Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (9 page)

“She
is
the Queen of Alpine,” Alison said with a wry smile.

I nodded. “That's another obstacle for me. I may be her boss, but she considers me a pretender to the throne.”

Alison's phone rang. I paused, giving her a questioning look to see if the call was for me. She shook her head, so I headed to my office, which had grown uncomfortable. I wondered if Harvey Adcock had received his shipment of new fans. Feeling enervated, I decided to go into the larger and better-ventilated newsroom. Maybe I could spend the rest of the workday researching Alpine in the hippie era. It'd be more comfortable sitting at Vida's vacated desk instead of in my airless office.

I pulled out the 1967 volume for starters. I'd been thirteen during that year's “Summer of Love” and living in Seattle's blue-collar neighborhood of Wallingford. Back then, I was more interested in dealing with zits than reading about sit-ins at San Francisco's Golden Gate Park.

Apparently, Marius Vandeventer wasn't any more intrigued with counterculture than I'd been. Except for brief wire service stories he'd plugged into the back pages, there was nothing
hippie-related. I moved on to 1968. Still nothing, nor did 1969 or 1970 yield any SkyCo references to what was by then a waning movement. The only hint of hippie politics was Marius's staunch pro–Vietnam War stance. It was quite a switch from the Socialist-Labor leanings in his early Alpine years.

Yet the hippies hadn't evaporated in a puff of weed. Their spirit had remained alive, as the dead man in the dump site might have attested. They'd evolved into protesters of many things, including environmental abuse. I flipped through the 1970 and 1971 editions. For the first time I saw some local young people with longer hair and hippie-like attire. Along with progressive ideas, fashion statements take a long time to reach isolated small towns like Alpine.

A glance at my watch told me it was almost four-thirty. Mitch and Leo had come and gone and come back again. My reporter finally asked me what I was doing. Realizing he hadn't been here when Ren had visited the
Advocate
on Monday, I filled him in.

“So what's the tie-in?” he asked. “Is she a developing story along with hippies? Or is Ren a suspect in the long-ago murder of a man she thinks is her father?”

I sighed. “Unfortunately for our front page, I doubt she's either one. For all I know, she may be headed back to California.”

“But Dodge doesn't think so?”

“Sometimes he likes to think the worst,” I replied. “If Ren turns out to be a story, she's all yours.” Aware that my reporter was touchy about divisions of labor, I added that so far all we had was a curious flake seeking her roots.

Mitch didn't agree. “That's a feature, with so many people getting interested in their ancestors. I noticed that back in Detroit not long after this country's bicentennial. Do you want me to take a shot at her if she's still at the ski lodge?”

It wasn't the worst idea he'd ever had. In fact, Mitch had plenty of good ones. After the giddy, enthusiastic Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro, the good-looking yet journalistically raw Scott Chamoud, and finally the disastrous, mad-as-a-hatter Curtis Mayne, I wasn't used to a savvy, veteran reporter like Mitch.

“Go for it,” I said. Better him than me.

“I will,” he responded, taking a quick look at his watch. “Maybe I'll head for the ski lodge now.”

“Good luck,” I said—and meant it.

Shortly after four-thirty, I decided to peruse only one more volume before heading to the art gallery. More hippie fashions, more beards on men, more long hair on both sexes. Yet no editorial allusions to the politics that had created the movement. No snide comments from Vida about nontraditional attire—she hadn't started working for the paper until 1980. I was about to quit halfway through 1973 when a wedding picture caught my eye. The 18-point type read, S
TANLEY
-D
ODGE
N
UPTIALS
. I let out a shriek just as Leo came out from the back shop.

“What's wrong?” he asked, halting halfway to his desk.

I'd started laughing. All I could do was point to the photo in the bound volume. Leo took one look and laughed, too. “Jesus,” he said. “Is that really the sheriff?”

I tried to control myself. “I…think…he still had…that suit…when I first met…him,” I gasped between gusts of hilarity.

“Hey,” Leo said, “I had three of those with the wide lapels and bell-bottom pants, along with the two-button look. I thought I was one cool-looking ad dude.”

“But you didn't wear them after 1980,” I pointed out.

