The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (18 page)

“Buzzy started work again just before Thanksgiving,” Milo said, opening the cupboard where I kept my liquor. “Canadian or bourbon?”

“Whichever is easier to reach.” I opened the oven to check the potatoes. “The younger generation around here has been through the mill lately. If it isn’t drugs or road fatalities, it’s emotional trauma. I’m surprised the Petersen boys agreed to be on Vida’s show tonight. What do you make of it?”

“Not much,” Milo said, pouring our drinks. “Is this going to turn into one of those ‘let’s search our souls’ evenings or what?”

I’d just opened the package of steaks. “You want to jump into the sack right now and skip Vida’s program? I thought you must be hungry.” I gestured at the counter. “You’re the one who brought a special pie.”

“It looked good.” Milo had the grace to seem contrite. “You look good, too.”

I held up one of the steaks. “Well? This meat or …?”

“Oh, hell,” the sheriff said, taking a big gulp of Scotch. “Let’s eat first. We can’t miss Vida and her damned show.”

It didn’t surprise me that Vida could win out even over sex. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll put your steak on now so it’ll get done to your usual old-catcher’s-mitt preference. Grab my drink and go sit down in the living room. Better yet, start the fireplace. I set it up last night, but never got around to lighting it.”

Milo obeyed wordlessly. When I joined him a couple of minutes later, the regional section of the
Seattle Times
was burning under the kindling and the sheriff was studying
Sky Autumn
. “It’s realistic, all right,” he said. “Where is it?”

“The creek? I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Carroll Creek, maybe, above the town? Or it might not be a specific creek. Craig could’ve taken different elements from anywhere around here.”

Milo shook his head. “I don’t think so. It looks familiar.” He took another sip of Scotch. “It’s late spring. The leaves are out on the vine maples, the water’s a runoff from higher up. We’ve had two, almost three years of drought. I figure he painted this awhile back. Otherwise, the creek would be trickling, not rushing, over those rocks.”

I realized what Milo meant. I’d always reacted to the painting on a visual and emotional level. But typical of the sheriff’s approach to just about everything, especially his job, he responded to the basics. Who, what, when, and why—that was how his
mind worked, and everything had to fit before he could come up with an answer.

“It’s odd that you should mention that,” I said. “When I saw his latest painting at Donna’s gallery, I almost wondered if this one had been painted a long time ago. The style was radically different. Artists seldom go off on tangents. Their work changes more slowly. I don’t know how long it takes Craig to paint a picture or if he starts one and stops, does something else, then goes back to the other one, or what. I’ve no idea how he makes decisions about selling his art. Given the way he lives, I can’t imagine he has a weatherproof storage facility.”

Milo chuckled. “For all you know, he lives in a downtown Seattle penthouse and pretends he’s a hermit just to sound interesting. He can probably make more money as a weirdo.”

It wasn’t the craziest idea I’d ever heard, but I didn’t believe it. “He’s been sighted around here for years,” I pointed out. “Furthermore, Donna says he could charge more if he wanted to because he’s so talented. The really peculiar part is why nobody has come across where he lives and works.”

Milo finally sat down in the easy chair by the hearth. The logs had started to catch. I could feel the fire’s warmth as I took my usual spot on the sofa across the room. I could smell the wood smoke, too. My little log house felt cozy. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I recalled that only a week ago I’d been miserable, spending Thanksgiving alone and full of self-pity.

“Maybe,” Milo said after lighting a cigarette, “somebody has found his place, but didn’t live to tell the tale.”

“Oh, no.” I was vehement. “Sure, there are hermits who kill anyone venturing onto their turf. You’ve told me horror stories about the forest freaks who decorate their hideaways with intruders’ skulls, but Craig’s not that type.” I craned my neck in the direction of the painting above me on the wall. “The man who did that could never kill anyone.”

“Don’t kid yourself. Anybody can do anything, if they’re desperate. Good God, haven’t you seen enough of that as a newshound?”

I grudgingly admitted that was true. “Never mind. I hope Craig got back to wherever he lives. Did anyone see him after he left the hospital?”

“If they did, nobody told me,” Milo said with irritating indifference. “I got busy following up some leads on those tree poachers.”

