The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  By five o'clock, it had started to snow again. Shivering in my raincoat, I trudged out to the Jag and used a scraper to clear the windshield. Then I headed home, up the series of small hills that led to my log house. It was much nicer than Crystal's place, at least in my opinion. She hadn't had a fireplace, only a Franklin stove. Ha-ha, I thought, and immediately hated myself. I was losing the Advent season as swiftly as the relentless snowflakes were filling up the tire treads on the side streets.

  By the time I turned onto Fir, I was in a real funk. There were no plans for the weekend, no names on my dance card. That wasn't news, but it sure was depressing.

  It was snowing so hard by the time I reached my driveway that I didn't notice the car pulled up by my mailbox until I started back to get the daily delivery. It was a medium-sized compact, a newer Ford Taurus. The more recent model always reminded me of a teapot. Maybe the car didn't belong to anyone connected to me. Sometimes the neighbors had visitors who parked in front of my place, especially if they were hosting a party.

  Carrying the mail, I headed for the front door.

  That was when I saw the tall figure of a man standing off to one side. He raised a hand. Startled, I stopped. Through the snow, I couldn't make out who it was. It was too tall for Leo. Nat Cardenas again? Milo, with a change of plans?

  I got within five feet of the porch and recognized Tom Cavanaugh.

  THERE ARE NO stars on a snowy night, but I swear I saw them. There are no bells and whistles after the mill has shut down, yet I definitely heard them. The winter storm swirls around, driven by the wind from off the mountains, but the earth doesn't quake, though I felt it rock beneath my feet. I should have fainted, but I stopped short of being a complete cliché.

  Instead, I just stood there with my mouth open. Tom moved to the first of the three steps and held out his hand. “Did I scare you?”

  I stumbled and fell forward. Tom caught me and laughed, that rich, merry sound I hadn't heard in years. He held me close to his chest, and like a damned idiot, I started to cry.

  Tom Cavanaugh is a patient man, a virtue that has cost me dearly. He waited for at least a full minute, and then spoke over the top of my silly head. “Do you have a key?” he asked in an amused tone.

  Still unable to speak, I nodded. He let me go, and I rummaged in my purse. I couldn't find my keys.

  “You never could find anything in those satchels you call a purse,” he said, still amused. “Did you drop them?”

  Stupidly, I turned and stared through the snow.

  “Yeah… maybe.”Testing my legs for weakness, I started back the way I'd come. Tom followed me.

  “Here,” he said, and scooped them up. Then he put his arm around me and led me back onto the porch. “Oh, Emma, I'm so damned glad to see you. I told Leo I wasn't sure I should come.”

  “Leo?” I echoed, trying to insert the key in the lock.

  “I called him the other day to ask his opinion. I was up in Vancouver at a meeting and—” Tom stopped and firmly removed the key chain from my uncertain grasp. “Here, let me.”

  No wonder Leo had acted strangely when I'd quizzed him about the five o'clock phone call. And he hadn't really lied. Tom was an old pal from Leo's advertising days in Southern California, having been my ad manager's boss on one of the Cavanaugh weeklies.

  “Are you really here?” I asked, wiping away the tears as he let us in and flipped on the lights.

  Tom closed the door. “Yes. I'm here.”

  I stared up at him. He'd changed, of course. His dark hair had more gray and the lines in his face were deeper. Otherwise, he looked much as I remembered him. Handsome. Attractive. Wonderful. I started to cry again.

  “I'm a boob,” I blubbered, struggling with the raincoat.

  Gently, he extricated me, then took off his heavy jacket that had probably come from Brooks Brothers or some other expensive San Francisco emporium. “I hope you didn't have plans for the evening,” he said, hanging up both coats in the closet by the door.

  Strangely, the comment wasn't made lightly. Tom sounded genuinely worried that he might have intruded. “Actually,” I replied, staying on my feet to make sure they were still there, “I'm not busy. But why didn't you call first?”

