The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (8 page)

“Who owns that now? I forget.”

“They sold the place to somebody from Kirkland named Holden or Hilton who wanted it for a vacation home. It sure as hell wasn’t much of a farm the last few years that Aunt Thelma and Uncle Elmer owned it.”

“Are the new owners staying there now?” I asked.

“Wes Amundson told me they haven’t been around since late September, but they’ll probably show up on weekends when the ski season starts.” Milo looked up at the gloomy sky. “That could be sooner than usual, if the snow starts this early.” He grabbed my arm. “Let’s get the hell back inside. I should check on Laurentis’s progress before I go back to the office.”

I shook my head. “I’m on my way to the
Advocate
. Vida’s standing by, though exactly where, I don’t know. She may be assisting Dr. Sung in surgery by now.”

“Okay,” Milo said, but he didn’t let go of my arm. “I haven’t seen much of you lately. Want me to drop by after work and fill you in on what’s happening?”

I wondered if “filling me in” was some kind of Freudian slip. Our off-and-on sexual relationship had been resumed recently after the harrowing trailer park tragedy. Still, I never wanted to
get too close to Milo. Years ago there’d been a time when he’d talked about wanting to marry me, but Tom had still been alive—and still tied to his emotionally unstable wife. I’d told myself there was never going to be a second Mrs. Cavanaugh. I’d tried to excise him from my life. I couldn’t. Sandra finally died and eventually Tom and I became engaged. It was like a fairy tale, until a bullet killed Tom and spoiled my “happily ever after.”

As for the sheriff, his desire for a permanent arrangement between us was a stumbling block. Only once had he admitted he loved me. I’d never been able to tell him I returned his feelings. In recent years, neither of us had ever mentioned that scary four-letter word, “love.” Maybe that was because we didn’t know what it meant. “Call first,” I said. “I may be running late.”

He let go. “Right.”

Milo turned away and went inside, leaving me out in the cold.

The first thing I did back at the office was to have Kip put the poaching and shooting story on our website. Spence would still beat me with his radio broadcast, but at least we’d have the news available online. Returning to my cubbyhole, I was hanging my wet coat on a peg above the baseboard heater when Mitch strolled in to see me.

“Turns out we’ve got more than just a poaching story,” he said with that sparkle in his eyes only journalists and other kinds of ghouls get from death and near-death occasions. “Any word on the victim?”

“Dodge thinks he’ll be okay,” I said. “Any word on the poachers?”

“Nothing new.” Mitch sat down. “I’ve got pictures of stumps and piles of leaves. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to the scene until Laurentis was being loaded into the ambulance. I took a couple of shots, but you can’t really see him or the medics. One of those guys is Del Amundson, Wes Amundson’s brother, right?”

“No, they’re cousins,” I said. “Barney, who owns Alpine Meats, is Wes’s brother. They’re a fairly big family.”

Mitch put a hand to his head. “I’m beginning to think I’ll never get all these people straightened out. Are you sure everybody isn’t related to everybody else?”

“Not really,” I replied with a smile. “Just figure most of them are somehow connected to Vida and you’ll be fine. I take it the deputies didn’t find any usable evidence?”

“Dustin Fong told me they had some tire tracks, but they’ve gotten them before. In fact,” Mitch went on, looking up at the ceiling, where we could hear the hard rain pelting the roof, “they’re not even sure the tracks are from last night. The ground up there was frozen.”

“If only they could find out who the buyer is,” I said. “Maybe there’s more than one, unless whoever they’re selling to is fronting for several instrument makers.”

“That’s more likely. Somehow I can’t picture the artisans who craft violins dirtying their talented hands by dealing directly with poachers.”

“True,” I allowed. “At least we have a solid lead story. It’d be a big help if Craig got a look at whoever shot him. Being a painter, he might be better than most at noticing things.”

Mitch cocked his head at me. “You call him Craig? Do you actually know this guy?”

I gave a little shrug. “I’ve run into him a few times. In fact, he rescued me once when I had a bad fall in the woods. On another
occasion he helped some people I knew who’d gotten … lost.”

Mitch regarded me curiously. “Lost?”

