The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (5 page)

Mitch nodded. “That was the hook. Mom said she was glad it didn’t take all the way from Holy Thursday to Easter Sunday to deliver them. A feel-good piece. We needed all of those we could get in Detroit.”

“I was thinking of doing one like that for this week’s edition,” I said after we’d both eaten some of our sandwiches. “But that’s not a lead. I’m stumped.”

“Tell me about this Petersen thing. Or should I look it up in the back issues?”

“Let’s hope you don’t have to,” I said. “It was a huge story involving the Bank of Alpine. There was a rumor that a Seattle bank wanted to buy out the Petersen family, who had started up the bank with some other locals in the early thirties. As is typical of this town, nobody wanted big-city interlopers handling their money. The Seattle-based bunch dropped out, but not before the daughter of the local bank president, Marvin Petersen, was murdered. Marv had taken over from his father after the elder Petersen retired. Thus, the dynasty was established. But the next male heir apparent, Larry, found out his father was going to bypass him in favor of his sister, Linda. He reacted by killing her in a fit of sibling rage. Meanwhile, the Seattle folks discovered someone here was cooking the books and making off with chunks of money. The two cases weren’t really connected, but that was enough to queer the buyout offer.”

“Wow. That’s a big story for a small town.” Mitch paused to pop a couple of potato chips into his mouth. “Who did the cooking?”

I had to smile. “A bank employee who promptly fled to Michigan.”

Mitch laughed. “Good thinking. Cops back home have enough locals to bust without fussing over a mere embezzler from some woodsy place two thousand miles away. So now the convicted sibling killer has gone to that bank vault in the sky. Why do we care? From the standpoint of a hard-news item, that is.”

I hesitated. If the letters to Milo stopped after Larry died, there was no story. But if they didn’t, then Mitch would get the assignment. I didn’t feel right about leaving him out of the loop, so I told him why the sheriff had paid us an early-morning call.

“That’s weird,” Mitch said when I finished, “especially since Larry died over the weekend. Is there any reason you can think of that would set somebody off after all this time?”

I hadn’t thought about that possibility. “The murder occurred in November ten years ago, shortly before Thanksgiving. Yes, I suppose there might be a connection. I’d like to think it’s a crank, maybe somebody Milo picked up for speeding or a DUI. I can imagine the kind of weirdos you had in Detroit.”

“The bigger the city, the bigger the nut pool.”

For a few moments, we ate in silence. I took that as a good sign. I’d known Mitch for only a short time, but we were from the same generation, same blue-collar family background, both state university grads, had big-city newspaper experience—and both of us were now in semi-exile three thousand feet above sea level. We’d established an easy rapport and were comfortable with each other. Although I didn’t know his wife very well, I sensed that they were devoted, if not necessarily happy. I
changed the subject. “Do you know why Vida’s taking a long lunch hour?”

Mitch chuckled. “I doubt it’ll include three double martinis.”

“I just wondered. It’s not like her. I thought she might’ve said something.”

“To me?” Mitch shook his head. “I don’t think she’s quite convinced that I wasn’t involved in Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance.”

“Were you at the
Free Press
when that happened?”

“No. I was cutting my journalistic teeth on the
Ypsilanti Courier
. A weekly, of all things.” He chuckled again. “But I’d joined the
Free Press
staff by the time Jimmy was declared dead in 1982. I was neither shocked nor saddened. And nobody was surprised.”

When we finished eating, Mitch showed me the photos he’d taken at Mountain View Gardens. Luckily, a young family named Curtis had been looking for a tree. Mom, Dad, a three-year-old, and a baby in a stroller made for an appealing shot.

“That works,” I said. “In fact, I can’t make up my mind between the second, fourth, and sixth photo. You and Kip can decide. How did the interview with … what’s the new prof’s name? It’s odd.”

Mitch grinned. “Beaufort Vard’i, of Anglo-Indian descent, born in San Francisco. He goes by Bo—that’s B-O—and he told me there should be an apostrophe in Vard’i between the
d
and the
i
, don’t know if the name was originally Arabic or Hindi, but his parents dropped it when they became American citizens.”

I shook my head in confusion. “I think we can leave that part of the interview out. Names like O’Toole and Fong are about as exotic as we get around here. I hope the interview was more conventional.”