  “I just got here,” he said, hands in the pockets of his well-tailored slacks. “I thought about it, but just outside of town, the snow really started to come down. I figured I'd be lucky to get up these hills with the rental car. It doesn't have chains.”

  I finally found my smile, and it must have been unsteady. How many times had I imagined this reunion with Tom? Despite his solid presence, his voice, his touch, I felt as if I were in a dream. They say imagination can take you only so far. But sometimes it overlaps with reality.

  “Well,” I said, “you made it. But it sure took you long enough.”

  Tom's face darkened and he lowered his head. “It did, didn't it? Frankly, I wasn't sure of the reception I'd get.”

  “Shall we start with a drink?” I tried to keep my voice light.

  Tom gave a nod. “Sure. Bourbon's good.”

  It always was, being Tom's beverage of choice. “Water and rocks?” I asked from the kitchen.

  “Fine,” Tom answered from the living room.

  Making drinks settled my nerves. I didn't drop anything, which was a plus. Bearing our cocktails, I came back into the living room and asked Tom if he'd like to sit down.

  “Sure,” he said again, and seated himself in one of the armchairs. I didn't know whether to take that as a bad or a good sign.

  “Have you talked to Adam lately?” I inquired, touching off the logs in the fireplace while getting a firmer grip on my composure.

  Tom shook his head. “I'm supposed to see him as well as your brother when they come through San Francisco on their way up here.”

  “You approve of Adam's decision to become a priest?” I asked as I sat down on the sofa.

  Tom shot me a wry look. “Adam doesn't need my approval. Or anyone else's. If he has a vocation, then I pray that he becomes a good priest. I assume you feel the same way.” There was a formal note in his voice and it jarred me.

  “Of course,” I replied. “I'll be honest, though. At first, I was upset. It was selfish on my part, but I guess it was because I realized I'd never have grandchildren.”

  “That matters?” Tom seemed surprised.

  “Yes,” I responded. “Maternal instincts die hard.”

  Tom smiled. “I suppose they do. I haven't had much experience with them.”

  “Meaning?” I leaned forward, encouraging Tom to elaborate.

  “Meaning,” he said slowly, “that Sandra's maternal instincts must have been repressed. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but facts are facts. She concentrated too much on herself and her problems to be a real mother.”

  “But she had problems,” I noted. “Or so you always told me.”

  Tom's expression was hard to read, especially in the firelight. “Yes, she had problems. Horrendous problems. Early on, my theory was that when Sandra did become a mother, she'd stop dwelling on them and maybe they'd lessen. But after having had our two kids, she didn't change. In fact, she only got worse. Sometimes I felt she was jealous of them.”

  So I'd been sacrificed for an unsuccessful cure. Or so I calculated, since Tom had been forced to choose between Sandra and me when we became pregnant at the same time.

  “Gee,” I said, and didn't try to hide the asperity that surfaced, “it's a good thing Iwasn't crazy. You might have had to marry me after all.”

  Tom gave a little start. “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “I thought it was obvious.” Along with my composure, anger had welled up. “Forget it. We can't undo twenty-six years.”

  Tom's face had darkened under what always seemed like a perpetual tan. “We can't?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked with a frown.

  Tom's deep blue eyes avoided me. “Never mind. For now. I'd assumed you wanted to hear how it
was between Sandra and me.”

  “You always kept me apprised,” I said stiffly. “It was one crisis after the other.”

  For a long moment, Tom didn't reply. He sat gazing into his drink, the firelight glancing off of his glass. “That's what it was,” he said simply. “Continual crises.” His eyes locked with mine. “You weren't there, Emma. You couldn't possibly understand.”

  I had to admit that much. “Still, knowing that, why did you string me along, especially when you promised to leave her and asked me to marry you?” I could hear the bitterness in my voice.

  “Because,” he said, and sounded angry, “it was my only hope. I had to have something to hold on to all those years. You were my strength.”

  “But it wasn't fair!” I burst out. “You used me. That was an awful thing to do.”

  “Was it?” His face was solemn.