I let out a sigh. “Lost in more ways than one. It’s a long story.” I wasn’t going to blab about how Tom Cavanaugh’s children had gotten mixed up in an attempted buyout of the
Advocate
or how they’d avoided being killed by the instigators.

Mitch took his cue and stood up. “I’ll let you get to work. What’s the deal? I write the poaching story and you write about the shooting?”

“No,” I said, “you can do both. They’re intertwined, and at this point, I don’t know any more about … Laurentis’s condition or any information he may have than you do. We can update that part just before we go to press with a sidebar.”

“Got it.” Mitch stood up and went back to the newsroom.

I decided to do some online research on tree poaching around the state. This latest theft was worthy of another editorial. I’d already published a short one after the first couple of trees were cut down, but we were reaching epidemic proportions. I’d ask readers for any information they could provide, knowing that although most responses would be worthless, there might be something helpful.

Unfortunately, my online talents are limited. I could find plenty of tree-poaching references, and most of them were related to gyppo loggers who cut trees on government or private property. There were a few references to maples as sources for guitars, but many others were for different types of maples that didn’t grow in my part of the world. Certain varieties were desirable for their tonewood, which I learned was especially prized for making wonderful bongo drums.

I was about to wing it when Amanda came into my office.
“There’s someone here to see you about the receptionist’s job,” she said, looking on her guard.

“Who is it?” I asked.

Amanda made a face. “Denise Petersen from the bank. Do you want to talk to her?”

I
T TOOK A MOMENT TO MAKE UP MY MIND. “OKAY, WHERE’S
the harm?”
Amanda shrugged. “Maybe she isn’t as dumb as she acts. Denise says Rick Erlandson recommended her.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?”

Amanda blushed. “I should’ve thought of that. Yes, for all sorts of reasons. He’s under the gun, isn’t he?”

“You bet,” I said. “Go ahead, I’ll talk to her. Let’s see if she can find the way to my office.”

The pretty but dim young woman I remembered from the bank scandal didn’t look much like the careworn creature who entered my cubbyhole a couple of minutes later. I’d glimpsed Denise since her return to the bank, but had avoided her teller’s window. I could screw up my checking account without any help from someone as inept as she’d been on her first tour of duty behind the counter. To make matters worse, I’d forgotten that her father had just died in prison. I felt not only stupid but callous.

“Hi, Denise,” I said, trying to sound friendly. “Have a seat. How are you doing?”

“Okay.” Her face was thinner, with tiny wrinkles on her forehead and around her mouth. The blond and copper foil job on her hair was past its shelf date by at least a couple of months.

I felt sorry for her. “You must be upset about your father’s death. I really don’t know what to say, except I understand. My own parents both died at around the same age.”

Denise barely looked at me. “Thanks.”

I was at a loss for words, but finally cut to the chase. “Are you here about the temporary job opening?”

“Yes.” Denise swallowed hard before continuing. “I never liked working at the bank, but it was the only job I could get after my divorce. It’s not final yet, I mean, it will be,” she went on speaking faster and faster, “but I never realized that a couple couldn’t just split and move on. All these lawyer fees and filings and a bunch of other stuff take forever. Plus Greg has moved away, so he’s in King County now. Or is it Snohomish? I can never remember which one Brier is in.”

“Just inside Snohomish County,” I said. “Have you discussed duties and hours and salary with Amanda?”

Denise nodded vaguely. “She told me what she did and how much she makes. It sounds fine.”

I noticed her address was on Hope Court, a fairly new street on Second Hill near the Dithers sisters’ horse farm. “Are you living in one of those townhouses the Bourgettes built a few years ago?”

She nodded. “Greg and I bought it when we got married. They were brand-new back then.”

“Do you intend to stay now that you’re divorced?”

Denise looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s nice.”

“Often when couples split, they sell the house or condo or whatever and split the proceeds, not just to avoid living amidst
unhappy memories, but because Washington is a community property state.”

Denise looked even more surprised. “It is? What if I don’t want to move? It’s such a hassle.”

“You don’t
have
to,” I said, “but I assume Greg isn’t paying his share of the mortgage.” Realizing I was overstepping the boundaries of etiquette, not to mention violating Denise’s privacy, I changed the subject. “Do you have other employment options when Ginny comes back to work?”

