The Alpine Legacy (6 page)

“No, thanks,” I said, feeling that it would sound silly to ask for hot chocolate. I assumed Crystal only served magic potions, à la Merlin. There was already enough poison flowing between us. I stared at the back of her head and realized I hated her. I couldn't remember when I'd harbored such a strong emotion for another human being.

“I insist you have something,” said Crystal in a languid tone. “There's rum fruit punch heating on the stove. Here,” she went on, nudging at a yellow mug sitting on the deck behind her. “You can refill mine while you get some for yourself.”

Obediently, I went back into the kitchen, where I noticed other crystal motifs as well as allusions to various goddesses. I also took in the anti-men slogans plastered on the refrigerator.
MEN SUCK—IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE. GOD IS A WOMAN—AND IS SHE PISSED
. And that old standby:
A WOMAN WITHOUT A MAN IS LIKE A FISH WITHOUT A BICYCLE
. I'd never quite figured that one out. Fish have no feet.

The kettle in which the punch had been heating was empty when I finished filling the mugs, so I turned off the stove before going back outside. Crystal thanked me without looking in my direction.

“Paula Rubens thought we should get together,” I finally said, holding the mug in both hands to help warm my chilly person. “She thinks there may be some misunderstanding between us that we could iron out.”

“There's no misunderstanding,” Crystal replied calmly. “In fact, I think I understand you very well.”

“Oh? Then I guess I don't understand you.” I tried to keep my tone light.

“You should.” Crystal still didn't look my way. “You've read
Crystal Clear.
The publication is aptly titled. How do you think I haven't made myself clear?”

The condescending amusement in her voice rankled. “Your views are clear,” I replied, wishing that Crystal would at least have the courtesy to look me in the eye. “It's the reason behind them that stumps me. Your attacks have grown personal, rather than professional. Why?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Crystal splashed at the water with one bare leg. “You're the only woman in this area who has any influence. You don't use it to benefit other women. Why shouldn't I get personal? You've earned the wrath of women all over Skykomish County. I'm merely their spokesperson.”

It was true that I'd gotten more angry letters from the female population since
Crystal Clear
had started coming out. But most of them had been from women I wasn't closely acquainted with, if at all. The bridge club was another matter.

“That's still no excuse for personal attacks in print,” I asserted. “Good journalism never lowers itself as you've done. I resent it, and if I have to, I'll take legal action.”

Crystal laughed and finally turned her head. “Oh, I'm so scared! Emma Lord is going to sue me. Shall I pack up and run away?”

Silently, I counted to ten as I took a sip of punch. It tasted bitter, but maybe my mood had infected my senses. “Okay. I'm willing to compromise. Contrary to what you may think, I feel very strongly about the women's shelter. You may not have done your homework, but we had one for a
short while. The old Doukas house on First Hill was used for that purpose, but there wasn't enough room for more than a dozen women and children at one time. Then the plumbing went out, and it wasn't deemed worthwhile to renovate. As you may know, the house is now closed up, awaiting demolition.”

“For six new homes,” Crystal said with disgust. “Which, I might add, you wrote a laudatory editorial about because the builder happened to be from your church. I believe that's known in the business as self-serving journalism.”

Crystal was partially right about my endorsement. Dick Bourgette, a semiretired contractor from Everett, had bought up the property and planned to erect a half-dozen modest homes on the site. The Doukas house had been vacant for almost five years before the shelter had opened, and was already in disrepair. The churches had banded together to plug the leaks and replace broken windows, but there had never been enough money for serious improvements. It was a losing battle to try to keep the place going.

None of those facts had impressed Crystal.
“The Advocate
is never as self-serving as your handout,” I retorted.
“Crystal Clear
is nothing more than you riding all your hobbyhorses.”

Crystal ducked under the water, then bobbed up and began blowing bubbles. “Blah-blah-blah, yakkity-yak. Etc. I'm getting bored.”

“Then may I finish my proposal?” I snapped, no longer patient.

Crystal gave a toss of her head, drumming her short fingernails on the side of the hot tub.

“I'll write an editorial insisting that the local clergy make a decision by January fifteenth,” I said as the snow began to fall harder. “Every week until then, I'll keep
after them, in shorter pieces. We'll also run some case histories, like you did with… Zippy.”

