The Alpine Legacy

by Mary Daheim

  “Talking to Mel and April, who couldn't get out a simple sentence,” I said dryly. “I think I got lost somewhere at the ‘dim couple' detour.”

  Vida ignored the remark. “Yes. It seems they delayed picking up the urn because they weren't sure what Crystal would have wanted. An excuse, of course, for not carrying out their duty. Then yesterday someone called their house to ask what was being done about Crystal's remains. April answered, and she was embarrassed to tell this person that so far nothing had been done. She hastened to add—because she was shamefaced, I imagine—that they were picking up the ashes that afternoon. Which Thad and Melody did.”

  “Who called to inquire?” I asked, wondering what was taking Tom so long to fill the wood bucket.

  “Ooooh!” Vida sounded agonized, and I assumed she had whipped off her glasses and was punishing her eyes in a fit of frustration. “So vexing. April didn't know who it was. You'd think she'd have the sense to ask. She told me she got rattled. All she knew was that it was a woman.”

  “A woman?” I echoed as Tom came back inside. “Who could that be? Somebody who knew Crystal in Oregon?”

  “Possibly,” Vida said. “She must have had friends there. Al Driggers no doubt sent the obituary to the Oregon papers as he always does with people who've lived out of state.”

  Tom was putting the wood into the bucket on the hearth. I started to smile at him, then noticed the grim expression on his face. “I'd better go, Vida,” I said hurriedly. “I'll see you in the morning.”

  I turned to Tom, who was standing by the sofa.” What's wrong?” I asked as alarm rose up inside me.

  Tom grimaced. “You're not going to like this.” He paused, then reached down to take my hand. “Somebody took a sledgehammer to your Jag. It's a mess.”

  The freezing weather didn't bother me. I was too upset at the sight of my precious car. The roof was dented, the windows and headlights were broken, and the tires were slashed. There was other damage as well, but the rage in my soul prevented me from taking in the details.

  I stomped back into the house and picked up the phone. “That does it! I'm calling Milo!”

  I dialed the sheriff's home in Icicle Creek. He answered on the third ring. When I told him what had happened, he said he'd be right over.

  “Do you think it's totaled?” I asked Tom after hanging up.

  Tom shrugged. “I don't know. The hood—or bonnet, as you British car owners would say—is jammed. I can't look inside.”

  “The body looks bad,” I mumbled, then flipped through my Rolodex to find the home phone number for Brendan Shaw, my insurance guru.

  Fortunately, he was home. After commiserating with me, he expressed guarded optimism. “You'll have to get an estimate from Bert,” he said, referring to Bert Anderson, owner of the local body-and-chop shop. “Get it towed out there now before it starts snowing again. Gosh, Emma, I'm sorry. You've had some lousy luck lately. We missed you this morning at Mass.”

  “I was in Leavenworth,” I said rather vaguely. As I knew it would, as I feared it would, the over-the-pass idyll now seemed as distant as last spring. Or did it? I had the memory, which made a difference. Which maybe, in some small way, reaffirmed me as a woman.

  “Leavenworth, huh?” I could hear the smile in Brendan's voice. “Nice town, especially this time of year.” He paused, then became more businesslike. “The problem with the Jag, Emma, is that it's not exactly new. Ten, twelve years old?”

  “Thirteen,” I said.

  “Okay. Then we're talking about Blue Book value, which might not be enough to get it fixed. But talk to Bert, see what he has to say. And take it easy, will you? You've got your fans out here.”

  I thanked Brendan with more warmth than I thought I could muster. As soon as I hung up, Milo arrived. He looked upset.

  So was I. “Where was your deputy?” I asked, trying not to sound completely outraged.“I thought you were going to watch this place.”

  “I was. I did.” Milo glared at me, then turned to Tom. “Come on, Cavanaugh, let's have a look.”

  “Wait a minute,” I snapped. “It's my car. Where was your damned deputy?”

  “On the job,” Milo snapped back. “Your little cabin isn't the only hot spot in the county.” He started for the back door, then turned to look at me again. “Where were you?”

  “Leavenworth.” I bit off the word.

  Milo didn't respond, but led the way outside. Doggedly, I followed the men, feeling like some woman in a third-world country bringing up the rear behind the tribal chieftains.

  The wind was blowing from the south, whipping its way through the carport. I wished I'd grabbed a jacket. With my arms folded across my chest and my hands tucked up the sleeves of my sweater, I watched the two self-appointed experts study the Jag.

