The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery

by Mary Daheim

  “Indeed,” I said vaguely. “Do you know if the sheriff has listened to the tape?”

  Mitch had already taken a bite from his Italian slipper. “Mmm—pear filling. What tape?”

  “Spence made a second tape with Cole,” I said. “Dodge wanted to hear it before it went on the air.”

  “No,” Mitch said, sitting down at his desk. “I didn’t talk much to the sheriff. He seemed to be grumpy, probably because Lori took a vacation day while her light-o’-love is still in town. He’s got Doe Jamison answering the phones, and it’s obvious she doesn’t like playing that particular role. Doe’s not one for female stereotyping.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” I murmured. “Okay, I’ll check with him later. I’d better get to work.” I trudged into my cubbyhole, feeling a bit stiff in joints and muscles I hadn’t used for a long time.

  It was after ten by the time Alison delivered the mail. “Sorry,” she said, “but Marlowe Whipp was late and I’ve been answering the phones, especially for Vida. Her ears must be about to fall off by now.”

  “She loves it,” I said, looking apprehensively at the stack of mail Alison couldn’t fit into my inbox. “Just set it down in any reasonably spare space. I’ll be pitching most of it anyway.”

  I waited to start going through the pile until after Alison left. She’d put all the catalogs on the bottom, the exchange papers in the middle, and the smaller pieces on top. Gritting my teeth, I picked up the smaller envelopes and sifted through them quickly. To my surprise and relief, there was no plain white envelope addressed to me.

  If it had been an ordinary morning, I’d have called Milo by now to find out if he’d listened to Spence’s tape. I would’ve also asked if he, too, had been spared another ugly, anonymous letter about Larry Petersen’s innocence. But it wasn’t an ordinary morning. Or maybe it was, as morning must follow night, but what had come before was not ordinary. I felt foolish for my lack of better recovery powers.

  Vida finally had a moment to spare, and headed straight for me. “Well now!” she exclaimed, plunking herself in one of the visitor’s chairs. “How am I going to get any work done today? I think I’ll ask Alison to hold my calls for a while.”

  “Anything of interest in what your fans had to say?”

  Vida shuddered. “You wouldn’t believe—yes, of course you would—what nonsense people come up with. Darla Puckett insisted she knew Larry was innocent all along because he had such an honest face. Darla has always had the brains of a chicken. Ella—my sister-in-law—said she had doubts from the start because she saw someone or something very peculiar that night, though she couldn’t remember what it was. Of course she wouldn’t—she had that stroke a while ago and she hasn’t regained what little she ever had of her mind. Then there was Garth Wesley, who should have some sense, being a pharmacist. He’d heard a rumor that Linda Lindahl was poisoned before she was allegedly strangled and that he’d prescribed sleeping pills for Reba Cederberg just two days before the murder, and all these years he’s wondered and felt guilty. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  My head was swimming. “I don’t recall anything odd about the autopsy,” I finally said after trying to piece together the spate of rumors and conjectures. “It was quite straightforward. Cause of death was strangulation. The only thing that was unclear at first was whether Linda’s scarf or a rope had been used to do it.”

  “True,” Vida said. She gave my desk a once-over. “No strange letter today?”

  “No, thank goodness. I wonder why. It couldn’t have anything to do with your show, because the last pickup even at the post office is six P.M. I suppose it’s possible that Marlowe lost it along his route. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “No,” Vida said thoughtfully. “I wonder if Milo got one.” She cocked her head to one side. “Emma, you look dreadful. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I snapped. “Why should it be?”

  Vida’s gray eyebrows raised above the rims of her glasses. “I’m sure I don’t know,” she said, but her words lacked conviction. “I must make a call of my own,” she went on, getting out of the chair. “Poor Pastor Purebeck ended up in the ER after our potluck Wednesday night. Doc Dewey said it was food poisoning. Can you imagine? Presbyterians always wash their hands.” Shaking her head, she exited my cubbyhole.

  I found myself smiling as I wondered how much of Vida’s casserole the good reverend had eaten. Maybe Garth Wesley wasn’t the right person to feel guilty about poison.

