The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “Oh.” Jack glanced at the closed door to his boss’s office. “I don’t hear any screaming. Dodge must not have gotten out the thumbscrews yet. I still say those letters he got were from a head case.”

  “I got one, too,” I said. “I brought it to him this morning.”

  Jack grinned. “I heard you brought the boss more than a letter.”

  I ignored Vida’s stare and gave Jack a disgusted look. “You people should spend more time catching bad guys than speculating about what goes on behind closed doors. Which, I must admit, is what I’m wondering about right now.”

  I’d hardly gotten the words out of my mouth when the door opened. Strom and Cole emerged first, looking no worse for wear. In fact, they both seemed in much better humor.

  “Okay,” Milo said, pausing in the doorway to light a cigarette. “You’re on, Lois Lane and Brenda Starr.” He waved the hand that wasn’t holding the cigarette at the entrance. “Looks like you’ve got competition. Here comes Fleetwood.”

  “Why not?” I mumbled, watching Spence stride through the door managing to look as if he’d just stepped out of Brooks Brothers. Even his perfectly styled graying black hair wasn’t damp. Maybe he was encased in some invisible weather-proofing.

  “Good evening, all,” he said in his Mr. Radio voice. “Vida, my dear, the phones are ringing everywhere. You’ve done it again.” He beamed and she preened. Then he turned to the Petersen brothers and put out his hand. “My pleasure and gratitude, gentlemen. I’m delighted to meet two young men who can light up the airwaves with such candor and lack of self-consciousness. Very rare.”

  As they shook Spence’s hand, Strom looked wary; Cole appeared stunned. Both mumbled their thanks, though for what, I didn’t know.

  “Are you done here?” Spence asked Milo.

  I held my breath, waiting for the sheriff to answer. But he merely shrugged. “I have what I need. Why don’t you media giants work it out between yourselves? I’ve got an apple pie waiting for me.” He ambled through the half-door and held his hand out to me. “I need your key. I don’t want to have to break down the door.”

  I heard Vida suck in her breath. I didn’t dare glance at her, knowing her eyes must look like gooseberries behind those big glasses. I ignored Jack, too, certain that he was leering in his puckish manner. Trying to stay calm, I scrambled through my purse and handed Milo my key chain. “You take it off. I don’t want to break a fingernail.”

  “Got it,” the sheriff said, deftly running the key along the metal loop and palming it. “See you later.” He loped out the front door.

  Spence acted blasé, but I sensed he was peeved. “I hoped,” he said after an awkward silence, “I could do a live interview here.” He looked at Jack. “Is that possible?”

  The deputy shrugged. “How would I know? I just work here, catching crooks and saving lives. Do you need some kind of equipment?”

  Before Spence could reply, Strom spoke up. “I’m leaving. The weather sucks and I want to get back to Seattle before this rain turns to snow. I’m out of here.” As good as his word, he bolted for the door.

  “Chicken shit!” Cole called after him.

  Vida wagged a finger. “Now, now. Let’s all settle down. I’m sure you can tell us what went on with the sheriff.” She turned to Jack. “Do you think we could go into Milo’s office to stay out of your way?”

  “Not a chance,” Jack said. “I’m looking forward to full retirement.”

  “Well then,” Vida asked patiently, “where can we go?”

  Jack grinned. “You don’t want me to tell you.” He held up both hands before there were any repercussions. “How about one of the cells? They’re all empty. Would you like the deluxe or economy size?”

  Vida was dismayed. “You have a break room. What’s wrong with that? Or should I get my nephew Billy over here to help us?”

  Jack folded faster than a Texas Hold’em player with a deuce and a six in the hole and nothing but face cards in the flop. “Go ahead,” he said, “but Lori only cleans the place up in the morning.”

  Cole suddenly balked. “Did I say I wanted to do this?”

  “You can’t not do it,” Vida said, “and may I add that my daughters always told me you were much better behaved than Strom when they babysat the two of you and your sister, Denise.”

  Denise. I wondered if she’d listened to her brothers on the radio, and if so, how she’d reacted. Her name had never come up, due either to an oversight or a kindness. I didn’t know which. It was as if she was out of the family loop.

