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

  The serious young Samoan woman had been replaced by a freckled-faced young man with overlarge ears. “Unit Six,” he said, checking his monitor. “Please turn left on the second floor.”

  I thanked him and headed for one of the two passenger elevators. As lazy as the Bronskys were, I marveled they’d never thought of installing one for themselves. Or maybe an escalator in case they all couldn’t fit in the elevator. The other elevator door opened. To my surprise, the sheriff got out—and started walking right by me.

  “Milo!” I called sharply.

  He turned around. “Emma.” My husband didn’t look pleased to see me. “Okay,” he said, moving closer. “I’m guessing you’re here to see Ren. Good luck with that. I’d rather interrogate Crazy Eights Neffel.”

  “Why,” I asked, ignoring the stare of the young man behind the front desk, “did you interrogate her? I was invited, as you may recall.”

  He sighed. “She called my office saying somebody was trying to kill her. Yeah, I know she told you the same thing, but Mullins took her semi-hysterical call a half hour ago. I figured it was either send Dwight Gould or go in person. You know Dwight—he’s not Mr. Tact.”

  “Well? Is there cause for concern?”

  Milo had taken off his regulation hat and was scratching behind his ear. “Hell, I don’t know. Ren’s definitely scared of something. Farrell came in when I was there and gave her a shot. She started to calm down after that. For all I know, she may have gone to sleep.”

  “I saw Farrell when I arrived,” I said, lowering my voice almost to a whisper. “He’s a real jerk.”

  The sheriff nodded absently. “He started giving me some guff, but I told him to stick it before I arrested him for interfering with an officer of the law. He backed down fast. I don’t trust that guy. Didn’t he give you a bad time when you interviewed him last winter? Too bad we weren’t married then. I could’ve busted him for lipping off to the wife of a law officer.”

  “Is that an actual crime?”

  “No, but it should be.” Milo mussed my hair. “Good luck. I’m off to the Burger Barn. Breakfast came too early this morning.”

  Watching my husband lope away though the rotunda lobby, I pushed the elevator button again. The second car’s door opened immediately. Two minutes later I was in Unit Six, a small but surprisingly cozy room where I found Ren huddled under a colorful quilt. Her eyes were half closed, but flickered open when I pulled up the only chair in the room.

  “Good,” she murmured. “Do you know the sheriff? He just left.”

  I didn’t want to waste time on my personal life. It was more important to keep Ren focused. “Yes, I’ve known Dodge for years. He’s a fine person, with great integrity. Was he able to help you?”

  She rolled over onto her back, resting a hand on her forehead. “He was very kind. But he doesn’t understand. He can’t, of course.”

  For once, I didn’t blame Milo for being baffled. “What should he understand?”

  Ren’s eyes widened. “My mother. She’s here. I haven’t seen her, but I can sense it.”

  “You mean…” I, too, was baffled. “She’s a patient here?”

  Ren’s hand drifted from her forehead to lie like a wounded sparrow on the quilt. “I don’t know. Is madness hereditary?”

  “That depends,” I replied. “There are probably genetic strains carried from parents to children when it comes to emotional stability.”

  “That makes sense.” She smiled wanly. “It’s good that something makes sense. Not much does since I came to Alpine.”

  “You’ve been on a bit of a roller coaster,” I remarked. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to see more of Donna’s gallery. She sells mainly regional items, including works by a local painter who’s very talented.”

  “Oh?” Ren’s blue eyes widened. “Who?”

  “His name’s Craig Laurentis. I own one of his paintings. It’s called Sky Autumn. Have you heard of him?”

  Ren frowned. “Yes, I think I have. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen his work, though. What does he paint?”

  “The scene I have is quite realistic, a rushing river around here,” I explained. “It’s very visceral—to me, anyway. His style has changed in the last few years, though. More abstract is the best way I can describe it.”

  Ren nodded solemnly. “He’s experimenting. That means he’s growing as an artist. That’s good.”

  Pleased that Ren was making sense, I didn’t tell her that Craig’s more recent work had failed to move me. “Donna’s sold several of his paintings,” I said. “He also deals with other galleries in the region.”