“I might've,” he said, no longer amused. “That's about the
time I started hitting the sauce too hard. Man, does he look young—and sort of scared. Mulehide or whatever is really into the hippie thing. Pretty girl. I can't believe she's the same woman who came to see you back in February.”

“Tricia hasn't aged well.” I took another look at the photo. “The hippie bride look was in, even here. Roseanna Bayard had carried an artichoke instead of flowers, and Buddy's hair and beard were all over the place. Back in the day, our future photography-studio owners were into composting and growing their own vegetables.”

“Milo's clean-shaven,” Leo observed. “Was he already a deputy?”

“Yes. After he got back from Nam, he went to Everett Junior College to get his criminal justice degree. He was hired as soon as he finished. Somewhere in there, he met Tricia. She's originally from Sultan, but was working in the ski lodge gift shop.”

“I see her real first name is Patricia,” Leo noted, scanning the copy. “Married in the Sultan Community Christian Church by the Reverend J. C. Peace. Real name?”

“Good question,” I murmured. “It sounds as hippie-like as Tricia's long, flower-covered hair, baggy gown, and love beads. I wonder…”

“What?” Leo asked, noting I'd drifted off to some other place.

“What?” I echoed, giving a start. “Oh. The annulment.” Suddenly, I was excited. “You may know this, but if you're married in a Protestant church, the ceremony has to be conducted by an authorized Christian minister or it's not recognized as valid by Catholics.”

Leo smiled. “You're looking for a loophole?”

“You bet I am,” I replied. “Tricia's dragging her feet. Meanwhile,
Ben's pressing me to get it done. Milo and I have to talk.”

“After seeing this picture of him, I thought maybe you were considering your own divorce.”

I stared again at the tall, lanky young man standing somewhat ill at ease beside his beaming, bright-eyed bride. “I think he seems kind of sweet. But age has greatly improved his looks.”

“I'll grant that much,” Leo conceded. “But sweet, he's not.”

“That's good,” I asserted. “If he was, I'd never have married him.”

Leo just shook his head and wandered off to his desk.

—

I set aside my research. After telling Alison I was leaving early, I headed for the art gallery across Front Street and four blocks east. I found a parking spot near the corner of Eighth. The
CLOSED
sign was on the door, but I could see Donna inside. She hurried to let me in.

“I was going to call you,” she said, smiling. “I sold Craig's new work today to a man from Longview. He liked it a lot better than you did.”

“He probably knows more about art than I do,” I said, a trifle chagrined. “I can only respond on a visceral level. Most of Picasso's works are a total mystery and the Pop Art movement looks like junk.”

“Some of it was,” Donna agreed. “I'm no expert, but I studied art in college and I try to keep up with what's current. This,” she went on with a sweeping gesture, “is more personally rewarding than running the day care. There are only so many diaper changes and nose-wipings you can do in a day before you need something more aesthetic. Of course I couldn't afford to run the gallery if it wasn't for my day job.”

“Does Craig know you've sold the painting?”

“I left a message on his cell,” Donna replied, rearranging two pairs of ceramic candleholders on top of a display case. “He'll get in touch when he feels like it. You know time and money mean nothing to him.” Her gratified expression changed. “I heard Ren Rawlings got out of the hospital today. Do you know how she's doing?”

“Well enough to pay Milo a call,” I replied. “She's still trying to track down her mother—and her father. That's why I'm here. I wondered what sent her into a swoon in the first place. Do you have any idea?”

Donna's pretty face grew earnest. “She'd only been here a few minutes. I spent most of that time with Clea Bhuj and her husband, Allan, who came as soon as I opened. I left them mulling over antique bookends to ask Ren if I could help. She said she was an art teacher and was judging a Monroe art show this summer. She thought her mother had visited Alpine years ago. I gave her my brochure so she could see the kind of art I feature and what I've sold. Clea called to me, so I excused myself. Moments later, Ren collapsed. She knocked over a Nez Perce carving of Chief Joseph. Luckily, it's made of wood. No damage done.”

I sorted through Donna's account. “I gather there wasn't any indication of what upset her? No squeals or gasps?”

Donna shook her head. “Nothing. Clea saw her fall. She said Ren dropped to the floor like a rag doll. Have the doctors given a diagnosis?”

