Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (3 page)

Vida looked disgusted. “I know. My nephew, Billy, told me.” She put both hands on my desk and lowered her voice. “Has Milo mentioned anything lately about Billy and Tanya?”

Back in February, when Milo's elder daughter had been recovering from being shot by her fiancé before he killed himself, Tanya Dodge had sought sanctuary with her father at his house in the Icicle Creek Development. Milo had put the property up for sale, but the market was slow. Meanwhile, Tanya had started dating Deputy Bill Blatt, one of Vida's numerous nephews. In late April, Bill moved out of his widowed mother's home to live with Tanya in Milo's house. As Vida posed the question, I realized my husband hadn't mentioned his daughter and his deputy in the last week or so.

“No,” I admitted. “Do you think there's a rift?”

Vida straightened up, her impressive bosom straining at the green and purple polka-dot blouse. “I think my sister-in-law Lila laid down the law about her son living with a woman who is not his wife or, at the very least, his fiancée. I suspect Billy's back home now. Lila is extremely narrow-minded—and inflexible.”

In Vida's opinion, most of her in-laws were badly flawed. I knew Lila only by sight, so I withheld comment. “I'll ask Milo,” I said.

Vida frowned. “I'd ask Billy, but he's sensitive about personal matters, especially after he broke off with the divorcée
who had a child. I was relieved, but Tanya's emotional problems are troubling.”

“She's improving,” I reminded Vida. “I credit Bill for some of that.”

“Well…” Vida fingered her chin. “Billy does have more sense than some of the Blatts. I have no idea how that happened.” She turned on her sensible heel and exited my office.

I was still smiling, even if Vida wasn't. When Holly Gross, the town tart and Dippy's mother, had been released from jail on bond in April after shooting a drug kingpin, Vida feared a custody battle. Worse yet, she blamed Milo and Prosecutor Rosemary Bourgette for not making a tighter case against Holly in the dealer's shooting death. During a tussle over the gun inside the trailer, the dealer had been killed. Vida had refused to speak to Milo or Rosemary for over two months. She had also given Judge Diane Proxmire the deep freeze. But in April, fate had intervened, allowing Vida to drop her sanctions against the sheriff, the prosecutor, and the judge.

By three o'clock, I'd gotten a grip on my editorial. It didn't exactly hum, but it was what I called positive as opposed to…soporific. I hoped. I'd given SkyCo citizens an advance pat on the back for rallying behind Fuzzy's reorganization plan. They might believe they'd actually done something and react with a show of enthusiasm.

Five minutes after I zapped the editorial to Kip, Edna Mae Dalrymple called me. As she often is, the town's head librarian was a-twitter. “My goodness, Emma,” she began, “I'm a bit overwhelmed by this young woman you sent to see me. She's requesting copies of all sorts of information, including the area weeklies and dailies going back to over thirty years ago. She seems rather distraught. I'm afraid she'll be here all night!”

I winced. “First,” I said, hoping to convey sympathy, “I
didn't advise Ren Rawlings to go to the library. I didn't even tell her we
have
a library. She's interested in visiting the art gallery, so she'll probably leave by five. If she doesn't, close down at seven as usual. She has to eat.”

“True,” she murmured. “I hate being ungracious with our patrons.”

“She's from Southern California,” I pointed out, hoping that Edna Mae's typical Alpine chauvinism was in play. “She'll get over it.”

“Yes, that makes a difference. Not living here, I mean. Thank you, Emma. Don't forget, bridge club is tomorrow night.”

“It's also our deadline,” I said. “I told you to get a sub for me.”

“I did,” she replied. “I'd already gotten substitutes for the Dithers Sisters. One of their horses is lame. Then Rosemary Bourgette begged off.” Edna Mae lowered her voice. “She has a date. With a man.”

“Good for her,” I said, and meant it. “Is he local?”

“Not exactly,” Edna Mae whispered. “He's a writer and has rented a place at Baring. Oh dear—here comes Ms. Rawlings. I must dash.”

I was left hanging, in more ways than one. If we had no late-breaking news, I
could
play bridge Tuesday. I'd done it before, though I preferred not taking chances. I trusted Kip implicitly, but the buck stops with me as editor and publisher. I began performing my editing duties by going over Mitch's lead story about Summer Solstice.

