The Alpine Winter

by Mary Daheim

  “Dare I ask how the younger guy’s head got injured?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “In the fight, I suppose.”

  “Any names?”

  “Not yet. Dodge got here just ahead of Jack.”

  Milo suddenly appeared. “Doe, go—” He saw me and stopped. “Hi, Emma.” He turned to Doe. “Go confiscate the damned weapon.”

  “What weapon?” she asked.

  “The freaking snowboard. What else?” He wheeled around and returned to wherever he’d been.

  “How would I know that?” Doe muttered, collecting her jacket and hat. “Sorry, Emma, got to head to the lodge. Is it safe to leave you with those two?” she asked, jerking her thumb at Bill and Sam.

  I was pressed for time. “I’m leaving,” I said, joining her at the door.

  “Emma,” she said as we reached the sidewalk, “I want to say something. It’s … personal.”

  I put the hood over my head. “Go ahead. You can’t annoy me.”

  She nodded. “You know how much I respect and admire Dodge,” she said, looking embarrassed. “I’m glad for you both. I came on board two years ago, so I wasn’t here when you broke up. I’ve heard stories about how miserable he was and how rough it was to work for him back then. It was to his credit that he pulled himself together and nobody quit. I figured you must be a real bitch to do that to him. Then I got to know you and changed my mind. Now you’re both happy. Kind of goofy, but happy.” She bit her lip. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I looked up into the glowering gray clouds and the endless rain. “I always thought I was a bit smarter and a lot quicker, but I was wrong. Milo was way ahead of me a long time ago.”

  Doe smiled. “What matters is that you caught up with him.”

  I felt my mouth twitch. “Maybe it’s that he never let me go.”

  ELEVEN

  OKAY,” MILO SAID ON THE PHONE A HALF HOUR LATER. “I’VE got what you wanted from me.”

  “Gosh. You read my mind.”

  “Shut up. I’m tired. Wait—you still stuck with the priests?”

  “Yes—and Vida and Leo. They’re all coming for dinner.”

  “Shit. Hey—why can’t I come?”

  “Uh … do you like lasagna? I’ve never seen you eat it.”

  “Restaurants don’t serve it in a microwavable box. Well?”

  “Why not?”

  “What time?”

  “Seven? Your perps made me late and Ben’s taking Shirley Bronsky to see Ed at the hospital.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Yes. High blood pressure. Big surprise. Really big, being Ed.”

  “Ed.” I heard Milo sigh. “Okay. Charles G. Andrews, forty-six, Seattle attorney, owner of a Cadillac Escalade, in town on business, staying at the ski lodge. Claims to be the innocent victim of having his high-end rear end and side of vehicle damaged by a custom Chevy Ram truck driven by Todd ‘Turk’ Durgan, twenty-seven, Everett software designer and snowboarder. Both charged with vehicular and bodily assault as well as disorderly conduct, bail set at five grand apiece, plus medical expenses for Andrews’s assault on Durgan with Durgan’s snowboard and two grand for the snowboard itself after Andrews purposely drove over it with his Escalade. Both set free on their own recognizance after posting bail.”

  “Wow,” I said, scribbling furiously to keep up, “was that as much fun for you as it was for them?”

  “They deserve each other,” Milo said. “They’re a couple of rich, self-centered bastards. I kind of enjoyed subduing the big-city suit. Jack had a little more trouble with the software snowboard dude.”

  Something niggled at my brain, but I couldn’t pinpoint it. “Any idea why this well-heeled attorney was here?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Do I have to tell you?”

  “No, I can guess, and I don’t know why he’s in town and I don’t give a shit. Hang up, Emma, or you won’t serve dinner until ten.” Milo rang off, leaving me with an unasked question. I called him back.

  “What now?” he asked, sounding exasperated.

  “Knock it off, big guy. Your browbeaten deputy, Bill, won’t let me quote him saying foul play can’t be ruled out in Gus’s death. Well?”

  “I doubt it was suicide.”

  “Accident?”

  “Hell, say what you want. I can’t even rule out Gus starving himself to death. He always was kind of pudgy.”

  “Can I say that?”