“It was,” Mitch assured me. “He’s a sharp guy, and his real
interest is genetics, but he stuck to his theories of teaching biology and anthropology. Married, one kid in high school, moved here because he and his wife like the outdoors and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than living in San Francisco. I’ve got a couple of decent photos, too. He’s good-looking, so one of these days he’ll get hit with a sexual harassment suit that’ll most likely be based not in fact but on hope, or the lack thereof.”

“Got it,” I said as the phone rang.

Mitch collected his gear and lunch leavings while I picked up the receiver. I was only mildly surprised to hear Ginny’s sister-in-law, Donna Wickstrom, on the other end of the line.

“Emma,” she began, “I feel so sorry about Ginny not being able to come back to work as soon as she planned. I talked to her a few minutes ago about part-time, but with Christmas and the art gallery and the day care at capacity anyway, I can’t juggle her three without going crazy.”

“It’s not your fault, Donna,” I assured her. “Ginny had a commitment, but if she’s not feeling up to keeping it, we’ll manage.”

I could hear children’s raised voices in the background. “Hold on, Emma,” Donna said. “Derek! Jamie! Stop that!” The shrill cries faded into muted truculence. “It doesn’t matter who started it,” Donna said away from the receiver. “Stopping it is what counts. Santa’s watching.”

I smiled, remembering how often I’d used that line on Adam. I had to quit when he told me that if Santa was keeping an eye on him, who was watching the elves? That, he’d gone on to inform me, was probably why his toy tank had broken the day after the previous Christmas. The elves had gotten careless without proper “stuperfision.” My son had made his point.

Donna sighed in my ear. “Actually, I’m hiring someone to help me, both here at the day care and at the art gallery. I have to keep the gallery open for longer hours in December.”

“As I recall, you’ve had Evan Singer take up the slack from time to time,” I said. “Is he unavailable or is this somebody new?”

“Both,” Donna replied. “Evan’s going to do some of it during the day because he works the 911 calls at night. Alison Lindahl is teaching at the college and she’ll be on break in another week. Do you remember her? She’s Linda Petersen Lindahl’s daughter.”

I paused. Judging from Donna’s tone, she hadn’t yet heard about Larry Petersen’s death. “Yes, I just found out she’s at the college, but—”

Donna had to interrupt me again as another melee erupted in the background. I waited at least a full minute while she sorted out Carlos, Destiny, and Esther. Or Hester. I couldn’t quite make out the third miscreant’s name. “I’ve got to go,” Donna said breathlessly. “By the way, Craig Laurentis has a new painting at the gallery. He dropped it off at our house last night. You might want to take a look. Talk to you later.”

I hung up. I owned a Craig Laurentis, the only piece of art I’d ever bought and my most prized possession, except for the Madonna and Child statue that Tom had given me when we’d visited Leavenworth on the other side of Stevens Pass. I made a note about the new Laurentis for “Scene” just as Vida entered the newsroom with Amanda Hanson. Vida took off her coat and hat; Amanda came into my office.

“Have you found my replacement yet?” she asked.

“No, unfortunately.” Seeing that Amanda appeared apologetic, I hastened to forestall any guilt feelings. “It’s not your fault. By the way, speaking of luck, any news about the foster kids?”

Amanda shook her head. “Walt and I didn’t expect any, what with the long weekend. Vida just told me about an unwed teenager who’s expecting a baby. Maybe that’s the route we’ll
have to go. The only problem is that she doesn’t know who the girl is.”

“If anyone can find out, it’s Vida,” I said. “Are you still checking with adoption agencies?”

“We haven’t followed up lately,” she responded, her pretty face lacking its usual animation. “We’ve been focused on those three kids of Holly’s.” She lowered her voice. “It’s a touchy subject with Vida. I know the baby is her great-grandson. What do you think will happen with that one? Roger seems totally irresponsible. Immature, too.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “An understatement. He’s lucky to get out of that trailer park mess without being arrested. In fact, Milo went easy on him with only a fine for possession and driving without a license. The DUI charges were dropped.”

Amanda leaned on the back of a visitor’s chair. “That’s another thing to consider,” she said, now almost whispering. “The older kids may already be ruined. I mean, the way they’ve been raised is bound to have a negative effect on them. I hate to call little kids damaged goods, but Walt and I haven’t had any experience with children. We’ve had enough problems just staying married.”

