Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481)

by Daheim, Mary

  His hazel eyes could have ignited a fire in the newly upholstered sofa the girls were sitting on.

  “Yeah, but…” Jeb began, then thought better of it as my husband leaned slightly forward.

  “Second,” Milo went on, “how much digging did you do at the dump?”

  The boys, who were sprawled by the coffee table in front of the sofa, exchanged glances. “Not much,” Alex finally replied. “It was hot this afternoon. We sort of messed around in that creek.”

  The sheriff leaned back in the easy chair. “No other discoveries?”

  Both boys shook their heads vehemently. “No,” Jeb asserted. “We thought we was lucky to find what we did on the first try.”

  Josie spoke up. “Is it worth anything?”

  “That’s up to the local gallery owner to decide,” Milo responded. “I want your names, addresses, phone numbers.” He looked at me. “You got something handy for them to write on?”

  “I think so,” I said in my meekest fake voice and smiled benignly at the teens. “Be right back.”

  From the kitchen, I could hear Milo ask how long the kids planned to stay in town. Jeb thought they’d hang out for a few more days. It depended on which parent had a spare car he or Alex could drive.

  “We don’t have to turn our report stuff in until we go back to school in September,” Danielle was saying as I handed Josie a tablet and a couple of pens. “When can we have the picture back? I mean, to show we found something that’s maybe worth money.”

  “That’s up to Mrs. Wickstrom,” Milo replied. “She’s the art expert.”

  Josie looked at me. “I thought you knew about art.”

  “Not as much as Donna Wickstrom does,” I said, not having to fake humility this time.

  It took the teens five minutes to write down their information, pausing to confer with each other a few times. Apparently at least one or two of them had parents at different addresses. When they’d finished, Milo stood up.

  “Thanks,” he began. “When you come here the next time, report to my office first. There’s always someone on duty. You got that?”

  Alex said yes and the others nodded. I half-expected my husband to shoo them out the door, but they left without further ado.

  “Were my kids that clueless?” he asked, leaning against the open door. “Was Adam?”

  “Adam was stupefyingly vague,” I said. “But he used proper grammar around me. Usually. When he wasn’t mumbling.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t be sorry I missed a lot of my kids’ teen years,” Milo muttered. “When I did see them, they seemed…normal. For kids.”

  I went over to him and put my hands on his shoulders. “I always figured you were relieved not to have to deal with their adolescent stuff.”

  My husband winced. “I was. But Mulehide always dumped on me anyway. At least it was usually after the fact. Hell, they’re my kids. But I felt her taking them off to Bellevue meant they were mostly out of my control.” He covered my hands with his. “Want to go sit outside?”

  “Sure,” I replied—just as the phone rang. I was closest, so I went to the end table by the sofa to pick up.

  “If that’s Amy…” Milo started to say.

  “Yes, Glenn, he’s here,” I said, glaring at the sheriff. “Hold on.”

  My husband sank back down into the easy chair. “What’s up?” he asked, trying not to sound irked. I returned the tablet and the pens to the kitchen. By the time I’d opened the back and the garage doors, Milo was concluding what he’d found out about Aaron Conley. I picked up the painting from the dump site and compared it to Craig Laurentis’s Sky Autumn. There were definite similarities, though looking at them together, the differences seemed more pronounced. A river painting is still a river. Most of the streams that flow westward from the Cascades look alike if there are no recognizable objects or geography in the background.

  “Hey,” Milo said into the phone, “Conley doesn’t want to be found. Work it out. If you can shake more out of Ellerbee, let me know.” He paused, frowning. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ll give Ramsey one more shot, but meanwhile I’m trying to follow up on the family angle. You sure you don’t have any relatives for him in your background check?” Another, longer pause. “That’s possible, especially for a musician. Let me know what you find out…. Will do.” Milo rang off and stared at me. “McElroy can’t trace Conley further back than Baring. He thinks it may not be his real name.”

  “Good grief!” I exclaimed. “That never occurred to me. But he could’ve changed it years ago when he started his band. He might really be Helmut Glubbermuckel.”

