Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (19 page)

“What is it, Amy?” I asked, trying to control my impatience.

“It's been such a horrible day,” she replied, on the verge of more tears. “I have to talk to Milo to tell him to put out the APB.”

“He's not here,” I lied. “He was called out this afternoon to find some missing children. Luckily, they were found. By the way, I ran into the Colonel at Parc Pines. He thinks an APB is a bad idea.”

“What does
he
know?” Amy shot back. “He's always meddling in our family's business. No wonder Mom's upset with him. Be sure and have Milo call back as soon as he gets home. I've got to hang up. Dippy cut his finger and he's bleeding. What next? I'm a nervous—” She hung up before finishing the sentence.

My husband ambled into the living room. “Amy, huh?”

“You were listening in the hall,” I accused him.

“You bet. Thanks for lying through your teeth.” He leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “Turn off the ringer. Otherwise,
Amy'll drive us nuts. Bardeen's right. If Vida's still missing by tomorrow night, I'll do it. Otherwise…” He shrugged.

“Amy won't give up. She'll call our cells. She'll call Doe at headquarters. She'll drive us all insane. What if Ben or Adam call me?” I asked, moving back to the kitchen.

“They'll try again. Doesn't Adam only call when he's away from his frozen Alaska village with the screwed-up reception? Where's dinner?”

I opened the refrigerator. “You ate a late lunch, so…” I held up my hands. “Ta-da! See the big blue bowl? That's dinner.”

“Shit. Are you trying to starve me? What next? Tofu?”

“I'm trying to keep you healthy. And strong,” I added in a breathy voice, sidling up to him. “You have no gallbladder, remember?”

Milo put his arms around me. “The things I have to do to keep you satisfied. It's too bad you're worth it.”

“Hey,” I said, looking up at him, “I saw Grace Grundle at the grocery store. She mentioned your brother. Does he know we're married?”

“No. I usually only hear from him a couple of times a year. That's fine with me. He always was full of himself and he only gets worse with age. He emailed me some goofy Internet card for my birthday. I emailed him back with a brief thanks, but that was it. I didn't ask if he and Pootsie were really coming up this way in the fall. He'd said something about doing that in his ego trip of a Christmas letter.”

“Pootsie?” I said as Milo let me go.

“Right.” He started pouring our drinks. “Her real name is Patricia—same as Mulehide, except she was known as Patti—with an
i
. Pootsie was a cheerleader at Wazzu. That's where they met. I never cared much for her, either. She has a more
ear-splitting giggle than your former reporter Carla. And don't ask why Clint calls her Pootsie. I'd rather not know.”

We'd migrated to the patio. “Did you and Clint get along as kids?”

“We had to,” Milo replied. “Pa couldn't stand ‘squabbling,' as he called it. But Clint was the family star. Good grades, into all the activities, popular kind of kid. I was none of those things. Clint was the eldest, then Emily, then me. Emily was more like Clint, but nicer.”

“I'm trying to picture you as a baby,” I said, smiling. “You must've been a big—”

Milo's cell rang. Reluctantly, he took it out of his pocket. “It's Doe,” he murmured, clicking on the call. “Dodge. What's up?…You're sure you got the right spelling?…Right. Okay, thanks. In a way, I'm not surprised.”

“What was that?” I inquired after my husband rang off.

“Doe's search for Laurentis came up empty,” Milo informed me. “It seems as if your recluse artist doesn't exist. Turn on your brain. What do you think that means?”

“C
raig's an artist,” I finally said after a pause. “Maybe his real name is weird or too common. I think his name fits him. Changing it to something else doesn't mean he's a crook.”

“I'm not saying he is,” Milo replied. “It just muddies the waters. Call me crazy, but I like it better when people are who they say they are.”

“It
is
odd,” I said after a brief silence. “We're running into a lot of people lately who may be using aliases. Ren's mother, the minister who married you and Tricia, now Craig.” A wild thought came to me. I grabbed Milo's arm. “What if Craig is the Reverend J. C. Peace?”