  “Yes, of course it was.” I spoke in a rush, all the resentment, the anger, and my own dashed hopes filling my words. “You should have let me go. Why should I waste my life waiting for you? Good God, I was barely twenty-two, I could have married and had more children.”

  “Emma.” A faint smile touched his lips, even though he spoke my name with reproach. “We didn't communicate for almost twenty years after you ran off to Mississippi to have Adam. How can you accuse me of ruining your life? That's not fair, either.”

  It wasn't. Tom was right. It was only after he reentered my life seven years earlier that I'd considered a future with him. The years in between had gone for nothing, lost in a sea of rekindled passion and noble promises. I was kidding myself. It's one of my worst habits.

  But I wasn't completely giving in. “You got my hopes up after that weekend at Lake Chelan,” I said, sounding dangerously close to a sulk. “That should never have happened. I was doing just fine until then.”

  “So was I.” The words sounded hollow, and Tom immediately took them back. “No, it wasn't. I was hanging on by a thread. I needed you. I needed to feel alive again. If that's selfish, then there it is. And now I'm here.”

  “For what?” The sulky note lingered.

  Tom set his glass down on the side table and put his hands behind his head. “I don't know. That's what I came to find out.”

  For some unknown, perverse reason which is so much a part of my emotional makeup, I wanted to stall. “Tell me about Sandra. What happened? How did she die?”

  “I thought Leo told you,” Tom replied, looking pained.

  “He did. That is,” I clarified, “he told me she took an overdose of something-or-other.”

  “That's right,” Tom retorted. “Did you think I'd killed her?”

  I didn't detect any humor in his tone. He was wearing his belligerent expression. I'd forgotten how daunting that was. But under that sophisticated, gentlemanly exterior lurked a man who did battle in the newspaper wars. Tom hadn't gotten where he was without being tough.

  “Of course not,” I declared. “But was it deliberate or accidental?”

  “On her part?” The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth as he saw me nod. “I honestly don't know. Sandra had threatened suicide so often. It was one of her favorite ploys to keep me in line. She'd actually attempted it four or five times, but she was so well acquainted with her medications that she always managed to pull through. I'm guessing—if only because it makes me feel better—that she wanted to kill herself. The kids had moved away, so had some of her closest friends, and her older relatives were dying off. Her coterie of sympathizers was shrinking.”

  My initial reaction was contempt, but it was quickly replaced by pity. How pathetic to live life only to gain the compassion of others. It was a waste, and I said so.

  “Yes,” Tom agreed, “it was. Sandra was smart, she was beautiful, she'd been given everything. I suppose that was the problem. Her wealthy parents had spoiled her. She never stopped wanting to be spoiled. And, to be fair, she was unstable, even when I met her. Like a fool, I thought marriage—and motherhood—would change her.”

  “We don't change,” I said sadly. “We simply become more of what we already were.”

  “So it seems.” Tom had removed his hands from behind his head and was finishing his drink.

  “Do you need a refill?” I asked.

  “I don't know.” He gave me another wry look. “Do I?”

  “Probably. You've had a long drive,” I added hastily.

  “Yes.” As I took his glass, he grabbed my wrist. “I've come a long way. Have you?”

  I was trembling. “I don't know,” I said. “I'm still in shock.”

  “Should I go?” Tom looked very earnest.

  I shook my head. “No. Please. Let me collect myself. I'll get us another drink.”

  He released my hand and I staggered out into the kitchen. I was getting more ice when I heard the crash. Spilling several cubes on the floor, I dashed out into the living room.

  “What was that?” I cried.

  Tom was at the picture window that looks out onto my front yard. “Christ,” he murmured with a startled laugh as he bent down to pick something up. “This is crazy. It's a brick. With a note.”

  “What?” I was incredulous as I joined him.

  He held the note in his hands. “It was tied to the brick,” he explained, and with a look of disgust, handed me the folded tablet-sized piece of paper. “What's all this about?”

  With shaking hands, I unfolded the note. It had gotten wet and the ink had started to run, but it wasn't too difficult to make out the big block printing. Killer whore, it said.