  “I suppose,” Spence said as we followed Vida down the hall to the break room, “we could do this as a four-way sort of roundtable. But it’d be simpler if it was just Q & A, don’t you think?”

  “I assume it’s not live,” I replied as Vida switched on the lights in the small break room that wasn’t much better appointed than the prison cells and considerably less tidy. “When would you air it?”

  “Good question,” Spence said, pulling out a chair for Vida. The furniture looked like someone’s discarded dinette set. Or sets, maybe, since only two of the four chairs matched. “It’s eight o’clock now,” he said, checking his Movado watch. “A Thursday.” He cogitated while Cole and I seated ourselves. “Too soon for nine, not enough promo, too late for ten on a work night. Probably tomorrow, maybe at six following the news. That way, people who are going out for the evening can catch it.” He turned to Vida. “I might replay your program, too. Would you object?”

  Vida didn’t answer immediately. “I suppose not. I assume you won’t tamper with it.”

  Spence put a hand on Vida’s arm. “Rest assured I would never do anything to upset you. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” He looked at me. “When I decide how to handle this, could you post it on your website?”

  “Sure,” I said. There was no point in being ornery. Vida’s ratings had probably gone over the top again, and both KSKY and the Advocate might garner some more advertising, especially with Christmas coming up. “Just let me know as soon as you make up your mind.”

  “Okay,” Spence said, handing Cole a clip-on microphone. “Let’s do it. I’ll record the intro later to save time.” He cleared his throat. “First off, let me say to you, Cole, that I’m sorry your brother, Strom, had to head back to Seattle this evening, but with snow in the forecast around SkyCo, I don’t blame him. You and your brother’s appearance on Vida’s Cupboard have created quite a stir around here. What do you make of it from a personal angle?”

  “I don’t know,” Cole replied, looking genuinely stumped. “I suppose it’s because Strom and I don’t see much of each other. He’s four years older, and after he went off to college, I was still in high school. I’d only see him three or four times a year. The age gap got wider as we got older while growing up. It shouldn’t make a difference now, but we lead separate lives, even though we’re both based in the Seattle area.”

  “So,” Spence said, “you hadn’t seized an opportunity to air your sibling grievances since becoming adults until now. I dislike terming your exchange a meltdown, but your father’s death makes you both vulnerable. Do I sense suppressed emotions with you and Strom in the ten years since the original tragedy occurred?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Cole agreed. “When we started answering Mrs. Runkel’s questions, it was like somebody turned on a faucet. Everything came pouring out. We just let loose. It probably wasn’t a good idea.”

  “How do you mean?” Spence probed, sounding like a caring shrink.

  “Oh …” Cole gazed up at the ceiling and drummed his fingers on the soiled plastic tablecloth. “It’s hard to explain. Just sibling stuff, kind of dumb when I think about it. Embarrassing, too. It’s like we forgot we were on the radio.”

  Spence chuckled softly. “Mrs. Runkel has that effect on people, doesn’t she? That’s why we call her programs a chat.” He offered Vida a warm glance. “I think, though,” he went on, “that what’s most intriguing here is the aftermath. For our listene
rs at home, we’re at the sheriff’s headquarters, where Milo Dodge asked Strom and Cole Petersen to join him after the door closed on Vida’s Cupboard. Can you tell us why the sheriff did that, Cole? Was it something you mentioned on the air?”

  Cole squirmed a bit. “I saw my dad the weekend before he passed away. I didn’t know that’d be the last time I … you know what I mean. Anyway, we usually just talked about … stuff. Like my job and if I was seeing anybody and sports and whatever. But looking back now, maybe he had some kind of … intuition about what was going to happen to him. Just before I was about to leave, he said there was something I should know. I asked him what. He said he didn’t kill Aunt Linda. I was stunned. I must’ve looked stupid, because he asked if I believed him. I didn’t know what to think—he never denied it after he was arrested or during the trial. None of us kids went to the trial. Mom and Dad thought we shouldn’t, and anyway Strom and I were in college and couldn’t take time off. I told him if he didn’t kill Aunt Linda, he should’ve said so at the time. But he just shook his head and gave me this weird look.” Cole spread his hands. “Our visiting time was up. I had to leave. I didn’t mention it to anybody until tonight. It creeped me out.”

