The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (13 page)

I got there just after Val had come home from work at the fish hatchery. “Hey, neighbor,” he said, letting me in. “Viv tells me you got something from Gay Paree. How do you rate?”

“Maybe it’s a bomb,” I said, looking at Viv. “Does it tick?”

“If it does, I can’t hear it. I’ll bring it to the living room.”

Val put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Let me fetch and carry. I don’t think I’ve ever handled a package from France.”

Viv stepped aside. “Hop to it, then. I’m excited to see what it is. I’ll bet you are, too, Emma.”

“Well … that depends,” I said.

Viv seemed surprised by my reaction. “On what?”

“It’s a long and boring story.”

“It can’t be,” Viv asserted. “Not if it involves Paris. Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry! I forgot. That’s … you and … oh, Emma … I’m an idiot.”

The Marsdens had gotten to know Tom when he’d come to Alpine for a lengthy visit. We’d told them about our wedding and honeymoon plans. In a matter of hours after giving them our happy news, Tom was dead. And so was Paris, as far as I was concerned.

“Hey,” I said, “don’t feel bad. If I burst into tears every time
I hear somebody mention Paris, I’d have drowned a long time ago.”

“I know, but still …” Viv couldn’t stop looking chagrined.

Val entered the living room with the package. Before either of the Marsdens could say anything else that might embarrass them, I suggested we should open it together. Assuming the parcel had been sent by Rolf, the worst that could happen would be a gift of flimsy lingerie. The size and weight of the package, along with the sticker saying the contents were perishable, seemed to indicate something more substantial than sexy underwear.

I was right. It was a huge gift basket full of cheeses, chocolate truffles, cookies, crackers, crisp breads, jam, two kinds of pâté, and a single bottle of wine. There was also a small enclosure card, which I managed to palm before Viv and Val could see it.

“Wow!” Viv exclaimed. “Somebody must really like you! Who is it?”

I decided to tell the truth—or half of it. “A guy who worked for the AP and did a lot of digging for me when that college dean was murdered onstage a few years ago. He’s retired now and living in France. Very nice of him.” I gripped the sparkling Vouvray by the neck. “Here—I’m not a wine drinker. I’ll give you some of the cheese, too. Take your pick.”

“Oh, Emma,” Viv protested, “you don’t have to.”

“I can’t eat this all by myself,” I said. “Even cheese doesn’t keep forever. Take a box of crackers, too.”

“What about your co-workers?” Val asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to spoil them. They get plenty of pastries every morning from the Upper Crust.” The truth was that I didn’t want to have to explain to my staff where the gift basket had come from. The Marsdens finally made their modest choices. Val said he’d dispose of the wrappings. The
basket was easy to carry; it was only the unread card tucked inside that felt heavy.

Once I got home, I put away the perishables, dished up the chicken and the mac and cheese on a plate to warm in the microwave, and poured some Canadian and 7-Up over ice. With drink in one hand and gift basket card in the other, I went into the living room. Before sitting down, I looked at
Sky Autumn
. Maybe, I’d reflected off and on since seeing
Forest Watch
, Craig’s change of style wasn’t as drastic as I’d first thought. But it was. Despite the tumbling water, the fallen leaves, the rotting tree trunks,
Sky Autumn
was vibrant, alive, comforting. The new work was gloom and doom—at least that had been my first reaction. Craig had undergone some sort of change between the two paintings. I wondered what, if anything, he’d produced in between. Donna might not know. He sold some of his work to other galleries in the region, though the owners who acquired them never met with Craig face-to-face. I always wondered how he conducted the nuts-and-bolts part of his artistic life. Donna had told me he had an account in a Monroe bank. She also said he’d contacted her from a pay phone a couple of times. According to her, he could sell his paintings for much more. Given his simple lifestyle, I understood that making money wasn’t important to Craig. But his lack of social intercourse seemed to preclude any sort of tragedy that might alter his artistic style so drastically. The only thing I could think of was that even recluses can suffer midlife crises.

I sat down, took a sip from my drink, and looked at the envelope: “Emma,” it read, purple ink in Rolf’s spiky handwriting. I took another sip and removed the card.

“You don’t know what you’re missing in France,” he’d written. “Me, I hope. I know you don’t like wine, but Vouvray is sweet. You are not. But I still wish you were here.” He signed it simply “Rolf.”

