Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481)

by Daheim, Mary

  “Well enough to pay Milo a call,” I replied. “She’s still trying to track down her mother—and her father. That’s why I’m here. I wondered what sent her into a swoon in the first place. Do you have any idea?”

  Donna’s pretty face grew earnest. “She’d only been here a few minutes. I spent most of that time with Clea Bhuj and her husband, Allan, who came as soon as I opened. I left them mulling over antique bookends to ask Ren if I could help. She said she was an art teacher and was judging a Monroe art show this summer. She thought her mother had visited Alpine years ago. I gave her my brochure so she could see the kind of art I feature and what I’ve sold. Clea called to me, so I excused myself. Moments later, Ren collapsed. She knocked over a Nez Perce carving of Chief Joseph. Luckily, it’s made of wood. No damage done.”

  I sorted through Donna’s account. “I gather there wasn’t any indication of what upset her? No squeals or gasps?”

  Donna shook her head. “Nothing. Clea saw her fall. She said Ren dropped to the floor like a rag doll. Have the doctors given a diagnosis?”

  “Nothing much showed up in the lab tests,” I replied. Noting it was almost five, I told Donna I’d leave her so she could finish getting ready. Maybe Ren was merely the skittish type. That was a much less pejorative word than “unhinged” or “goofy.” But I still felt uneasy. For some reason, the word “dangerous” lurked somewhere in the back of my brain. Unfortunately, I didn’t know if Ren was in danger or if she posed a danger to someone else. Eventually, I’d find out. The seeds of discovery had already cast their long shadows over all of Skykomish County

  NINE

  I’d stopped at Cal’s Chevron to get the oil changed and fill the tank. Milo hadn’t yet arrived by the time I got home at five-thirty. I immediately opened all the doors. Both bedrooms’ windows were already up as far as they could go without letting a bear crawl inside. I didn’t make drinks, figuring we’d probably eat at the air-conditioned ski lodge, maybe in the bar. With its Norse decor and the little waterfall off by the serving area, the Viking Lounge always seemed cool.

  By ten to six, I was getting antsy. The sheriff was usually home by then, unless he was working a big case. I wondered if something had come up that he hadn’t told me about. It wouldn’t be the first time Milo had neglected to keep me posted about what he called “the job” and I called “breaking news.”

  Two minutes later, he rushed through the front door. “Emma!” he shouted. “Are you nuts?”

  I jumped off the sofa. “No. Why?”

  He snatched off his regulation hat and tossed it on the easy chair. “There may be a perv loose and you’ve got the doors wide open?”

  “You’re taking this perv thing seriously?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “Dustin Fong took the impressions from Jeannie’s garden today. We got a good one. It’s not any kind of sportswear, but more of a dress shoe. Scratch the teen punks. I stopped by to let Jeannie know. Now she’s really upset. On top of that, Grace Grundle called to say she thought she had a prowler. Dwight went over to check about an hour ago, but couldn’t find a sign of anybody except Marlowe Whipp walking through a flower bed to deliver Grace’s mail.”

  I felt myself stiffen. “When’s Jeannie’s husband coming home?”

  “Friday night,” Milo replied, starting for the bedroom. “Dale works for the state fish and game commission, so he’s gone a lot. I’m going to change. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” I called after him, heading in the other direction to close the back and side doors. Just what we needed, I thought—a head case on the loose with the temperature supposed to hit over eighty before the weekend. Maybe we should close the windows, too. Fleetingly, I wished Jeannie’s husband didn’t travel so much. She might require further protection from the sheriff. That thought made me want to kick myself. Was I turning into a typical, irrational wife? Of course I wasn’t, I told myself—and slammed the back door shut.

  Milo was ready by the time I’d set up the morning coffee and watered the kalanchoe plants on the kitchen windowsill. We headed out into bright sunshine for the ski lodge. Henry Bardeen greeted us at the door. I inquired after the guest who’d passed out the previous afternoon.

  “An older man from Morro Bay, California,” the ski lodge manager replied, looking uneasy. “Mrs. Fowler thinks it was food poisoning. They’d just checked in, so he couldn’t have gotten it here. But you know how rumors start.”

