Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481)

by Daheim, Mary

  “I come as a humble beggar,” he announced, not looking even faintly meek. “I’m at sea about the courthouse lockdown. Lori informs me you may have some knowledge. She’s apparently in the dark.”

  “Funny you should ask,” I said. “I was just trying to sort through it to see how I could post what went on. Let’s call it unsubstantiated.”

  “That doesn’t help me with the eleven o’clock hour turn,” Spence retorted. “An intelligent inkling might suffice.”

  “ ‘L.A. screenwriter locks county extension agent in his office after his cabin burns down’?”

  Spence stroked his hawklike nose. “And both men end up in the ER? I believe you omitted something.”

  “Dean Ramsey didn’t want to be locked in his office.” I sighed. “Okay, here’s what happened and good luck if you can sort it out.”

  When I finished, Mr. Radio looked bemused. “A pity I wasn’t around when this Crystal person got whacked. Are you taking Ramsey’s confession seriously?”

  “As I told you, he did mention the word ‘accident.’ For all I know, the guy we knew as Conley may have passed out from his drug habit and Dean accidentally backed over him with his car.”

  “It’d all be simpler if the dump-site corpse had been Myrtle Everson,” Spence remarked. “Oh, well. I suppose I could use the word ‘rumpus’ to describe what went on at the courthouse. As for the confession, I await official word from the bellicose love of your life. I’m told he’s gone to the hospital.”

  I nodded. “I guess we both wait, though everybody in the county must be asking why the courthouse was closed down.”

  “Rumors abound,” Spence said. “Delivery of smallpox samples stolen from a lab in the Distant East. Eleanor Jessup having a hair-pulling match with Bobbi Olson. Mayor Baugh being throttled by Jack Blackwell. And so on.” He made a spinning gesture with his index finger.

  “No bomb scare?” I asked.

  “Too common, as are deranged people shooting innocent victims. Let’s give the locals credit for some imagination, however…localized. Except for the Distant East, of course.” He stood up. “I suppose I could go with an apparent hostage situation. No demands, obviously.”

  “Good luck. I like your ‘rumpus’ description. Maybe I’ll steal it.”

  Spence looked disdainful. “It’s mine. You can use ‘ruckus.’ ” He sketched a bow and left, whistling.

  Mitch returned just after eleven. “Simon Doukas was ailing, so his wife, Cece, filled in. Did you know Mimi Barton and Kay Barton Burns were given Greek first names in an effort to placate Neeny Doukas?”

  “No. What are their real names? Aphrodite and Hera?”

  “Nothing so heroic,” he said, leaning on a visitor chair. Mimi is Mercia, meaning ‘compassion’ or ‘forbearance.’ Does that suit her?”

  “She’s very kind,” I said. “Mimi put up with my brother when he subbed for Father Den, so I consider that forbearing on her part.”

  Mitch smiled faintly. “I was gone when your brother was here at Christmas.” He looked at his notes. “Given Kay’s marital history, her name doesn’t suit her as well. It’s Kassia, which means ‘purity.’ ”

  I started to laugh, but stopped. “Kassia?” I repeated.

  “Right.” He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said hastily. “I’ve heard that name recently in another context. Odd how that happens with an unfamiliar name or word.”

  “Then it doesn’t turn up again for a long time,” Mitch remarked. “I’m seeing the Bartons about their Irish roots at four, so I’ll go home from there. What can I do with the courthouse story?”

  “Not much,” I said. “I won’t post anything online until we get official word from the sheriff’s office. Can you check in with them before lunch?”

  Mitch seemed to brighten, though it was always hard to tell. “Sure. I’ll stop in on my way home to lunch with Brenda. I’ll call if I find out anything useful you can post.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, smiling. “I gather rumors are rampant.”

  He shrugged. “In Detroit, the incident would be a mere kerfuffle.”

  I didn’t remind Mitch that he wasn’t in Detroit. I had other things to consider—such as Kassia Barton aka Kay Burns. Vida was on the phone. I’d suggest an early lunch, but I didn’t want to miss Mitch’s call from the sheriff’s office. I thought about calling Milo, but he’d still be at the hospital or coping with the paperwork he loathed so much.

