Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (2 page)

“Of course.” I started to get up, but felt compelled to stay put. Maybe it was the birdlike nickname that made me think that if I left her alone, she might fly away. “Let me ask our receptionist to get it for you.” After relaying the message to Amanda, I asked Ren if my cubbyhole of an office was too warm for her.

She shook her head. “I'm used to it. My real parents moved to San Luis Obispo when I was ten.”

Amanda arrived with the water, wordlessly handing it over to Ren, who murmured her gratitude. I waited until my guest had downed almost all of the glass's contents. I didn't want to rush her, but I was getting antsy. “I gather you spent the earlier part of the day in Monroe,” I said, hoping to sound casual.

“I arrived last night. As you may know, they have an arts fair in August. During the summer, I sometimes serve as a judge for such events on the West Coast. I've been invited to participate in this year's event.” Ren delivered the explanation as if she'd memorized it. Maybe she had.

“We have a small gallery,” I said. It was the only pertinent thing that came to mind.

Ren's dark blue eyes showed some life. “You do? I'd like to visit it. Is it close by?”

“Yes, down a block and across the street. I thought perhaps
that's why you came to Alpine.”
Hint, hint
…I was starting to squirm in my chair as my office seemed be growing warmer by the minute.

“No.” Ren stared somewhere beyond me. Maybe she was passing judgment on my Blue Sky Dairy calendar's color photo of Alpine Baldy. “I came to see you because”—she reached into her straw handbag—“of this.” Ren handed me a sepiatoned photo of a snowbound Alpine dated 1915. “It was with my birth mother's poems. Look at the other side. I
think
that's her handwriting. She wrote her poems in longhand.”

I turned the card over, noting the professional imprint indicating this was a postcard rather than a personal photo. A scrawled word on the back looked like
AUREA
. “Do you know what this means?” I asked.

She shook her head again. “I've researched it, of course. All I can find is a place in Brazil and an old Italian car. Oh, and a Brazilian female singer. None of that seems to pertain to my birth mother. But I thought someone in Alpine might be able to help me.”

I felt Ren was overly optimistic. “Unless it's a first name, I doubt our resident history expert can come up with anything.”

“Who
is
the expert?” Ren asked.

“Vida Runkel, our House & Home editor.” I peeked at my watch. “She's been out for the last hour, so I doubt she'll be back before one.”

I handed the postcard back to her, but she put up a hand. “No,” Ren said. “Please. Keep that. I'll be back to talk to…Ms. Runkel, is it?”

“Yes, but I don't know exactly when—”

“It doesn't matter,” Ren interrupted. “I'm not leaving town. There's nowhere I have to be until August, when I judge the Monroe art show. Do you have any ads in your newspaper for short-term rentals?”

“You'll have to ask Ms. Hanson, our receptionist,” I said. “She and our ad manager, Leo Walsh, handle the classifieds. Our next edition doesn't come out until Wednesday.”

Ren stood up. “I'll do that now before I visit the art gallery.”

“It doesn't open until five,” I informed her, also getting to my feet.

“Oh.” Ren looked almost stricken, then regained her composure. “I'll explore the rentals then. Be sure to show that postcard to Ms. Runkel as soon as she gets back.”

“As I mentioned, I doubt she'll—”

Ren took a step closer. “I told you I was on a fool's errand. A
quest
is more apt. You see, I'm convinced my birth mother was murdered, probably here in Alpine. I intend to stay until I find out who killed her.”

Ren pivoted around and left my office in a less graceful—yet much more assertive—manner than she had come.

“W
ell now,” Vida said after I'd filled her in about my visitor, “that's a queer kettle of fish. I've never heard of anyone named Kassia Arthur. Are you certain that was her mother's name?”

“Yes,” I assured her. “Ren Rawlings
is
a queer sort of woman. She's either a basket case or so caught up in her mission that she's over the top. Frankly, she spoiled my appetite for lunch. But now I'm starving.”