  I nodded. “Was he hospitalized?”

  Henry shook his head. The obvious toupee stayed in place. “Dr. Sung diagnosed it as colitis—a chronic condition. You’d think his wife would’ve realized that. He was up and about today.”

  Milo grabbed my arm, apparently impatient to move on. “Any openings in the bar?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Henry replied, “but with AC, we’re busier than usual.”

  “Right,” the sheriff said, hauling me off through the lobby. “Thanks, Henry,” he called over his shoulder before lowering his voice to speak to me. “Do you have to start yakking at everybody you run into? I’m starved and I could use a drink.”

  “It might’ve been a story,” I protested as he propelled me into the bar. “If nothing else, a ‘Scene’ item for Vida.”

  “Like what? Old coot gets gas?”

  Henry’s daughter, Heather Bavich, was coming our way to seat us, so I didn’t answer him. I noticed she was pregnant with her second child and congratulated her.

  “Due date is November,” she said. “I hope it’s early in the month so I’m not out of commission for Thanksgiving.”

  “Just be glad you don’t have to worry about Christmas,” I responded as she showed us to a corner table.

  “I am,” she said. “Trevor’s birthday is December first. He hopes it’s another boy. I’d prefer a girl this time.”

  I smiled. “Good luck with that.”

  Milo was staring at the bartender, who looked like a college student. “Tell whoever’s slinging the drinks to bring us a Scotch-rocks and a Canadian water-back, okay, Heather?”

  “Right,” she said. “Enjoy.”

  “You did it again,” the sheriff muttered after Heather hurried away.

  “Hey, jackass, I’ve got an image to keep up around here,” I retorted. “I’m the neighborly newspaper snoop. Besides, Henry’s an advertiser.”

  Milo shrugged. “What are you having? I’m going for the Trondheim cod.” He looked up at the typical blond waitress whose name typically began with a B, in this case, Blythe. “We’ll order in ten minutes,” my husband informed her as she set our drinks in front of us. “Thanks.”

  “I think you scared her,” I said. “I’m having a double order of the gravlax and a side salad. Why are you so grumpy?”

  He frowned and put the menu aside. “I got a call from the Everett ME while I was changing. Ren was there and said I sent her.”

  “To view the corpse?” I asked in surprise. He nodded. “What did you tell whoever called?”

  “It was Colin Knapp,” Milo replied, relaxing a bit after taking the first big sip of Scotch. “I told him she’d come on her own, but to let her have a look. Maybe it’ll scare her and she’ll take off for California. Knapp figured she was screwy.”

  I put my hand on his. “Cheer up. I should be the one who’s grumpy. I didn’t get a kiss when you came home.”

  He grimaced. “Damn. Why did you marry me? Mulehide was right. I’m a lousy husband.” He moved his hand to put it on my neck and leaned over to kiss me…gently. The young couple at the next table stared. Luckily, I didn’t recognize them. “That better?” Milo asked.

  I smiled. “Yes. Though you did give me a good laugh today.”

  He looked puzzled. “When?”

  I told him about seeing his wedding photo. Milo actually turned faintly red. “Oh God! Now you know why I burned all the wedding pictures Mulehide left behind when she took off with Jake the Snake.”

  “I liked it,” I declared. “You looked so young—and endearing.”
>
  Milo took a really big swig of his drink. “Endearing? I looked like an idiot. I was an idiot back then or I’d never have married Mulehide.”

  “She looked very pretty. But,” I went on, “that wedding coverage gave me an idea.”

  “What?” he asked sharply. “You want to back out of ours now?”

  I scowled at him. “I mean the annulment. Pay attention. What do you remember about the minister who married you?”

  He grimaced again. “Not much. I was really nervous. It was Mulehide’s church, so you’d have to ask her. Why does it matter?”

  It took me until our meals arrived to explain once again the Church’s reasons for granting annulments. Milo digested the information along with the rest of his Scotch. He asked if I’d talked to Ben or Father Kelly about what I suspected regarding the Reverend J. C. Peace.