  Milo hung up on me—again. Madly in love or not, some things never changed. The only difference was that I wasn’t infuriated. Thus, I duly wrote that “Sheriff Milo Dodge could not confirm the cause of Patricelli’s death until a full autopsy is concluded in Everett. However, Dodge did not rule out foul play or an accident.”

  I zapped the story to Kip. Then I wrote three inches about the arrests of Mr. Escalade and Mr. Pickup. It was five-ten by the time I finished. Alison had already bid me good night. I found Kip in the back shop, where he showed me the photo he’d taken at the sheriff’s office.

  “Do you think Mullins will kill me?” he asked.

  “It’s news,” I said.

  “Four by four? Maybe two by two. The story’s short.”

  “Hey,” Kip protested, “it’s my first picture. I risked my life for it.”

  “Jack won’t like you showing him grab the perp by his hair,” I pointed out. “He’ll worry about police brutality. Look at the copy I sent you. If you think I can add anything, maybe we can go four columns.”

  Kip went to his monitor. “Whoa!” he exclaimed. “Turk Durgan!”

  “You know this guy?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Kip retorted, his expression awestruck.

  “How about me—and apparently the sheriff?”

  “That’s because you and Dodge are old … er. You aren’t into snowboards. Turk’s world-class. He’s big with gamers, too, awesome snowboarding ones. He’s headed for the 2006 Winter Olympics.”

  “Great. To think I was worried about the big-shot Seattle lawyer.”

  “What a jackass,” Kip said, shaking his head. “He trashed Turk’s snowboard? Dodge should’ve put him in solitary confinement for that.”

  “There’s no such thing in SkyCo,” I reminded Kip. “The worst torture is listening to Dwight bitch about women. Have you met Turk?”

  “No, but I’ve seen him at the pass and last year when I went skiing at Schweitzer in Idaho. Awesome.” Kip frowned. “I only saw his backside when Mullins was busting him. I wonder why he’s here. There hasn’t been much good snow until now for a guy like him. Got a cutline?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Look below the story. It IDs Jack and the perp. That is, the world-class Olympic snowboarder. But we won’t say that.”

  Kip fingered his chin. “Everybody will know who he is.”

  “Except us old folks,” I remarked.

  “Sorry about that, Emma. Really.”

  “Forget it. I wish we’d known he was here. It’d make a good story. Too late now, unless …” I stared at Kip. “Have you ever considered writing a story or doing an interview? Turk may still be in town.”

  “His snowboard’s ruined. But he’ll need a new one now that the pass reopened.” His face lit up. “Are you serious? I don’t know about writing, but I can ask good questions. You could help me.”

  I considered the pros and cons, given Turk’s arrest. “Call Henry Bardeen to see if Durgan’s still at the lodge. We’ll take it from there.”

  Kip’s face flushed with excitement. “So we go with the bigger pic?”

  I grimaced. “No. That’s pushing it. Show me the one of Gus.”

  Kip zeroed in on the typical high school headshot. Augustine Patricelli bore a faint resemblance to Pete. Gus’s round face was almost cherubic. What struck me was that the high school senior had no idea he’d never live to see his twentieth Bucker reunion.

  “I’m off to grocery-shop,” I said, patting Kip’s arm. “Call if you need me. I’ll be
home playing hostess.”

  “Good luck with that,” he murmured.

  I didn’t admit I’d need it, but at least I got lucky at the Grocery Basket. They were busy with the after-work crowd, so none of the O’Tooles had time to chat. Like me, the other shoppers were operating in a post-holiday fog, absorbed in restocking their larders. I moved along quickly, but it still took twenty minutes before I reached the checkout stand. I barely recognized the elderly couple and the middle-aged woman ahead of me. I had no idea who got in line behind me. I kept my hood up to avoid being recognized and escaped without getting hassled, annoyed, or vilified.

  By six-twenty, I had the lasagna in the oven, two loaves of French bread ready for warming up later, and was making a big romaine salad. I was adding the radishes and tomatoes when the doorbell rang.

  “Why,” the sheriff inquired, kicking the door closed behind him, “don’t you get me a key? You’re a mess. You’ve got some kind of slop on your front.”

  I looked down at my bosom. “It’s tomato, I think. You’re early.”

