Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) Read online

  I nodded. “When will you call for the special election?”

  “At the Fourth of July picnic,” the mayor responded. “What patriotic citizen could object? I’m content to surrender my own position. Surely Jack would like to unburden himself of his frustrating government duties. It can’t be easy, given that the two other commissioners are so elderly and no longer capable of making sound decisions for our fine county.” The faded blue eyes held a hint of life. “A stroke of genius on your part, my dear, to run the flag picture on the front page of the special edition.”

  “It seemed appropriate,” I murmured modestly.

  “Indeed. Which,” he went on, folding his liver-spotted hands on the desk, “is why I’ll propose that the election be held Tuesday, September sixth—immediately after the Labor Day weekend. It’s time we put this county back to work.” For emphasis, he unfolded his hands and caressed the arms of his chair. “How does that strike you, shugah?”

  “Canny,” I remarked. “Maybe I should have Milo’s deputies pat down Blackwell if he shows up for the Labor Day event. Have you told Spencer Fleetwood about your plan for the Fourth?”

  The mayor leaned back in his chair. “All in good time. Had you not been so concerned about my welfare I wouldn’t have told you until it happened. You will be in attendance?”

  “Yes,” I assured him, standing up. “Meanwhile, keep Black Jack at bay. No doubt he’s still on the prowl. I assume you’re not armed?”

  Fuzzy gingerly rose to his feet. “I’m not afraid to walk the streets of Alpine without a weapon.” The blue eyes flickered. “My lovely wife is licensed to carry and conceal her Taurus PT-25 Pistol. Irene never leaves home without it.” He made another bow. “Do give my regards to your valiant husband. As always, it’s been a joy to visit with you.”

  Joy or not, I felt uneasy as I left the courthouse and heard the noon whistle sound at Blackwell Timber. I half-expected to espy Jack hiding in the shrubbery surrounding the venerable old building. Instead, I saw Milo loping out of his office a block away to get into the Yukon. I assumed he was meeting Tanya for lunch at the ski lodge.

  I didn’t feel hungry, so I decided to go back to the office and order some towels from Penney’s online site. By the time I arrived, only Alison was there to man the phones. Since some people ignored the sign on the door that said we were closed during the lunch hour, either our receptionist or Kip stayed around to take calls. My back-shop wizard usually brought his lunch, so I was faintly surprised to see Alison in place. I asked her why she hadn’t gone out to eat.

  “Chili MacDuff called just before noon,” she replied. “She thought someone was hiding in their garage. Maybe everybody’s nervous because there were those reports of a lurker in the paper this week.”

  “All two of them?” I said.

  Alison shrugged. “I’m glad Lori Cobb lives with me at Pines Villa. Mrs. Runkel says her sister-in-law, Ella, is gaga, but maybe she did see someone suspicious in the Parc Pines garage next door. Just in case, I look around our underground parking when I come and go.”

  “No point in taking chances,” I said. “Go ahead and have lunch. I’m going to stick around. This weather kills my appetite. I can stay up front while I do some online shopping.”

  Alison slid off her chair. “Okay. I won’t be long.”

  I found two sets of towels on sale. Feeling at loose ends, I went into the newsroom to take another look at Milo and Tricia’s wedding write-up. Having been overcome with mirth from seeing my husband as a lanky, anxious groom, I’d only skimmed Vida’s predecessor’s account of the wedding. Maybe I could find some details about the Reverend J. C. Peace. Grasping at straws is second nature to journalists. A mere mention of interest can spawn ten inches of copy on an uneventful day.

  Lugging the volume back to the front office, I flipped to the June 1973 issues. Tricia’s maid of honor was a cousin named Valerie Stone of Arlington; Milo’s older brother, Clint, had been his best man. I’d never met Clint, whose residence was listed as Pullman. No doubt he’d been finishing his doctorate in biology at WSU back then. All I knew about my brother-in-law was that he and his family lived in Dallas—and Milo never had anything good to say about him.

  After the two other bridesmaids, flower girl and ring bearer, there was a brief note about the minister: “The ceremony was conducted by the Reverend J. C. Peace of Arlington.”

