I wasn't married. Does that sound pushy or desperate?”

“Neither one,” I asserted. “I might've said the same thing. I gather the answer didn't scare him into taking a dive in the river?”

Rosemary smiled. “It did not. We walked around the park edges for maybe fifteen minutes, getting acquainted. He's forty-eight, married once if briefly when he was in college, no kids, born in Miles City, Montana, spent one year at Montana State in Bozeman. Dropped out not only because he wasn't sure what he wanted to be when he grew up, except not married to his nineteen-year-old bride. That's when they split. Des moved to L.A. Eventually, he studied writing at UCLA. Now he's working on a film script about the early days of logging, which is how he ended up here.” She stopped as Terri appeared with our orders.

“Donkey engine,” she murmured and spun off down the aisle.

“Grrr,” her sister said. “Yes, we went through the logging museum. Des had seen it a couple of weeks ago. He moved up here—near Baring, actually—in May. As he put it, he's still getting his Bearings.” Rosemary's dimples showed as she laughed. “There wasn't any action on the donkey engine, but that's when he asked me out to dinner at Le Gourmand.”

An odd, strangely sinister memory tickled my brain. “Where is this place he rented?”

“I haven't seen it yet,” Rosemary replied, “but it's off the road, more like a cabin than a house. It's small, but it has a hot tub. That's what sealed the deal for him. He loves to soak and come up with ideas.”

I hurriedly swallowed a bite of my Reuben. “That's where Crystal Bird lived. When she was murdered several years ago, the property went to her estranged husband, Aaron Conley. I haven't seen him around here in ages. Is he still the owner?”

Rosemary looked surprised. “I never thought about that. My family moved here before Crystal was killed, but I never knew her. In fact, she hadn't lived there very long, had she?”

My brain filled up with all sorts emotions and images: me, wanting to strangle Crystal for her virulent broadsheet attacks on my role as newspaper publisher; Milo, briefly considering me a suspect; Vida, jealous of a new woman friend I'd made; and all of us caught up in the wreckage that had been Crystal's life after returning to her native turf.

“Crystal was here just long enough to make enemies,” I said. “Father Den found her body.”

Rosemary speared a pineapple chunk from her salad. “I definitely remember that. He offered prayers for her at Mass, though she wasn't Catholic. It happened before I became prosecutor. I'll have to fill in the background for Des and ask if Conley is his landlord.” She turned wistful. “He plans to stay only for the summer. Oh—he's not Catholic.”

“Neither is Milo,” I pointed out. “Are you engaged already?”

Rosemary almost choked on her pineapple. “No,” she finally sputtered. “But he's the first guy I've gone out with in ages that has
possibilities
. We had such a good time last night. Our reservation wasn't until eight and we were the last ones still there when they closed at eleven. We had so much to talk about.”

“That's a good sign,” I said. “At first I felt Milo and I had little in common. But we always talked a lot from the start. It didn't dawn on me until I married him that what we had together was Alpine itself.”

Rosemary's eyes twinkled. “That figures. He's the law around here and you're the voice of the people. You're icons. Have you forgotten the gossip you two caused when he kissed you on a street corner?”

I looked askance. “That was so dumb I still can't believe it, especially at our age. We're more like relics then icons. When are you seeing Des again?”

“Friday,” she replied. “Maybe a movie and then a late supper at the ski lodge. Des hasn't been here long enough to get frustrated by the lack of places to go on a date or just out for an evening. Besides, being a writer, he likes the relative quiet. I guess L.A. can get overwhelming.”

The conversation drifted off along the lines of how contemporary courtship had changed and yet remained the same, why it was so hard to find the Right Person or any person, and being thankful that neither of us had been stupid enough to get married when we weren't yet grown-ups. I was tempted to mention Vida's outburst, but opted for discretion. Rosemary already knew from her own experience how touchy my House & Home editor could be, especially when it came to Roger.

