The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (32 page)

I interrupted him. “Did the neighbor give a description?”

“No. Just hold on. Mia’s staying with the story as long as it takes to unfold. She hasn’t talked to Dustin because she couldn’t think of any reason why she should. Ergo, no apparent Alpine connection unless they’ve done a deep background on Tricia and Jake Sellers, which I doubt they have. Now I wish I hadn’t asked. If Mia’s as sharp as she sounds, she’s probably trying to figure out why I’m interested in the first place and why I’d ask about her cousin.”

“I’m beyond caring about that part,” I said, taking my car coat out of the closet. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Grabbing my purse, I started to go out the front door.

“Hold it.” Spence was putting on his parka. “I’m coming, too.”

“No. You have to stay here and watch for breaking news.”

His expression was typically sardonic. “How will you get your car out with my Beemer in the way? My BlackBerry can’t pick up TV, but it has other remarkable functions. Your cell’s a dinosaur. Let’s go.”

“BlackBerry,” I muttered. “I never heard of that. Is it edible?”

“Ah. The brandy did you some good,” he said as we crossed the slushy grass to the driveway. “I can find a TV at the hospital, probably in Laurentis’s room.”

“Okay, okay, but,” I warned him before we got in the car, “Craig may not talk if you’re there. He wouldn’t when I was with Dodge.”

“Oh, God, Emma,” Spence said in mock dismay, “how many men are madly in love with you in this town?”

I didn’t answer him. In fact, we didn’t speak during the five-minute
drive to the hospital. He kept the radio turned to KOMO-AM, but there was no news, only talk, talk, talk. To my amazement, Spence pulled into the area reserved for the doctors and other staff.

“Hey,” I said, “how can you do this?”

“I have friends in high places,” he replied. “Elvis Sung gave me a special permit to park here when I interviewed him on the radio after he first started to work up here.”

“Scott Chamoud didn’t get one when he interviewed him for the
Advocate
.”

“That’s probably because Elvis put some moves on the future Mrs. Chamoud before she married Scott and they moved away.”

“I never knew that,” I said before getting out of the car. “My former reporter kept that to himself.”

We got into the same elevator Doc Dewey had used. Spence clearly knew his way around. Reaching the second floor, he stopped short of the nurses’ station. “You check in to see Craig and I’ll have my way with …” He glanced at the prune-faced woman who was studying patient charts at the desk. “Well, we all have to make sacrifices,” he said resignedly.

I approached Prune Face, whose nametag identified her as Ruth Sharp, RN. I recalled her from an encounter in the ER a few years back. “I’m here to see Mr. Laurentis,” I said. “He’s been asking—”

She cut me off. “I know. You’re Ms. Lord. Go ahead. He’s the last door down on the left. If you can shut him up, I’d be grateful. That man’s a nuisance.” She went back to reading her charts.

The location of Craig’s room struck me as symbolic of his recluse’s reputation. Or maybe whoever was in charge of bed assignments believed that such a strange human being should be kept out of sight. Eccentricity trumped talent in the minds of most Alpiners.

Craig was moaning when I entered the room by the stairwell door. He looked better than when I’d last seen him at the gallery. That wasn’t much comfort. Despite Doc Dewey’s and Dr. Sung’s prognoses, I wondered if he’d ever regain the strength and vigor of the man I’d come to know. If he’d been agitated when Julie called, he was merely restless now. I assumed he must be exhausted. I hauled a chair over to the bed, sat down, and put my hand on the one of his that wasn’t pierced with IVs. “Craig,” I said softly “it’s Emma.”

His eyelids flickered. The moaning stopped. But he didn’t look in my direction. In fact, his eyes had closed. I waited, patting his hand. The TV in his room was off. I fought an urge to get up and turn it on. I wondered what Spence was doing. I wondered if Craig had gone to sleep. Most of all, I wondered what was happening with Milo.

Finally, after several minutes had passed, I tightened my hold on his hand. “Craig,” I said softly but urgently. “It’s Emma.”

His eyes fluttered open. He seemed to focus, but I couldn’t be sure. I could also feel him relax.

“Long … saw … not sure … but knew … wasn’t …”

Craig winced. It almost looked as if there were tears in his eyes.

“Wasn’t what?” I asked. “Wasn’t a saw?” Maybe he was talking about the poachers.