  I sat up straight. Coincidence that Cousin Valerie and Minister Peace both resided in the same place? Arlington was another former logging town, but now three times the size of Alpine. Its location just off the I-5 freeway had turned it into a virtual suburb of Everett. But back in 1973, it had been much smaller. On the other hand, I knew nothing about Tricia’s maid of honor.

  Unwilling to give up my curiosity about the reverend, I put his name into the computer. Nothing. I narrowed my search to The Seattle Times. Another blank. Finally, I tried The Everett Herald. Zip. Maybe the newspapers’ online sites didn’t go back that far. Or maybe I was nuts for thinking J. C. Peace was the answer to a prayer for an annulment.

  At five to one, Vida was the first staffer to return. She looked startled to see me. I said hi and tried to smile.

  “Where’s Alison?” she inquired in a tone that suggested I might have beat up on the poor girl and booted her out onto Front Street.

  “Lunch,” I replied, then dared to ask her a question. “What do you know about the Reverend Peace?”

  She scowled. “Who?”

  I stated his full name as given in the wedding article.

  Vida was magnanimous enough to look thoughtful. “Y-y-yes. The peculiar person who performed Milo and Tricia’s wedding. Ernest and I did attend, even though it was in Sultan.”

  At first I thought she’d said it was “insulting.” Which it had been, as she had already told me, because the ceremony hadn’t been held in “one of Alpine’s nicer churches.” She’d probably said the same about Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip’s wedding at Westminster Abbey.

  “I believe,” she continued, digging deep into the gold mine that was her memory, “the minister was later arrested.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Some sort of protest. Antiwar, perhaps. Or was it over charges filed against another of those do-good groups from thirty years ago?” She shook her head. “It didn’t happen in Alpine. Seattle, perhaps.” Vida dismissed civil unrest with a shrug and stalked off into the newsroom.

  In other words, the reverend was just another do-gooder typical of his era. But I wasn’t giving up on him yet. In mid-May, Milo and I had gone to Bellevue to celebrate Tanya’s birthday with the rest of the Dodge family. My husband had insisted on taking us out to dinner to spare me from his ex’s mediocre cooking. Being ignorant about Eastside eateries, he’d let Tanya choose the restaurant. The first explosion from Milo had come when she emailed him to say we’d meet at Bison Main. Convinced we were having buffalo burgers for dinner, he’d grumbled for hours until I figured out that the restaurant’s name was Bis on Main. I gave up trying to explain what that meant, but the food was good. At least Milo thought it was after he realized he could order steak. Two steaks, in fact, because they were filet mignons and looked small to him. He’d also picked up the hefty check.

  But dining en famille in a public place hadn’t been conducive to discussing Tricia’s role in the annulment process. We didn’t stop at her house, so after shelling out seven hundred bucks, my beloved wanted to get the hell out of Bellevue and hightail it back to Alpine. The dinner had been a bit of a blur to me. Three strong MacNaughtons on the rocks can have that effect when I was feeling anxious about facing the rest of Milo’s family as the second Mrs. Dodge.

  The first thing I did when I got back to my office was to call my husband. “What,” I asked, “do you remember about the Reverend Peace?”

  “I already told you,” he replied, sounding testy. “Not much. He was young, had a beard, long hair, typical hippie. Hyped on love and all that bullshit. He spoke so d
amned softly that I couldn’t hear him if I’d tried.”

  “Don’t hang up on me,” I warned him. “Who’s Valerie Stone?”

  “Val?” Milo sounded startled. “A cousin. Why…oh, right, she was Mulehide’s maid of honor. What about her?”

  “Never mind. Is she still in Arlington?”

  He paused. “Maybe. Tanya might know. Ask her.”

  As I expected, he hung up. I felt frustrated. Vida was on the phone. Dare I call Tanya at work? She was new to the job, so that wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t know what she and her father had talked about at lunch. Was she in distress over Bill? I sat grim-faced, drumming my fingernails. Then I bit the bullet and called Tricia.

  “Emma,” she said in a voice that conveyed surprise, if not pleasure. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I replied, hoping I exuded warmth. “It’s about the annulment. I have a couple of questions. I’m not prying, strictly informational.”

  Tricia’s laugh seemed forced. “Well…certainly. I really don’t understand the process, but I gather it means something to you.”