“What?” I practically shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“They’re
leads
, damnit. If we arrest somebody, it’ll be in the log.”

I was used to the sheriff’s closemouthed attitude about investigations, but the poachers and Craig were linked in my mind. And his, of course. “Okay, okay. I have to turn your steak and put mine on. We’ll eat out here and listen to Vida’s show.”

Five minutes later, I started back to the living room, but the sheriff was coming into the kitchen, seeking a refill of his drink. “Just half a shot,” he said. “Did you know you were almost out of Scotch?”

“That’s because you haven’t been here for a while,” I said. “You know I don’t drink that stuff. I can’t stand it.”

Milo glanced at the kettle on the stove. “Fresh green beans?”

“Canned. I don’t buy fresh beans this time of year unless I have company. They’re too expensive.”

“I’m not company?”

“I didn’t have time to stop at the store.”

“I did.” He reached for the almost empty bottle of Scotch and poured what was left into his glass before opening the fridge to get more ice. “What’s with all this fancy French cheese?”

I was hoping Milo wouldn’t notice. “A gift.”

The sheriff dropped two ice cubes in his drink, closed the refrigerator
door, and looked at me with obvious disappointment. “I thought you were done with that AP guy.”

“I am,” I said. “I didn’t solicit the cheese or any of the other expensive delicacies he sent from Paris. If I had, I’d have asked him to overnight
haricots verts
for your dinner.”

“What the hell is an ‘arocover’? It sounds like it should be in a zoo along with the asshole from the AP. And why is there smoke coming out of your stove?”

“Oh!” I yanked the oven door open, filling the kitchen with more smoke. “It’s grease. I meant to clean it over the weekend, but …”

I started to cough and my eyes began to water. Milo elbowed me out of the way. “Go sit down. You’re a mess.”

By the time the sheriff had opened the back door, turned the oven off, and rescued the potatoes, it was five to seven. “All clear,” he called. “Come and get whatever’s left of it.”

I’d already set the plates and the cutlery on the counter. “Thanks,” I said in a sheepish voice. “The last week or so has been a real downer.”

“That’s okay.” He used a big cooking fork to put my steak on a plate. “At least you didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving finding out that you’re going to be bankrupted by your daughter’s wedding. I keep hoping she’ll dump him like she did with her last couple of future bridegrooms. Tanya’s not a good picker when it comes to men.”

“How many are on the invitation list?”

“Would you believe three hundred? Mulehide and I didn’t have more than thirty when we got married, and that included the two of us.”

“As the mother of a priest, that’s one problem I’ll never have,” I said as I finished filling my plate. “I’ll turn on the radio.”

One of Spence’s college students was updating the weather
and traffic. Possible chance of snow at the three-thousand-foot level, temperatures tonight in the high twenties, winds up to twenty miles an hour, ice and snow possible on Highway 2 and surrounding areas as well as in Alpine itself. Traction tires required for going over the pass. In other words, normal for December in SkyCo.

A trio of commercials followed, first for Harvey’s Hardware, second for Barton’s Bootery, and third for the Grocery Basket. Next was Spence’s recorded voice saying, “Here’s what we’ve all been waiting for on Thursday nights from KSKY-AM—it’s
Vida’s Cupboard
. Let’s open the door for an intimate chat with Alpine’s favorite neighbor, Vida Runkel.”

The sound of a creaking door could be heard, followed by a slight pause before Vida greeted her listeners. “Good evening, dear friends and neighbors. Tonight I have the great pleasure of chatting with two members of one of Alpine’s first families, Franklin and Cole Petersen. How lovely to have you …”

Vida continued briefly, explaining that the elder brother preferred going by Strom these days in honor of his Bergstrom grandfather. “Like any family,” she continued, “you’ve had your triumphs and your tragedies, just like the Windsors and the Kennedys and the Roosevelts.”

I marveled that Vida could get out the latter two famous names—unless she was referring to the Roosevelt named Teddy rather than FDR.

Vida continued. “We were saddened by your father’s death this past weekend, and also by the circumstances in which he found himself at the time of his demise. Do you think that his situation had an adverse effect on his health?”

“Christ,” Milo muttered in disgust.

“Prison,” Strom—at least it sounded like Strom—said, “is a harsh environment. Still, it wouldn’t be right for either Cole
or me or anyone else to determine if that contributed to his death.”