  Over the course of the next hour and a half, I started to call the sheriff three times, but stopped before I punched in the last two digits. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t called me. He knew I’d want to know how he’d reacted to Spence’s tape. Then it occurred to me that Mr. Radio hadn’t phoned, either. He was supposed to let me know when the segment would be aired so I could post it on our website.

  I was pondering the matter when Mitch poked his head in. “What do you think about a feature on animals encroaching on civilization because their own habitat is disappearing? I’d use the porcupine bit as the hook.”

  “We’ve done stories like that in the past,” I said. “It’s not uncommon around here, as you’ll discover when you find a bear in your bathtub. But,” I added, “you have a knack for humor. Make it funny, start off with maybe something about kids watching for Santa’s reindeer and instead, they blah-blah.”

  “Good idea,” Mitch agreed, still leaning against the door frame. “Is it okay if I put a bit of myself into it as a big-city boy dealing with a new environment? Not that we didn’t have plenty of wild animals in Detroit, but they usually had only two feet.”

  “Sure,” I agreed. “By the way, would you mind calling the sheriff and asking about that tape Spence did with Cole Petersen last night? If you can’t get Dodge, try Fleetwood. One of them must know by now.”

  “I’ll do it ASAP,” he said, with a snappy salute before turning on his heel and going back to his desk.

  It was going on noon. I wasn’t hungry. Maybe I’d eat another doughnut and call it lunch. Staying in might help me focus on other matters such as a meaningful editorial for the upcoming issue. Nothing came to mind. Maybe I was brain-dead. Finally I thought about Craig Laurentis, wondering if he was on the mend. His fate was out of my hands, even if I couldn’t put him entirely out of my mind.

  Mitch was back in the doorway. “I can’t get hold of either Dodge or Fleetwood. Doe told me the sheriff had been out for most of the morning, and whoever is covering for Spence said he’d been in and out but probably wouldn’t be back until after lunch. The kid on backup duty didn’t know anything about the tape, except that there was one somewhere, but he hadn’t heard it.”

  “Swell,” I said glumly. “Well, I guess that’s Spence’s problem, not ours. Maybe we’ll hear something later, or I’ll let Vida take on that task. It is partly her responsibility.”

  Mitch nodded and started to turn away, but I called to him. “When you were at the sheriff’s this morning, was there anything mentioned about the tree poachers? Milo made some comment about a lead yesterday, but of course he wouldn’t give any details.”

  “Interesting,” Mitch said, having stepped inside my office. “You know, we actually have trees in Michigan. Ever hear of the white pine?”

  I thought for a moment. “Maybe, but not around here.”

  “That’s because it only grows in the central and northeast parts of this country and Canada. In the days of sailing ships, the trees were lusted after for mast making. About ten years ago, some yacht builder helped himself to a stand of white pine to add more class for his status-crazed customers. He zeroed in on the Upper Peninsula’s Porcupine Mountains State Park on Lake Superior. But he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, so he hired a couple of unemployed gyppo loggers. Problem was they decided to keep the trees for themselves and cut out the middleman. Unfortunately, the yacht builder caught on to them and there was a confrontation. Bad idea. His hirelings shot him, right in the middle of a campgro
und with about twenty startled witnesses.”

  “And your point is …?”

  “The same if we were talking drugs,” Mitch replied. “The masterminds don’t do the dog work. How hard is it to cut down a maple? I’ve done it myself twice. They grow too damned fast, at least the ones we had did. If I were Dodge—and he probably knows more about it than I do—I wouldn’t look for loggers as the culprits. I’d look for kids, especially dropouts.”

  “Teenage dropouts with guns?”

  Mitch raked his long, thin fingers through the swatch of graying hair that always seemed to be in danger of impairing his vision. “That’s the part that bothers me. If we were talking drugs in Detroit or any other city, the shooting would be a no-brainer. But not around here.”

  “A lot of kids grow up with guns in this area,” I pointed out. “Dads—and moms—who hunt, want self-defense, collectors. It’s part of the local culture here in the mountains. Don’t broadcast it, but Father Kelly’s dad was a career army man who had a bunch of souvenirs from Korea, including guns. They’re locked up in a safe at the rectory.”