“Nothing much showed up in the lab tests,” I replied. Noting it was almost five, I told Donna I'd leave her so she could finish getting ready. Maybe Ren was merely the skittish type. That was a much less pejorative word than “unhinged” or “goofy.” But I still felt uneasy. For some reason, the word
“dangerous” lurked somewhere in the back of my brain. Unfortunately, I didn't know if Ren was in danger or if she posed a danger to someone else. Eventually, I'd find out. The seeds of discovery had already cast their long shadows over all of Skykomish County

I
'd stopped at Cal's Chevron to get the oil changed and fill the tank. Milo hadn't yet arrived by the time I got home at five-thirty. I immediately opened all the doors. Both bedrooms' windows were already up as far as they could go without letting a bear crawl inside. I didn't make drinks, figuring we'd probably eat at the air-conditioned ski lodge, maybe in the bar. With its Norse decor and the little waterfall off by the serving area, the Viking Lounge always seemed cool.

By ten to six, I was getting antsy. The sheriff was usually home by then, unless he was working a big case. I wondered if something had come up that he hadn't told me about. It wouldn't be the first time Milo had neglected to keep me posted about what he called “the job” and I called “breaking news.”

Two minutes later, he rushed through the front door. “Emma!” he shouted. “Are you nuts?”

I jumped off the sofa. “No. Why?”

He snatched off his regulation hat and tossed it on the easy chair. “There may be a perv loose and you've got the doors wide open?”

“You're taking this perv thing seriously?” I asked.

He grimaced. “Dustin Fong took the impressions from Jeannie's garden today. We got a good one. It's not any kind of sportswear, but more of a dress shoe. Scratch the teen punks. I
stopped by to let Jeannie know. Now she's really upset. On top of that, Grace Grundle called to say she thought she had a prowler. Dwight went over to check about an hour ago, but couldn't find a sign of anybody except Marlowe Whipp walking through a flower bed to deliver Grace's mail.”

I felt myself stiffen. “When's Jeannie's husband coming home?”

“Friday night,” Milo replied, starting for the bedroom. “Dale works for the state fish and game commission, so he's gone a lot. I'm going to change. Are you ready?”

“Yes,” I called after him, heading in the other direction to close the back and side doors. Just what we needed, I thought—a head case on the loose with the temperature supposed to hit over eighty before the weekend. Maybe we should close the windows, too. Fleetingly, I wished Jeannie's husband didn't travel so much. She might require further protection from the sheriff. That thought made me want to kick myself. Was I turning into a typical, irrational wife? Of course I wasn't, I told myself—and slammed the back door shut.

Milo was ready by the time I'd set up the morning coffee and watered the kalanchoe plants on the kitchen windowsill. We headed out into bright sunshine for the ski lodge. Henry Bardeen greeted us at the door. I inquired after the guest who'd passed out the previous afternoon.

“An older man from Morro Bay, California,” the ski lodge manager replied, looking uneasy. “Mrs. Fowler thinks it was food poisoning. They'd just checked in, so he couldn't have gotten it here. But you know how rumors start.”

I nodded. “Was he hospitalized?”

Henry shook his head. The obvious toupee stayed in place. “Dr. Sung diagnosed it as colitis—a chronic condition. You'd think his wife would've realized that. He was up and about today.”

Milo grabbed my arm, apparently impatient to move on. “Any openings in the bar?” he asked.

“Yes,” Henry replied, “but with AC, we're busier than usual.”

“Right,” the sheriff said, hauling me off through the lobby. “Thanks, Henry,” he called over his shoulder before lowering his voice to speak to me. “Do you have to start yakking at everybody you run into? I'm starved and I could use a drink.”

“It might've been a story,” I protested as he propelled me into the bar. “If nothing else, a ‘Scene' item for Vida.”

“Like what? Old coot gets gas?”

Henry's daughter, Heather Bavich, was coming our way to seat us, so I didn't answer him. I noticed she was pregnant with her second child and congratulated her.

“Due date is November,” she said. “I hope it's early in the month so I'm not out of commission for Thanksgiving.”

“Just be glad you don't have to worry about Christmas,” I responded as she showed us to a corner table.

“I am,” she said. “Trevor's birthday is December first. He hopes it's another boy. I'd prefer a girl this time.”

I smiled. “Good luck with that.”

