Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481)

by Daheim, Mary

  “Well! That’s intriguing….” She spun around as shrieks erupted from the kitchen. A fair-haired little girl came racing into the living room. “What’s wrong, Savannah?” Donna inquired.

  “Jordan put pudding in my hair!” she cried, throwing her arms around Donna’s legs. “He needs a time-out!”

  “I think,” I said, “that’s my cue to leave you in…chaos.”

  “I’m used to it,” Donna said. “I’ll be waiting for the Laurentis owner. Meanwhile, I’ll check out Savannah’s complaint against Jordan.”

  I wished her luck and made my exit. Now I knew why Ren had passed out when she’d seen the brochure. Maybe she’d seen an earlier version of the Olympics that had been left behind by her mother. I was vaguely sorry that Craig wasn’t Ren’s father. Just about any local except Crazy Eights Neffel would be an improvement over Black Jack.

  Leo was the only staffer in the newsroom when I got back around one. “Guess what,” he said, looking puckish, but not waiting for me to speak. “Brian sorted out things with his bosses at Raytheon and asked for a transfer. He got it—to their operation in Tukwila.”

  “Tukwila!” I gasped. “You know that’s just south of Seattle.”

  Leo grinned. “Sure. I drove by it going and coming from the L.A. flight. Brian won’t start there until after Labor Day, though. In fact, they’re going to Hawaii for their honeymoon and think maybe they’ll come back via Sea-Tac and look for a place to live in the area.”

  “How does Liza feel about this?” I asked.

  “Not good,” Leo replied, no longer smiling. “She tried to convince Brian he could find another, better job in the L.A. area, but this is also a promotion. I told her it’s not as if they’re moving to Saudi Arabia.”

  “Do you think she’d consider moving up here?”

  “I doubt it,” Leo replied. “Liza’s a real California girl.”

  I dreaded asking the next question. “Does this change your own plans about retirement?”

  “I just found out ten minutes ago,” he replied.

  I let the subject drop. Leo had to live his life the way he saw fit. Vida called an hour later to say she was using the Hibberts’ computer to work on her page. “I’m already behind,” she told me in an exasperated tone. “Losing Monday to the long weekend has put me in a bit of a hole.”

  “You’ll dig your way out,” I assured her. “How’s Amy?”

  “Wan,” she replied. “I told her I’d phone in a prescription for gumption. That made her cry. Really now! Oh—I must see to Dippy. He’s getting into the oven.”

  Shortly after three-thirty, I felt as if I were in an oven. I’d put one fan in the newsroom and the other by my desk. It was too small to do more than riffle a few pages of press releases. My office still felt stuffy and I’d become restless. Having no further word from the sheriff’s office, I decided to pester my husband in person.

  “Maybe,” Lori said when I arrived, “you can cheer him up. He’s kind of grouchy.”

  I feigned shock. “Dodge is grouchy?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him if he was going to Grandma’s funeral tomorrow,” Lori murmured. “You better knock first.”

  I did. Milo barked back. I assumed he meant I should come in.

  “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.”

  “Don’t sound so thrilled about it,” I retorted, shutting the door behind me. “At least you’ve got big fans in here. I forgot to bring my new one to the office.”

  “You came here to bitch?”

  “No. I came here to annoy you. And to tell you that Jack Blackwell is Ren Rawlings’s father. I bet you didn’t know that, Sheriff.”

  “Shit.” He shook his head. “So that’s what happened with him and Kay? Or was it just reflex on his part? And how did you find out?”

  “Kay told me,” I replied. “She’s Ren’s mother.”

  “Oh, Christ!” Milo half-spun around in his chair. “No wonder their kid’s half nuts. Do I want to know how you figured all this out?”

  “No,” I asserted. “Because I only got the Kay part right. I was wrong about Craig being Ren’s father. Blackwell’s her father.”

  My husband paused to collect himself. “You can tell me the gruesome details later after I’ve got a Scotch in hand. I’ve spent two hours listening to Ellerbee and Ramsey spill their guts. Before it slips what’s left of my mind, Ellerbee confessed he’s the lurker, and yes, he’s Wes’s brother. We tracked down the family members in Montana, who claimed to have lost track of both Wes and Des years ago. Maybe that’s true. I don’t blame them. Des has also been known as Aaron Conley. He’s got a California rap sheet for window peeking. No assaults, no showing off his anatomy. He just likes to look. He claims he’s curious, doing research for his movie script. But he’s going down this time for the murder of Glenn McElroy.”

  I gaped at the sheriff. “Are you sure?”

  Milo sat up straight and gave me an arch look. “Ellerbee owned a Colt forty-five. I saw it when I searched the cabin. He also had a carry permit, so there was no reason to ask him about it. When I took Rosemary home last night she mentioned McElroy had been nosing around. That gave Ellerbee a motive to get rid of McElroy. Now the Feds will take over. Their agent, some guy named Smith, takes over now. He’s legit. But I’ve got a call in to the state arson squad. They can’t be here until tomorrow. Ellerbee’s out of my hands, even if he is in my jail.”

  I was momentarily overcome, “Poor Rosie. What about Dean?”