  “No,” I replied. “I only saw the wedding story just before I left work. We’ll have to get a copy of the church registry to see if the minister signed it. Tricia might know if he was legit.”

  Milo shook his head. “I doubt it. She didn’t go to church much after she got out of high school. Her folks went once in a while, though.”

  I realized how little I knew about Tricia Stanley Dodge Sellers. I’d met her for the first time back in February, when she’d come to ask if I’d help Tanya deal with her PTSD. “Are both Stanleys alive?”

  “Yeah,” Milo said after swallowing a mouthful of pickled beets. “In fact, they still live in the family home. They liked me, especially her dad. I was employed.” He forked in some cod.

  I licked at errant crumbs from the hard bread under my gravlax. “Have you seen them recently?”

  “Oh…” He gazed up at the white pine ceiling. “Last winter when I went steelheading at Reiter Ponds. I drop by when I’m fishing that hole near Sultan. Ralph still fishes. They’re nice folks, even if they did spoil Mulehide rotten. She was the only girl among their four kids.”

  “You’ve never mentioned anything about your ex-in-laws before,” I said with a tinge of reproach.

  Milo shrugged. “Why would I? You don’t know them.”

  “I’d like to know them now,” I asserted, leaning closer. “They may be able to help us. Or are they gaga?”

  My husband turned thoughtful. “Their minds are still sharp. Madge got a new hip last summer, but she needs the other one fixed. Ralph’s in decent shape, though he moves slower than he used to.” He paused. “They might like to meet you. They’ve been nagging me to find another wife for years. I doubt they know we’re married.” He grinned. “Wait until they see what I got.”

  I couldn’t help it. I simpered. It’s a wonder I didn’t say, “Aw, go on!”

  Instead, I stopped grinning back at Milo and asked when we could pay them a call.

  “If we go to Bellevue over the weekend, we could stop by on the way back,” he said after a pause. “They always like hearing about their grandkids. Mulehide isn’t good about keeping them in the loop. She doesn’t visit her folks very often, especially since her last divorce. I guess she’s embarrassed.”

  “Do you think you can get away from work to have dinner with Mu…I mean, Tricia?”

  “Probably,” Milo replied. “The big to-do for the Fourth is on Monday, so we should be able to go Friday or Saturday.” He shot me an inquiring glance. “Are you nervous about seeing Mulehide in her natural habitat?”

  “Not really,” I said. “Curious, though. I know what the house looks like from the outside because I saw it on TV during the standoff with Tanya’s late fiancé.”

  “It’s nice inside. But,” he added with a gleam in his hazel eyes, “she doesn’t have all new appliances like you do.”

  I simpered again.

  —

  Except for a flicker of eyelids behind the big glasses, Vida didn’t acknowledge my arrival Thursday morning. It was a bad start to the workday, but I told myself I might as well get used to it. A few minutes after I settled behind my desk, Mitch showed up with the bakery goods. I emerged to get a powdered sugar doughnut and asked him to come into my office. He looked wary. But my reporter often did.

  “I haven’t checked the sheriff’s log,” he said, placing his coffee mug on my desk and holding a knish on a napkin. “You think there’s news?”

  “No,” I said. “The only so-called news I heard from the sheriff last night was that Ren Rawlings went to the SnoCo ME’s department to view the remains of what she thinks might be her father. I wondered if you tracked her down before she left town or after she got back.”

  Mitch frowned. “She was already gone by the time I left here. I didn’t try later on. I don’t like leaving Brenda alone at night unless I have to, for county commissioners’ and school board meetings. I’ll check after I go to the sheriff’s office and the courthouse.”

  “That’s fine,” I assured him. “The ancestry angle might turn out to work with some other residents. In fact, we’ve had more diversity here since the college opened. As you know, the president, May Hashimoto, is Japanese and there are at least three or four other faculty members who have Asian backgrounds.”

  “Good angle,” Mitch said, brightening as he always did at the prospect of an interesting feature. “How about the old-timers? All those Scandinavians, at least one Greek family.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I wonder if Vida would help me with the locals?”

  “She might,” I replied. “It’s right up in her wheelhouse. And she’s not mad at you.”