Not only had it grown warmer when I stepped out from the diner, but I dreaded going back to the office. Worse yet, I was resentful of Vida for making me feel that way. So many Alpiners thought she ran the newspaper and I worked for her. That's always bothered me, but it's understandable, given her high profile in town and her longer tenure with the
Advocate
. My other concern was that her attitude would contaminate the rest of the staff. It was already making me feel sick, at least at heart.

To put off the inevitable, I pulled up in front of the sheriff's headquarters. Maybe there was some news. Jack Mullins was on the phone and Lori either wasn't on the job or else hadn't returned from lunch. Jack winked and gestured at the sheriff's open door.

“Where'd you come from?” Milo asked, looking up from his monitor.

I fell gracelessly into one of his two visitor chairs. “Vida pitched a five-star fit and I'm upset.”

Milo seemed unmoved. “So? It's not the first time.”

“This is different,” I asserted. “She doesn't think I trust her and feels I've broken our friendship by marrying you.”

Milo just looked at me. “She thought you'd marry
her
? Things have gotten a little weird in the last few years, but even if you women want to marry each other, isn't she kind of old for you?”

I slapped my hand too hard on his desk and winced. “It's not funny!” I yipped.

“You've done this before with her,” he said. “If you're really pissed, fire her. You know damned well that job means everything to her, especially now that Roger's in the slammer. She'll come around.”

“But she'll still be mad at me,” I protested, rubbing my sore hand. “I don't want to turn the newsroom into a toxic waste site. When she got mad before, the rest of my staff got upset.”

The sheriff sat up straight in his chair. When he spoke, he used the voice he reserved for public events and recalcitrant felons. “Your biggest problem is that you never let her know you were in charge. Yes, you told me how she mentored you and eased you into taking over from Vandeventer after he was out the door the minute your check cleared. You're more like a fourth daughter than a boss. Over the last few months, this has been building with one damned crisis after another. It's up to
you to sit her down and make her fish or cut bait. Don't get me mixed up in this. She's tried to run my job, too. It took me awhile to tell her to butt out, but I did it. Maybe she's too old to change. If she is…” He shrugged. “Then it's time for her to retire.”

I hesitated. “I can't imagine the paper without her,” I finally said.

“You can't seem to get along
with
her. Your call.” He leaned back in his chair. “That's all I'll say. If you're interested in new developments about the stiff, there aren't any. But I'd like you to look at something.”

“Okay,” I said, annoyed with myself for dumping on my husband at his workplace. “What have you got for me to see?”

Milo reached behind him for a plastic evidence bag. “This is from what was left of the guy's clothes. The only label was on the jeans—Lee's. The boots were probably Frye's. Doc can't tell how long the stiff's been dead, so I'll have to ship what's left of him to Everett.” He paused, putting on a pair of latex gloves before removing the silver belt buckle from the bag. “What do you make of this?”

“It's a peace symbol,” I said. “The dead guy might've been a hippie.”

Milo nodded. “The longish hair indicates he may have stuck to his beliefs and the lifestyle.” He chucked the buckle and what was left of the belt into the bag. “Go away. If you don't, I'll make you sit on my lap.”

I stood up and checked my watch. It was almost one-thirty. “The paper's out by now. You may hear from someone who has information.”

“Dubious,” he said, removing the gloves. “Let's eat out tonight.”

“I could make a shrimp louie,” I offered.

Milo was back at his computer. “Get real. That's not dinner.”

I left. When I walked into the newsroom, I saw Vida's grim face. She ignored me and I did the same. Surely she couldn't stay mad at me. Or, I wondered, was she really mad at herself? Worse yet, was there an intangible threat in the overly warm mountain air that was a danger to all of us?

A
fter I sat down at my desk, it dawned on me that I hadn't checked on Ren Rawlings. I'd intended to call the hospital earlier, but knew neither Doc Dewey nor Elvis Sung would officially release her until around eleven. Then the confrontation with Vida had knocked Ren out of my mind.

