The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (4 page)

“Death has a way of spoiling fairy tales,” Ben said flatly.

“That’s harsh,” I snapped. “What are you going to say next—that it was all part of God’s plan that I should stay single?”

“You know me better than that,” my brother said with a touch of asperity. “Ever hear of free will? It’s a basic Catholic concept. Hey—got to go. Lunch date with a couple of guys from the chancery to figure out all this mess. Maybe they’ll ask me to give a wedding shower for the happy couple. Stay loose, Sluggly.”

“Yeah. Right … Stench.” I couldn’t resist tossing back my childhood nickname for Ben. “Sluggly” was about as annoying to me as “Duchess” was to Vida.

My production manager, Kip MacDuff, swung into my office. “Any clue about page one?” he asked. “Mitch promised photos of merchants at the mall stringing up lights over the weekend. You got them?”

“Not yet,” I said. “The Laskeys spent the weekend in Seattle.”

Kip rubbed his neatly trimmed beard. “You mean Mitch didn’t follow through? That’s not like him.”

“He probably took the pictures before leaving town,” I said. “They spent Thanksgiving with their son in Monroe and then went on to Seattle. I’ll ask him when he finishes his morning rounds.”

“What’s our lead?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Milo found out this morning that Larry Petersen died over the weekend, but that’s not a banner headline. Page one, below the fold, four or five inches, head shot—discreet, dignified.”

Kip looked stunned. “Larry died in the slammer? Was he killed by another inmate?”

“It was a heart attack, according to the sheriff.”

“Jesus!” Kip shook his head. “Larry was fairly young. All those Petersens seem to live forever.” He grimaced. “I mean, unless they …”

“Kill each other?” I suggested.

Kip winced. “Yeah—I guess. But what I’m trying to say is … well, if you get stabbed or beaten to death, your heart stops, right? How can we be sure it was a real heart attack? Wouldn’t the prison authorities just as soon cover up that kind of thing? You know—politics.”

The thought had never crossed my mind. Or, apparently, anyone else’s at the sheriff’s office. “Milo talked to the warden. I suppose the guy could’ve lied, but if so, there’s a much bigger story that goes far beyond Alpine. I wouldn’t think one law enforcement
official would do that to another. He’d be more likely to tell the truth, but ask for discretion.”

Kip’s expression was wry. “The Good-Old-Boy Cop Network? Dodge wouldn’t cooperate.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” I agreed. “Milo doesn’t play games. The warden must be on the level. I can’t see Larry in a prison fight. He had no history of violence until he strangled his sister.” I realized I was thinking out loud. “He was driven to that by his father bypassing him for Linda to eventually become bank president. Larry always thought he was Marv’s heir apparent, but his father and his sister betrayed him. That’s a crime of passion.”

“Family tradition,” Kip murmured. “That’s how it was with Marv taking over from his dad.”

I nodded. “Larry had been in prison for ten years. I’ve no idea if JoAnne or his kids ever visited him. Or even his parents. I assume he was filled with remorse. That can drastically alter a person’s physical and mental state.”

Kip, who’d remained standing, leaned against my filing cabinet and looked unusually serious. “Maybe. Prison would be worse for a straight arrow like Larry than most perps.” He moved closer to my desk, but still didn’t sit down. “You covered the trial. How did Larry act?”

I thought back to those sessions in the Snohomish County Courthouse. I’d sat in on the trial a couple of times. The rest of the coverage was handled by my former reporter, Carla Steinmetz, who had quit after marrying Ryan Talliaferro, the current dean of students at Skykomish Community College. Carla had been prone to typos and a lack of attention to detail, but she’d flung herself into the drama of a murder trial and, as I recalled, had done one of her best reporting jobs.

“It’s odd,” I said after a long pause, “but what I remember
most was that Larry remained stoic, almost statue-like. He never did testify. I sat through most of voir dire because the case was being tried outside of SkyCo and I wanted to get a sense of who was on the jury. Even Vida couldn’t help me. I don’t remember anything unusual about Carla’s account other than what she included in her articles.” I paused again and smiled. “She did wonder why the courthouse had been built in Mission style instead of something more fitting for our woodsy world.”

Kip grinned, a sign that he was rallying from the news of Larry’s death. “Sounds like Carla. I wonder what Rick thinks about this. I suppose he’s heard by now.” He glanced at my wall calendar. “Gosh, Ginny’s due back next Monday. It seems like she just left.”