  A few minutes later, Vida stopped by, looking vexed. “Amy still feels puny. She’s suffered from migraines since the fall, you know.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said. Maybe they’d been brought on by Roger’s first serious brush with the law back in October. He’d certainly given me headaches over the years. “Is she having a migraine now?”

  “Yes, and it’s quite severe,” Vida replied, scowling. “Ted can’t leave work, so I must take care of Dippy and see what I can do for Amy. Really, mind over matter can cure a great many ills. My daughter would’ve benefited from Faith’s good sense and Christian ethic. In any event, I won’t be able to go to lunch.”

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “But can you wait five minutes?”

  “Well now…of course.” She sat down. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. What was the last name of Kay Burns’s third husband?”

  Vida counted to three on her fingers. “Arthur. I don’t recall his first name. She met and married him in Seattle. He was later killed in a vehicular accident. He fathered the son who lives in Leavenworth.”

  “That’s sort of what I remembered,” I said—and followed up with what Milo would have called one of my wild and wacky theories.

  Vida, however, grew thoughtful. “Oh, my,” she finally said softly, “doesn’t that beat all? Why, if your conclusion proves to be true, then Kay is Ren Rawlings’s mother. Do you intend to confront Kay? Or suggest such a thing to Ren?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admitted. “Ren’s so fragile and Kay might laugh in my face. The odd thing is that Ren told me she sensed her mother was nearby at RestHaven. Maybe she is.”

  Somewhat reluctantly, Vida rose from the chair. “Kay as a hippie? Well, having left to live in the city, heaven only knows what madcap ideas she might’ve gotten. She was still in her twenties back then. Oh, my! But,” she went on, her gray eyes glinting behind the big glasses, “who is Ren’s father?”

  “Mr. Arthur?” I suggested.

  Vida frowned. “Perhaps. We were sent wedding announcements of her marriage to him a year or so later. I merely mailed a nice card. Kay’s matrimonial adventures were an unwelcome expense. She didn’t have the nerve to send any notification when she later married Mr. Burns. I really must dash. Poor Dippy will be wanting his lunch. Maybe I’ll take the casserole to Amy instead of to Kay. My family may appreciate it more than she would.”

  They may even have an antidote, I thought. But I beamed at Vida and wished her well. It was almost eleven-thirty. Mitch had just gone out, so I took a chance and called Milo.

  He was in, but according to Lori, unavailable. “He only got back about ten minutes ago,” she explained. “He closed his door and told me to hold all calls. In fact, I can see from the console that he’s on the phone right now. Mr. Fleetwood’s waiting for him.”

  Great, I thought. I was about to get scooped on my husband’s news by KSKY’s noon report. I thanked Lori and rang off. I didn’t dare usurp Mitch’s duties by showing up at headquarters. My only hope was that Milo hadn’t yet made anything official.

  At five to twelve, that hope was dashed, though not as I’d expected. “Here’s what Dodge told me—and Fleetwood,” Mitch said over the phone. “Ramsey’s being brought in for questioning about a possible assault on Ellerbee. Dean will be released from the hospital ASAP. According to the sheriff, the county extension agent’s suffering from being a jackass, but don’t quote him on that.”

  “I won’t,” I asserted. “I want to maintain a
happy home. Is that it?”

  “No. Dodge will bring Ellerbee in for questioning in Aaron Conley’s disappearance. His wound’s superficial, so he’ll be released soon.”

  “Wait,” I said. “If Dean confessed to killing Conley—who was really Wes Ellerbee—why isn’t the sheriff questioning him about that?”

  “He will be,” my reporter responded. “But you know Dodge goes by the book. One thing at a time.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “I wish my husband would sometimes consider his wife’s responsibilities. At least we’re not up against a publishing deadline. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Not according to the sheriff,” Mitch said.

  “That figures. Thanks.” I hung up and headed for the back shop to post my reporter’s latest news.

  There was no point seeing Milo in person. However, I could call on Kay Burns. Vida might not be pleased at being left out, but family was her priority. Not having much appetite for various reasons, including the weather, I got in the Honda and drove to Second Hill.