  “I get all that,” Mitch said. “It’s not the fact that the poachers would have guns, but the fact that they used them. It’s not like they were committing a capital crime. The maple wood is probably being used to make guitars, for God’s sake!” He mulled for a moment. “Do you think I should say something to Dodge about my qualms?”

  “Ah …” I was flummoxed. The last thing Milo needed about now was a rookie Alpiner giving him law enforcement advice. “Maybe you should hold that thought.” I noticed a hint of disappointment on Mitch’s face. “As a matter of fact,” I went on, “my first reaction was that I couldn’t believe Laurentis had been shot by tree poachers. Not because of the poachers, but because of Craig. If there’s anybody more attuned to the forest, it’s him. He could smell danger from a mile away.”

  “You actually know this guy?” Mitch asked.

  “Sort of,” I said. “Remember when you and Brenda came to dinner at my house after you moved here? You both admired the painting above my sofa. That’s a Laurentis.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Mitch grinned. “I didn’t make the connection. I mean, I’d heard something about the hermit being a so-called artist, but …” He shrugged. “The guy’s good. Brenda thought he was more than good, and she’s got an artist’s eye of her own, just a different medium with her weaving.” He made another pass at his hair. “So what you’re saying is the question doesn’t involve the shooter as much as it does the victim.”

  I hadn’t thought it through that far, but Mitch was right. “Yes,” I said, “I guess it does.”

  And the awful conclusion I drew was that if we were right, Craig Laurentis was still in grave danger.

  After Mitch left my cubbyhole, I wondered if Milo had considered the same possibility. I doubted it, because that wasn’t the way his mind worked. I knew him too well.

  Except I didn’t. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if I knew him at all. Or even if I knew myself.

  THIRTEEN

  BY TWO O’CLOCK, THERE WAS STILL NO WORD FROM EITHER the sheriff or Mr. Radio. Vida had just come back from interviewing Charlene Vickers about her trip to Dallas over the Thanksgiving weekend.

  “Dallas!” she exclaimed disdainfully. “Why would Marguerite and her husband ever move to such a place? All that oil and cowboy boots and hats and barbecue.”

  “As I recall, Marguerite’s husband got an offer he couldn’t refuse from a big residential landscaping company in Dallas many years ago.”

  “Big!” Vida almost spat out the word. “Yes, everything there is big. ‘Big D,’ isn’t that what they call it? As if bigger is better.”

  “How did Cal like the trip?” I asked.

  “Charlene insisted he had a pleasant time,” Vida said in obvious disbelief. “I know better. I don’t think Cal has any time for those big oil companies since he was forced to turn his Texaco station into a Chevron. Most Alpiners will take forever to get used to the change. Everyone I know still refers to it as Cal’s Texaco. And so does he, in private.”

  I didn’t argue. I’d been known to do it myself since the switch. “Have you had a chance to look at the guest book from Linda’s funeral?”

  “No,” Vida replied in disgust. “I haven’t had a spare minute. In fact, we should go through it together. Would you like to have supper at my house tonight?”

  Visions of Pastor Purebeck clutching his stomach lurched in my mind’s eye. “Why don’t you come to my place? I’ve got some imported food items that won’t keep forever in the fridge.”

  Vida looked wary. “Imported? From where?”

  “Paris,” I said, and went on before she could comment. “Rolf Fisher sent them. I thought he was dead. He is to me, anyway.”

  “Well now.” Vida regarded me speculatively. “I didn’t much care for the man—too slick by far—but I thought the two of you had some enjoyable times together. You shared so many mutual interests.”

  “We can hardly share them from more than ten thousand miles away,” I said. “Besides, I never knew whether to believe anything he told me. Not an actual liar, but …” I shrugged. “That relationship was never going anywhere. Especially since half of it went to France.”

  Vida didn’t say anything right away, but then she posed an unexpected question. “Do you think it’s safe?”

  “Safe? What? France?”