Vida looked at the Bulova watch her late husband, Ernest, had given her some forty years ago. “It's after one. You'd better eat something. You won't survive the afternoon without at least a snack.”

“You're right,” I agreed. “I gather you already had lunch?”

“I did,” she replied. “After taking Dippy to Amy and Ted's, I heated the leftover casserole. Poor Amy couldn't chew anything after her long session with Dr. Starr. Dippy and I enjoyed the leftovers together.”

Maybe the kid looked so big because his stomach was made of cast iron. “That's…nice,” I murmured, pretending something had fallen under my desk. I couldn't look Vida in the eye. Unfortunately, I bumped my head on a partially opened drawer. “Oww!” I exclaimed, wincing.

“My, my,” Vida said. “Do be careful. Are you sure you're all right?”

“I'm fine, just hungry,” I assured her. “I'm going to the Burger Barn now. By the way, did you get your retirement-home copy from Maud Dodd to Kip yet?” It was always wise to remind Vida I was the boss. Many of our readers assumed she was in charge and sometimes even I had to remind myself that was not the case.

“I haven't had time to organize it,” she replied. “I'll do that now.” She fanned herself with one hand. “My, but it is a bit warm in here. I wonder if Harvey Adcock has any more big fans at the hardware store?”

“Call him,” I said, accompanying Vida through the newsroom. “Get two, if he does. The one in my office died this morning.”

On that note, I headed out into the sunshine. There were a few clouds hanging listlessly above Alpine Baldy and Mount Sawyer. Neither of the five-thousand-foot peaks had much snow left. Beyond the railroad tracks in back of the
Advocate
, I couldn't see the Skykomish River, but it was running low for this time of year. By the Fourth of July, I probably could wade across it without getting more than my knees wet. Most of the smaller waterfalls along Highway 2 had dried up by mid-May. There hadn't been enough snowpack to feed the little streams above the Stevens Pass corridor. Back in April, we'd been warned of a possible drought come summer. The words echoed in my ears.

After passing the hobby shop and Parker's Pharmacy, I crossed Front Street at the corner of Third. My sunglasses kept sliding down my perspiring nose. I yanked them off as I entered the Burger Barn and collided with a large object that turned out to be my husband.

“Jeez, Emma, take it easy,” Milo muttered, grabbing my arm to steady me. “I was going to call you after I got back to the office.”

I realized he was holding a Burger Barn bag in the hand that wasn't still on my arm. “You haven't eaten, either?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, looming over me with his thirteen-inch height advantage. “It's your fault I didn't get lunch until now. Come on, let's sit down. At least they've got the ceiling fans going in here.”

It was easy to find an empty booth since the noon-hour rush was over. Milo took off his regulation hat, which was no longer the high-crowned style that looked as if Smokey Bear should be wearing it. The sheriff had finally replaced those hats with what I could only describe as an Australian type, more conservative and better-looking. Before I could ask why I had caused him to miss lunch, a freckled-faced waitress whose name tag identified her as Kinsey came to take my order of a hamburger, fries, salad, and a large Pepsi. Milo requested coffee.

“So what egregious thing did I do now?” I inquired as my husband devoured a large chunk of cheeseburger.

He swallowed the mouthful and added salt to his fries before answering. “Some goofball named Ren came to see me when I was about to come over here. She insisted you told her to ask me about her dead mother. It took half an hour to get anything out of her. By then Roy Everson had showed up from the post office with more bones he insisted belonged to his long-missing mama, Myrtle. Is this some holiday for people who can't keep track of their old ladies?”

“I did
not
tell Ren to talk to you. I did not mention your name or your job or…” My shoulders slumped. “Damn, I'm sorry you got stuck with her. Worse yet, she's not going away, so I've assigned her to Vida.”

“Shit.” Milo's expression was wry. “I should've known you wouldn't sic a space case on me.” He put the hand that wasn't holding two French fries on mine. “Ren harped on her mother being lured to Alpine by money and then disappearing. Black magic, maybe. Is she crazy or is the weather getting to me?”