  “Damn!” I gasped, then stared at the jagged hole in my front window. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  Tom put an arm around my shoulder. “Call a glazier right away. You can't get along without a new window in this weather.”

  I looked up at Tom. “Are you kidding? There's one glazier in town, and if you think he'll dash out on a Friday night, you're nuts. This is Alpine.”

  Tom looked vaguely nonplussed, then examined the window's two-foot gash. “Have you got any heavy cardboard?”

  “Somewhere.” I was already shivering, and snowflakes were swirling on my hardwood floor. “I'll check.”

  Five minutes later, I was back with part of a box and a roll of duct tape. Tom had collected the broken glass and put the shards in a bowl.

  “Did you see anything?” I asked.

  “You mean who threw the damned brick? No. I was sitting there, admiring your Monet print, and suddenly there was a crash. I turned around.” He paused, getting to his feet. “And by the time I realized what had happened, the SOB must have taken off.”

  “In a car?” I asked as Tom bent down to apply the cardboard.

  “I don't think so,” he replied. “My guess is whoever did it was on foot. They may have parked in that cul-de-sac down at the corner.”

  “Rats.” Then I brightened. “There must be footprints. Maybe I should call Milo.”

  “Go ahead,” Tom said, carefully applying tape to cardboard and glass, “but I doubt he'll get anything by the time he arrives. It's probably too late right now. Look out there, it's practically a blizzard.”

  Tom was right. The flakes were small but thick, blowing down from the north and piling up against the house. “Bummer,” I muttered. “I'd love to catch that jerk.”

  Finishing his task, Tom stood up. “What set whoever it is off?” He glanced at the note, and his face darkened with anger.

  I let out a big sigh. “Let me get our drinks first. Then I'll tell you all about it.”

  Having spent his career in newspapers, Tom wasn't surprised by the brick-throwing business. But he was shocked when I told him that an attempt had been made to set me up as Crystal Bird's killer.

  “Who hates you both?” he asked when I finally wound down.

  I stared at Tom. “I never looked at it quite that way. I don't know that Milo has, either.”

  “I remember Milo,” Tom said with a thin smile. “He's not the sharpest scalpel in the surgery tray.”
<
br />   “He's not dumb,” I said in a defensive tone. “Milo goes by the book. He has to.”

  “You're very protective of Milo,” Tom remarked.

  I tried to be casual. “We have to work together, especially on big investigations like this. Believe me,” I added, hoping I didn't sound bitter, “when we've had … disagreements, the cooperation level all but disappears.” I didn't go further; I had no idea what, if anything, Tom had heard about Milo and me from Leo Walsh.

  Tom's expression was noncommittal. “Milo didn't fall for the setup?”

  “The setup?” I wasn't sure what he meant. “You mean by the killer? No, he didn't.” I didn't add that Milo knew me too well to fall for it. There was no need for Tom to find out how well the sheriff and I really knew each other. Not now, at any rate. “Besides, I think Milo may have known Crystal on a personal basis.”

  I told Tom about the phone call from Milo the night of the murder, and also added some of the other details, including Victor's accident, Nat's drunken driving, and Aaron's arrest.

  “It sounds pretty complicated,” Tom said with a smile. “But you enjoy these homicidal puzzles. By the way, are you going to call Milo to report this?” He gestured at the picture window.

  “I'd better, if only for the record.” Dutifully, I picked up the phone. Sam Heppner answered. He sounded surprised in his own quiet way, then asked if I wanted an officer to patrol the house.

  “No, Sam, but thanks,” I said. “You've got what—two men?—on duty and there's bound to be some more nasty accidents. I'm fine.”

  “But this isn't the first incident,” Sam pointed out. “Your house was broken into a while back, right?”

  “Right.” I hesitated, wondering if in fact the two occurrences might not be linked. “Still, it's okay. People who throw bricks usually don't burgle as a sideline.”

  “Maybe.” Sam sounded grudging. “It's up to you.”

  I reiterated my statement about the deputies being needed elsewhere. Sam didn't argue further.