Julie Canby was on duty again. “Ms. Rawlings was discharged shortly before noon,” she informed me. “The second set of lab results didn't show anything alarming.”

I supposed that was good news. “How did she seem?” I asked.

It took a moment before Julie answered the question. “Vague? Uncertain? Maybe a touch of apprehension?”

“That could be her usual MO,” I said. “Do you know where she's staying? Ren never told me.”

“The ski lodge,” Julie replied. “She had to give a local address before she could be released.”

“Did she say if she was leaving town?”

“I didn't have a chance to ask,” Julie said. “They'd brought Hortense Cobb from the ICU and I had to help get her settled.”

“Okay. I might try to reach Ren later on. Thanks.” I rang off.

A few minutes later I saw Vida leave, purse in hand. Mitch
and Leo were both on the phone, but my ad manager hung up almost as soon as I approached his desk.

“Welcome,” he said glumly, “to the chilliest place in SkyCo. Except it isn't in this weather. Why does Vida have to go off on these tangents? Is it all a plot to force me into early retirement because I smoke?”

“Don't ask,” I said, sitting down in the chair next to his desk. “The only advice I've gotten about her is from Milo, who thinks I should can her. Or give her a choice to snap out of it.”

“The Duchess is the most stubborn woman I've ever met,” Leo declared, glancing at Mitch, who'd ended his call. “Has she taken your head off yet today, Laskey?”

“Only twice,” he replied, getting up from his chair. “I'm considering another humor piece, this time about small-town tyrants.”

“That's funny?” I retorted.

Mitch turned thoughtful. “No. Nothing's funny in here. I think I'll go nose around for something that is.” He ambled out of the newsroom.

“Switch gears,” I said to Leo. “Do we still have Ed's old clip art file?”

Leo grinned. “You're so desperate for a laugh that you want to bring back Bronsky?”

“Ed was never a laughing matter,” I asserted. “Unless you count him being a joke as an ad manager. I want to look up peace symbols.”

“How come?” Leo inquired. “You're going retro?”

I explained about the dead man's belt buckle. “It might look familiar to someone around here if we run a picture of it. I mean, in terms of identifying the dead guy.”

Leo shrugged. “Seen one peace symbol, seen 'em all. I take it there's nothing unusual about this one?”

“It's silver. Well, silver-plated, I guess. It's kind of tarnished.”

“That'll happen if the peacenik's been buried for a long time in the dump site,” Leo noted. “I assume there'll be an autopsy?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Doc's resources are too limited, so it's up to SnoCo to bail us out. If they're piled up—literally—it could be days before they get back to the sheriff. Not that there's any rush.”

Leo tapped ash from his cigarette. “I suppose Dodge would know of anyone who'd gone missing since he's been on the job.”

“He would,” I asserted. “When it comes to his work, Milo's memory is flawless. Taking out the garbage is another matter.”

“I did that a couple of times when I was with the family in May.” My ad manager looked faintly sheepish. “I kind of liked it. Liza referred to my household chores as communal living. But she laughed when—Say,” he interrupted himself, “were there any hippie communes around here back in the day? This whole area is perfect for that kind of setup.”

“Vida would know—of course,” I said. “Maybe I'll wander down to Milo's office and ask him. My office is starting to overheat.”

Leo chuckled. “Can't keep away from the guy, huh?”

“More like I'm trying to avoid Vida,” I responded, lowering my voice. “She's so unpredictable these days.”

“She doesn't talk as much,” Leo allowed. “That's not all bad.”

A couple of moments later, I headed on my way, pausing only to wave at Alison, who was on the phone, apparently taking a classified ad. Vida's Buick wasn't in sight, but Milo's Yukon was in place. When I walked into headquarters, a tearful
Lori was seated behind the counter with Jack Mullins patting her back.

“Her grandma just died,” he said, sounding unusually solemn. “Her mom called. They'd moved Grandma Cobb out of the ICU because she wasn't responding. She was ninety-two. No real surprise. Right, Lori?” He kept patting her. “Go home. I'll hold down the fort.”