“Options?” Denise gazed around my office, as if she might find an option or two hanging on the walls. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll take that new cosmetology course that my cousin’s teaching at the college.”

It had slipped my mind that Linda Petersen’s daughter, Alison Lindahl, and Denise Petersen Jensen were related. “That might be a good idea,” I said. “Stella Magruder seems to have a fairly high turnover rate at her salon. So many of the girls who work there don’t stay long because they get married and have babies.”
But not necessarily in that order
, I thought to myself. And then realized I wasn’t one to criticize. I’d done the latter, but not the former—unfortunately.

“Really? I never noticed. Somehow those girls at the salon all look kind of alike.” Denise ran a hand through her hair. “I should make an appointment to get my hair done before Christmas.”

“Do you have a résumé?” I asked.

Denise looked blank. “No. I mean, I just heard about the job here from Rick Erlandson this morning. Do you need one?”

The question should’ve been, “Do
I
need one?” but I passed on saying so. “Do you have to give notice at the bank?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, Rick wouldn’t have told me about
the job if he thought we’d have to go through a bunch of stuff before I could quit. He’s a nice guy. I think he understands.”

And I understood that Rick probably couldn’t wait to see the back of Denise. I wanted to stall, but I was facing more than one deadline. “Tomorrow is Amanda’s last day. Could you spend at least part of it letting her show you the ropes?”

“Sure.”

“Can you start Wednesday?”

“Sure.”

I stood up. “Okay, let’s go out and talk to Amanda.”

My part of the conversation was brief. I left the two women after less than a minute and returned to my cubbyhole. I was halfway through the maple-poaching editorial when Vida arrived just before three o’clock.

“I can’t believe it,” she gasped. “Denise is out there in the front office with Amanda. Are you really going to hire that nitwit?”

“Would you prefer Ed Bronsky?” I asked.

Vida rocked on her heels. “Oh! Certainly not. But still …”

“I know. I considered Carla, but I doubt she’d do it. It’d be a comedown not only from her college job, but as a reporter here. She’s got a family, too. We forget that Carla isn’t a fresh-faced youth anymore. She probably needs the time off from her college duties to regroup, especially for the holidays.”

Vida sighed. “I suppose.” She shook her head before removing her hat, which now looked like a bunch of drowned birds. “Craig Laurentis is doing as well as can be expected. He’s had one transfusion and will get another later on. Meanwhile, Dr. Sung removed the bullet. Milo can tell you about that.”

“Has Craig said anything about who shot him?”

“No. He’s been sedated and will stay that way at least until
this evening.” Vida studied her hat. “Dear me, I wonder if this will dry out.” She sighed again. “Did Denise mention a funeral for her father?”

“No,” I replied, “and from what I gathered, she’s not terribly interested. She can come in tomorrow to learn the job and it sounds as if she’ll be ready to go to work on Wednesday.”

“I’ll try to view that as good news,” Vida said. “About her working here, I mean. The bank will be shorthanded, but there are plenty of college students who’d like to earn extra money while they’re on break.”

“True,” I agreed. “I’d thought of hiring a student, but with finals still to come, fall quarter isn’t officially over for another ten days. We’ll manage somehow with Denise.”

“I must get busy,” Vida declared. “If you have anything for ‘Scene,’ let me know.”

I promised I would. For a moment, I let myself slump in relief over the news that Craig’s condition wasn’t life-threatening. Then I remembered Donna Wickstrom had told me about his new painting. Maybe I’d stop by on my way home to see what it looked like. Ordinarily, it’d be an item for “Scene,” but with Craig appearing so prominently on page one, I decided we should probably save that bit for another issue.

Just before five, I went out to see Vida. Mitch and Leo had already left, Amanda had reported that her get-acquainted session with Denise had gone relatively well, and Kip was still in the back shop. I’d finished my editorial shortly after three, and had spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone talking to people in Olympia about how the state land commissioner’s office was dealing with tree poaching. After conversations with several well-meaning and seemingly intelligent staff personnel, I came away with only a few maybe-if-I-got-desperate quotes. Like our sheriff and the local rangers, they couldn’t add
much more than I already knew. There had been some arrests made, along with a conviction or two, but the problem still existed.