  “I hope not,” Milo said, getting up. “I’d hate to see what Dwight Gould would do if he had to put that down in the log. Let’s go outside before somebody else shows up. It’s too warm in here, and the sun should be starting to go down.”

  “It usually does,” I murmured, taking the phone with me just in case. “I’m grabbing a Pepsi. You want anything to drink?”

  “Just ice water. I’ll get it.”

  “If,” I said, taking a Pepsi can out of the fridge, “Conley isn’t his real name, wouldn’t he have had to use it when he married Crystal?”

  Milo finished pouring water into a glass. “He would if he had to show ID. But would he and Crystal have gone the conventional route?”

  “Good point. Maybe not.” I started for the back door. “Are you going to put the Yukon in the garage?”

  “Damn. I forgot.” Milo headed out through the side door.

  By the time he joined me, I was anxious to broach the subject of the painting. He agreed that it reminded him of Craig’s work.

  “The question,” I concluded, “is why it was buried in the dump and not thrown out with whatever else might’ve been disposed of. Doesn’t that suggest deliberate hiding of the picture, no matter who painted it?”

  “Could be.” Milo took out his cell and punched in a number. “Hey, Dustman, where are you?” He waited for a response. “Okay, the next time you swing around by Carroll Creek and the dump site, take a look at a hole some idiot kids dug there. Let me know how deep and how far it is from where we found the stiff…. Yeah, I’m at home with the Little Woman.” He clicked off.

  I grabbed his arm. “I told you never, ever to call me that!”

  Milo laughed. “You know I’m teasing.”

  I shook his arm “I know it, but does Dustin? Or do you refer to me like that at work?”

  My husband looked innocent. “You’re Ms. Lord at work.”

  “Only Dustin—who has excellent manners—calls me that,” I shot back. “I’m Emma to everybody else. Except Dwight, who I’m not sure has ever called me anything.”

  “That’s probably something to be thankful for,” Milo said calmly. “You prefer ‘my old lady’?”

  “Ohhh!” I punched him in the shoulder. “You’re impossible!”

  The sheriff gazed around him. “I feel a breeze. Want to roll around on the grass?”

  “Not until you convince me you don’t call me the Little Woman when I’m not around.”

  Milo turned serious. “Hell, you know I wouldn’t do that. I never called Mulehide anything but my wife, even when she was pretending I didn’t actually exist. Get serious. Do you really think that painting is by your favorite recluse?”

  I removed my hand and drank some Pepsi. “I’m not sure. I do think Donna would be able to tell us.”

  Milo rubbed his chin. “If the gallery isn’t open tomorrow I’ll take it over to their house. Want to tag along, my little ball and chain?”

  Before I could snarl back at him, his cell rang. “That’s close enough,” he said to the caller. “How deep?…Sounds about right. Thanks, Dustman.” Milo disconnected and sighed. “Less than a yard away, toward the creek. Damn.”

  I leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t like coincidences,” Milo asserted. “You know that. But the painting being buried so near the body makes me suspicious. What if they were buried at th
e same time? And why?”

  I admitted I didn’t know. “It may not be Craig’s work,” I pointed out. “It’s not a very good painting, at least not as good as he’d later become. I do wonder why anyone would bother to frame it. It strikes me more as something an amateur would want to show off. If the frame is removed, the artist may have signed it.”

  Milo kept staring into space. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’d better have it taken apart by an expert—like Donna. I don’t want to screw it up. Speaking of which…” He gestured at the expanse of grass behind us.

  “No. I’m still too hot and crabby.”

  My husband stood up and pulled me to my feet. “Good. Then take it out on me.”

  “You’re an asshole!” I shrieked. “I hate you!”

  “Good start,” he murmured, lifting me into his arms. “You’re even better when you’re ornery. This should be fun.”

  And so it was.