Damn! The man didn’t give up. Or did he delight in torturing me? I shoved the note back into the envelope, not caring if I bent the elegant stationery that the galling words were written on. Maybe Rolf thought it was a Christmas present. But Rolf was Jewish. Hanukkah? No. There was nothing to indicate any kind of holiday, celebration, or remembrance. Rolf was just being Rolf. I took another sip from my drink.

Five minutes later, I’d put my salad in a bowl and was taking my dinner out of the microwave when the phone rang. I’d left the receiver on its cradle in the living room, so I had to hurry before the call trunked over to voice mail.

“I just got back from visiting Thelma Petersen,” Vida announced. “She is surprisingly upset about Larry. Elmer, of course, was uncommunicative. You’d think it might be the other way around, since Elmer is Larry’s blood relative.”

“Elmer was never very communicative about anything,” I said.

“Except when it came to trouncing every Republican president since Abraham Lincoln,” Vida noted with bitterness. “Old fool. But to get back to Thelma. She’s convinced that Larry was killed by another inmate. She insists it happens all the time in prison. I know that it does sometimes, of course, but I hate to think there’s a cover-up in Larry’s situation. Do you think Milo could find out?”

“I wondered about that,” I admitted. “Maybe he should. If Thelma’s blabbing about it at the retirement home, everybody in town will eventually hear the rumor. Why don’t you ask your nephew Bill to prod the sheriff?”

“I’ll do that,” Vida said, “though I believe Billy is on duty tonight. I hope he’s not out patrolling the highway if the weather gets bad again.”

“Was that all Thelma had to say?” I inquired.

“Oh, certainly not. Both of Elmer’s sisters are dead. They
were older than the two boys. Thelma tried to get Elmer to call Marvin and Cathleen in Arizona, but he refused. He insists he’s too deaf to hear his brother, and his brother’s too addled to make sense. He never cared much for Cathleen, he thought she was snooty, but that’s because she wouldn’t let him bring his goat into their house. Marvin and Cathleen had lovely Persian carpets. I wonder if they took them to Arizona. I always picture people who live there wearing sandals for every occasion.”

“I assure you, Vida, that Ben and most of his parishioners in Tuba City often wore real shoes.”

“You told me yourself that Ben even wore sandals when he said Mass. I found that shocking.”

“I think Jesus and his disciples wore sandals,” I said, accustomed to Vida’s occasional diversions from the topic at hand—or at foot, in this case. “People who live in the desert consider sandals appropriate footwear.”

“Perhaps.” Vida paused, no doubt shifting mental gears. “Thelma should call Marvin and Cathleen. Someone from the family certainly should. I ought to ring them and offer my condolences.”

“Do it,” I said. “You’ve known them forever. What about Cole?”

“Oh—yes. Now that was a surprise. Cole is in Alpine. He came to have Thanksgiving with Denise.”

I was taken aback. “Why? I assumed he’d be with JoAnne and Strom in Seattle.”

“Denise couldn’t leave the dog, and she didn’t have a carrier for him, so she was afraid to drive all that way with such a big animal loose in the car. She thought about putting him in the trunk, but that struck her as inhumane. It is over a hundred-and-fifty-mile round-trip, and not an easy drive with all that traffic.”

“I’m surprised Denise had that much sense,” I remarked. “So Cole’s still here? Is he staying with Denise?”

“No,” Vida replied. “He’s allergic to dogs. He could manage, I suppose, for a few hours. He’s staying with his cousin, Alison Lindahl. She rented an apartment at Parc Pines.”

Something wasn’t making sense. “It’s been going on a week since Thanksgiving. How come Cole is staying on? Has it got something to do with his father’s death over the weekend?”

“According to Thelma, it has more to do with Alison’s roommate, Lori Cobb. She and Cole dated in high school.”

“Lori is rooming with Alison? How did we miss that?”

“Lori didn’t move in with Alison until the middle of November,” Vida said. “I know, I should’ve found out about it, but apparently I slipped up with all the holiday goings-on. That’s another thing I should mention to Billy. Working together as they do, he had to know Lori changed addresses. Surely she talked about moving. But you know men—they don’t always listen.”

My ear was beginning to hurt—from listening too much. “Okay, so where does Cole live when he isn’t shacked up with Alison and Lori?”

“In Redmond,” Vida said. “He works for Microsoft in marketing and travels quite a bit. Thelma told me he just got back from London.”