“Huh?” Milo looked puzzled. “Oh—you mean…Damn. I don't know if he
couldn't
be. Last fall when Laurentis was in the hospital after he got shot, they cut his hair and shaved his beard to get rid of any wildlife he might've had living in that mess. When I tried to interview him about the shooting, I had an odd feeling when I saw him up close. His unusual green eyes, maybe. I'd never spotted him on his rare trips to town.”

“But you didn't know why you reacted that way?”

“No. I forgot about it until now.” Milo sipped his drink. “I dismissed it as seeing what the legendary recluse looked like.
And why,” he added wryly, “you seemed so taken with him. I suppose I was kind of jealous. He didn't seem to be your type.”

“Neither did you,” I said. “But we've got to find Craig. If he's J. C. Peace and he was never a certified minister, that's grounds for the annulment. I told you that. We wouldn't need to keep badgering Tricia.”

Milo sighed. “I don't know where to start. Judging from the times you've seen him in the woods or coming out of them, it's always been from the south. Remember when Laurentis was still known only as the crazy hermit and was a suspect in the Rafferty house fire a couple of years ago? Vida—and Roger—put together a search party. They supposedly scoured that area and came up with zip.”

“I doubt any of them were very thorough,” I said. “Roger never went farther than Fir Street.”

“Some of them did,” Milo reminded me. “I talked to one of the Gustavsons and Norm Carlson's daughters. They got as far as Jewel Lakes at the four-thousand-foot level. Another group went to the end of the logging road by Fisher Creek. That's quite a ways into the forest.”

I nodded. “Craig has to live by a creek. He needs water. Did any of them search around Sawyer Creek before the road ends?”

“Not that I know of.” He grinned at me. “I know that turf from when I was a kid and hiked all over that part of the county. Burn Creek, even Alpine Creek, are possibilities, though that's getting close to the ski run up from the lodge and then the Foss River Campground. If tomorrow's quiet, I may send somebody to look around the area. There are only so many creeks, especially this time of year with such a piddling runoff from Mount Sawyer.”

“Make sure whoever you send doesn't wear a uniform,” I cautioned. “Craig can probably sniff the law.”

“Then the uniform doesn't matter.” Staring off into space, my husband sipped more of his drink before speaking again. “Hell,” he finally said, “he likes you. You're still deputized. You and I'll go looking for him.”

“But he knows you're the sheriff,” I protested. “If he sees me with you he'll hide.”

“No, he won't. He was juiced up on meds when I tried to talk to him in the hospital. He probably doesn't remember what I look like.”

“You're kind of hard to forget,” I said. “Being tall, I mean. And Craig has an artist's eye.”

“He was damned near cross-eyed when I tried to get him to talk. If he remembers anything, it's the uniform. I never took off my hat.”

“Up close, he'd sense you were the Law.”

“I could hide behind a tree.”

“A
big
tree.” I remained dubious. But I couldn't refuse. “Okay, but I don't like our chances.”

“You like to take chances,” Milo said. “I don't like you doing that, but this time you'll be with me. We'll do this not only for the investigation, but to find out if he's J. C. Peace, right?”

I couldn't argue about that.

—

Somehow, we got through the evening without further interruptions, visitors, or calls to duty. To our relief, we didn't hear from Amy again. Maybe she'd decided Buck—and Milo—knew what they were talking about when they stated that jumping the gun on an APB for Vida was a bad idea.

We left on our quest just after ten o'clock Monday morning, driving up past the Icicle Creek Ranger Station and onto a gravel track that became increasingly dicey as we climbed up
Tonga Ridge. Milo found a place to turn off just before we reached the old logging road.

I posed a question to my husband. “Aren't we too close to civilization for Craig's tastes?”

