The Alpine Winter

by Mary Daheim

  “I haven’t been anywhere,” he growled, and stared at the floor. “So, that’s what it looks like.”

  “It’s hideous,” I said. “I shouldn’t have bothered.”

  “Don’t blame me,” he retorted. “The only thing I bought for this place was my easy chair after Mulehide left. Oh—and the sofa and the bed. I got a king-sized because I didn’t want the one she and Jake the Snake had been rolling around in.” Milo poured himself half a mug of coffee. “We’re out. Want to make some more?”

  “Sure. When do I get to do the windows?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “How’s your brain?”

  “Better.” I found a can of coffee wedged between cereal boxes. Milo’s kitchen system was a far cry from his work files. “Something eludes me, like a musical leitmotif. I don’t know what it means.”

  Milo lit a cigarette and sat down. “You’re out of my league. If it’s not Waylon or Willie, forget it.”

  I plugged the coffeepot in and joined Milo at the table. “Hey, even Waylon and Willie had leitmotifs. It’s just a theme, like ‘Redheaded Stranger’ or the ‘Outlaw’ thing or …” I frowned.

  “What?”

  I took a cigarette from the pack Milo had set on the table. “Can you light this for me without both of our brains exploding?”

  He gave me a quirky smile. “Maybe.”

  “Thanks,” I said after we managed not to bump heads while he held the lighter. “The camera, the shots Gus didn’t take, his body being found where Myrtle was going berry-picking, but I don’t think she did.”

  Milo scowled at me. “So where did she go?”

  “Home.” I stopped, but when I started again, I spoke very fast, giving him the same theory I’d tried out on Adam.

  Milo slapped a hand to his forehead. “Jesus! Why did I ask you to think? You come up with …” He dropped his hand on the table. “Well … why not? She sure as hell isn’t anyplace else.”

  “You don’t think I’m nuts?”

  His smiled wryly. “Yeah, you’re nuts, but I’ve heard you come up with crazier stuff. I’d need cadaver dogs and a thaw. It’d be worth it to get that Everson bunch off my back. Maybe Roy could glue his brain back together. How we’d ever prove foul play or get evidence against the addled old judge is another matter.”

  “Good. I was afraid you’d laugh.” I glanced at the floor to make sure it had dried. “Do you have any boots I could wear? Some of your daughters’? I need to clear my brain.”

  Milo shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why do you want boots?”

  “I’d like to go outside and breathe some fresh air.”

  “Stay put or I’ll tie you to the sink.”

  “I hate you.”

  Milo shrugged. “No, you don’t.”

  “Did Bill mention those hiking boots Vida dropped off?”

  He nodded. “He’ll check them out with REI when he gets around to it. They’re kind of busy with some other stuff, like their jobs.”

  I leaned toward him. “Hey, aren’t we looking for an X factor? You told me Gus was wearing sneakers. Troy was never on Mount Sawyer, where Roy found the blasted boots. We might get lucky.”

  Milo rested his chin on his hand and gazed at me broodingly. “What if whoever bought them wasn’t an REI member? What if whoever it was paid cash? What if the boots were shoplifted? What if …” He put his hands on the table and leaned back in the chair. “Oh, hell, it’s all we’ve got. At least it’ll keep Vida off my back—and Bill’s.”

  I smiled. “Good.”

  Milo was on his feet. “One thing, though,” he said. “Why would Mr. X leave an expensive pair of almost new boots on Sawyer?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “Uh … I don’t know,” I admitted.

  “Think.” His expression was droll. “By the way, the window cleaner’s in the cupboard … somewhere.” He grabbed his jacket and left.

  He’d gone too far—as in outside, which I wasn’t allowed to do. Furthermore, I loathed washing windows. I’d always paid one of our newspaper carriers to do that chore for me. The last time, Jim and Sherry Medved’s son, Taylor, had done a good job until he was cleaning my picture window and a chipmunk bit him. Taylor had fled in terror. Given that his father was a vet, I figured the son wasn’t destined to inherit Jim’s practice.

  I started in on the fridge, but except for a jar of mayo and some dill pickles past their prime, there was nothing to toss. In fact, there wasn’t much in the fridge. That figured, given Milo’s penchant for boxes.