  “I’d like to meet him.” Ren propped herself up on the pillow. “When I feel better, I mean. But some artists don’t like talking about their work.”

  “Craig’s a bit of a recluse. He’s very kind, though,” I added.

  “Some people aren’t,” Ren asserted, frowning. “I wish I knew who is trying to kill me. Then I could tell the sheriff. Wouldn’t he have to arrest whoever it is?”

  “Well…he’d have to get some evidence first, but,” I went on quickly, seeing Ren’s alarmed expression, “he might find a reason for questioning whoever the person might be. I gather you don’t know, right?”

  “That’s true.” Her face turned wistful. “I think it’s someone who doesn’t want me to find out what happened to my mother. And maybe to my father.” She blinked several times as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Have you experienced any actual…” I paused, trying not to further upset Ren. “Actual menace?”

  She shook her head. “I sense the danger, though. It’s there in the shadows. I wish I knew why my mother seems so close to me here. It’s as if she’s trying to protect me. Does that make sense?’

  I hesitated. “That’s a hard question to answer. Maybe you know something that you don’t realize, something that’s important about why your mother left you in the first place.”

  The tears had slipped down Ren’s pale cheeks, though her voice was strong when she spoke. “How could I know anything like that?”

  I handed Ren a tissue I’d pulled out of the box on the stand by the bed. “That’s the problem. You don’t recognize it, but something will come along that will trigger the memory.” And Skykomish County will become the must-see hot spot for international visitors. To be fair to my big mouth, I knew that memory can play strange tricks.

  Ren dabbed at her eyes. “You’re so nice. I can’t think why.” She sank back down under the quilt. “I’m suddenly very tired. Would you mind staying until I go to sleep?”

  I did mind, as I was starting to get hungry, but I wouldn’t leave Ren alone. “Of course not,” I said. “A nap is a good idea.”

  She smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

  Two minutes later, Ren was asleep. She was still smiling.

  —

  I caught up with Milo at the Burger Barn just as he was polishing off his standard cheeseburger, fries, and a green salad. Before I could say anything, he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  “Vida’s in the booth behind me. Her frozen smile felt kind of good on a hot day. She’s nailing Marje Blatt to the wall.”

  “For what?” I whispered.

  My husband shrugged. “The latest medical records. What else?”

  “Speaking of that sort of thing,” I said, keeping my voice down, “Ren actually made some sense when we started talking about art.”

  “Art who?” Milo asked in his normal tone.

  “As in paintings,” I said, deciding I might as well speak up, too. “Craig Laurentis’s work, mainly. I think Donna may still have one of his new paintings for sale. Ren has heard of him.”

  “They’d make a good pair,” the sheriff remarked, lighting a cigarette despite the NO SMOKING sign. “Maybe she’d like to move in with him to his cave or shack or wherever he holes up in the forest.”

  Kinsey came to take my order. Like my husband, I lacked imagination. I asked for my standard plain burger-fries-s
alad. Not that there was much choice. With only three places serving a sit-down lunch in the commercial area, the Burger Barn had never felt a need to expand its menu. Their version of fish and chips smelled like bullhead—I’d eaten it once and that was enough. The most exotic item was a weekly special, usually some kind of chicken on a bun. It hadn’t ever appealed to me—or to the sheriff.

  After refilling Milo’s mug, a quartet of boisterous teenagers sat down across from us. There was no need to lower my voice when I asked Milo for details of his visit with Ren. Even Vida’s keen hearing couldn’t pick up on what we were saying.

  My better half scowled at me. “Why do you think? She wanted me to put a deputy on watch at RestHaven to make sure she didn’t get killed. I told her I couldn’t. I don’t have the staff, especially with a holiday weekend coming up. Anyway, I didn’t think Dr. Woo would approve.”

  “How did she take that?” I inquired, now raising my voice to be heard over the raucous foursome a few feet away.

  “She started to cry,” Milo replied, darting a sharp look at the clueless kids. “I told her I knew RestHaven’s security chief and he was topnotch. Hell, for all I know, Sid Almquist doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. But Ren stopped crying.”