The rest of the afternoon passed without any more reports of Ren Rawlings showing up at places where I hadn't sent her. Vida expressed mild dismay at not having had an opportunity to meet the visitor. I told her it was just as well. Naturally, she didn't believe me.

By five, my office had grown unbearably close. I grabbed my handbag and started through the empty newsroom. My phone rang before I could get to the front office. Amanda was still there, so she answered it for me.

“Yes,” I heard her say. “Could you please hold?” Putting her hand over the receiver's mouthpiece, Amanda asked if I'd take the call.

“Who is it?” I inquired.

“She's asking for Kassia Arthur.”

I took the phone and heard a disconnect click at the other end.

“W
eird,” I said, handing the phone back to Amanda. “You're sure she told you she wanted Kassia Arthur?”

Amanda looked at me if she thought
I
might be a little odd. “I think so, unless I misheard. I don't know anybody by that name, so it stuck. Is something wrong?”

I explained about our morning visitor. “Maybe,” I allowed, “I'm overreacting to Ms. Rawlings, but she struck me as not quite right from the start. What was your impression?”

Amanda's pretty face grew thoughtful, one hand caressing the big baby bump. “It's hard for me to say. She's nice-looking—and slim. All I can think of about now is if I'll ever look that way again. She did seem kind of on edge.”

“Did whoever called just now sound like the same woman?”

“Well…honestly, Emma, it's hard for me to say. You know how people don't always sound the same in person as they do on the phone.”

I knew that was true. Then there was my husband, who, back when I first met him, was so quiet over the phone that sometimes I could hardly hear him. In more recent years, half the time he didn't need to dial my number. I swore I could hear him from almost two blocks away.

“That's fine,” I said. “Go home to Walt. Is he barbecuing tonight?”

“I hope so,” Amanda replied. “Unless he gets stuck working late at the fish hatchery.”

We walked out together, she to her aging red Miata and me to my equally old Honda. I did glance across Front Street to Donna's art gallery, which was open. It occurred to me that I should pay her a call to see if she had any new work by our reclusive artist, Craig Laurentis. She'd received a new painting from him in the spring, but he was experimenting with a different style. It was more stark, almost harsh, and didn't speak to me in the way
Sky Autumn
did. I never tired of looking at the painting, which hung above my sofa. The river seemed to move, tumbling over the boulders and under the vine maple branches.

Milo arrived home fifteen minutes after I did. “They ran out of fried chicken at the Grocery Basket,” he grumbled, setting a big bag on the new marble-topped counter. “Jake O'Toole gave me a free side of coleslaw to make up for the long wait.”

“Good. Then I don't have to make anything,” I said, waiting for my husband to kiss me hello. “Well?”

“Well what?” He removed his hat. “What about spuds?”

“Spuds?” I yipped. “Are you insane? Why didn't you pick up some of the deli's French fries?”

My husband looked genuinely puzzled. Or baffled, given that he's the sheriff. “You can't make them in that little fry cooker?”

“No! You're lucky I don't pull that cast-iron pot over your head. Just thinking about hot grease makes me want to tear my hair.”

He snatched up his hat. “I'll go back to the Grocery Basket.” Milo slammed the door to the garage behind him.

I immediately felt ashamed of myself. He looked as hot and tired as I felt, having worked an even longer day than I had. I
made us each a drink, then leaned against the counter and surveyed my beautiful new kitchen that my husband had paid for. All of the wonderful, amazing remodeling of my once-little log cabin had come out of his pocket. He had refused to let me spend a dime on any of it. If, he'd stated, it was to be our home, instead of just mine, he had to put his money into the project. I was close to tears when he showed up a few minutes later.

As soon as he stepped onto the new dark Pergo flooring, I threw myself against him. He almost dropped the fries.

“Hey,” he said, putting his free arm around me. “What's wrong?”

“I'm a beast,” I mumbled against his chest. “I hate me.”

“I don't hate you,” Milo said, managing to set the fries on the counter next to the chicken. “What set you off?”

“Nothing.” I looked up at him. “Except the weather. I made drinks.”

He tossed his hat on top of the new built-in stainless-steel dishwasher. “You're an ornery little twerp, but I knew that all along.” He put both arms around me, the familiar spark in his hazel eyes. “After all those years of waiting for you to come around, there were no surprises. I know what we can do to put us both in a better mood. Tonight after dark, let's go out in the backyard under the evergreen trees and roll around on the new grass Mountain View Gardens put in.”