  I still had cabin fever. Putting on my jacket, I went down the hall to open the door and breathe mountain air. But the damned thing was locked from the outside. Frustrated, I stomped back through the hall in time to hear Vida call out to me from the porch. “Yoo-hoo, Emma! Where are you?”

  “Wait,” I shouted, going through the living room to let her in. “I’m a prisoner.”

  Vida, whose head was covered with something that looked like French Foreign Legion desert wear, tapped her fingers against her cheek. “So you are. But it’s for your own good.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. “I could be protected just as well at my own house or the office. I’m going stir crazy.”

  “I could get your laptop—and your boots—if you give me your key,” she said. “Speaking of boots, Billy just called to say Milo told him to trace the ones Bebe gave me. I thought you should know, men being so peculiar when it comes to conveying information. I was on my way to interview Maud Dodd at the retirement home when Billy called, so I thought I’d let you know in person. Besides,” she added more softly, “I thought you might like company.”

  I smiled. “I do. I’m so frustrated. Shall I put on the teakettle?”

  “I can’t stay. Maud must be wondering where I am. She spent Christmas with her daughter and family in Denver, so I’m doing a brief article.” She peered at me. “How are you two getting on?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  Vida flipped a hand at the fabric hanging from the back of her hat. “You realize this is a preview of married life with Milo. Have you plans?”

  “We got engaged. What more do you want?”

  Vida’s eyes widened. “Oh! You are serious then. It’s official?”

  “I don’t want anybody to know yet. I haven’t told Adam—or Ben.”

  “I’m relieved. I thought you might dither. Shall I take your key?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d feel like I was giving up on getting out of here. Neither of us can think who poses such a threat. We’re stymied.”

  “I never interfere,” she stated. “But I warned you. It could be someone who’s jealous, a thwarted soul who sees you two so openly in love and hates you for it.” She patted my arm. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “That,” I said, somewhat shaken, “never occurred to us.”

  “It happens. Love is so akin to hate. Do be careful.”

  I was sorry to see her go, weird hat and all. More than that, I was sorry that I couldn’t go with her.

  EIGHTEEN

  WHEN MILO CAME TO GET FRESH COFFEE TWENTY MINUTES later, I knew by his gloomy face that something was wrong. “Well?” I said, cleaning crumbs from the toaster.

  “Mitch was picked up at Harborview fifteen minutes ago.”

  I gaped at him. “By the cops?”

  He nodded. “I spent so much time with Tanya at Harborview that I got to know the hospital’s security people. They called me after finding out Mitch lived here. He was at the psych ward with Brenda.” Milo took his coffee to the table and sat down. “I haven’t heard back from Yakima.”

  I sat down, too. “What can you do, besides talk to their sheriff?”

  “That’s what I’m working on,” he growled. “Did you do a background check on Laskey before you hired him?”

  I shook my head. “I was in a rush to replace the idiot I’d fired.”

  “Do you ever do a background check on anybody outside of Alpine? Leo? The good-looking guy … Scott? Or even Carla?”<
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  From the way the sheriff was staring at me, I felt like the prime suspect. “No. Tom recommended Leo. Scott and Carla were U-Dub grads. So was Curtis, for that matter,” I said heatedly. “A small-town weekly can’t be picky. I can’t afford to pay much more than subsistence wages. Mitch was like an answer to a prayer.”

  “Some prayer.” Milo had poured coffee and lighted a cigarette, but he didn’t offer me one. He got out his cell and dialed a number. “Dwight? I thought you went home.… Oh, damn, I forgot about Cobb’s funeral.… I can’t.” He grimaced. “You’re right. I’ll be there. Meanwhile, run a background check on Mitch Laskey.… No, I’ll ask.” Milo looked at me. “What’s his full name?”

  “Oh …” My mind was blank. “It’s not Mitch, I mean it’s not Mitchell, it’s a Jewish name and the only time I ever saw it was on his application. Damn it, Milo, I can’t do anything trapped here!”

  “You sure as hell can’t.” Telling Dwight he’d get back to him, Milo disconnected and looked as disgusted as I felt. “I have to go to Alfred Cobb’s funeral at one o’clock. Gould told me if I didn’t show up, the county commissioners might cut our budget. God help me if I dissed one of those old farts, dead or just half-dead.”

  “You’re going to leave?”