“No,” Lori said in a small voice, wiping away the tears. “Mom and Dad are taking care of everything. I'll probably have to take time off for the funeral anyway.” She pulled a tissue out of the box on her desk and blew her nose. “Grandma and Grandpa are together again. That should make me happy. But it doesn't.”

“It will,” I assured her. “The only good thing my brother and I could hold on to when our parents were killed in a car accident is that they were with each other.” Never mind that even as Ben grieved as much as I did, he'd told me that was lousy theology. We would all be with God was as close as he could come to envisioning life after death.

Jack finally stopped patting Lori. Maybe his arm was tired. “You here for the big guy?” He nodded at Milo's closed door. “Your old man is seeing another woman.”

“Who?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Lori and I didn't recognize her. Whoever it is told us she'd been in here Monday talking to Dodge. She's kind of a dish. You sure you can trust him?”

“After sixteen years?” I paused, thinking of my reaction to his call from Jeannie Clay Hobbs. “Yes. I think I know who his visitor is. How long has the door been closed?”

Jack looked at Lori, who'd composed herself. “Twenty minutes?” she said. “She got here quite a while before Mom called about Grandma.”

I considered how long Ren could natter. The picture could
wait, I supposed. On the other hand, if Vida was back at the office, I preferred to stall. “Say,” I finally said, “do either of you know what's happening with Bill and Tanya? We old folks are out of the loop, especially since your boss doesn't like his staff bringing their personal lives to work.”

Jack shrugged. “That doesn't bother me. I don't have a personal life. I'm married to Nina.”

“Jack…” I began, but saw Milo's door open. Ren was in front of him and he looked as if he wanted to kick her rear end all the way to Front Street. To expedite her departure, I dove behind Jack so Ren couldn't see me. She walked by the three of us without a glance. Lab results or not, I still wondered if she was on drugs.

“Well?” the sheriff called to me after his visitor was out the door. “What now?”

“Gosh,” I said, “I've got a question for you.”

“No shit,” the love of my life growled. “Let me grab a coffee refill.”

“I get it,” Jack said under his breath when Milo disappeared. “It was his charm that won you over.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Along with his sunny disposition.” Seeing the sheriff enter the open area behind the curving front counter, I headed for his office and sat down.

Milo returned with a mug of the swill known as coffee in the Skykomish County sheriff's headquarters. I'd never figured out what it would be known as in other parts of the civilized world. Maybe Tricia couldn't make good coffee. What really bothered me was that my husband didn't seem to notice the difference between decent brew and dreck.

“My query is,” I began, “were there ever any hippie communes along the Highway Two corridor?”

The sheriff sipped his sludge before answering. “Yeah, I
vaguely recall at least one somewhere outside of Sultan. That was probably about the time I got drafted right out of high school. It may've been gone by the time I got back from Nam and headed off to Everett to study law enforcement. What's your point?”

Annoyingly, the sheriff's response was understandable. “The guy's hair wasn't gray, was it?” I countered.

“So what? Neither is yours.”

“That's a family fluke,” I retorted. “Ben's older and has only a few gray hairs. You already stated the dead man was under fifty.”

“Right,” Milo agreed, leaning back in his big swivel chair. “Let's consider the hippie angle, if only because I'm worn out from listening to your California caller. We'll get back to her later. For the sake of argument, let's say the guy was under fifty, but not by a lot.” The sheriff paused to light a cigarette. “You want one?”

I shook my head. “Why do you say ‘not by a lot'?”

Milo looked vexed. “Doc said what hair was left
might
—get that?—indicate the stiff was balding.”

“Were the remaining hairs hippie-long?” I asked.

“No. Just longer than average. And don't ask—like Ren did—if hair and fingernails grow after you're dead. That's an optical illusion turned into a myth and a lot of bad horror movies.”