“Good answer,” I murmured.

Vida asked her next question: “Did either of you visit your father while he was in prison?”

“Yes.” It was Strom again. “I saw him … oh, maybe a dozen times over the past ten years. He seemed resigned to his fate. We never talked about what had led up to … how things turned out for him.”

“Understandable,” Vida said. “Not a pleasant subject for father or son. And you, Cole?”

“I only visited him three times,” Cole said, his voice low. “It was really rough to see him in a place like that. It turned out that the last time I saw him was the weekend before he died. It was a real bummer.”

“But how timely,” Vida declared. “I imagine that despite your sadness, you were thankful to have made what turned out to be the final visit.” She paused, apparently expecting Cole to respond. “Or,” Vida went on, apparently realizing he wasn’t going to pick up on her cue, “did you regret you hadn’t seen him more often?”

“I haven’t figured that out,” Cole replied. “I’m working on it. It’s not easy.”

“Ah,” Vida said, sounding pleased, “that is the crux of our chat. Surely you’d agree that family ties may bend but rarely break in the face of heartache and tragedy. I’ve found it to be so. Don’t you feel the same way?”

There was another pause. I envisioned Cole and Strom exchanging looks to see which brother would answer the question. Seniority won out. “You have to define ‘family,’ ” Strom said. “Obviously, people related to you by blood are family, but that doesn’t exclude others you meet along the way and bond with. I think family is often a duty, rather than a sense of love.
That’s not to say I don’t love the members of my family, but over the years, I’ve made friends who are as close to me or even closer than blood relations.”

Milo snorted. “That’s the truth.”

“You’re saying that,” Cole put in, “because you guilt-tripped yourself into going to Walla Walla at least once a year. It made you feel good. Did you ever think how Dad felt?”

“Hey, bro—you spent two years just up the pike at Wazzu in Pullman. You could’ve practically walked to the slammer, but you didn’t bother. You were too busy making out with coeds or cows or whatever Cougars do at Moo U.”

“You ought to know,” Cole snapped. “You were there for a couple of years yourself. You never got over Jim Lambright cutting you from the football team even before the season started, but I heard the real reason you left the U Dub was to follow a she-goat to Wazzu because she missed her mother.”

“Such brotherly fun!” Vida exclaimed. “Isn’t it wonderful to be able to say how we feel to our loved ones?”

“Oh,” Cole said, “we could say plenty. Like Mom never going to see Dad except to get him to sign the divorce papers. One trip, over and out. What made it worse was every time I’d go to see her in that condo on Queen Anne Hill in Seattle, she had their wedding picture on the mantel. She’d go on and on about how happy they’d been, all the sacrifices they made for the family, the so-called difficult years that made them bond. It was a freaking farce. If they were ever happy, I never noticed it.”

“That’s because you were always a sniveling, self-centered little brat,” Strom said with fervor. “Dad and Mom loved each other, but they weren’t the demonstrative kind, especially in front of us kids. I don’t think they wanted us to know they ever had sex. How the heck did they think we got here? The freaking stork?”

“Aha!” Vida exclaimed loudly. “That’s a perfect example of
parents who consider the feelings of their children. Not coddling, of course, but gently bringing them into the adult world. So much to learn, but not all at once. Now we must take a brief break for a word from our fine local sponsors.” She hadn’t paused for breath.

Milo was laughing. “Holy crap! Vida didn’t know what she was getting into. Doesn’t Fleetwood have a three-second delay on his programs? I thought he told me that when I backed out of the show last month. He wanted to assure me that if I said something dumb, it wouldn’t get on the air.”

I was laughing, too. “That’s probably up to whoever is working as the engineer. If it’s an inexperienced college kid, he may not have acted fast enough. Or else he got too enthralled in the bickering brothers.”

“Talk about reality shows.” Milo shook his head. “I wish we could hear what Vida’s telling the Petersen boys now. I’ll bet, as she’d put it, she’s fit to be tied.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but it certainly gets the listeners’ attention. What do you want to bet that Fleetwood gets requests to replay the show for people who missed it?”

Milo shook his head. “I’d never bet against Vida on anything.”

We waited in silence for the second commercial to end.