  “That went down with Conley the way we figured,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette. “Ramsey was being a nice guy and checked in with Conley now and then to see how he was getting along. But the last time—the spring of ninety-nine—Conley was really cranked up on something and got violent. He charged at Dean, yelling and screaming. There was a scuffle, Conley fell, hitting his head on the fireplace tools. The pointed end of the shovel went through his ear and killed him. That’s why Doc and the Everett ME couldn’t find any apparent skull damage. Freak accident, but Ramsey can’t stop blaming himself.”

  “What did Dean do then? Drive the body to the dump site?”

  “He swears he doesn’t remember much about the aftermath except digging a hole after it got dark.” Milo nodded at his SkyCo map. “I asked if he knew about the dump by Carroll Creek. He was vague, said he’d heard it mentioned, but had never gone there. He probably hasn’t, except for burying Conley. Why would he? He doesn’t live in Alpine.”

  I was silent for a moment. “So no charges against him re Conley?”

  “What could I charge him with? The stabbing this morning is another matter.” Milo put out his cigarette and stretched. “It’s iffy, though. Ramsey was trying to unlock the door to get out. Ellerbee tried to stop him. I’ll go with some half-assed assault charge.”

  “I can’t quote that in the news,” I said with a dirty look.

  “The paper doesn’t come out until next week,” the sheriff responded. “Your deadline’s…Tuesday, right?” He looked uncertain.

  “You know damned well when our deadline is,” I declared. “I’m talking about posting it online, jackass.”

  “That’s Sheriff Jackass to you, Ms. Lord,” he said sternly.

  We glared at each other. Then we stared at each other.

  “God, I’m glad I married you,” he muttered.

  I smiled. “I’m glad you did, too.”

  I left him then. I was still smiling.

  —

  Dinner. I couldn’t bear to turn on the stove. I hated to ask Milo to barbecue. I knew he was not only hot, but he’d put in a rougher day than I had. I wondered if I could set off the charcoal. I’d probably incinerate myself and set our log cabin on fire. Then the arson squad would have two jobs. I stopped at the Grocery Basket to peruse their deli items. Having skipped lunch, I was hungry. I also lacked imagination, so I bought fried chicken, a green salad, baked potatoes, and an apple pie.

  After opening up the house, I headed for the patio. I got
as far as the back door when I saw a book lying on the cement near the door.

  I didn’t recognize the cover. Picking it up, I noted the title: Catholic Christianity: A Complete Catechism of Catholic Church Beliefs. Puzzled, I realized a piece of paper was barely peeking out at the top of the cover. I carefully removed it and read the semilegible handwriting:

  I borrowed this from your priest. I’m not conversant with Catholic doctrine. This book told me what I needed to know, so I’m telling you what you need to know. Yes, I once called myself J. C. Peace. I conducted the marriage ceremony between your husband and his first wife. I was not and never have been ordained nor have I had any other official capacity as a minister. If you need legal documentation, I can provide that. You don’t have to contact me. I will know. Peace, Craig.

  I gazed out into the forest that surrounded my tiny patch of the wider world. How often did Craig slip among the evergreens and vine maples and wild berry vines to glimpse the rest of us in what he considered our mundane, even crass routine? Maybe I should have resented that. Most people would consider it spying, voyeurism, even akin to Des Ellerbee’s lurking. But I disagreed. It was more like having a guardian angel. Craig would laugh at that idea. I sensed he didn’t consider himself religious, at least not by conventional standards. I recalled something about life not being about the destination, but the journey. A Zen belief, remembered from my brother talking about Thomas Merton’s The Seven Storey Mountain. I’d tried to read it to please Ben, but it was too deep for me. Yet there are some things that are instinctive.

  A sound made me turn around. I saw Milo coming toward me. I knew where I was going. Our journey had started sixteen years ago. The path we’d traveled, alone and together, had been marked with laughter and tears, anger and intimacy, business and pleasure, loss and love. The next step in my journey was to walk into my husband’s arms. He met me halfway.

  That’s what makes a marriage.

  To the memory of Martha Longbrake, who tirelessly gave of herself. We are forever indebted to her generous spirit.

  BY MARY DAHEIM

  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

  The Alpine Pursuit

  The Alpine Quilt

  The Alpine Recluse

  The Alpine Scandal

  The Alpine Traitor

  The Alpine Uproar

  The Alpine Vengeance

  The Alpine Winter

  The Alpine Xanadu

  The Alpine Yeoman

  The Alpine Zen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM started spinning stories before she could spell. Daheim has been a journalist, an editor, a public relations consultant, and a freelance writer, but fiction was always her medium of choice. In 1982, she launched a career that is now distinguished by more than sixty novels. In 2000, she won the Literary Achievement Award from the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. In October 2008, she was inducted into the University of Washington’s Communications Hall of Fame. Daheim lives in her hometown of Seattle and is a direct descendant of former residents of the real Alpine when it existed in the early part of the twentieth century, until it was abandoned in 1929. The Alpine/Emma Lord series has created interest in the site, which was named a Washington State ghost town in July 2011.

  www.marydaheimauthor.com