  “It does,” I declared. “Who chose the minister who married you?”

  “I did,” Tricia responded. “He was a guest speaker at the church’s young people’s group in Sultan. I was very impressed by his vision of how our society should evolve, being a bit of a rebel back then. In fact, Milo’s cousin Val knew him. After I moved to Alpine and went to work in the ski lodge’s gift shop, she and I became roommates. That’s how Milo and I met. You might say Val set us up. I eventually forgave her for that.”

  I ignored the remark. “Is his real name J. C. Peace?”

  “Well…that’s how he signed the church’s marriage certificate.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  She laughed. “My, no! I left all that behind when I moved away. Milo told me he threw it all out. He would, of course. That’s so like him.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Would the church have a copy?”

  “The church is now a Boys and Girls Club,” Tricia replied. “My parents only went there for special occasions. We weren’t a religious family. I respect your own beliefs, though I don’t understand all the rules and regulations Catholics have. It seems very complicated. It isn’t as if you and Milo aren’t already married.”

  It was pointless to explain why the annulment meant so much to me or why the minister’s status mattered. I tried another tactic. “I’ve never heard Milo talk about Val. Are you still in touch with her?”

  “Not often,” Tricia replied. “Val never stopped trying to change the world. After she graduated from high school, she joined the Peace Corps and was sent to Jamaica. It sounded like a vacation to me, but she insisted the island wasn’t all rum and calypso. Then she came back to Alpine, but only for a short time. Val surfaces every so often, by phone or email. I think she’s in India now. She blogs and writes poetry. I’ve never known how she makes her living. I suspect she lives off of whatever man she’s with for as long as she can put up with him—and vice versa. Don’t get me wrong,” she added hastily. “I’ve always been fond of Val, but she’s an idealist and a blithe spirit.”

  “I don’t recall Milo mentioning her,” I said.

  “Oh?” There was a defensive note in the response. “She lived with the Dodges for a few years. Val’s parents on Milo’s mother’s side divorced. Frank was an alcoholic and after the marriage fell apart, Peggy Stone had a complete breakdown. Val was fourteen at the time and already kind of wild. The Dodges took her in. She lived with them until she turned eighteen, the same age as Milo’s sister, Emily. I assume he’s told you she died of cancer in her thirties?”

  “Yes,” I replied, though it had been Vida who’d given me the account of Emily’s brief life. Milo had, however, referred to his sisters upon occasion, which had puzzled me, but I’d never pressed him for details. “I hope we can make it for dinner tomorrow night,” I said. “That is, if the invitation is still open.”

  “Oh, it is,” Tricia responded with enthusiasm. “I want you both to meet Zach. I think I’ve finally found Mr. Right. He’s so sensitive, pleasant, thoughtful, easygoing—everything I always wanted in a man.”

  In other words, not much like Milo. “I’m very happy for you,” I said. “We’ll be there unless some crisis doesn’t come along before we take off.”

  “Yes.” Her tone hardened. “So often during our marriage, Milo had a crisis. Maybe you can put up with it. You don’t have children. I did.”

  “I have my own work crises,” I said. “They’re inherent in both of our jobs. Is there anything I can bring?”

  “No, but thanks for offering,” Tricia replied. “I have everything I need.” Her last words sounded smug.

  I felt sorry for her. After twenty years, she was still bitter. She’d walked out on her marriage and into the arms of a man who’d betrayed his wife. From what little I knew of Tricia, she was a decent, well-meaning woman. She loved her children. And, yes, she’d had the heavier task of raising them. Milo had done his best, but the job always came first. I wondered if Tricia had regrets. I had my own, especially wasting thirty years waiting for my son’s father, Tom Cavanaugh. I didn’t judge Tricia. Life’s full of what-ifs.

  But the chat left me wondering. Who was Valerie Stone? She’d lived in Alpine and apparently been a hippie. Val was a poet, a free spirit, and the right age to be Ren’s mother. Kassia Arthur was on the birth certificate. Like J. C. Peace, the name struck me as an invention.

  If Tricia and Milo didn’t have the answers, someone else might. I went into the newsroom to do what everyone in SkyCo did. I’d ask Vida.