“You prefer parachuting into the forest? We have to start somewhere. Fisher Creek is a short walk from here.” Milo glanced at my feet. “I expected you to wear hiking boots, not sporty shoes that look like you'd use them on an art crawl in Seattle.”

“I don't own any hiking boots, as you should know by now. Where would I put them? Your feet are so damned big that all your foot gear takes up most of the space, remodeled closet or not.”

“You don't want a man who can fill big shoes?” Milo shot back. “Get out of the vehicle. You're stalling.”

“Am not,” I mumbled, having trouble with the door. “Hey—it's locked!”

“Oh, right.” My husband clicked the doors open.

I got out, staring up at the thick stands of Douglas fir, western hemlock and Sitka spruce. “I don't think I've ever been this high up,” I said. “Where are we?”

“Alaska,” Milo retorted. “You want to look for Adam? Come on, let's head for the creek.”

“I'm glad you know where we're going,” I muttered. “You
do
know, right?”

“Hell, yes.” He'd led the way and glanced back at me. “Try not to fall down, okay?”

A moment later, we'd reached Fisher Creek. It wasn't very impressive, with only a narrow ribbon of water languidly gliding over its rocky bed. “That's not a good sign,” I remarked. “Where does it go?”

“Into Deception Creek. It comes out of Fisher Lake.”

“I wouldn't think Craig would live that close to Deception Creek because of the hikers.”

“That's right,” Milo agreed, now several yards ahead of me. “We're going in the other direction.”

“Oh.” I decided to shut up and focus on walking faster.

After twenty minutes, more great stands of conifers, and an annoying amount of various bugs, I was certain we were lost. “Are you sure this is a trail?” I called to my husband.

He paused by a couple of firs that had apparently been toppled in a winter storm. Their gnarled roots reminded me of Medusa's head with snakes for hair. Except the roots were more appealing, curling outward as if begging for help.

“Yeah, I'm sure,” Milo replied, stopping by an aging cedar stump. “The trail maintenance people haven't gotten around to it yet. Global warming has put them off their usual schedule. In the past, this area would still be under a foot of snow.”

I didn't comment. My mind was elsewhere. “Maybe Craig wouldn't use a trail,” I finally blurted. “We'll never find him this way.”

“He has to have a route,” Milo asserted. “He can't spend an entire winter holed up in the forest. The guy's lived up here for thirty years. Back when he arrived, we had some pretty severe winters. With eight, ten feet of snow, he had to be sure of his way in and out. Nobody else would be using the trails because they couldn't see them.”

We resumed walking. I wouldn't admit it, but my feet hurt. I hadn't worn my sturdy shoes for a long time. Years, maybe. I felt foolish. The footing was often rocky, but then we were traversing a mountainside. I tried to focus on identifying the lush types of ferns that lined the alleged trail. I stumbled twice and decided I'd better watch my step instead of admiring the flora. Sniffing at the air, I savored the heady, primal scent of the
forest. In town, I lived at the edge of these endless woods, but civilization thwarted the senses, even in a small town.

We kept walking. And walking. Finally we were in a meadow. It was too soon for most of the wildflowers to be in bloom, but I sensed the peace of this lush, emerald swath amid the mountain grandeur.

“Are we lost yet?” I asked Milo as we paused to admire the scenery.

“Hell no,” he replied. “I haven't been up this way in years. I brought Mulehide here for a picnic before we got engaged.”

“And she married you anyway?”

“She liked the outdoors. She wasn't a city girl. Like some women I know,” he added archly. “She owned hiking boots.”

“Good for her,” I muttered, checking my watch. “We've been wandering around for over an hour. I haven't seen any sign of human life, let alone of Craig.”

Milo seemed to be drinking in the mountain air. Or maybe he was ignoring me. But when he finally spoke, he asked a question. “Has your recluse ever done a meadow painting?”

“Not that I know of,” I admitted. “You're right—this is a perfect subject, even better in August when the flora blooms.”