  “Understandable,” Spence said. “Is that why Sheriff Dodge wanted to talk to you? Did he have doubts of his own about your father’s guilt?”

  “Uh …” Cole grimaced. “I don’t think so. But he wanted to know if we knew anything about some anonymous letters that had been sent to people around here insisting that my dad didn’t do it. I guess the letters started showing up a few days before Dad died. Anyway, neither of us had a clue. That sounded pretty weird to both of us. We couldn’t think of anybody who’d have a reason to do something like that, unless Dad had done it before he died. But Dodge told us the most recent letter had shown up today and that all of the envelopes were postmarked from Alpine. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  I was annoyed that the letters had been mentioned, but at least Milo apparently hadn’t given out the recipients’ names. Vida and I exchanged peeved expressions.

  Spence was nodding sagely. “It’s often difficult to understand what motivates certain deranged—if sometimes well-meaning—people to act so irrationally. I gather the sheriff didn’t name any of the persons who received these letters?”

  “He showed us one, but we couldn’t tell who got it. There wasn’t much to it, just that Dad wasn’t guilty. It was written on a computer and taped to the page, but Dodge covered up part of the message. He wanted to see if we knew anything about it—or maybe how we’d react.”

  “Interesting,” Spence remarked, his eyes shifting in my direction. “I’d also be interested to know in the days to come how you—and your brother, Strom—will feel about those last words from your father. I imagine you both, as well as other family members, would be comforted greatly if you believed he was innocent.”

  Cole seemed to have tuned out Mr. Radio. He was staring at the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth. Zoned out, I thought. Emotionally drained. I didn’t blame him.

  Spence sensed as much. “Thank you, Cole. I know our listeners appreciate your candor. All our good wishes at KSKY go out to you at this sad time.” He shut off the recorder and unclipped his mike. “Well. That was quite a tour de force, Cole. Seriously, I thank you for being so open. Does doing that feel cathartic?”

  Cole seemed to haul himself back into reality. “Cathartic? I don’t know. It’s just … strange. Can I go now?”

  “Sure.” Spence stood up. “In fact, you want to have a beer?”

  Cole shook his head. “No. I’m staying with friends. They were going to order a pizza after I got back from the station. They’re probably wondering what happened to me.” He allowed Spence to shake his hand, murmured his thanks to Vida, and gave me a bleak glance. Then he left the break room, moving like a much older man.

  Spence gathered up his gear. “I guess I won’t ask either of you out for a beer,” he said, flashing his bright, white smile. “Unless, Vida, you’d join me for a glass of wine? I owe you.”

  “I think I’ll go home,” Vida said. “I dislike leaving Cupcake alone at night if it snows.”

  I was already out in the hall when Vida caught up with me. “Apple pie indeed! I will never understand what goes on with you and Milo. You’re like children!” She shook herself like a big bird after a bath and stalked on out through the open area.

  I didn’t try to keep up. Jack was on the phone. It sounded as if he was trying to calm someone who was panicking about a porcupine in his or her woodshed. He looked up and leered at me. I ignored him and made my exit. I was already in my Honda when Spence came out into the rain that was beginning to turn to wet snow. He approached the driver’s side of my car. I reluctantly rolled down the window.

  “No point in asking you, is there, Emma?” he said, with a wicked grin. “I assume you’ve got something else on your plate besides pie.”

  “Don’t be a jackass,” I snapped. “Milo and I’ve been friends for—”

  Spence laughed. “Stop. All I want to say is that Dodge is one lucky bastard. I don’t understand why. G’night.” He hurried off to wherever he’d parked his Beemer. I turned on the ignition and reversed out of the diagonal parking space so fast that I narrowly avoided getting hit by Vida’s Buick. She honked at me and swerved out of the way. Great, I thought, she probably thinks I can’t wait to jump into Milo’s arms instead of running over Spence.

  The truth was that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do either—or both.

  I was locked out of my own house. I’d forgotten that Milo had my key. To leave my driveway open, he’d parked the Grand Cherokee in front of my house, just off the street, half on the dirt, half on the grass. There are no sidewalks south of Cedar and west of Fifth. Local Improvement District bond issues are always voted down by Alpine’s stingy electorate.