  After what seemed like a long, hot wait outside the townhouse, Kay finally opened the door. “Emma!” she exclaimed. “What a nice surprise. What brings you here?”

  “My curiosity,” I replied, following her kimono-clad figure inside. “That’s about all that can send a journalist out in the midday sun.”

  This time, Kay gestured to the green armchair while she sat down on the sofa. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and the bruise on her cheekbone was ugly. For the first time, I realized she looked her age.

  “I was thinking about going in to work this afternoon,” she said, “but I’d rather not show up looking so ghastly. I might frighten the patients. There’s already been enough disruption at RestHaven.”

  “Does it still hurt?” I asked.

  She lightly touched her face. “Not much. I’ve been icing it. If you’re here to ask if I’m sorry I pressed charges against Jack, I’m not.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said, “but that’s not the reason. It’s something quite different. My visit has nothing to do with the newspaper. Please don’t be offended. I feel sorry for Ren Rawlings, who, as you may know, came to see me when she first arrived in town.”

  Kay again put a hand to her cheek. “Oh. Well, she is a fragile creature. But Dr. Reed is hopeful that with proper medication she can soon be discharged.”

  “That must please you,” I said, smiling. “As her mother, I mean.”

  The little color in Kay’s face turned to chalk. “Oh. Oh, my.” The words were barely audible.

  “Kay, relax, please. I bore a child out of wedlock. I’d be the last person to think ill of you.”

  “Well…” She passed a hand over her forehead. “Dare I ask how…what did Ren tell you?”

  “Almost nothing except your name, Kassia Arthur,” I replied. “She had—maybe still has—no idea what became of her mother. In fact, she thinks she was murdered here in Alpine. Are you the one who called the Advocate a week ago Tuesday?”

  She nodded. “I’d called Edna Mae about a book I wanted reserved. You know how she chatters. She mentioned Ren was there, talking about a Kassia Arthur. I was stunned. I called the paper later to find out if she’d made inquiries there, but whoever answered didn’t know what I was talking about when I asked for Kassia Arthur. Later, I asked Iain Farrell to call and inquire after Ren—same response.” She smiled diffidently. “Everyone thinks Iain is so intimidating, but he’s really rather sweet. I’ve become quite fond of him.”

  That figured. Farrell was single. Maybe he’d end up as Husband Number Five. It would also explain how he’d gotten into it with Blackwell. I felt like saying Iain had fooled me, but Kay had continued talking.

  “I’d lost track of Ren after she was adopted. Once she had a real home, I backed off.” Tears glinted in Kay’s eyes. “I didn’t recognize her when she came to RestHaven. It was like a miracle.”

  “All she had was some of your poetry and a postcard from Alpine,” I said. “The name Aurea was on the back of the postcard.”

  “Aurea?” Kay looked puzzled. “Oh—maybe it was Ourea. It’s a reference to the primeval gods of the mountains in Greece. I was writing a poem about them, I suppose.” She grimaced. “I wrote some really awful poetry. If you read any of it, you know that.”

  “I only heard some quotes Ren mentioned to Vida when she visited her in the hospital,” I replied.

  “I merely dabbled at poetry. My late husband, Ross, was the PR creative force. I handled the business side and dealt with clients.”

  “Mr. Burns,” I remarked, making sure I had Kay’s mates lined up correctly. I posed an awkward query. “Was Mr. Arthur Ren’s father?”

  “No.” Kay seemed amused. “I’d met Matthew Arthur while I was carrying Ren. He offered to marry me, but I felt it’d be wrong for him to take on a child who wasn’t his. Oh, he argued, but my divorce from Jack wasn’t final and wouldn’t be for another couple of months. There were problems to be worked out.”

  I recalled Milo telling me about his own breakup and that it had taken almost two years to finalize his divorce. “I understand,” I murmured. “This may seem like an odd question, but there is something I have to know. Is Bob Jenkins actually Craig Laurentis?”

  Kay gaped at me. “You mean the recluse who’s also an artist?”

  She seemed sincere in her surprise. “Donna sells his paintings at her gallery.”

  “I’ve never gone in there. I’m not really into art.” Kay gestured at the Paris wall posters. “That’s as much of an art lover as I am. I like those because they have romance and the lure of a glamorous lifestyle.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’ve been to Europe twice, but I didn’t visit museums. I don’t know anything about the recluse. I’ve never seen him. I don’t think he was around when I lived here.”