“I'm letting Vida determine that,” I said. “It'll give her something to do besides mope about Roger's fate. Ren had wanted to visit Donna Wickstrom's art gallery, but I told her it wasn't open until five.”

The sheriff's hazel eyes gazed up at the ceiling fan above us. “Maybe Ren—what the hell kind of name is that?—thought our headquarters was an art gallery. She spent a long time studying the Wanted posters.”

“Did Ren mention who might've murdered her mother in Alpine?”

Milo waited to answer until after Kinsey delivered my food and his coffee. “No. Only the black magic bit that seemed weird. Ren unloaded that one on me about ten, fifteen minutes into her opening monologue. I'd drifted off by then, reminiscing about the past—like almost a week ago, before it got too damned hot to go fishing or make love to my wife. Why the hell didn't I have AC put in with the rest of the remodeling job on your—
our
—little log cabin?”

“It's not so little anymore,” I remarked. “I got lost twice this morning. Again.”

“That's because you weren't awake.” Milo polished off his burger.

“I assume you don't recall a woman named Kassia Arthur being murdered in SkyCo some thirty years ago?”

Milo looked pained. “As far as I can tell from Ren's long-assed tale, that would've happened in 1975. I'd started as a deputy less than three years before that. There were only two female homicide victims after I joined the department. One
was an out-of-work logger who strangled his wife before shooting himself. The other woman was the mother of the Claymore family with the crazy father who offed all six of the kids and Mom before he put the 22-caliber rifle to his own head and blew himself away.” Having eaten his own fries, my husband stole three of mine. “Why don't we check into the ski lodge if it gets as hot as they're predicting? They've got AC.”

I glared at him. “Because everybody would know, Vida would put it in her ‘Scene Around Town' column, and we'd ruin our hard-earned staid reputation after making lovesick fools of ourselves in public last winter. Got any more dumb ideas, Sheriff?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Guess not. I'd better get back to work since you're being a pain in the ass.” He hauled himself out of the booth, but paused to ruffle my hair. “I'll pick up fried chicken at the Grocery Basket on my way home. No point in turning on the stove.” He loped away, leaving me with my unpaid bill. That was only fair, I suppose. Washington is a community-property state.

To my surprise, Vida wasn't being pinned to the wall by Ren Rawlings when I returned to the
Advocate
. “No such person has been here,” she informed me rather glumly. “Harvey is out of fans, by the way. He expects more by Thursday. Everyone's panicking at the prospect of hotter weather.”

“That,” I mused, “is a story in itself. Of course, I suppose we have it covered with Mitch's humor piece.”

“I can mention in it ‘Scene,' ” Vida said. “I assume Harvey is taking out a bigger ad than usual this week.”

“He should. Talk to Leo about that.” I remembered the postcard Ren had left. “Hold on, I've got something to show you.”

Apparently Vida's rampant curiosity couldn't be contained. She followed me into my office. I handed her the postcard and
explained why I'd suggested to Ren that my House & Home editor should see it.

“The date on the front is 1915,” Vida murmured, sitting down in one of my visitor chairs. “Only five years after Carl Clemans began his logging operation here. You'll note that there are very few buildings except for the mill itself.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but a lot of snow.”

“My, yes,” Vida agreed, studying the back of the postcard. “Eight feet on the ground for much of the winter in the town's early years. You can get a sense of that from this photo. No road into Alpine, access only by train. Such hardy people in those days. Aurea…what can that mean?”

“That's what I hoped you could tell Ren,” I said. “I thought it might be someone's name.”

Vida slowly shook her head. “No. No, I've never heard or seen it. The writing looks more recent than the postcard.”

“It is, according to Ren. She's certain her mother wrote it.”

“Perhaps,” Vida allowed. “Is this Ren reliable?”

I made a face. “I thought she was kind of strange. So did Milo. She called on him after leaving here. Ren's a teacher from San Luis Obispo.”