“At least we can fill in that obit blank. Will you call Kip and let him know?”

“Of course.” She paused again. “I’ve got quite a list of people to call. I think Billy should be off duty by ten. I’d better get going. I think I’ll make one of those lovely casseroles from my recipe file for my supper and save the rest to take to the church potluck later this week.”

Thanking God I wasn’t a Presbyterian, I said good-bye
and hung up. While I ate my heated and reheated dinner, I pondered all the new information Vida had given me. Then I wondered why I was pondering.

Larry Petersen had died of a heart attack that might have struck him on the golf course, walking along Front Street, or behind the wheel of a car. It happened to people who weren’t old, and occasionally to someone much younger than fifty-three.

Thelma Petersen’s insistence that an inmate had killed her nephew was strictly speculation. But it’d be prudent for Milo to get the idea squelched before it ran the gamut of Alpine’s grapevine.

Cole Petersen’s presence in town wasn’t suspicious just because of the coincidental timing of the letters accusing the sheriff of a wrongful arrest and conviction. Cole, like his brother and sister, had grown up in Alpine. They had friends here. For all I knew, Cole visited now and then, somehow sneaking in under Vida’s radar. Even she couldn’t keep track of every person who stopped by for old times’ sake.

As for Milo’s letters, I still believed they came from a nut. Maybe the sheriff should check with the judge who’d sentenced Larry or the jury members who had found him guilty. Milo might not be the only victim of someone with a bad case of malice.

On that note, I stopped thinking about the Petersens and tried to find something decent to watch on TV. SportsCenter was of mild interest. The movie offerings sounded like pap. Even PBS and HBO had little to offer. When I hadn’t heard from Kip by ten-thirty, I called him to make sure everything in the back shop was ready to roll.

“Just about,” he said. “Mitch is still here, finishing up the county commissioners’ meeting piece. Alfred Cobb didn’t resign. In fact, he stayed awake the whole two and a half hours. Mitch dozed off twice.”

I laughed. “I don’t blame him. Ed must’ve been disappointed. He didn’t get a chance to make his big announcement.”

“Ed’s been disappointed before,” Kip remarked. “Not to mention disappointing. Get a good night’s sleep. Emma. Everything’s under control.”

I thanked Kip and rang off. I decided to make an early night of it and go to bed. But first I had to put away the nonperishable items from Rolf’s gift basket. Jam, crackers, cookies … I sighed as I made room in one of the kitchen cupboards. Why couldn’t Rolf leave me alone? Mr. and Mrs. Lord had made sure that their daughter received lessons in good manners. I’d have to thank Rolf for his largesse. Maybe I could get away with a brief notation on a Christmas card. Or a Hanukkah card. Or …

I stared at the labels in French. I thought about the Place de la Madeleine address. I visualized Paris. And then I shook myself and slammed the cupboard door shut. Tom and I had had a lot of things together, including a son. But we’d never had Paris.

W
EDNESDAYS ARE A MIXED BAG
. T
HE PAPER IS ON ITS WAY
to porches, boxes, and newsstands. The pressure is off, but along with the sense of accomplishment, there’s a letdown. One of my worst fears as editor and publisher of a weekly is that a huge story will break just as our carriers are delivering the most recent edition. Going online has helped to dispel that nightmare, but there’s still the unease about the subtler occurrences that may hint at bigger stories, but are overlooked because our so-called nose for news is temporarily satisfied.

To my surprise, Denise arrived promptly at eight. I’d barely come in a couple of minutes earlier and was pouring coffee when she peeked into the newsroom.

“Hi,” she said in a tentative voice. “Where is everybody?”

“Leo went to the Rotary Club’s monthly breakfast. Kip’s either in the back shop or he’s coming in later because he probably didn’t leave work last night until eleven or so.” I paused to stir sugar into my coffee. “Mitch may also be late because he had to cover last night’s county commissioners’ meeting. It’s Vida’s turn to pick up the pastries this morning. You’ll do it on
Friday, which was the day Amanda—and Ginny before her—did it. The money comes out of petty cash. Do you know where we keep that?”

“Um … I think so. What kind of pastry is Vida getting?”

“Whatever looks appealing to her,” I replied. “That’s how it works.”

“So we can’t ask for something special?”

“No, but you can pick out your favorites when it’s your turn.”