  “It was done by something like a sledgehammer, all right,” Milo said after several minutes of silent scrutiny. “Maybe during the night. Some of the snow has blown into the dents. Even if my guys had driven past the house, they wouldn't have seen anything out of kilter unless they'd caught whoever did it in the act. You didn't hear anything?”

  “I told you, I wasn't here,” I replied.

  “It's pretty bad,” Milo said in a tone that sounded a trifle too cheerful. “The front doors and the trunk won't open, and we can't look under the hood. Have you thought about a nice American car?”

  Trying to keep my teeth from chattering, I turned my back and stomped into the kitchen, with Milo and Tom trailing behind me. “Have you thought about who's doing all this? Have you any suspects? Evidence? Police work?”

  Tom, who avoided looking at me, closed the door behind Milo. The sheriff pulled off his heavy gloves. “How many names can you give me?” he asked in a reasonable tone. “You know damned well who your critics are in this town.”

  “You think it's one person or several?” I shot back. “Are they acting separately or is it some sort of conspiracy? Anyway, that's not the point. I want it to stop before I end up dead.”

  “You're safe.” Milo glanced at Tom. “You've got protection. Round-the-clock, right?”

  Even though I understood Milo's attitude, it was galling. If his wounds had begun to heal before Tom's arrival, they'd been reopened. That didn't surprise me. It was the depth of Milo's hurt that was disturbing. Had he really cared that much or was his masculine pride greater than I realized?

  “Protection's not the point,” I said, trying to calm my temper. “I've suffered from cranks before this. It's part of the newspaper business, especially in a small town. But this is different. It seems more dangerous.” I turned to Tom. “Don't you agree?”

  Tom didn't answer right away. “Maybe,” he finally allowed. “But then I've had a newspaper burned right out from under me.”

  I was startled. “You have?”

  He nodded. “It was a few years ago, over in San Bernardino County. A couple of rednecks took exception to my editor's stand on immigrants.”

  “I didn't know,” I said in a low voice. “Were you there?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  Milo, who had been gazing somewhat longingly, if futilely, at the liquor cupboard, started for the living room. “Come down and fill out a complaint.”

  “Can I do it tomorrow? I want to get the car towed to Bert's Auto Shop.”

  “No, you don't,” Milo said as Tom and I joined him by the front door. “You want it towed to the parking area behind my office. If you're getting serious about this, we have to go by the book.”

  Of course. “Do you expect to find anything?” I asked.

  Milo shrugged. “Who knows? Too bad they didn't carve their initials into the roof.”

  The sheriff left. Tom, who hadn't yet lighted the fire, picked up the matchbox and then set it back down on the mantel.

  “Let's eat out,” he said. “You choose.”

  My gaze remained on the mantel. Once again, I hadn't put up a Nativity piece. I hadn't been here to do it the previous night. “Okay,” I said
, “but wait.”

  I went to the box in the coat closet and got out the last sheep. “There,” I said, positioning the small figure next to one of his brethren. “How about the ski lodge?”

  Tom was still looking at the stable and its growing number of residents. “Don't you pray when you put up something?”

  I felt embarrassed. “Yes, usually. Something short, anyway.”

  “Then let's.” He took my hand and bowed his head.

  So did I. But all I could pray for was that the scuzzy bastards who had wrecked my car would run off the road and go over Deception Falls.

  That didn't seem to fit the spirit of Advent, either.

  VIDA ARRIVED BEFORE I did the next morning, breathing enthusiasm. “I've been thinking,” she said, blowing on her steaming mug of hot water, “we must speak to Victor again. I sense that he holds a key to this whole business with Crystal.”

  “If we go,” I said, “we'll have to take your car. Mine's wrecked.”

  “What?” she shrieked, almost spilling some of the hot water. “You wrecked your car? Were you drinking?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, sitting down in the extra chair next to her desk. “Somebody did it for me.”

  I proceeded to tell her what had happened while Tom and I were in Leavenworth. It took a while, since she kept interrupting to ask me several nonpertinent questions, including if we'd spent the night, where we stayed, what I bought, and did I see anyone from Alpine which would make an item for “Scene Around Town.”

  “Vida,” I finally said in exasperation, “let me finish. Please. Or are you going to include my getaway with Tom as grist for your gossip mill?”