  “Yet,” Mitch said under his breath.

  I merely nodded.

  —

  I wasn’t in the mood to research possible hippie protesters. In fact, I was in a faintly pugnacious mood, no doubt triggered by Vida’s antagonistic stance. However, she wasn’t wrong about RestHaven’s reluctance to become part of the community, especially releasing news of interest to SkyCo residents. I decided to call Spencer Fleetwood to get his reaction. Early on, Rosalie Reed had leaked items to him, which had infuriated me. Then I discovered they’d been lovers long before Dr. Reed had come to Alpine. But in the past few months the leak had been plugged. I suspected someone—probably Dr. Woo—had reprimanded Rosalie for not holding the institutional line.

  Spence answered in his usual mellifluous voice, but immediately went on the defensive before I could say anything. “If you’re calling about Almquist’s hiring at RestHaven, I did not know about it until I read it in the Advocate yesterday. We may both be sleeping with our sources, but Rosalie’s lips are as sealed as your favorite stud’s.”

  “Damn. You read my mind,” I said. “Now I’m really annoyed. What’s going on up there? Is Kay Burns earning her money by not releasing news?”

  “So it would seem,” Spence replied. “It’s one of those off-limit topics with Rosalie. You understand—akin to you making demands on Dodge about ongoing investigations.”

  “Right. I get it. Is Woo the one who’s so touchy or is it Farrell?”

  “Both. Patient privacy.” Spence sighed. “I’ve actually talked to Woo about it, but he’s politely adamant. Discretion is his middle name. By the way, what’s Vida doing for her show tonight? She hasn’t yet told me.”

  I stiffened in my chair. “I don’t know, either. Maybe it’s a surprise.”

  There was a brief silence before Spence spoke again. “You sound tense. Is the Queen of the Alpine Airways still a cloud of gloom?”

  “Yes. Good luck with her tonight.”

  “Oh God!” Spence exclaimed, no longer mellifluous. “What now? Never mind, I shall gird my loins. Got to dash off to do the hour-turn news. Not that I have much of it this morning.” He rang off.

  I decided to pay Kay Burns a call. It was better than staying in my office, where only a tight-lipped Vida remained at her desk. But when I was halfway to the newsroom, she spoke to me.

  “I’m writing about Miriam Lambrecht,” she announced as if she were handing out Order of the British Empire medals at Buckingham Palace. “She’s not
only a charming, well-bred woman, but extremely kind and friendly.” Vida turned her back to me and resumed typing.

  In other words, I thought, as I trudged out of the newsroom, the opposite of me.

  RestHaven might have changed its mailing address, but after parking my Honda, I went through the main entrance, half-expecting to see an armed Sid Almquist in uniform barring my way. But access was effortless and the rotunda was unchanged. I went up to the main desk, asking for Kay. The solemn young Samoan woman told me she’d check with Ms. Burns. While she spoke to Kay, I mentally added the receptionist to the list of ethnic possibilities for Mitch’s proposed feature.

  I was informed that Ms. Burns would see me. Did I know where her office was located? I didn’t. She pointed to a door on the right at the rear of the rotunda. My footsteps echoed as I walked across what had once been called the Bronsky ballroom, but in reality was where the family played Ping-Pong on rainy days while waiting for a mammoth delivery from Itsa Bitsa Pizza.

  Kay rose when I came into her comfortable office. “What a surprise, Emma!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you for over a month. Do sit. Coffee?” She pointed to a Starbucks Verismo model on a mahogany table.

  I declined. “You might want to have some booze on hand to put in that coffeemaker after I tell you why I’m here.”

  Kay, who was in her mid-fifties, but looked much younger, kept her composure. “Oh dear. What have I done?”

  “It’s what you haven’t done,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Both Spencer Fleetwood and I are frustrated over the lack of coverage we’re allowed to have of RestHaven. Vida’s upset, too, because all her requests for staff members to be on her radio program have been turned down. Even you refused, though you knew she wouldn’t ask embarrassing or intrusive questions on the air.” In private was another matter, but of course I didn’t say that.