  “She cried when I was there, too.” I winced as a menu turned into a paper airplane sailed past me. The sheriff got to his feet and loomed over the teens, who apparently were too self-absorbed to notice the big guy in uniform across the aisle.

  “Any of you got a driver’s license?” Milo asked in his laid-back laconic manner.

  I had to lean to look around my husband, but I could see only one couple, a towheaded boy and a ginger-haired girl. They both appeared appropriately startled.

  “I do,” replied the male teen who was out of my line of sight. “We’re from Sultan. Jeb’s got a license, too. We never even got a ticket so far. Just a caution for Jeb. Danielle and Josie got learner permits. They just turned sixteen. We’re here for a project.”

  His rapid, lengthy delivery indicated he was nervous. I tried not to smile. Long before I married Milo, I enjoyed watching him make people squirm. The enjoyment stopped, however, when I was the object of his official inquiry.

  The sheriff took his time studying the license. “Okay, Alex. But tone it down. What’s your project?”

  The girl in my line of sight looked up at my husband. “Are you the sheriff? If you are, maybe you can help us.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  I recognized the faint note of impatience in Milo’s voice. I, however, sensed a news story. So did Vida, who suddenly appeared in the aisle with Marje Blatt trailing like a reluctant caboose. My House & Home editor ignored me, but acknowledged the sheriff with a curt nod. She didn’t speak, but waited tensely for Milo to finish with the teenagers.

  “We got a summer assignment for our junior year,” the ginger-haired girl replied. “Our social studies teacher asked us to investigate something. It could be anything, just so it was something nobody else has figured out. We heard about the dead dude who was dug up here in Alpine, so we decided that’d be our project. Can we come to your office to ask some questions?”

  “Call first,” Milo said curtly. “Meanwhile, stay out of trouble.”

  He swerved around, almost bumping into Vida’s imposing bust. “Hi, Vida. They’re all yours,” he said before addressing me. “I’m out of here. You got enough money to pay for lunch?”

  “Yes!” I yipped. “I haven’t even gotten my lunch yet. Maybe I’ll bring it over to your office just to annoy you.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I’m going into seclusion.” The sheriff dumped a dollar and two quarters on the table, picked up his bill, and stalked off down the aisle.

  Vida, meanwhile, was interrogating the teenagers. Marje stood patiently waiting for her aunt, giving me an occasional weary glance. Not seeing any sign of Kinsey, I decided to vacate the premises and see if I could take my lunch back to the office. It was going on one and I had to be at Des Ellerbee’s cabin by two. By the time I collected my order at the service counter and paid for it, Vida apparently was still interviewing the Sultan teens. Maybe there was a story in their assignment. As I headed for the front door, I saw Marje leave just ahead of me. I assumed she’d given up waiting for Aunt Vida.

  When I exited, I spotted Vida’s niece lingering at the corner of Fourth by the bank. I usually would’ve crossed at Third, but decided I might as well stay on the south side of Front lest she think I was avoiding her.

  “Hi,” I greeted her. “Are you waiting for Vida?”

  “No,” Marje said, her once pretty face fading as she approached middle age. “I hoped you’d come this way. I’m worried about Aunt Vida. I suggested a checkup with Doc Dewey just now, but she fobbed me off. I really don’t think it’s physical, but that mess my idiot cousin Roger left for her to deal with. How is she at work?”

  “Sour,” I replied as we continued on across Fourth. “She’s not speaking to me unless it’s strictly business. I don’t know what to do. I keep hoping somebody—Buck Bardeen, namely—can get her to stop blaming the world for Roger’s imprisonment.”

  “Buck’s stumped,” Marje said as we passed the Chamber of Commerce office in the Alpine Building. “He’s very fond of Aunt Vida. I think he’d like to marry her, but even before all this happened, she wasn’t keen on the idea. She’s too independent.”

  I smiled wryly. “I thought I was, too. I was wrong.”