  “I figured you might need some help. And I need a drink.” He headed for the kitchen. “You want one?”

  “Yes,” I said, trailing after him. “Guess what. You don’t need a key. You don’t live here.”

  Milo set the liquor bottles on the counter. “Give me time,” he said, hooking a long arm around my neck and drawing me closer. “I’d kiss you, but this is a clean shirt. Go clean up while I make the drinks.”

  I poked him in the chest. “You are impossible.”

  “That makes two of us.” He let go and I hurried off to change, wondering if we’d get through the evening without a disaster. My only hope was Vida. If she’d recovered, I could rely on her to maintain civility.

  It took only a few minutes to make myself reasonably presentable. The sheriff had our drinks on the counter. He’d also pulled out the dining room table in the alcove. “What do you put on this?” he asked.

  “It’s called a tablecloth,” I said. “I’ll get one from the hall closet.”

  He followed me. “You put on lipstick. Couldn’t you wait?”

  “It was automatic,” I said. “You told me …”

  I never finished. I was in his arms and he was kissing me with that familiar hunger. We fed off of each other, all our former restraints finally shattered. Something had to give or we’d sabotage the dinner party before the guests arrived.

  Needing to breathe, we pulled away just enough so that I could speak. “Stop. Please.”

  “Right.” Reluctantly, he let me go. “I’ll wipe off the lipstick while you put more on.” He sighed. “What would happen if I flat-out asked your damned brother what he’s got in his freaking head?”

  “Oh, please don’t! This isn’t an interrogation room.”

  “Too bad. That I can handle. Priests are a different deal.” But the sheriff shrugged and went into the bathroom to get a tissue.

  I took a tablecloth from the closet, grabbed a lipstick out of my purse, and applied a fresh coat of Crimson Snowbird.

  “Hey,” I said as Milo helped me put the cloth on the table, “Kip says one of your ski lodge perps is a famous snowboarder, Turk Durgan.”

  “He’s an infamous asshole,” Milo said. “So what?”

  “Kip wants to interview him.”

  The sheriff’s reaction surprised me. “Wait … I’ve heard of him. Only the first name, Todd, stuck.” He made a face. “One of my kids has talked about him. Bran—he snowboards. Is this guy suing me?”

  “If he sues you, he’ll sue me. We’re running a picture of Jack hauling him through your reception area.”

  Milo slammed his hand against the wall. “Emma! You’re an idiot!”

  “Hey—it’s news.”

  “You take lousy pictures. It’s probably a blur.”

  “I didn’t take it. Kip did.”

  “Pull it.”

  “I can’t. It’s news.”

  He moved from the table, grabbing my shoulders. “Do it for me.”

  I shook my head. “That’s censorship. You can’t expect me to knuckle under just because … just because.”

  He gave me a little shake. “The hell I can’t. You and MacDuff didn’t have permission. He must’ve come inside to take the damned thing.” His eyes sparked with anger, though he’d lowered his voice. “Do what you have to, but don’t run it. Does Jack know?”

  “His back was turned,” I said, my own anger rising up. First my reporter, now the sheriff. Whatever happened to freedom of the press? “Would you prefer we’d taken one of you collaring Mr. Suit?”

  “Hell no!” Milo bellowed. “When was the last time I let you morons take a picture inside my office?”

  “Could it be because you rarely do anything newsworthy except sit around on your dead butts drinking coffee and—”

  Milo shook me. “Shut the hell up! I killed a man once for you, you little twit. Have you forgotten that? I sure as hell haven’t!”

  The doorbell rang. In fact, it may have rung several times. I thought my ears were ringing from Milo’s shaking me. I groaned. “Oh, God! They’re here!”

  Milo dropped his hands. As I turned around, Adam and Ben entered. “Found my key,” my son said—and grew sheepish. “Uh … hi, Sheriff. How’s everybody?”

  I didn’t know where to look. I was aware of Milo practically breathing down on the top of my head. It’s a wonder my hair wasn’t singed. “We were just … arguing about the public’s right to know,” I mumbled. “Get yourselves a drink.” I tried to move out of the way, but stumbled over my own feet. The sheriff lifted me up off the floor and set me down none too gently in front of him so Adam could get into the kitchen.