I smiled up at him. “And I used to think you had no imagination.”

“Maybe I don't.” Milo kissed the top of my head before letting me go. “It took almost a week before I got the idea.” He retrieved his hat. “I'll change. You can stop hating yourself by putting more ice in my Scotch. What was in there melted.”

Luckily, the sheriff couldn't see me curl my lip. When he emerged from the bedroom, I was seated on the newly upholstered
sofa. I loved the brown, white, and green tones that echoed the colors in Craig's painting. I had
not
loved the frayed, stained, and faded sofa I'd bought twenty years ago when I worked for
The Oregonian
in Portland. The rocker I'd bought after Adam was born was also long gone. Milo had seemed to like it—right up until it collapsed underneath him. That was when I realized he'd gained several pounds since we first met.

My husband lowered himself into the easy chair, which hadn't been revamped. I'd bought that item while Milo and I had been going together the first time around. He'd never looked comfortable in the smaller armchair that now sat across the hearth.

“Roy's back at it,” he said after lighting a cigarette. “I admit the bones one of the Overholts dug up looked bigger than a bird or a marmot. But it's a
farm
. They've raised every kind of animal except giraffes. The Overholt family has owned that land for sixty years.”

“Will you send the bones to the lab in Everett?”

“No,” Milo replied. “But I'll keep them until there's a better reason for pestering SnoCo. If Fuzzy gets support to reorganize the county, I might have more funding. You sure you don't want a cigarette?”

I shook my head. “I've gone almost three weeks without smoking.”

Milo grinned. “What is this? Your nineteenth attempt to quit?”

“Just about,” I admitted. “You're a terrible influence.”

“You know I've cut down. Tanya's nagging has had some effect.”

“Speaking of Tanya, I hear Bill moved out of your house and went back home to Mother. Is this a sign that the romance is rocky?”

Milo made a face. “I'm not sure. I didn't find out he'd
moved out until yesterday when Bill was on duty with me at the Summer Solstice events. You know I avoid getting involved in my staff's private lives.”

I was skeptical. “Even when it involves your daughter?

“Especially when it—” He stopped when the phone on the side table rang. I picked it up and answered.

“I hate to bother you,” Donna Erlandson Wickstrom said in an anxious voice, “but the young woman you sent to visit the gallery just passed out. I thought you should know. I called for the medics.”

“Good grief!” I exclaimed, causing Milo to stare at me. “Is Ren coming to?”

“Sort of,” Donna replied. “I hear the sirens. I'll keep you posted.”

I could hear them, too, though they were faint from my vantage point some ten blocks away.

“The nut job took a dive?” Milo asked after downing a big sip of Scotch. “Who was that?”

“Donna. I did tell Ren to go to the gallery,” I said, fondling my glass of bourbon. “Now I wish I hadn't.”

“Maybe Ren does drugs,” Milo suggested. “Where's she staying?”

“I don't know. She intended to find a place for a long-term visit.”

My husband ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. “Jesus. She
is
obsessed. Too bad Roy's married. They'd make a good pair.”

I only half heard what the sheriff was saying. “I haven't mentioned the strange call I got before I left work,” I said, and told him about the person asking for Kassia Arthur and hanging up.

Milo looked mildly interested. “Probably your nut job calling. I wouldn't get into a tizzy over it if I were you.”

“I suppose, but,” I went on, “I feel responsible for her in some weird way. I wonder if they'll take her to the hospital.”

“Gosh, little Emma,” he said in mock dismay, “you never told me about your medical degree. Let's eat.” Milo put out his cigarette and rose from the easy chair, his almost empty glass in hand.

“I hate you,” I declared, following him into the kitchen.

“Make up your mind. Which one of us do you hate most?” Milo sat down at our new kitchen table.

“That's it!” I yelled. “I'm calling Donna. You can heat up dinner in the microwave by yourself.” I stormed off to the living room.

Donna answered on the third ring. “The medics are still here,” she said quietly. “Ms. Rawlings is conscious, but seems disoriented.”

I almost asked how she could tell. Before I could say anything, Donna spoke again. “Del Amundson says they'll take her to the hospital. I feel I should go along, but I don't like closing the gallery. Clea Bhuj is here from the college with her husband, Allan.”

“Stay put,” I said. “I'll go. Part of the problem may be that Ren's been so busy she hasn't eaten. I'll let you know when I get back home.”