  “No,” I said in a dull tone. “I don’t think he was, either. Do you know what became of Bob Jenkins?”

  Kay shook her head. “I lost track of him after I married Matt. He was probably off on one of his protests or demonstrations. I did admire him for his political activism, of course. It was a big part of our times.”

  So much for that line of inquiry. But I wasn’t done with Kay. “Donna thinks that painting is an early Craig Laurentis,” I said. “Apparently, he changed his name for artistic purposes.”

  Kay smiled. “More likely to avoid the draft. He did talk about moving to Canada.”

  “That fits,” I agreed. “In any event, you should have Donna appraise the painting, if only for insurance purposes.”

  “Really?” Kay looked flummoxed. “Maybe I will. How did it end up at the dump site? I thought I left it in the apartment when I moved out after marrying Matt Arthur.”

  “I’ve no idea,” I admitted. Maybe Bob—or Craig—had come to see Kay and found she’d left without the painting. Maybe he’d taken it with him—and eventually buried it as a bad memory. The young man might have felt either he or his art had been rejected. Maybe both.

  “I never thought Bob was that good,” Kay was saying. “I have no appreciation or understanding of art. I left some of Bob’s sketches with Ren. Rivers, waterfalls, streams—Pacific Northwest scenery. If she kept them, they might be of value to her. One was of the Olympics. Bob sketched it while I worked on a poem about the Ourea. My apartment on Seattle’s First Hill looked to the west. I literally wanted to put the Cascades behind me.”

  “Ren may still have them,” I said, standing up. “Are you going to tell her the truth?”

  Kay was also on her feet. “Should I?” She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to me.

  “Wouldn’t it be the right thing to do? For both of you?”

  The tears returned to her blue—“cerulean blue”—eyes. “I’m not sure.”

  “Is that because Bob was her father?”

  “Bob?” Kay looked stupefied. “Heavens, no!” She took a deep breath. “I was pregnant when I left Alpine. Ren’s father is Jack Blackwell
.” She touched her face. “I finally told him I’d had his baby and given her away. That’s why he hit me.”

  —

  I didn’t offer Kay any more advice. That was a decision only she could make. After saying as much and assuring her any secrets were safe with me, I left. On a whim, I dropped down to Alpine’s First Hill to call on Donna Wickstrom. She was feeding lunch to her day-care charges.

  “I just put the Overholt baby down for a nap,” she said. “Are you here to find out if Craig’s dropped off a new work?”

  “No, but it’s Craig-related,” I replied, not taking time to mention that I’d seen him over the weekend. “Have you got a brochure here?”

  “Yes,” she replied, smiling. “Are you browsing?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I admitted. “I’ve never seen your brochure. You didn’t need a sales pitch to get me hooked on Sky Autumn.”

  “The easiest sale I ever made,” Donna said with a laugh as she went to a drawer in the china closet. “Here. This needs updating, though. You can handle the job in your back shop, right?”

  “Yes, talk to Kip.” I flipped through the pages—and stopped to stare at a Laurentis I’d never seen. “When did you sell this one?”

  Donna glanced at a mountain scene. “That’s the first of his I sold—over two years ago. You can tell it’s the Olympics from a distance.”

  I nodded. “I’ll bet he painted this some time ago.”

  “Probably. You know how he works. It takes him years to get everything the way he wants it. I suspect he did it from memory.” Donna gave a little shrug. “Don’t ask me why. For one thing, it’s the only thing of his I’ve ever seen that’s from a distant perspective.”

  I handed over the brochure. “I’m sure you’re right. Who bought it?”

  “Tourists,” Donna replied. “They were passing through on their way from Banff and Lake Louise. They live on the Oregon coast. I guess they were tired of seascapes. Is that early effort of Craig’s still in custody?”

  I made a face. “It got liberated. The owner claimed it.”

  Donna was wide-eyed. “You’re kidding!”

  “Not really. I’m sworn to secrecy, but I have a feeling you’ll find out soon enough. If not, you can torture me until I squeal.”