“It seems the same way to Ginny,” I said. “She isn’t ready to come back. I talked to her this morning.”

Kip’s brief cheer evaporated. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”

“Ginny claims she hasn’t regained her strength yet.” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “I told her she either had to come to work as planned or find someone to take her place.”

“Oh, crap!” Kip slapped his hand against the filing cabinet. “Maybe she should just quit. Three kids must be a handful. Now that Rick’s the bank manager, they should be able to get by on his salary.”

“That crossed my mind,” I admitted. “The Erlandsons aren’t big spenders. The only vacations they’ve ever taken have been to visit relatives in Oregon and eastern Washington.”

“Hey,” Kip said, snapping his fingers. “Got a thought. Why not ask Carla to fill in? Won’t she be on break from advising the college newspaper during most of December?”

It wasn’t the best idea Kip had ever had, but it wasn’t the worst, either. “Let me think about that. I gave Ginny a deadline
to come up with somebody besides Denise Petersen. I mean,
Jensen
.”

“Oh, no! Denise is a total airhead. She screwed up the last two deposits we made and put them into my brother’s account.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said as I walked out of my office with Kip. “By the way, our lead story may be Alfred Cobb’s resignation.”

Kip looked vexed. “We won’t know that until deadline. That’s it?”

“At the moment,” I said. “Would you like me to go out and assault the first passerby so Milo can arrest me?”

Kip’s ruddy complexion grew even redder. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you. Spence hasn’t had much today, either. I guess we’re going through a news lull.”

Kip’s reference to Spencer Fleetwood’s local radio station gave me an idea. “Milo mentioned how quiet it is around here after Thanksgiving. Maybe I should write a feature on what media moguls like the two of us do when there’s nothing much to report. It might be interesting.”

Kip looked dubious. I didn’t blame him. He returned to the back shop while I pulled out the bound volume of
Advocate
s containing our coverage of the Petersen trial. It wouldn’t hurt to refresh my memory. If nothing else, I might find a recyclable editorial. My mind was still blank.

A half-hour later, I remained unenlightened. There was nothing in the trial coverage that provided anything to suggest Larry’s conviction wasn’t justified. Nor did any of my largely outdated editorials inspire me with fresh ideas. By eleven-fifteen, I felt frustrated.

“Are you awake?” Mitch asked from the newsroom doorway.

I’d been sitting at his desk, which happened to be closest to
our bound archives. “Barely,” I confessed, picking up the volume I’d been perusing. “I still don’t have an editorial. By the way, have you got those photos from the merchants’ light-hanging shoot?”

Mitch clapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, my God! I forgot all about that.” His narrow shoulders sagged. “Brenda and I planned to come back to Alpine after we’d seen Troy in Monroe, but we decided we were more than halfway to Seattle and kept going. I’m sorry, Emma. What do you want me to do to fill the space?”

I’d moved away from his desk. “Fake it,” I said, more harshly than I’d intended. “Get Clancy Barton and Cliff Stuart and whoever else you were thinking of to pretend they’re putting up the lights at the mall. We have to run some kind of art on the front page.”

Mitch looked so contrite that I felt sorry for him. In the few months that he’d worked for me, I’d found him totally reliable. Spending Thanksgiving with a jailbird son was enough to fog anybody’s brain.

“Wait,” I said, smiling ruefully. “I’ve got a better idea. Mountain View Gardens has an attractive display up and a ton of Christmas trees for sale. See if you can get a shot of a family buying a tree or a wreath or … just being … festive. The Hedstroms can help. They’ve taken out a quarter-page ad this week.”

“Hedstrom,” Mitch murmured, making a note. “First names?”

“Jerry and Mary Beth. Nice couple.” I kept smiling.

Mitch still looked chagrined. “I feel like a dumbshit. If I have to dress up like Santa Claus, I’ll get something good. Color, too.”

“Forget it,” I said. “I’m still in Monday-morning mode. Not quite with it, for some reason.”

“A common condition,” Mitch murmured. He grabbed his camera and saluted. “Back in a flash. Or as soon as I can find a happy family.”

I figured that could take some time. But Mitch already knew that.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER
, I
’D FINISHED A BRIEF EDITORIAL
saluting Alfred Cobb for his service to the county. If he didn’t step down at the commissioners’ meeting, I could save it for later. At least I felt as if I’d accomplished something. I was considering lunch options when Vida burst into my office.