I grabbed my handbag and dashed out through the kitchen. “I have to go to work,” I announced over my shoulder. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“Hold it!” my husband bellowed, bolting out of the chair. “Where are you going?” He loomed over me, his hazel eyes sparking with anger.

“To the hospital,” I retorted. “That's where Ren's headed. It may be a story. Stop being a jackass.”

To my surprise, Milo spoke in a normal tone. “Sit down. Relax. You know how an ER run goes. You won't learn a
damned thing for half an hour. Do you really want to sit around and have one of those snotty nurses badger you?”

“I…”

The sheriff hooked his arm around my neck, pulled me closer, and kissed me. It was a long and a very hard kiss. When he finally let go, I staggered slightly.

“Why,” I gasped, “didn't you…do that…when you…got home?”

“Because I'm a jackass.” He took my hand. “Sit down. I heated the food. After we eat we'll both go to the hospital. Maybe I can arrest Ren for creating a disturbance—with us.” He led me to the table.

—

Milo drove us in the Yukon, pulling into a reserved space for doctors in the underground garage. He and KSKY's Spencer Fleetwood were the only two people I knew who had that privilege. Maybe I should have asked—there were three slots and only two doctors in Alpine.

We found Doc Dewey in the ER hallway. He looked weary, and seemed surprised to see us. “If you're here to arrest me,” he said to Milo, “make it quick or I'll pass out before you can put me in a cell. Elvis Sung and I've been on duty since four o'clock this morning.”

“Jeez, Gerry,” Milo said, “is it hot enough for heatstroke?”

Doc shook his balding head. “No, but some damned fools think they're suffering from it. Some will, if it gets to ninety. Now it's mostly accidents, like kids setting off fireworks. Your deputies must be busy.”

“Right,” Milo agreed. “We're here to check on Emma's new best friend, Ms. Rawlings. Got a diagnosis?”

Doc shrugged. “I'm not sure. I have to wait for the blood
tests to come back.” He turned to me. “You know this young woman?”

“She came to see me this morning,” I replied, adding the reason for her Alpine visit and summing up where else she'd gone. “My real concern,” I concluded, “is that I doubt she stopped all day to eat. She asked for water while she was in my office.”

“That could cause it,” Doc said. “We can tell that from the tests.” Something beeped. Doc reached for his cell, frowning as he listened to the caller. “Got to go. Maybe you should, too, Emma. Amanda Hanson's in labor. You'll have to rustle up a sub.” Doc plodded back down the hall.

“Oh, great!” I wailed. “I wonder if Alison Lindahl's in town.”

“According to Lori, she wasn't over the weekend,” Milo said.

Lori Cobb was Milo's receptionist and Alison's roommate. “I'll try her cell when we get home.” I looked up at my husband. “Why did we come to the hospital in the first place?”

“Because you're a pain in the ass,” Milo responded, putting his arm around me. “Let's go home and try out that new grass. Nobody can see us with all the big trees. Afterwards we can hose each other down.”

I winced. “Sounds like…fun?”

Milo shrugged. “Making our own heat sure as hell beats sitting on our dead butts and griping.”

I agreed.

—

Shortly before nine, I'd already reached Alison, who was still with her parents in Everett, but willing to show up for work in the morning. There hadn't been any calls while Milo and I had
been rolling around in our backyard. I dialed the hospital, asking for the maternity ward. Amanda was still in labor. Doc Dewey had gone home, but Elvis Sung was on call. After being transferred to the patient floor, my old nemesis, Ruth Sharp, answered.

“Ms. Rawlings is in a room,” Ruth said primly. “Are you family?”

Ruth knew damned well I wasn't a relative. “No,” I replied, “but she seemed unwell when she visited me earlier today.”

“I can't divulge any information,” she asserted, sounding smug. “Excuse me. I must make rounds.” She rang off.

Milo looked up from the
ESPN
magazine he'd been reading. “You got dissed by a nurse who isn't your pal Julie Canby?”

I nodded. “Worse yet, it was the vile Ruth Sharp.”

My husband got out his cell and tapped in a number. Apparently, Ruth hadn't yet gone on her rounds because she picked up on the first ring. “Sheriff Dodge here,” Milo said in the tone he reserved for wife beaters. “Give me an update on Rawlings before I call Doc Dewey and tell him you won't cooperate with the law.”