  “They aren’t holding the funeral in my freaking driveway.” Milo angrily ground out his cigarette. “I won’t stay for the reception. I wouldn’t have time even if I was at my …”

  “Say it! I’m a pain in the ass! God knows you’ve been telling me that for the last fifteen years!” I started out of the kitchen.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Milo bellowed.

  I whirled around to face him. “To get some air. I’m suffocating.”

  “You dumbshit! What have you got on your feet?”

  “Shoes. What else?”

  Milo looked almost apoplectic. “It’s snowing again. Are you nuts?”

  “Yes! I can’t stay here another minute. I might as well have spent the night in one of your freaking jail cells.”

  “You are a piece of work. Get your ass back in the kitchen.”

  My chin was thrust out, quivering with rage. “Make me.”

  His expression changed. He looked amused. “That won’t work this time. Nice try, though.” He folded his arms and leaned against the door.

  I covered my mouth and stared up at him. I was ashamed. He shrugged. “Adam called. He’s more reasonable than you are.”

  My hand fell away. “I told him he was the only adult in the family.”

  “Maybe.” He regarded me with concern. “Feel better?”

  “I guess.”

  He sighed. “We’ll both go to the damned funeral.”

  I gaped at him. “You’re serious?”

  Briefly, he looked conflicted, but shrugged. “Yeah, why not? There’ll be a crowd there. How long for you to get dressed at your place?”

  “Five minutes, tops.”

  “You’re kidding.” He grinned at me. “It took Mulehide half an hour just to find her damned shoes.”

  “Single moms have to work fast,” I said, and blurted, “Menachem.”

  “What?”

  “Mitch’s real first name. His middle initial is M, not sure what for, but I recall thinking his initials were MML, as in two thousand fifty.”

  “When your brain works, it’s in some really weird ways.” Milo checked his watch. “It’s a little after noon. Be ready to take off at twelve-forty. Dustman should be reporting in from the lodge.”

  I was expecting to hear from Kip about his interview with Turk and Libby. I phoned the office, but Vida said she was the only staffer on hand. “I just got back from interviewing Maud, so I’m not taking lunch,” she said. “I’ll eat something at the funeral reception. I must shed those extra pounds. You and Milo have lost weight. Does he have food on hand? I can drop off my casserole leftovers. For such sturdy men, Ben and Adam don’t have big appetites.”

  “They avoid the sin of gluttony,” I said. “Milo and I have plenty to eat.” I didn’t add that most of it was in boxes, though even those would taste better than her casserole—boxes included. I was tempted to tell Vida that Milo and I were going to Alfred’s funeral, but decided it was best to keep mum. I didn’t want to waste time having her tell me why it was a bad idea. “Any word on Mitch?”

  “No.” She paused. “Oh, dear, here comes Rita Patricelli. Maybe she knows when Gus’s funeral will be held. So many funerals this month! Al Driggers must be rolling in money. I’ll talk to you later.”

  There was enough makeup in my purse to get my face ready to go public. I was coping with my hair when my cell rang ten minutes later.

  “You’re right,” Kip said excitedly. “It took a while to get anything out of Libby—real name, Livna Weinberg, and if we use it in the paper, she’ll sue the socks off of us. The medal we found on Troy belongs to Turk, who’d left it wherever Libby was living. Troy flew into a rage and took it away from her when she told him to buzz off. Durgan’s Catholic, spent two years at Gonzaga. He and Libby met at Mount Schweitzer in Idaho. He is awesome! I got terrific stuff from him, if you can help me write it. Pictures, too. I’m sure glad we didn’t run the shot of him getting busted. He’s buying a place at Leavenworth. Libby quit school to move here until he gets settled. Oh—Turk wants the medal back.”

  “He can probably have it. Good job. Yes, I’ll help with the story.”

  “I can get another picture tomorrow when his new snowboard arrives,” Kip said. “It’s a Prior All-Mountain …”

  Milo called my name. Again. “Excuse me, Kip, I have to dash.”

  “Is that Dodge?” he asked.

  “It barks like him,” I said. “Bye.”

  I went into the living room, but he wasn’t in sight. “Milo?” I called. He wasn’t in the entryway. He wasn’t in the hall. “Milo!” I yelled.

  “I’m changing,” he shouted from the bedroom. “Five minutes.”