“If you could tell what it was,” my husband remarked. “Didn't you say his recent paintings were weird?”

“He's gone to a different style,” I said. “It's more…abstract.”

“You mean they look like one of Vida's casseroles?”

“They're more attractive than that, but it's not a bad description. Can we go home now?”

“Hell no. We just got started. Move, woman.”

I moved—grudgingly. We went back into the forest where the trail—if it was a trail—was pitched at such an angle that I felt like a mountain goat. I knew we were still at about the same altitude because the trees grew close together. The sun
was almost overhead, filtering hazily through the thick, towering evergreens.

Half an hour later, we came upon another creek. “Where are we?” I asked, dragging myself to Milo's side.

He kicked at some pebbles and looked amused. “Carroll Creek. You've never seen it from up here?”

“No. You mean if I followed the creek I'd end up at the dump site?”

“That's right. We're about fifty yards from the logging road—but not where we left the Yukon.” He bent down on his haunches. “I'll be damned,” he murmured, standing up. “Take a look at this.” He'd fished out something from the creek. “It's a penny, dated 1994. Didn't somebody say Laurentis carried a lot of change in his pockets?”

“Yes, but it could be from a hiker who was here last year.”

He shook his head. “No. It would've been washed away in the earlier runoff. We're on your artist's turf. You want to keep going?”

I didn't want to admit I had blisters. “Well…we want to find Craig.”

Milo looked down at my feet. “You're limping. I think we've nailed Laurentis's usual route—at least one of them. We'll go back to the logging road, then I'll get the Yukon and collect you.”

I felt chagrined. “I'm sorry.”

My husband grinned at me and took my hand. “We did what we set out to do. You can't help being a tenderfoot city girl. Don't budge after I leave you alone. It shouldn't take more than ten minutes for me to come back to collect my battered bride.”

Five minutes later, I was alone, leaning against a Sitka spruce next to the road, staring at clumps of lavender yarrow. The same species grew on the verge of my street. In town, yarrow
was a weed; in the forest, it was a flower. I smiled at the difference.

And heard a voice call my name.

I turned around to see Craig coming toward me. His gray beard and hair had grown out since I'd seen him in the hospital seven months ago. I smiled as he moved in his quick yet stealthy manner.

“You're trying to find me, I think,” he said with the familiar slight rasp in his voice from lack of human conversation.

“We are,” I confessed. “I'm so glad to see you're well.”

He nodded. “Nature heals. Why are you looking for me?” The forest-green eyes were probing—and amused.

I couldn't help myself. “Are you J. C. Peace?”

His expression grew quizzical. “What a peculiar question. Why do you ask? Is this a query for your newspaper?”

“No. It's personal.”

“Then why is the sheriff looking for me?”

“He's my husband now. Did you know that?”

Craig hesitated. “I know he lives with you. I didn't know you were married. Are you content?”

How like Craig to ask not about happiness, but contentment
, I thought. “Yes. Very.” I smiled, as if I had to prove it to him.

“I'm glad.” He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and suddenly looked tense. “I must go. Take care, Emma.”

“Craig…” I held out my hand as if to stop him, but he moved quickly on bare feet. There was something wraithlike about him, disappearing behind the first big cedar and evaporating as if he'd merged into the mountain air.

I leaned back against the spruce and sighed.
Damn
. I'd blown my chance. I was still cursing myself two minutes later when the Yukon appeared from around a sharp bend in the
road. Milo came to a stop and I limped around to the passenger side, realizing that Craig had heard—or sensed—the SUV approaching.

“What's wrong?” my husband asked after I flopped into the seat. “You looked pissed. I came as fast as I could.”

“Craig was watching us,” I said. “I blew it for both of us.”

Milo darted a quick glance at me, but he had to stay focused on the narrow, rugged road. “You talked to Nature Boy?”

“Yes. Briefly. He realized you were coming to meet me.”