But he shook his head. If not tears, there was perspiration on his gaunt face. Whatever he was trying to tell me was at a great cost to him mentally and maybe emotionally as well. I felt so sorry for him that I was about to insist that he didn’t expend any further effort.

Before I could say anything, Craig spoke again. “Go,” he said in a voice that was more like a sigh. “Go.”

“Go? You want me to go?”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Go,” he repeated.

I rubbed my aching head with my free hand. The Excedrin hadn’t yet started to work. “Go where?”

Craig grimaced and shook his head again. “For …” He closed his eyes, obviously exhausted as well as frustrated.

“Go for what?” I asked as patiently as I could manage.

“Donna.” His gaze fixed on me, waiting for my response.

“Donna Wickstrom? The art gallery?”

A single nod.

“Your new painting?”

The nod that followed sapped his strength. His eyes closed again. I tried to decode what he meant, other than something to do with
Forest Watch
. “Go,” he’d said. Craig must’ve meant I should go to the gallery.

“You want me to go to Donna’s?” I asked.

There was no response. His whole body had gone slack. Slowly, I withdrew my hand. I was frightened. Then I looked at the monitor that showed his vitals. I understood the green lines enough to know that Craig was still alive and relatively stable. I got up and went out to the nurses’ station. Ruth Sharp had just hung up the phone.

“Did you give Mr. Laurentis a sedative?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied, looking self-righteous. Her rigid demeanor wasn’t softened by the round pleated cap she wore on her short gray hair. “Just before you came. Someone on the previous shift should’ve done that sooner. It serves no purpose for a patient in his condition to become so distraught. It upsets hospital routine as well.”

There was no point in further discussion. Nurse Sharp was probably right. “It’s working,” I informed her. “Where’s Mr. Fleetwood?”

“In the visitors’ lounge,” she replied. “I assume he has no intention
of broadcasting from here? That would also upset hospital routine.”

“Of course,” I murmured, turning to head for the lounge.

Spence appeared immediately. “I heard your voice. Nothing worth watching on TV,” he said lightly, with a quick glance at Nurse Sharp.

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost four-thirty.”

“So?” Spence hit the elevator button. “We’ve got plenty of time to get back to your place for the news at five.”

“We aren’t going to my place,” I said, loudly for the sake of Nurse Sharp. I didn’t need any more tittle-tattle about my private life. “We’re going to the art gallery.”

The doors slid open and we got in. “Why?” Spence asked.

“I don’t know.” I leaned against the back of the elevator. “I’m so torn. Craig’s trying to tell me something important about his new painting. I can’t think what, but I feel that at least I have to see if Donna knows what he might be talking about. Can you do me a huge favor?”

“What is it?”

We’d reached the parking garage level, so I withheld my answer until we were in the Beemer. “Drop me off at the gallery. Ginny and Rick Erlandson live one block up on Pine, between Seventh and Eighth. It’s the second house from the corner on the southeast side of the street. You can watch the TV there. I’ll call them now, if you’ll do it.”

“I can handle it,” Spence said. “I hope I don’t scare the children with my hideous appearance. How will you explain why I’m there?”

I was already dialing the Erlandsons’ number. “I’m winging it.”

Ginny answered on the first ring. “Oh, Emma,” she said before I could get out more than a quick hello. “I’m really still
worn out. You wouldn’t believe the week I’ve had. First, Brett fell off his—”

“Stop,” I said sharply. “This has nothing to do with the
Advocate
. Spencer Fleetwood wants to watch your TV.”

There was dead silence at the other end, broken by a child’s shriek. “I have to go, Emma. Brad just—”

I hung up on her. “Brazen it out, Spence. Tell Ginny you’re from CPS. Or use the charm you didn’t waste on Prune Face at the hospital.”

“That was one hopeless case,” he murmured, taking a left off Pine. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell Rick that his sister needs your artistic opinion on a new painting. Are you going to be okay?”

I glared at him. “I’ve been through a lot of crap in my life, too. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I hope.”

He pulled up to double-park outside the gallery. “Go, girl. Call me when you’re done.”

I all but flew out of the car and stumbled on the curb. If it hadn’t been for being able to steady myself on an
Advocate
box on the sidewalk, I’d have fallen flat on my face. I patted the box in gratitude and went into the gallery. Donna was chatting with Warren Wells, who was studying a Kenneth Callahan numbered print from the Pacific Northwest artist’s later period.