  —

  I left Milo reading Sunday’s Seattle Times at ten to nine as I headed off for Mass. The lower parts of St. Mildred’s windows were open and I heard, if not felt, a faint breeze ruffling the trees outside. The pew in front of me creaked as Ed Bronsky and his family tried to get more comfortable. A younger couple had arrived late, squeezing in next to Ed, Shirley, and their five chunky offspring. I didn’t recognize the newcomers. If some of SkyCo’s Catholics had left town for the holiday weekend, visitors had taken up the slack. Father Den had returned from his vacation, and his homily was on peace, according to the gospel of the day. He spoke about the difference between inner peace and temporal peace, a suitable subject on the eve of our country’s birth. As usual, his words were well crafted, befitting a former seminary teacher, and thus slightly sleep inducing. Den, like my brother, knew that sermons weren’t his strong suit, and never went over ten minutes. On this warm July morning, he cut it to seven. In the brief silence that followed, Ed apparently sat on the visiting young woman’s purse and let out a stifled “oof!” The nonresidents were able to ignore him, a talent I seemed to lack. Maybe I should pray for it. On the other hand, it’d be un-Christian to ask for Ed to evaporate.

  After Mass, I managed to elude Ed by being fleet of foot—and the Bronskys still being wedged into the pew by the couple, who were probably trying to assess the damage done to the woman’s purse. I did pause to greet Jake and Betsy O’Toole and Francine and Warren Wells. Even the usually chic Mrs. Wells looked a trifle wilted in our unseasonable weather. Her women’s clothing shop didn’t have AC.

  Milo had migrated to the backyard, apparently having read the Sunday paper, which lay in my chair.

  “Do the Wickstroms go to church?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I replied, moving the Times so I could sit down. “Lutherans. They stick fairly close to a traditional liturgy, except maybe Pastor Nielsen gives longer sermons. I gather he’s a better speaker than most of the local clergy. If memory serves from their weekly ad, the main service is at ten.”

  Milo stretched and yawned. “Okay. Why don’t we go see them around noon?”

  I grinned at him. “You really want to take your old lady along?”

  “Why not? I kind of like her.” He stood up. “Where’s your coffee?”

  “I was so excited to see you that I forgot to pour it,” I said drily. “I’ve had enough coffee. While you’re up, grab me a Pepsi.”

  “That’s got caffeine, too, you know.”

  “So? I like caffeine. It keeps me alert.”

  “It makes you hyper,” he called over his shoulder. “That’s why you crash into walls and stumble over your own feet.”

  I didn’t respond. I’d heard it all before. My husband might be right. He’d had to pick up the pieces a few times over the years after I’d trashed my clumsy self. Somehow I’d managed to keep upright since we’d been married. Or maybe I was just getting older—and slower.

  Shortly before noon, we arrived at the Wickstroms’ well-kept house on First Hill. Their Dodge Durango was in the driveway, indicating they were home. Steve Wickstrom responded to the door chime, looking surprised to see us. He put out his hand to Milo.

  “Are we under arrest?” he asked with a faint smile, then noticed the Safeway bag in my husband’s hand. “Or did you bring brunch?”

  “I’ve got a question for the local art maven,” the sheriff replied as we entered directly into the living room. “Is Donna busy?”

  “Donna’s always busy,” Steve replied, “but I insisted she take off today and tomorrow. She wears herself out, between the day care and the gallery. Not to mention keeping up with the house and our two younger kids. Karen’s home from the UDub for the summer, but she’s working at the public pool as a lifeguard. Have a seat. Coffee?”

  We both declined. Donna emerged from the kitchen. “Hi,” she greeted us, looking surprised. “Is this a social visit? Or—”

  Milo hugged Donna. They had a history that bonded them, but it wasn’t romantic. Her first husband, Deputy Art Fremstad, had been killed in the line of duty. Karen was the daughter Art and Donna had had together. I was already sitting down, so I merely waved at our hostess.

  Milo remained standing, sliding the painting from the paper bag. “Take a look at this. You may want to remove it from the frame.” He joined me on the sofa.

  “I guess I don’t have to worry about fingerprints,” Donna murmured, holding the picture out in front of her. “Steve, can you get me some tools so I can pry off the back of the frame?”