Milo was staring at the bartender, who looked like a college student. “Tell whoever's slinging the drinks to bring us a Scotch-rocks and a Canadian water-back, okay, Heather?”

“Right,” she said. “Enjoy.”

“You did it again,” the sheriff muttered after Heather hurried away.

“Hey, jackass, I've got an image to keep up around here,” I retorted. “I'm the neighborly newspaper snoop. Besides, Henry's an advertiser.”

Milo shrugged. “What are you having? I'm going for the Trondheim cod.” He looked up at the typical blond waitress whose name typically began with a
B
, in this case, Blythe.
“We'll order in ten minutes,” my husband informed her as she set our drinks in front of us. “Thanks.”

“I think you scared her,” I said. “I'm having a double order of the gravlax and a side salad. Why are you so grumpy?”

He frowned and put the menu aside. “I got a call from the Everett ME while I was changing. Ren was there and said I sent her.”

“To view the corpse?” I asked in surprise. He nodded. “What did you tell whoever called?”

“It was Colin Knapp,” Milo replied, relaxing a bit after taking the first big sip of Scotch. “I told him she'd come on her own, but to let her have a look. Maybe it'll scare her and she'll take off for California. Knapp figured she was screwy.”

I put my hand on his. “Cheer up. I should be the one who's grumpy. I didn't get a kiss when you came home.”

He grimaced. “Damn. Why did you marry me? Mulehide was right. I'm a lousy husband.” He moved his hand to put it on my neck and leaned over to kiss me…gently. The young couple at the next table stared. Luckily, I didn't recognize them. “That better?” Milo asked.

I smiled. “Yes. Though you did give me a good laugh today.”

He looked puzzled. “When?”

I told him about seeing his wedding photo. Milo actually turned faintly red. “Oh God! Now you know why I burned all the wedding pictures Mulehide left behind when she took off with Jake the Snake.”

“I liked it,” I declared. “You looked so young—and endearing.”

Milo took a really big swig of his drink. “Endearing? I looked like an idiot. I
was
an idiot back then or I'd never have married Mulehide.”

“She looked very pretty. But,” I went on, “that wedding coverage gave me an idea.”

“What?” he asked sharply. “You want to back out of ours now?”

I scowled at him. “I mean the annulment. Pay attention. What do you remember about the minister who married you?”

He grimaced again. “Not much. I was really nervous. It was Mulehide's church, so you'd have to ask her. Why does it matter?”

It took me until our meals arrived to explain once again the Church's reasons for granting annulments. Milo digested the information along with the rest of his Scotch. He asked if I'd talked to Ben or Father Kelly about what I suspected regarding the Reverend J. C. Peace.

“No,” I replied. “I only saw the wedding story just before I left work. We'll have to get a copy of the church registry to see if the minister signed it. Tricia might know if he was legit.”

Milo shook his head. “I doubt it. She didn't go to church much after she got out of high school. Her folks went once in a while, though.”

I realized how little I knew about Tricia Stanley Dodge Sellers. I'd met her for the first time back in February, when she'd come to ask if I'd help Tanya deal with her PTSD. “Are both Stanleys alive?”

“Yeah,” Milo said after swallowing a mouthful of pickled beets. “In fact, they still live in the family home. They liked me, especially her dad. I was employed.” He forked in some cod.

I licked at errant crumbs from the hard bread under my gravlax. “Have you seen them recently?”

“Oh…” He gazed up at the white pine ceiling. “Last winter when I went steelheading at Reiter Ponds. I drop by when I'm fishing that hole near Sultan. Ralph still fishes. They're nice
folks, even if they did spoil Mulehide rotten. She was the only girl among their four kids.”

“You've never mentioned anything about your ex-in-laws before,” I said with a tinge of reproach.

Milo shrugged. “Why would I? You don't know them.”

“I'd like to know them now,” I asserted, leaning closer. “They may be able to help us. Or are they gaga?”

My husband turned thoughtful. “Their minds are still sharp. Madge got a new hip last summer, but she needs the other one fixed. Ralph's in decent shape, though he moves slower than he used to.” He paused. “They might like to meet you. They've been nagging me to find another wife for years. I doubt they know we're married.” He grinned. “Wait until they see what I got.”