Both Donna and Warren greeted me warmly. Warren even offered his hand. “You’ve been working too hard, Emma. Francine hasn’t seen you in the store for months. She’s afraid you’re going around town in a barrel. Or are you waiting for her pre-Christmas clearance?”

I didn’t have time for chitchat, even for the sake of fellow parishioners and Francine’s Fine Apparel weekly ad revenue. “Tell your wife to mark down all her Max Mara pieces to fifty bucks each, and I’ll be there when she opens the door.” I turned to Donna. “Is the Laurentis still in back?”

“Yes. Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know.” I moved on through the gallery. “Ignore me. Sell Warren something expensive.”

Forest Watch
was on a table surrounded by various matting and frame samples. Obviously, Donna hadn’t made up her mind about how to show the work off to its best advantage. There was a light on a chain overhead, but it was turned off. I clicked the switch, realized that it had more than one setting, and turned it up as high as it would go.

The painting was still disturbing, even more so than it had seemed the first time I saw it. What was I supposed to see? Time of day? It looked like evening, but only because the background was so dark. Time of year? Not spring or summer—too bleak. Craig’s style was so unrealistic compared to
Sky Autumn
that if there were any deciduous trees, such as the vine maples in my painting, I couldn’t tell. He’d used some green, but the shades were murky, even sinister.

I heard Donna say good-bye to Warren. A moment later she joined me in the back room. “Warren’s buying that Callahan print for Francine,” she said. “It’s a Christmas …” She stopped, probably realizing that I wasn’t paying much attention. “What it is, Emma? Has something happened to Craig? Or to you?”

“Both,” I said, finally looking at her. “Craig’s actually improving, but he wanted to see me. By the time I got to the hospital, they’d given him a sedative. He could barely speak. I figured out that he was trying to tell me something about
Forest Watch
. I haven’t a clue what he meant. Do you know?”

Donna shook her head. “Let’s try magnifying it.”

She moved a Daylight Naturalight tabletop magnifier over to the table. I should’ve noticed it sooner. Kip used a less expensive version in the back shop when we needed to get a better look at blurry photos submitted by our readers who were involved in group activities.

Donna and I both studied every inch of the painting in silence.
Nothing we saw inspired any revelations. I posed a question. “Can you tell when Craig painted this?”

“You mean from the paint itself?” Donna shook her head. “I can guess. It’s probably not very recent. Craig used different paints—acrylic, oil, some watercolor. If you touch certain parts of the canvas, you can tell that by the thickness of one kind on top of the other. It’s as if he was having trouble getting the effect he wanted. My point, I guess, is that I have a feeling it took him a long time to finish this.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “he wanted to get it right. But why? It’s …” I shook my head. “I don’t like it. There. I’ve said it out loud. In fact, when I saw Craig the first time in the hospital, he knew I didn’t. Have you ever seen any of his other work that looks like this?”

“Not the actual paintings,” Donna replied. “I’ve seen photographs in catalogs from a couple of other galleries that show his works. There was one in this style three or four years ago at a Bellingham gallery, and another last spring in Boise. I’ll admit they weren’t as different as this one, yet I could tell Craig was experimenting. That’s what artists do. Callahan’s a good example.”

“I know,” I said. “I interviewed him years ago for
The Oregonian
. I wasn’t quite as fond of his later works, either, though they certainly weren’t depressing.” I gestured at
Forest Watch
. “That one is. Or maybe ‘disturbing’ is more appropriate.”

Donna shrugged. “A painting definitely can evoke the artist’s mood at the time while he’s working on it.”

“I understand that, but …” I stared at Donna. “What did you say?”

Donna frowned. “That an artist’s work reflects his state of mind. Why do you ask?”

“No. It was
how
you said it. I was reminded of something,
but I don’t know what it is.” I sighed. “Let me take another look with the magnifier.” Peering through the three-and-a-half-inch glass, I went over every detail. “Those two small gold blobs are the only bright spots. What are they? I can’t tell even with the enlargement.” I stepped aside so Donna could take a look.

“It could be moonlight reflecting off of something,” she said. “Or symbolic of the gold mining around here a hundred years ago.”