This was the first time Amanda had really confided in me since I’d discovered the Hansons were considering adoption. Our work relationship had gotten off to a rocky start—mainly because her marriage was on the rocks at the time. The arrival of Ginny’s new baby had somehow changed Amanda’s way of thinking. Over time, the couple’s childless state had turned into a blame game. His fault, her fault—until they realized it wasn’t anybody’s fault except Mother Nature’s.

“I’ve wondered if you’ve considered breaking up the trio,” I said, speaking as softly as Amanda despite being aware that Vida probably knew what we were talking about.

“That’s a dilemma, too,” Amanda said. “Holly got off with a fairly light sentence for second-degree manslaughter. She could be paroled in less than ten years. She may try to get the kids back. It’s even possible she’s learned her lesson. But I doubt it.”

“Sadly, you may be right. Jail time doesn’t ensure rehabilitation.” I nodded in Vida’s direction, noting her back was turned as she talked on the phone. “Have you asked about her grandson’s baby?”

“No. I’m afraid to,” Amanda admitted. “Has she told you where Holly’s children are? I asked Marisa Foxx if she could find out since she’s our lawyer, but so far we haven’t heard anything.”

The irony of our conversation didn’t escape me. Amanda and I were discussing a topic that touched on a wide range of social problems we should address in the
Advocate
. It would have to be a series, of course, and I’d do it with Mitch.

“Oh!” Amanda said suddenly, handing me a phone message. “This came in while we were both at lunch. It’s from one of the park rangers, Wes Amundson. Nothing urgent, but he thought you should know.”

I wished the message
was
urgent. I might have a lead story. “Thanks, Amanda.”

“Sure.” She smiled faintly. “Thanks for listening.”

“Any time.” I paused. “I mean that.”

Amanda’s smile trembled ever so slightly. “I appreciate it.”

She had just gone back to her post in the front office when Vida slammed down the phone, stood up, took a deep breath, and all but ran to the restroom. If it had been anyone but Vida, I would have assumed it was the flu, but she is never sick. No germ would dare attack her iron constitution.

I waited for her to emerge, but when she didn’t after almost
five minutes, I got up and went to knock on the restroom door. “Vida? Are you okay?” I inquired.

“Yes!”
The single word sounded as if she’d bitten it off instead of spoken it. With a sigh, I returned to my cubbyhole and called Wes Amundson.

“Hi, Emma,” he said. “Just wanted to tell you we’ve got another maple thief on the loose. Two trees this time, both a quarter of a mile down from the ranger station on the east side of the Icicle Creek Road. Dodge’s guys are there now, so I thought you might want a photo.”

“I do,” I said, fortuitously seeing Mitch coming toward his desk from the back shop. “Any idea who’s doing this?”

“Are you kidding?” Wes sounded annoyed. “If we knew, we’d collar the bastards ourselves. It’s probably someone with logging experience, but there are plenty of suspects around here, especially with the ones who are out of work. These last two make twenty-five poached maples since August. You can’t tell me the choppers are gathering firewood. If they were, I wish they’d take some of those cottonwoods and alders instead. I’m allergic to them. Unfortunately, none of those damned things grow in that section of the forest.”

I agreed. “Are you sticking by the earlier forest service statement that the wood is probably sold to makers of musical instruments?”

“It’s the best reason,” Wes replied. “Violins, guitars—anything that requires high-grade maple like these trees. Good God, we finally get most of the meth labs cleaned out around here and we’ve hauled away literally tons of abandoned vehicles and boats and … oh, hell! There’s my other line. Got to go.”

Mitch was standing in the doorway. I told him about the call from Wes. “Can you go up there now while the deputies are searching the crime scene? Get a quote from one of them, and
hope it’s not Sam Heppner. He often says things that aren’t fit to print.”

“Sam would feel right at home in Detroit,” Mitch remarked.

“No, he wouldn’t,” I declared. “Sam wouldn’t last a week in any city that had a population over four digits.”

“I’ll be on my way as soon as I write the cutline for the Christmas tree photo and zap it to Kip.”

Mitch went back to his desk. He left a few minutes later, but Vida was still in the restroom. I decided to check on her again. As I walked through the newsroom, I heard sirens. Maybe we had another story. Things were looking up. Bad news is good news in my world.