  “The food,” she replied. “Foreign countries don’t have the same standards, you know. I’ve heard they allow flies in German restaurants. Imagine! It’s no wonder they lost two wars.”

  “I’ll ask Doc Dewey to run the stuff through the lab, okay?”

  “Emma.” She regarded me with a mixture of reproof and amusement. “I suppose the French do know how to prepare food. Yes, I’ll come to your house. Don’t go to a lot of trouble. I can still feel the extra pounds I gained at the Cederbergs’ the other night.” She stood up. “I must write up the Vickers’ trip before I forget the details.”

  Amazingly enough, Vida never took notes. She had a memory like an HD camcorder. “By the way, I meant to ask if Reba mentioned anything about her nephew Greg. Apparently Denise still has his dog.”

  Vida made a face. “I think Greg and Denise are a sore subject with Reba. His name came up after Strom left, but in an odd context. We were talking about Roger.” She paused, looking faintly embarrassed. “I mentioned something about Roger’s emotional trauma, and Andy told me I shouldn’t feel bad about that because he thought most young people had emotional problems these days. Then he looked at Reba and said, ‘Take Greg for a prime example.’ Reba turned very red and replied that we shouldn’t discuss such things at the dinner table. Andy drew in his horns, mumbling an apology. Naturally, I was curious, but I couldn’t press them for an explanation.”

  I was surprised that she hadn’t given it a try. “Maybe that’s what broke up the marriage.”

  “Very likely,” Vida agreed. “I’d have emotional problems if I were married to someone like Denise. In fact, I may have a nervous breakdown before she finishes working here.”

  “Not you, Vida,” I said. “You’re too tough.”

  She looked askance. “Perhaps.”

  “By the way, after Cole arrived with Richie MacAvoy at lunch, I never got a chance to ask if Strom was upset about his father’s death.”

  “Not outwardly,” Vida replied. “In fact, he literally ate and ran. These young people—always so busy, wound up like tops. But of course he has a great deal of catching up to do in Alpine.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well Adam never lived here full-time after we moved from Portland,” I said. “He didn’t have any long-standing ties. At least on the rare occasions he shows up, I get him all to myself.”

  “Yes,” Vida agreed. “Meg and Beth always have to see old friends when they visit. I understand, but still …” She turned to make her exit. “Six o’clock?”

  “That sounds fine.” It also sounded like
an echo of what Milo had said the night before—which reminded me that we hadn’t heard anything about Spence’s plans for the second interview. “Wait,” I called after Vida. “Can you call Spence and ask if he’s going to air the tape with Cole?”

  “Oh!” Vida clapped her hands to her cheeks. “He called while I was out. I’ll take care of that right now.”

  I followed her out of the newsroom. Mitch was working on something, maybe the wild animal feature, and Leo was talking on the phone. I glimpsed Alison in the front office, where she was chatting with Belinda Poole, the Baptist minister’s wife.

  “You are?” I heard Vida say, making eye contact with me. “I see. Then you’ll let us know?” She rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, I didn’t quite catch that … Oh, certainly. You take care and do feel better … Try steam … I will. Thank you.” Vida rang off. “Spencer has a dreadful cold. I could hardly understand him. He has to wait on the Cole interview as well as a possible rebroadcast of my program. He can’t do a live introduction with impaired vocal cords.”

  “Of course not.”

  I left Vida to her Vickers Texas tale. Half an hour later, Donna Wickstrom called. “Emma,” she said in almost a whisper, “can you come to the gallery?”

  I looked at my watch. It was ten to three. “You’re open early.”

  “Just come. Please.”

  Her desperation alarmed me. “Be right there,” I said, and hung up.

  Making my exit, I announced that I had to leave for a few minutes. I didn’t say where I was going, an omission I knew Vida found galling. Fortunately, the merchants along Front—including Kip—had cleared their sidewalks. It hadn’t snowed again, but it hadn’t melted, either. We were probably due for some black ice by nightfall.

  To my surprise, the Closed sign was on the gallery door and the shade was drawn. I knocked three times. Donna let me in at once.