Crystal splashed water over her head, then leaned back against the rubber pillow. “Why January fifteenth? Why not sooner?”

“Because of Christmas,” I replied, regaining my reasonable tone. “The pastors will all be busy.”

“Christmas.” Crystal's voice held a sneer. “I celebrate the winter solstice. It's not nearly as commercial. Go ahead, do as you please. But that's not the only issue at stake.”

“I take things one at a time,” I replied. “I zero in on issues. The blunderbuss approach doesn't work, especially in a small town. You have to keep everybody focused.”

“If you say so.” Crystal reached around for her drink. The hand that covered the yellow mug reminded me of a big pink spider. “Your next edition comes out on the tenth of December,” she said in a crisp, businesslike tone. “You'd better hit those pious pricks hard, Emma Lord. I'm not a patient woman.”

“No kidding,” I murmured as I stood up. “However, I'd appreciate a respite. You've been very mean, petty, too. It doesn't become people who have goals.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Crystal laughed again. “You're kind of a wuss, aren't you, Emma Lord?”

I didn't respond. As I headed for the kitchen, the phone rang.

“Can you grab that?” Crystal called after me. “I forgot to bring it outside.”

The portable phone was on the counter. I set my mug down and picked up the receiver. “Hello?” I said, starting back for the deck.

“Crystal?” The voice sounded puzzled. It also sounded familiar.

“Milo?” I said, equally astonished.

“Who is this?” Milo asked. There was a nervous note in the question.

“It's me, Emma,” I replied. “Do you want to talk to Crystal?” I swallowed hard. “She's right here.” Without waiting for him to answer, I handed the phone to Crystal.

Then I left. Fast.

It's a miracle I didn't wreck the Jag on my reckless return from Baring to Alpine. The trip was short and I knew the road by heart. What I didn't know was why Milo had called Crystal. Had she also been burglarized? Did she have a complaint about a Peeping Tom watching her nude immersions in the hot tub? Or was I missing the point?

I remembered to enter my house with caution. I also remembered that my father's Colt .45 was hidden in my closet. Unless, I thought with sudden panic, it had been stolen. Making sure that everything in the rest of the house looked undisturbed, I went into the bedroom and hauled out the old jewelry box in which I'd hidden the gun. It was still there. With shaking fingers, I loaded it before I went back into the living room. It was a silly gesture. If the burglar hadn't returned last night, he wouldn't come now.

Sitting on the sofa with the .45 in my lap, I glanced up at the mantel, where the first few pieces of my Nativity set stood by the small wooden stable. In my concern over the meeting with Crystal, I'd forgotten to put out a figure for this sixth day of Advent. Anger, resentment, and growing hatred gnawed at the soul. Advent's gift of grace is ignored when the mind is focused on kicking butt. Setting the gun on the end table, I went to the coat closet where I kept the Holy Family. An angel was due next. Carefully, I removed the tissue and gazed at her graceful wings, white robe, and blonde hair.

She reminded me of Crystal.

I hung her from the roof of the stable and sat back down on the sofa with the Colt .45 by my side. My stomach felt queasy and my nerves were on edge. Even my soul seemed to hurt.

The spirit of Advent still eluded me.

Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I planned to Christmas-shop on Saturday. Another five inches of snow had fallen during the night, but a westerly wind from the Puget Sound basin was dispersing the heavy gray clouds, and the sun was trying to peek through.

The gold tinsel wrapped around the lampposts in the mall parking lot and the jolly Santa cutout at the entrance didn't do much to put me in a holiday mood. Inside the mall, which contains only about twenty stores, I perceived that the other customers looked glum, if determined. Cranky children tried to escape their parents' protective grasp. Tight-lipped couples kept their eyes straight ahead, as if they'd never seen each other before in their lives. Even the elves in the window at Barton's Bootery looked as if they were about to threaten a walkout and join the Teamsters.

Nor did I find much to cheer me inside the stores. The sweater I chose for Ben at Alpine Menswear was sold out in his size; the tennis shoes at Tonga Sport that Adam would have liked cost almost twice as much as I wanted to spend; the blouse I thought would suit Vida at Sky Separates bore a lipstick smudge from a careless customer. Frustrated, I decided to move on to the Front Street shops.