  I pulled into the carport to enter through the kitchen. Both front and back doors have the same lock, the result of my first few years in Alpine, when Adam was in and out on visits from college and kept losing either one or the other of the two original, but different, keys. It seemed simpler to have only one key for both locks, though in retrospect it was a bad idea. If my careless son lost the key, he was really in a jam and only GORM could help him. He’d devised the acronym for his frazzled mother, which stood for Good Old Rescue Mom.

  Looking through the back door window, I could see the light was on in the kitchen, the apple pie sat on the table with a large chunk missing, and the sound of the TV emanated from the living room. Hopefully, Milo would hear me knock.

  Apparently he couldn’t. Maybe he was in the bathroom. I waited a moment or two, wishing the wind wasn’t blowing the wet snow through the carport. I knocked again and called the sheriff’s name.

  No response. I traipsed around to the front and rang the doorbell. If he was in the easy chair, the door was only four feet away. I pushed the doorbell twice. Nothing. I was starting to worry. And shiver. I’d closed the living room drapes after coming home from work, so there was no way to peer inside. Frustrated, I fumbled for my cell and dialed Milo’s number. After four rings, I heard a muffled voice say, “Dodge here.”

  “Emma here. On the front porch. Let me in! I’m freezing.”

  “Huh? Oh. Right. Sure. Hold on.”

  Just as I was wiping wet snow out of my eyes, the sheriff opened the door. “You were asleep!” I yelled, pushing past him to get inside. “I’ve been outside for ten minutes!”

  He peered at whatever NBA game he’d been watching. “You couldn’t have. There’s still eight and a half minutes to go in the quarter. There was under eleven the last time I checked.”

  “They must’ve taken about six time-outs,” I said angrily, struggling with stiff fingers to get out of my coat. “Maybe they had a bench-clearing brawl. Give me back my key before you forget it belongs to me.”

  “Oh. It’s over there on your end table.” Milo yawned, picked up the remote, and muted the sound. “W
hat happened with Fleetwood and the rest of the gang?”

  “They’re all dead,” I said, still annoyed. And cold. “How was your damned pie?”

  “Good. I tried some of that French cheese with it.” He made a face. “Not as good as local cheddar. You want a piece?”

  “No.” I took a deep breath and sank onto the sofa. “I have to call Kip. Or do I? I’m not sure we can add anything to our online edition.”

  Milo was on his haunches, banking up the fire. “Are you talking to me or the sofa cushions?” he asked over his shoulder.

  I sighed. “Who knows? Strom took off right after you left.”

  Milo nodded. “I saw him get into his Lexus as I pulled out.” He stood up and stretched. “What’d Fleetwood do? Make Cole sing solo?”

  “Exactly,” I replied. “All things considered, Cole did a decent job. Spence is going to play the interview tomorrow, probably after the six o’clock news. I assume you’ll want to hear it before then.”

  Milo leaned on the back of the easy chair. “I’d better. It might be evidence.” He saw my curious expression and shook his head. “Don’t get excited. I’m guessing, but I’ll bet Cole repeated what Larry told him about being innocent.”

  “He did,” I said, “and elaborated on his reaction at the time. He still doesn’t know what to make of it.”

  The sheriff looked rueful. “I don’t either. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s more to all this than some oddball trying to make trouble. I’m not sure Fleetwood should air the damned thing—unless it’d make the creep crawl out of the woodwork.” He picked up the remote and turned off the TV. “I wonder if I should go listen to that tape now. I wouldn’t put it past Fleetwood to pull a fast one and broadcast it sooner.”

  With some effort, I hauled myself off the sofa. “Did you ever check with anyone at SnoCo to find out if they’d gotten any strange letters?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “I got stonewalled by some halfwit assistant to the judge who tried the case. I have the name of the jury foreman, but it turns out that the guy is out of town until just before Christmas. I’ll call the judge again tomorrow. Not that I expect to hear anything helpful. Sometimes those big shots in SnoCo treat us like stepchildren. Screw ’em. If anybody did get a letter over there, they should’ve let us know. Since they didn’t, I figure no news is bad news—for us.”