I couldn't help it. I simpered. It's a wonder I didn't say, “Aw, go on!”

Instead, I stopped grinning back at Milo and asked when we could pay them a call.

“If we go to Bellevue over the weekend, we could stop by on the way back,” he said after a pause. “They always like hearing about their grandkids. Mulehide isn't good about keeping them in the loop. She doesn't visit her folks very often, especially since her last divorce. I guess she's embarrassed.”

“Do you think you can get away from work to have dinner with Mu…I mean, Tricia?”

“Probably,” Milo replied. “The big to-do for the Fourth is on Monday, so we should be able to go Friday or Saturday.” He shot me an inquiring glance. “Are you nervous about seeing Mulehide in her natural habitat?”

“Not really,” I said. “Curious, though. I know what the house looks like from the outside because I saw it on TV during the standoff with Tanya's late fiancé.”

“It's nice inside. But,” he added with a gleam in his hazel eyes, “she doesn't have all new appliances like you do.”

I simpered again.

—

Except for a flicker of eyelids behind the big glasses, Vida didn't acknowledge my arrival Thursday morning. It was a bad start to the workday, but I told myself I might as well get used to it. A few minutes after I settled behind my desk, Mitch showed up with the bakery goods. I emerged to get a powdered sugar doughnut and asked him to come into my office. He looked wary. But my reporter often did.

“I haven't checked the sheriff's log,” he said, placing his coffee mug on my desk and holding a knish on a napkin. “You think there's news?”

“No,” I said. “The only so-called news I heard from the sheriff last night was that Ren Rawlings went to the SnoCo ME's department to view the remains of what she thinks might be her father. I wondered if you tracked her down before she left town or after she got back.”

Mitch frowned. “She was already gone by the time I left here. I didn't try later on. I don't like leaving Brenda alone at night unless I have to, for county commissioners' and school board meetings. I'll check after I go to the sheriff's office and the courthouse.”

“That's fine,” I assured him. “The ancestry angle might turn out to work with some other residents. In fact, we've had more diversity here since the college opened. As you know, the president, May Hashimoto, is Japanese and there are at least three or four other faculty members who have Asian backgrounds.”

“Good angle,” Mitch said, brightening as he always did at
the prospect of an interesting feature. “How about the old-timers? All those Scandinavians, at least one Greek family.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I wonder if Vida would help me with the locals?”

“She might,” I replied. “It's right up in her wheelhouse. And she's not mad at you.”

“Yet,” Mitch said under his breath.

I merely nodded.

—

I wasn't in the mood to research possible hippie protesters. In fact, I was in a faintly pugnacious mood, no doubt triggered by Vida's antagonistic stance. However, she wasn't wrong about RestHaven's reluctance to become part of the community, especially releasing news of interest to SkyCo residents. I decided to call Spencer Fleetwood to get his reaction. Early on, Rosalie Reed had leaked items to him, which had infuriated me. Then I discovered they'd been lovers long before Dr. Reed had come to Alpine. But in the past few months the leak had been plugged. I suspected someone—probably Dr. Woo—had reprimanded Rosalie for not holding the institutional line.

Spence answered in his usual mellifluous voice, but immediately went on the defensive before I could say anything. “If you're calling about Almquist's hiring at RestHaven, I did not know about it until I read it in the
Advocate
yesterday. We may both be sleeping with our sources, but Rosalie's lips are as sealed as your favorite stud's.”

“Damn. You read my mind,” I said. “Now I'm really annoyed. What's going on up there? Is Kay Burns earning her money by
not
releasing news?”

“So it would seem,” Spence replied. “It's one of those off-limit topics with Rosalie. You understand—akin to you making demands on Dodge about ongoing investigations.”

“Right. I get it. Is Woo the one who's so touchy or is it Farrell?”

“Both. Patient privacy.” Spence sighed. “I've actually talked to Woo about it, but he's politely adamant. Discretion is his middle name. By the way, what's Vida doing for her show tonight? She hasn't yet told me.”

I stiffened in my chair. “I don't know, either. Maybe it's a surprise.”

There was a brief silence before Spence spoke again. “You sound tense. Is the Queen of the Alpine Airways still a cloud of gloom?”

“Yes. Good luck with her tonight.”