Approaching the sheriff's office, I saw Father Dennis Kelly's Honda parked out front in one of the official-county-business slots. Milo's new red Grand Cherokee
was also there, which was unusual for a Saturday. Wondering if the church or the rectory had been broken into, I pulled in across the street.

Neither Father Den nor the sheriff was anywhere in sight. Ron Bjornson, who had been hired the previous July as a sort of jack-of-all-trades, was at the phones behind the curving counter. Deputy Dustin Fong looked up from his computer and gave me a strained smile.

“You heard?” he said in his soft, pleasant voice.

I frowned. “Heard what?”

Warily, Dustin glanced over his shoulder at the door that led to Milo's office. “Maybe I'd better let Sheriff Dodge tell you about it. He's still with Father Kelly.”

“Has something happened to Father Den?” I asked in alarm.

Dustin shook his head. He is a young, earnest Asian-American whose city background hadn't prepared him for small-town prejudices. In the two years since he'd been hired, Dustin had slowly managed to adjust. So had most of the local residents, though occasionally some ignorant old duffer would refer to him as “that Chinaman.”

“No,” Dustin replied in his cautious manner, “Father Kelly's fine. That is…well, can you wait a few minutes?”

“Of course.” I nodded to Ron Bjornson, who had just gotten off the telephone, then turned back to Dustin. “Can you at least tell me if the church was broken into or vandalized?”

Dustin shook his head. “No, it doesn't have anything to do with the church.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Honest, it shouldn't be long. Sheriff Dodge and Father Kelly have been in there at least twenty minutes.”

I glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was almost noon. With a smile for Dustin, I sat down in one of the half-dozen chairs that were lined up against the wall
across from the counter. Having nothing better to do, I wondered about Milo's call to Crystal Bird.

Ever since hearing his voice on Crystal's phone, I'd purposely put the idea of a social call out of my mind. Certainly Milo wasn't friendly with Crystal. If he had been, I would've gotten some sort of hint in his attitude toward her. It was more likely that in his slow, deliberate manner, he'd finally gotten angry about her allusion to our affair. That made sense, and it was easy to believe.

From my side of the counter, it sounded as if Ron was taking information about a fender bender on Highway 187 near the Icicle Creek Bridge. Two men, one of whom I recognized as Ellsworth Overholt, presented Dustin with a noisy dispute about a cow that couldn't read a
NO TRESPASSING
sign. I scribbled some notes on both incidents. Scott Chamoud would get the details when he checked the log Monday morning.

At last, Milo and Father Den appeared. They both looked so grave that my heart skipped a beat.

“Emma!” Milo said in surprise. “You got my message?”

I stood up. “No. What's happened?”

“Come on in.” The sheriff gestured toward his open door, then shook hands with Dennis Kelly. “Thanks, Father. We'll be in touch.”

My pastor and I exchanged anxious smiles as we passed through the swinging door of the counter, going our separate ways. Then I was in Milo's office, which smelled of cigarettes and bad coffee.

“I left three messages this morning,” Milo said, easing his lanky form into a swivel armchair. “You must've taken off early.”

“Before ten,” I said in a taut voice. “Spare me the conversation. What's going on?”

He picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights and shook one out onto the desk. “Where were you last night?”

I didn't like the sharp edge in his usually laconic voice. “I was … You know where I was. I answered the phone when you called Crystal Bird.”

“That was a few minutes before eight,” he said, still in that same official tone. “What did you do after you handed the phone to Crystal?”

“I left. Immediately. I was back home by eight-twenty.” Little warning bells were going off in my head. “Has something happened to Crystal?” Given the questions and Milo's attitude, it seemed a logical assumption.

“What happened while you were there?” The sheriff's hazel eyes were very steady as he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

“We talked,” I replied, feeling the tension build inside me. “Paula Rubens had arranged a meeting between us. It was set for seven-thirty. I might have been five minutes late. The road into Crystal's cabin is tricky, especially in snow.”

“What did you talk about?” Milo appeared to have forgotten how to blink.

“Her attitude toward me,” I replied. “Why she was so vicious. What we could do to make things better.”