“I'm not Ren,” I huffed. “Why did she ask you that?”

Milo held up a big hand. “Back off. Stay on the subject. Doc and I guess the guy was in his forties when he died. Except for the manner of body disposal, there's nothing to indicate death was unnatural. I'm emphasizing this because you'll post some of it online, right?”

“If,” I replied haughtily, “I find it newsworthy.”

Milo stared at me without blinking, a favorite tactic he used on perps. “You're such a pain in the ass. Go ahead, you do the math.”

“What math?” I asked, genuinely clueless.

“Damnit,” he said, shaking his head, “you're not only cute, but you're smart, right up until you get a case of the dumbs. You're lousy at numbers. I'm talking about a forty-year-old dead guy who's wearing a hippie belt. Maybe he kept wearing it because he never shed his early politics.”

I still looked blank. “I'll take your word for it. You're the sheriff.”

“So I am.” Milo sighed wearily. “What do you intend to put online?”

“Nothing,” I replied. “It
is
speculation. I don't like going public with guesswork, either. Now tell me about Ren.”

The hand that wasn't holding the cigarette held his head. “She read the story in the paper after she got back to the ski lodge. Ren thinks the dead guy's her father. She wanted to see the stiff. I told her it had gone to Everett. For all I know, she hightailed it over there.”

I felt like holding
my
head. “Wouldn't he be too young?”

“Not if he was late forties when he died. Hell, even if he hasn't been dead for ten years, he could've knocked up her mother in his teens.”

“Did she have any reason to think he'd ever been in Alpine?”

“That postcard,” Milo replied. “She wonders if her father gave it to her mother. That could make sense. Or else they came here together.”

I considered the possibility. “Why such an old postcard? We've had SkyCo postcards forever. And where did they get it? It's ninety years old.”

“I'll be ninety years old before I figure out what's going on
with Ren,” Milo grumbled. “I asked if she was sticking around. She thought so—if the atmosphere stayed positive. Don't ask me what that meant.”

I stood up. “Who else can she pester? Ren's talked to both of us and to Vida. She's scoured the library sources, which probably included the
Advocate
along with other area publications. Unless she does personal interviews of random residents, Ren's at a dead end.” I winced. “I shouldn't have said that. Digging into the past is a risky business.”

He nodded. “You should know. It's a good thing you married me. You've got police protection.”

“True.” I gave my husband a bleak smile and left, hoping I wouldn't need protecting in the foreseeable future.

—

As I trudged back to the office, I realized that the one visit I'd left out in recapping Ren's tour was the art gallery. I felt remiss, given that was where she'd collapsed. The gallery opened at five, but Donna was usually there by a quarter to. The old iron clock by the bank said it was going on four. I'd leave work early. Vida's parking slot was still empty. Maybe she'd succumbed to her disgust with me and gone home.

Alison provided the answer as soon as I stepped through the door. “Vida called to say she'd heard from an old friend's daughter who's married to the new bank president. Mrs. Lambrecht is in town looking over the two vacant Parc Pines condos. Vida was meeting her to offer advice and have supper at her house.”

I made a face. “That might make Miriam Lambrecht decide to stay in Seattle. There ought to be a city ordinance that our House & Home editor should never be allowed within ten feet of a stove.”

“If she puts all those recipes in the paper and gives helpful
kitchen hints, can she really be such a terrible cook?” Alison asked.

“In a word, yes,” I stated without hesitation. “And I'm not saying that because she and I had a spat this morning.”

Alison grimaced. “Do you think she's sick, but won't talk about it?”

I'd never thought about Vida being ill. Except for a rare cold or touch of flu, she was as healthy as she was opinionated. Which was saying a lot about her iron constitution. I admitted to Alison that a physical ailment hadn't occurred to me.

“The problem is,” I went on, “she'd never admit it. Nor could I worm anything out of her daughter, Amy. She, along with her sisters, guard their mother's privacy as if she were the Queen of England.”