by Mary Daheim
“Who knows? It's too bad that the story about Luce suing Dr. Randall was a fabrication on Murray's part to mislead us. Money wouldn't have hurt there, either.” I sighed, thinking of Delia cast adrift on the social and economic waters of an unknown town.
“Hey.” Milo leaned forward in the booth and grabbed one of my hands. “I can't come over tonight. I've got to drive down to Bellevue to meet Tanya's boyfriend. I kind of think they may announce that they're engaged. If it weren't serious, Mulehide wouldn't have asked me to come.”
The imminent betrothal of Milo's elder daughter was sufficient reason to dump me on a Friday night. “That's fine,” I said, then realized there was a lump in my throat. “You wouldn't leave Alpine, would you?”
Milo's fingers tightened around my hand. “Let's put it like this, Emma. I wouldn't leave you”
Ed called that night around seven-thirty. It was the old Bronsky, mired in self-pity. “I haven't heard from Dou-bleday,” he moaned. “What should I do? Try another publisher? What's wrong with those people? Don't they know a hot best-seller when they see one?”
“Ed, I tried to warn you that publishers don't read manuscripts as soon as they arrive in the mail. Especially what they call over-the-transom, which means without representation by an agent. You're going to have to wait at least—”
“Random House,” Ed broke in. “Wasn't that the one that Bennett Cerf headed up? I remember him from What's My Line? He was sharp. I'll bet Random House would jump at the chance to publish Mr. Ed.”
“Well, certainly,” I said, knowing that any words of wisdom would be ignored. “Ship them a copy. They'll be agog.” Visions of dismayed junior editors danced through my head, accompanied by an epilogue in which, after several pestering phone calls from Ed, they rushed to Manhattan window ledges and threatened to hurl themselves into traffic.
“Say,” Ed remarked, apparently buoyed by my encouragement, “I have to run for the parish council after all. Did I tell you? Father Den said we broke some rules the other night.”
“I thought so,” I replied mildly. “Go for it, Ed. Father Den needs all the help he can get.” And all that he deserves, I thought. There was no pat solution for the parish problems.
“It'll be another special election,” Ed noted. “A week from Sunday, probably. Now here's my election plan— first, I'm going to hire a musical group to play outside in the parking lot before the Masses this weekend. I'll hand out banners and bumper stickers and buttons. Maybe I'll set up a little stand, with free hot dogs and popcorn and soda. Here's the slogan: Tm Onsky for Bronsky.' What do you think? Either that or, 'Better Ed Than Dead.' Then I could get a professional clown to …”
I tuned Ed out. There were enough amateur clowns in the parish community as it was. Finally, thankfully, a call came in on my second line. With what I hoped sounded like regret, I told Ed I'd better hang up and see who was calling me. It might be important, perhaps something to do with Murray Felton and Ursula's murder.
I was half-right. It had nothing to do with Ursula or Murray, but it was important. It was Adam, calling from Tuba City.
“Hi, Mom. Uncle Ben's saying Mass this weekend in a trailer. Cool, huh?”
It didn't sound cool to me. In fact, it sounded hot, especially in Arizona. “Well, I suppose it beats having a liturgy at the local truck stop.”
“He did that last week,” Adam informed me. “But Tuesday we found this really huge trailer that can hold about fifty people if you clear everything out. After Sunday Mass, we're going to officially lay the cornerstone for the new church.”
“That's wonderful,” I said, and meant it. “When are you going back to ASU?” I appreciated Adam's support for his uncle, but I was tired of having him put me off about his college courses.
“I'm not, not right now,” he replied. “Uncle Ben needs a lot of hands. It's going to take a couple of weeks or more to put up the new building. It won't be anything fancy, just a kind of hall, like the old one.”
I didn't want to discuss architecture. “Which means you'll miss the first week of classes?” Nor did I wait for an answer. “Which means you might as well skip this quarter and just loaf around the reservation? Damn it, Adam, you're too close to a degree to slough off now. Has it ever occurred to you that someday you're going to have to get a job?
Adam made a noise that sounded like disgust. “I've got a job. Didn't I tell you … ?”
He hadn't. Not in so many words. He told me then.
I didn't want to hear it. But he told me anyway.
Milo returned from Bellevue Saturday afternoon. He wasn't keen on Tanya's fiance. “A computer type,” the sheriff declared as we lay in bed on a warm September evening. “A nerd. They met on the Internet. I don't get what she sees in him.”
“Who knows, when it comes to love?” I traced his profile with my fingers, but felt distracted. “Who knows, when it comes to kids?”
“Tanya should finish college,” Milo said with a frown.
“It's Mulehide who's pushing here. I think Tanya and this guy would like to live together for a while, but my ex won't have it. I know it's supposed to be wrong, but it makes sense these days. Find out what a person's really like. See if it's just sex. Get some of those dumb little problems out of the way before you make a commitment. Hell, if Mulehide and I'd done that, maybe we'd never have gotten married.”
Ordinarily, I would have probed further into Milo's musings. Was he sorry he'd taken Tricia to wife? Did he regret the divorce? Was he hinting that the two of us should live together? But for once, I had no interest in male-female relationships. I rolled over on my side and stared at the sliding doors of my closet.
“Hey—what's wrong?” Milo poked me in the small of the back. “You don't agree? What if Adam showed up with some girl he hardly knew except on-line and announced he was getting married? Wouldn't you pitch a fit?”
I shook my head, but didn't—couldn't—speak. Milo tickled me in the ribs. “Adam has too many girls? Is that it? Are you afraid he'll never settle down and produce some grandkids?”
I burst into tears. In recent years Adam had become acquainted with his father, Tom. But it was Ben who owned him. Ben had been there at his birth, Ben had inspired him, Ben had wrapped him in a mantel of goodness that I could never understand, let alone imitate. Ben had held him captive down on the reservation, a willing hostage.
“No girls, no grandchildren,” I blubbered. “No immortality for Emma Lord.” I caught myself, then turned just enough to look at Milo. “Not the kind you're thinking of. Not the kind I planned.” I swallowed hard, tasted the tears, and felt the smallest of smiles tug at my mouth. “Adam is going to be a priest.”
Another blow for Emma. Another Lord for the Lord.
Amen.
In Alpine, murder always seems to occur
in alphabetical order…
THE ALPINE ADVOCATE
THE ALPINE BETRAYAL
THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS
THE ALPINE DECOY
THE ALPINE ESCAPE
THE ALPINE FURY
THE ALPINE GAMBLE
THE ALPINE HERO
THE ALPINE ICON
THE ALPINE JOURNEY
THE ALPINE KINDRED
THE ALPINE LEGACY
THE ALPINE MENACE
THE ALPINE NEMESIS
THE ALPINE OBITUARY
… and you can be sure Emma Lord, editor
and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, is there
to report every detail.
THE EMMA LORD MYSTERIES
by Mary Daheim
Published by Ballantine Books.
Available wherever books are sold.
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 1997 by Mary Daheim
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-93708
eISBN: 978-
0-307-55426-0
v3.0