  ELEVEN

  “Valerie Stone,” Vida repeated. “Yes, of course, she was Tricia’s maid of honor. A slim, dark-haired girl with a bit of a wild streak. Nice-looking in an exotic sort of way. She had a great deal of nervous energy, unable to stay still for very long. I recall stopping by the ski lodge reception desk when she worked there. Valerie never seemed to have the time—or the focus—for a friendly chat.”

  In other words, Val had evaded Vida’s interrogation techniques. “You’ve never talked about her,” I said. “Neither has Milo. But she sounds hard to forget.”

  Vida fingered her chin. “Well now. She wasn’t in Alpine very long. Once she graduated from high school, she went into the Peace Corps. She mailed some articles about what she was doing in…Jamaica, I believe. That, of course, was before I started working here.”

  Prehistoric, I thought, in terms of the Advocate. “But she came back to Alpine, right?”

  “Of course,” Vida asserted, implying that any sensible person would do the same. “Not directly, though. I believe she spent some time in Seattle. Valerie wasn’t raised here, but in Arlington, where Milo’s aunt and uncle lived. You know about their divorce?” I nodded. “Peggy Stone never recovered. She died in the Sedro Woolley asylum. Her ex-husband, Frank, simply disappeared. He drank. I suppose he’s dead, too.”

  Encouraged by Vida’s civility, I considered passing on my latest crazy idea about Ren’s mother. But she turned away. “I must answer two more letters asking for advice about wayward spouses. If these women didn’t whine so much, perhaps their husbands wouldn’t stray. It takes two to ruin a marriage. By the way, Ella is out of the hospital. There’s nothing wrong except extreme muddleheadedness.” She began typing in her usual rat-a-tat manner. For some reason, it reminded me of a machine gun. Maybe she’d like to shoot me. But our nonconfrontational conversation was heartening. Or maybe I was grasping at straws.

  Yet I hadn’t been enlightened much by Vida’s recollections of Tricia’s attendant. I’d hoped for a tale about Val leaving town to have an illegitimate child. Maybe I should put thoughts of Ren Rawlings aside. Assuming she had checked herself in to RestHaven, Ren might be there for weeks, even months. Her story intrigued me, but in terms of news value, the most I’d probably get out of it would be Mitch’s human-interest piece about Alpiners’ roots.

  The afternoon wore o
n, overwarm and soporific. It was the last day of June. What would July and August be like? I pondered the question as I drove home at five, noting a heat haze rising above the indolent Skykomish River. The first thing I did when I arrived was to open all the doors and windows. If the lurker showed up, he could stand around and lurk. He probably didn’t have any more energy than I did. Milo could grill. I had hamburger in the freezer and my little cooker to make the blasted French fries. I’d toss a salad and call it good.

  The sheriff arrived at five-thirty, looking irked. After he gave me a perfunctory kiss, I asked what was wrong.

  “People,” he said, tossing his regulation hat onto the peg by the front door. “I’m going to change. I sweated so much the past two hours that this shirt’s going straight to Mrs. Overholt.” He headed out of the living room and into the hall.

  I hadn’t known until after we started living together that one of the Overholt women had been doing the sheriff department’s laundry and cleaning for years. It was one way to make some extra money. Their farm barely provided subsistence living. I’d been relieved, wondering how I’d ever get a decent crease in Milo’s pants. Ironing was never my strong suit. If it didn’t wash and wear, I didn’t buy it. Except, of course, for my rare splurges at Francine’s Fine Apparel. That part of my wardrobe went to the dry cleaners next door to the Advocate.

  “So,” I said when my husband reappeared in the kitchen and I’d informed him he had to start the grill, “what’s wrong with people now?”

  Milo gulped some Scotch before answering. “We’ve had more calls today from as far away as Moclips, all swearing the stiff must be a missing husband, son, brother, or their village idiot. Worse yet, Roy Everson isn’t giving up. He insists the skeleton’s Mama. He told me she was taller than she looked.”

  “But no possible IDs?” I asked as we headed outside.

  “Not really,” he said after sitting in the lawn chair. “When you pin down the callers, they either have a description that doesn’t match, the wrong time frame, or a different part of the state.” He paused to light two cigarettes and handed me one. “Here’s your bug repellent.”