  Steve headed back the same way his wife had come. Donna had gone to the big window that overlooked the front yard. She didn’t speak until her husband returned with a coffee can full of various items, including a small screwdriver that seemed to be Donna’s choice of implement. She set the painting on the floor and knelt down beside it.

  “I have a feeling I know where you two are going with this,” she said softly. “Frankly, it’s sort of exciting.”

  Steve got down on his haunches to watch his wife, their heads close together. I smiled to myself. I’d met Donna a few years after Art had been killed and was glad she’d found another good man. Steve had been teaching at the high school for only a year when they started seeing each other not long before I moved to Alpine. I’d never known Art, but Milo and Donna had both held him in high esteem.

  “It’s not signed,” Donna announced, taking the painting itself back to the window. “It was done in a bit of a rush, as if the artist had a deadline. Or,” she added, coming over to sit between Milo and me, “he wanted to please someone.”

  “He?” I echoed.

  Donna’s smile was ironic. “You’re thinking Craig, right? So am I.”

  “Nothing on the back?” Milo asked.

  Donna shook her head. “The fact that it’s in a frame indicates he did it for someone. This is very raw, only suggestive of Craig’s real talent. I’d guess he painted this in his late teens or early twenties, just as he was discovering himself.”

  My husband frowned. “Damn. How do you get in touch with Laurentis?”

  “I call him on his cell,” Donna replied, carefully setting the picture on the coffee table before standing up. “Craig does have means of communication. He doesn’t ever pick up, but eventually he calls back. Is there some reason you need to talk to him?”

  “Well…” Milo rubbed at the back of his head, then gestured at the painting. “This was dug up yesterday at the dump site where the body was found last week. You heard about that, I suppose?”

  Both Wickstroms nodded, though it was Steve who spoke. “Any idea who it is?”

  “We’re working on it,” Milo replied. “If there’s a connection between the picture and the body, and if Laurentis is the painter, he might be able to help us with our investigation. I know, it’s a lot of ‘if’s.”

  It was Donna’s turn to make a face. “You realize Craig is anti-authority? I mean, any kind of government person.”

  Milo nodded. “That’s where you—and Emma—come in.”

  Donna
and I exchanged looks. “I think we just got Dodge-smacked,” I said. “Have you heard from Craig since you sold his painting?”

  “No,” Donna replied. “That usually means he’s being very intense about what he’s currently working on. No one has seen him in town—at least no one has mentioned it—since early spring. But that’s typical.”

  I hadn’t seen Craig since he’d been recovering from a gunshot wound in late November. He always came to Alpine by stealth, usually at night. I wondered if he lived mostly off the land, somehow foraging enough to stay healthy. But for all I knew, he ordered food online and had it delivered to some pickup destination.

  Milo was more interested in how to get to Craig. “Any way you can lure him into town, Donna?”

  “I send his money to his Wells Fargo account in Monroe,” she said. “The only way he’d show up is—maybe—if I coaxed him into bringing his new painting. I have no idea when it’ll be finished. Sometimes he’ll work on one painting, then abandon it for months, even years, and start something else.”

  I could sense that under his laconic pose, the sheriff was frustrated. “I guess we’ll have to set a trap for him.” He poked me in the shoulder. “You’re good at that sort of thing. Work it out.”

  Steve and Donna laughed. I didn’t.

  —

  “You’re a beast,” I informed Milo after we left the Wickstrom house. “If Donna can’t get Craig into town, how the hell can I?”

  “How’d you meet him the first time?” my husband asked. “Didn’t you fall on your ass or some damned thing?”

  “Yes.” I stared straight ahead. “Maybe I could fake my own death.”

  “See? That’s a start.”

  I heaved a big sigh. “I’d love to interview him, but he wouldn’t go for it,” I finally said after we were almost home. “If I could think of an angle that would appeal to his artistic sensibilities rather than anything personal…something that would challenge him.”

  Milo pulled into the driveway. “Keep thinking.”

  As soon as we got inside our not-so-little log cabin, I called RestHaven to inquire after Ren Rawlings. A brisk female voice informed me Ren was resting. I asked if this would be a good time to visit her.