“I found out from Al Driggers where the guest book from Linda’s funeral is,” she announced, looking pleased with herself. “It didn’t go to Marvin and Cathleen Petersen after all. Linda’s daughter, Alison, has it. Would you be interested in seeing it?”

I was puzzled. “Doesn’t Alison live with her dad and stepmother in Everett?”

“She did,” Vida replied with a smug expression, “but she’s in Alpine now. She started teaching cosmetology at Skykomish Community College fall quarter.”

“Oh!” I laughed wryly. “I haven’t seen Alison since her mother was killed. I still think of her as a distraught twelve-year-old. She must be in her early twenties. How did Alison show up at SCC without us knowing about it?”

Vida’s expression soured. “That’s what I wanted to know. Or didn’t Mitch tell you?”

“No.” I made a face. “He didn’t have time to tell me anything about his interview with the new science prof.” I didn’t want to tattle on my reporter’s dereliction of duty regarding the mall lighting. “Mitch went to Mountain View Gardens for a photo op.”

“Oh?” Vida seemed to sense my lack of candor, but apparently dismissed it. “Well now.” She set her black leather purse on my desk and removed her kidskin gloves. “When the college listed the returning and incoming faculty for fall quarter in their news release, they neglected to mention instructors who didn’t have an advanced degree. You might guess who wrote the story.”

“Carla?”

Vida nodded, her hat’s feathers swaying to and fro. “I ran into Mitch just before I went to the bank. I hadn’t yet put in my paycheck over the weekend. He told me about the omission, but I’d already heard about it from Al Driggers. I’d suggest a feature on Alison and her new job, but the timing would be unfortunate, given that her uncle just passed away in prison.”

“Definitely,” I agreed. “Besides, she may be involved in the funeral. Does Al know if there’ll be one?”

“No, but he’s making discreet inquiries.”

“Of course he is,” I said, tongue in cheek.

Vida didn’t respond in kind. “Why wouldn’t he? The Petersens have always been buried here. I must dash,” she said, putting her gloves back on. “I have a luncheon date. I may be a trifle late getting back.” Vida whipped around, tromped out through the newsroom, and headed for the exit.

I was curious. It was only a quarter to twelve, and my House & Home editor seldom took extra time for lunch. In fact, she often stayed at her desk, working while she ate from a
paper bag that held the same items—a hard-boiled egg, cottage cheese, celery, and sometimes carrot sticks. It was her diet menu, despite the fact that I could never tell if Vida had gained or lost weight. Her tall, broad frame disguised any added or lost pounds.

My own lunch involved a brisk trek to Pie-in-the-Sky Sandwich Shop at the mall. I had to wait at the stoplight on Alpine Way, where I felt a chill wind blowing down from Tonga Ridge.
More snow coming
, I thought, gazing up at the heavy gray clouds lurking overhead. Both Tonga and Mount Baldy were partially hidden from view. Next to the mall at Old Mill Park, I could swear that the statue of town founder Carl Clemans was shivering. The stoplight changed just as I felt a nudge at my back.

“Got some good shots,” Mitch Laskey said. “You getting a sandwich, by any chance?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Same here,” he said as we crossed the street. “It’s the only decent food at the mall. Maybe we can find a table. Or do you want to go back to the office?”

“Your call,” I replied, “though I still need to conjure up an editorial and a lead story.”

“Why don’t we take our sandwiches with us and brainstorm out of earshot,” Mitch suggested as we entered the sandwich shop. “There’s already a line and it’s not quite noon.”

“Sure,” I agreed. The shop was small, with only a dozen tables, mostly for two. I recognized several of the customers, but merely smiled and nodded. My Monday-morning mood wasn’t conducive to chitchat. Sticking to business was my antidote to self-pity.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitch and I were in my cubbyhole, he with his ham and cheese on rye, and me with chicken salad on white bread.

“You don’t keep kosher?” I said, gesturing at Mitch’s sandwich.

Mitch grinned. “That’s ‘kashrut,’ you know. ‘Kosher’ is the Anglicized version.”

“I didn’t know,” I admitted.

“That’s okay,” Mitch said. “I hadn’t a clue about the Triduum until last Easter, when I had to write a feature about a family in Detroit that had triplets born on Good Friday.”

“Uh … I assume they were Catholics.”