  Ben moved to where Milo and I were standing. “Good to see you, Sheriff,” he said, putting out his hand. “Been fishing lately?”

  Milo reached around me to shake hands. “No. I haven’t had time.”

  I ducked down to escape being in between my self-righteous brother and my equally self-righteous lover. The handshake struck me as not unlike two boxers touching gloves before a bout. Maybe they’d end up killing each other before the evening was over.

  Adam was getting a bottle of Henry Weinhard dark ale from the fridge. “Is one of those drinks on the counter for Uncle Ben?” he asked.

  I avoided his gaze. “No, Milo and I haven’t had time to drink them. Get your uncle what he wants.” Like a plastic bag over his head. Get two, and give the other one to the sheriff. Where was Vida when I needed her?

  “We dropped Shirley Bronsky at the courthouse,” Adam said. “I guess Ed’s going to be okay.”

  “Have you got any good news?” I snapped.

  Adam stared at me. “What’s wrong? You look kind of weird.”

  I put the French bread in the oven and checked the lasagna. I heard Milo and Ben talking as if they were civilized human beings. I had a flashback to their first meeting, fourteen years ago. After making a grisly discovery, the sheriff and the priest had gotten semi-plastered at Mugs Ahoy. They’d ended up driving me nuts then, too. Nothing had changed except for the lack of camaraderie between them now.

  “It’s been a weird day,” I said. “How was the meeting with Marisa?”

  “Good. She didn’t ask if Uncle Ben wanted to date her.”

  “That’s good, too,” I said, smiling at Adam. “I’ve hardly seen you since you got here. I feel guilty.”

  He shrugged. “You’re busy. You always took your job seriously.”

  Was that a reprimand? Why not? Add “maternal neglect” to my growing résumé of misdeeds. But there was nothing accusatory in Adam’s brown eyes. The doorbell rang again. I heard Milo say he’d get it. At least he wasn’t acting like a jerk. In fact, he was acting like the host. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  Adam was pouring Scotch-rocks for his uncle, who was greeting Vida and Leo. Milo entered the kitchen to collect his drink. “Vida’s wearing a skunk on her head,” he said, and went back to the living room.<
br />
  “That I’ve got to see,” Adam declared, taking Ben’s Scotch with him and following Milo out of the kitchen.

  I grabbed six plates before greeting Vida and Leo. Sure enough, the black-and-white fur creation on her head resembled a skunk.

  “Give me those,” Milo said, taking the plates out of my hands. “You’ll probably drop them,” he added under his breath.

  Vida twirled around, showing off what apparently was a new dress. “Beth bought this at Nordstrom’s,” she said. “It was a Christmas gift.”

  The green and black taffeta with its pleated skirt suited her. “I like it,” I said.

  Leo grinned. “The Duchess looks like the real thing.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And Adam looks more like his dad every day.”

  “Does he?” Not long ago, his comment would have evoked tears. But not now, with Milo calling my name.

  “Emma—we’re short one big fork.”

  I excused myself. “I forgot to empty the dishwasher,” I said, fumbling in the silverware compartment. “Here.”

  “Got it,” Milo said—and grabbed my rear before heading out of the kitchen. If he was still mad, he had a strange way of showing it.

  Leo strolled in before I could take a sip of my own drink. “Dare I pour myself a wee dram?” he asked, nodding at the Scotch on the counter. “Vida would like a screwdriver.”

  “She would?” I said. “You’re a bad influence, Walsh. I’ll get the orange juice. Vodka’s on the top shelf, glasses farther down to your left.”

  “I have been in your kitchen before,” Leo said wryly. “But I never made it past the hall, otherwise known as first base.”

  I glared at him. “Don’t you dare start in on me, Leo.”

  He laughed. “I’m just envious. Or would’ve been until lately.”

  I handed him the orange juice pitcher. “You’re going to quit.”

  Leo blanched. “No. That is, not for a while.” He gave me his off-center smile. “I’ll be sixty-two in May. I have to think about retirement.”

  I smiled, though it wasn’t easy. “Vida and I figured as much.”

  “So she told me. I’d better deliver her adult beverage. You know what she’s like when she hasn’t had a drink in five or six years.”