“Californians,” Vida said in the same tone she would have used for “Satan worshippers” or “Seattle traffic.” She stood up, smoothing her black linen skirt. “They have some very peculiar notions. Of course, if Ren wants to talk to me, I'll listen, if only to convince her she's on a wild goose chase.”

“Good luck with that,” I said as my phone rang. “I'd better grab the call. It might be news.”

It was news of a sort, but not the kind I wanted to hear. “Well? How goes the annulment process?” my brother, Ben, asked in his crackling voice.

I was glad he couldn't see me wince. “Milo is doing his share, but his ex is dawdling. We're supposed to have dinner
with Tricia and her new boyfriend, Zach, this coming weekend. If, of course, my husband can get away from all the Fourth of July craziness here.”

“How crazy can Alpine get with a bunch of sparklers and some cheap firecrackers? Are the woods so dry that you're all afraid the whole town will go up in smoke?”

“It
has
been a dry year so far,” I asserted. “All we've had lately is a little drizzle and it's supposed to get really hot for the long weekend.”

“Meaning high seventies? Get real, Sluggly,” Ben said, reverting to his childhood nickname for me. “I was sent from El Paso to help out for a couple of weeks near my former turf on the Delta. I'm in Tuscaloosa; the average temperature here in July is over ninety. Why is Tricia or Mulehide or whatever stalling?”

I sighed and put both elbows on my desk. “She insists she doesn't see why Milo needs to get his marriage to her annulled because he's not a Catholic. Tricia isn't stupid, but the Mulehide tag is apt. She's extremely stubborn. She's also balking because an annulment means her three children would become illegitimate.”

“Has Milo explained to her that's only in the eyes of the Church? Tricia's not Catholic. Why does she care? Is one of their kids converting?”

I grimaced. “That's another problem. Milo's son, Brandon, is getting married in August to his fiancée, Solange. She's Catholic and the wedding will be at her home parish, Mary, Queen of Peace, over on the Eastside in Sammamish. But no, I don't think Bran plans to convert.”

Ben chuckled. “Why am I secretly wishing Bran had fallen for a nice Jewish girl? If Tricia's as ornery as Milo says she is, I can see her turning this into an argument against going through with the annulment. She might figure her son would be considered
a social outcast if he was illegitimate in the eyes of Mother Church.”

“Do you have any real advice for us, Stench?” I asked, dredging up my old nickname for him. “Or did you call just to needle me?”

“I called to badger you and Dodge to get the annulment process moving,” Ben replied earnestly. “Adam and I would like to concelebrate your wedding Mass before I'm too old to stand up at the altar.”

“You're far from that,” I snapped.

It was Ben's turn to sigh at the other end. “Here's what bothers me—that Milo, not being a churchgoing kind of guy, will get tired of wrangling with his ex and decide it's not worth the hassle. Have you impressed on him how important this is to you?”

“I've tried,” I said a bit lamely.

“Try harder. Knowing you, I'd put down money that you've been half-assed about it. Level with him. The poor sap is so nuts about you—though I don't know why—that he'll cave and kick Mulehide's butt.”

“Gee, just what I wanted. Deep and thoughtful spiritual advice.”

“If you want that, talk to your pastor. Dennis Kelly is damned good at that stuff. I'm not.” Ben paused and I could hear voices in the background. “Got to go. Somebody needs bail money. Peace, Sluggly.” My brother rang off.

As usual, my irritation with Ben didn't last. He was right, but it wasn't easy to explain to Milo why my religion mattered so much to me. He'd been raised Congregationalist, but hadn't attended church services since he was a teenager. His religion was fishing, a spiritual exercise of a different sort. I understood and so did Ben. Our dad had been an ardent fisherman. But my brother was a priest and had to play by the rules.

“You,” Vida said with a frown, “look very pensive. Are you concerned that this Ren person might cause trouble?”

I laughed. “No. I was talking to Ben. He was playing big brother.” Not wanting to fall into a trap that would give Vida a chance to offer a sermon of her own on why the Presbyterian faith was superior to all others, I changed the subject. “Roy Everson has found more bones.”