  “Aunt Vida’s never admitted being wrong,” Marje said sadly. “Nobody in the family—except maybe Aunt Mary Lou—has ever been able to stand up to her. We all hoped Buck was made of sterner stuff. Has she talked about Roger since he went to jail?”

  “Never,” I replied. “She’s too embarrassed. It’s stupid. Everybody knows what happened. Deep down, I think the worst part of it is that she knows she’s guilty of spoiling him rotten. I hate to say it, but Amy and Ted did a poor job of parenting.”

  “We all knew that from the start,” Marje said as we reached the corner by the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. “She hasn’t seen Roger since he went to the Shelton facility. I offered to go with her a couple of weeks ago, but she refused, saying she didn’t want to see him caged like an animal with all those real criminals.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “He’s always been sort of unreal.”

  Marje smiled ironically. “I can’t tell you how many family get-togethers he’s ruined with his bad behavior.” She stopped at the corner. “I’ve gone out of my way to get back to the clinic, but I knew Aunt Vida was heading in the same direction toward the gym. She’s writing up the Golden Agers program they’re starting in the fall. Maybe she should sign up and work through her problems on the new equipment.”

  “I’d pay to see that,” I asserted.

  Marje shrugged. “It won’t happen. She’d rather internalize.” In an uncharacteristic gesture, she put a hand on my arm. “I feel as if I’m bad-mouthing Aunt Vida. But the truth is, she’s the heart and soul of our family. Oh, the others might complain and not always agree with her, but…she’s the source of our strength in so many ways. We feel rudderless when she’s not acting like herself.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, glancing across the street at the Advocate office. “I’m starting to feel as if I’m the skipper of a sinking ship.”

  Marje nodded. “I understand. At least it’s too hot for an iceberg.”

  That, I thought, as Vida’s niece went on her way, was cold comfort.

  —

  The cabin that had once been owned by Crystal Bird looked much the same as I remembered it. Tucked into the woods off Highway 2, it seemed to have weathered nicely. Yet I couldn’t help shuddering as I went up to the small front porch. Even though I hadn’t been the one to find Crystal’s body floating in the hot tub, that was where I’d left her on the night that she’d been killed. I’m not fanciful, but I sensed an unease hovering over the setting, as if the dead owner haunted the place.
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  Des’s cheerful smile dispelled the feeling. “The local publisher,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “I hope you won’t ask to see what I’ve written so far. I’m still in the concept stage.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him, recognizing a rocker and a faux kerosene lamp I recalled from my previous visit. “Who did you rent from? I lost track of the ownership some years ago.”

  “One Aaron Conley,” Des said, indicating I should sit on a cut-velvet Victorian settee that wasn’t part of the previous decor. “Everything was done online or over the phone. I gather he moved some time ago.”

  I nodded. “He and the previous owner were separated but hadn’t divorced. He lived here for at least a short time.”

  “Right.” Des chuckled, reminding me of Rosemary’s initial impression. He was no love god, but his pleasant face crinkled nicely and his blue eyes had a humorous glint. “He struck me as an aging activist,” my host continued, “keen on the environment. And music, given some of his comments.”

  “Aaron had a band when I knew him,” I said. “Maybe he still does.” I’d let Rosemary fill in Des about Crystal’s murder. I doubted it would spook him. He seemed well grounded, and as a writer, he’d probably be intrigued. I launched into my role as interviewer. Des’s background was the same as what Rosemary had told me, though he gave more detail about his early years in the movie business.

  “Until recently,” he continued after taking a break to make us each an iced mocha frappe, “I’ve been more of a script doctor than a writer of original screenplays. Oh, I’ve dabbled, working with my own concepts, but this is the first full-length, non-spec script I’ve done. I decided to do it on location, as it were. I’d never heard of Skykomish or Alpine until I started looking for rentals in the area.” He paused to make a comical face. “So here I am, in the forest next to a couple of old logging towns.”

  After he’d served the frappes, we moved out to sit by the hot tub. I tried not to visualize Crystal at our last—and only—meeting, stark naked and contemptuous in the warm water. She’d defied the snowy night, but couldn’t deter her killer. I forced myself to focus on my next question, asking Des if he had any characters in mind.