  I unplugged the coffeepot and made sure the stove was off. Gathering up my meager belongings, I waited by the front door. The sheriff appeared, not in a suit, but in uniform. He saw my surprise and shot me a withering glance. “This is a county function. I have to be official. Hold this.” He handed over his regulation hat, lifted me off the floor, and slung me over his shoulder. “Don’t wiggle or breathe,” he warned me. “This isn’t as easy as I thought.”

  I held my breath, seeing a few footprints that were beginning to disappear as the new snow began to fall more heavily. The wind had come up, too, but we had to cover less than ten yards to reach the Cherokee, where Milo hastily dumped me into the passenger seat.

  “Remind me not to try that stunt again,” he said after getting behind the wheel. “You’re a hell of a lot harder to haul around that way.”

  I was more out of breath than he was. “I’m dizzy. Honest to God, Milo, if somebody else doesn’t kill us first, we’ll do it ourselves.”

  “Right,” he said, starting the SUV. “I keep forgetting we’re not kids anymore. Hell, we’re damned near eligible for senior discounts.”

  I leaned back in the seat. “I feel like it about now.” It took me a few moments to get my bearings. We’d reached the Icicle Creek Road intersection and were passing the high school to get to Fir, which had been plowed. The new snow was beginning to stick, as it came down harder and faster with every block we passed.

  Milo turned onto my street. “Heppner cleared your driveway while they were watching your house.” He pulled up just short of the carport. “I’ll wait for you here.”

  “With a stopwatch?”

  “You bet.” He looked at me sheepishly. “If I go inside, I might want to stick around. It does feel like home.”

  It was home to me, though when I walked through the back door, it seemed as if I’d been gone for several days instead of a few hours. I’d already figured out exactly what I’d wear—black dress with a high-necked shawl collar, boots with a two-inch heel, and black trench coat.

 
I was headed for the bedroom when I heard the sound of breaking glass. Startled, I turned around and went into the living room. Seeing the Cherokee still in place, I opened the front door—and froze on the threshold.

  The bright, white world was ripped apart by a wall of fire and a sound of fury. I reeled against the door that was being blown shut by the wind—or the explosion. Stunned, half-blinded by snow, half-crazy with dread, I tried to focus. It took me what seemed like forever to realize that the flaming mass just a few yards away was the Cherokee. An agonized scream tore out of my throat. I was paralyzed. My brain ceased to function. I had to get help, but I couldn’t move. The wind kept whipping the snow into my face, though I wasn’t cold. The heat from the fire was too intense, too close. I could smell something. Gasoline? Burning rubber? Melting metal? Finally I forced my feet to move—and slipped on the porch. Lying facedown, I felt a hand tug at my jacket.

  “Get up!” The voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. I had no strength to respond. I was being dragged along on my stomach, flopping like a trout on the line. I realized I was being hauled inside, across the carpet, and into the hall between the bathroom and the bedrooms. At last, I summoned up whatever survival instincts I still possessed and found enough strength to struggle, flailing my arms and legs at the unseen assailant.

  “Bitch!” The voice seemed to come from nowhere, but the hands that grabbed my arms and forced me onto my back were very real. I looked up and immediately recognized my attacker.

  “I knew you’d show up eventually,” Curtis Mayne exulted with the goofy grin I remembered all too well from his short stay as my reporter. He went straight for my throat with his bare hands.

  I banged against the wall as Curtis fell on top of me. One of his hands pressed against my windpipe so hard that I could hardly breathe, let alone scream. His other hand was yanking at my slacks. “Bitch!” he shrieked again. “You and that fucking sheriff ruined me! He didn’t believe I could murder somebody! I showed him! He can fry in hell! He wasn’t the first and you’re next! But before that, I’ll make you pay!”

  I felt my slacks rip from below the waistband to my knee. My left arm was pinioned between the hall linen drawers and my side. I tried to scratch at his face with my other hand, but he grabbed my wrist, jamming my arm between our upper torsos. He was struggling to get my jacket out of the way, yanking up my sweater and making some kind of animal growls low in his throat. Then Curtis began shrieking again, so loud that I thought my head would explode. My ears were ringing. I tried to move, but I was helpless under his weight, no longer able to fend him off. I couldn’t even see. Had he covered my eyes? Had I fallen into some black void where I was beyond pain? Or was I beyond caring?