  “Hardly,” she retorted, looking askance. “Since when did I ever include love nests in ‘Scene'?”

  “Love nest” wasn't quite the way I would put it, but I let the subject drop and Vida allowed me to continue. Leo, Scott, Ginny, and Kip had arrived by the time I got to the climax. When I announced in somber tones that my poor old Jag was probably a car of the past, they all offered their sympathy.

  “That was one sweet automobile,” Kip said in a mournful voice. “I'll bet there aren't more than half a dozen Jags in Sky County.”

  “I saw a new one the other day gassing up at Cal's,” Scott put in. “It was black, beautiful. Will you get another one, Emma?”

  I made a face. “It's not dead yet. I have to wait for Bert Anderson to decide.”

  “Bert's nice,” Ginny said. “Isn't it true he lost an eye up on Tonga Ridge? I went through school with his daughter, Cammy.”

  “Is Christine Anderson Bert's wife?” Leo asked. “She's the one who puts the Amway ad in the paper.”

  “That's Carolyn Anderson,” Vida said. “Carolyn is married to Bert's brother, Ken. Ken sorts packages for UPS in the warehouse. He suffered a punctured lung working for Blackwell Timber.”

  Leo looked puzzled. “I thought Ken Anderson worked for Sears.”

  Vida shook her head. “That's Kent Andersen. With an e. He has two missing fingers on his left hand. Another logging accident.”

  Scott was looking dazed. “I'll never figure out who's who in this town. Not to mention how many of these guys have lost body parts. Wouldn't you think they'd be glad not to have to risk their necks cutting timber?”

  “Heavens, no,” Vida replied. “It's their calling, like the sea. How many crabbers do you know who have gone down off Alaska?”

  “None,” Scott answered. “I'm from Portland.”

  “So you are,” Vida murmured. “A shame, really.” She turned to me just as I headed for my office. “When do you want to drive down to Startup?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Not for a while. It's only eight-thirty.”

  “Then we'll leave around eleven,” Vida said. “Perhaps you should call first.”

  I agreed, then began my day behind my desk. Kip had repaired the leak in the roof, which meant one less distraction. The snow had held off, and as I walked downhill to work, I felt that the temperature was rising. Tom had offered to drive me, but wasn't yet dressed. I had let him sleep in because last night he'd confided that he was only beginning to get back into a natural sleep pattern. The past few years with Sandra had practically forced him to keep one eye and one ear open. They'd had separate bedrooms for some time, but there was an intercom, and she frequently called to him for help in the wee small hours.

  That was another thing I hadn't known about Tom.

  I finished the editorial on the women's shelter shortly after nine. Scott brought in the contact prints from his photo shoot of the St. Lucy's pageant held on Saturday night at the Lutheran church. He had some excellent shots, no mean feat since there are only so many ways you can photograph young blonde girls with candles on their heads.

  Ginny arrived a few minutes later with the mail, which brought yet more ugly letters. I skimmed them, but decided they could be evidence and stuffed the most recent ones into an envelope for Milo.

  Around ten I called the sheriff to ask if he'd found anything helpful in or on the Jaguar. So far no luck, but Ron Bjornson, who knows his way around almost any kind of vehicle, wasn't finished checking.

  At ten-thirty I phoned Paula's house in Startup and got the answering machine. I figured she was at the college, grading finals. Her students' term projects weren't the kind that could be brought home. When the glass pieces had been graded, the students would keep their creations, no doubt using some of them as Christmas presents.

  “Nobody answers down there,” I called to Vida. “I suspect Victor wouldn't bother himself to pick up the phone.”

  “Then we'll have to surprise him,” Vida said, and looked pleased at the prospect.

  “Okay,” I said without enthusiasm. Surprising Victor Dimitroff sounded like an early wake-up call for a grizzly bear in hibernation. “We'll leave at eleven.”

  Vida scowled, but didn't say anything. I knew she was champing at the bit, but I wanted to call Tom to see if he was meeting me for lunch. He'd been in a sleep-induced fog when we'd made a tentative date to eat at the new diner. The drive to Startup and back, along with the interview, would take over an hour. One o'clock would be a more realistic time for lunch.

  Tom didn't answer, so I assumed he was in the shower. I left a message, though I suspected he wouldn't check the machine. Milo was right. A cell phone was becoming a necessity, not a luxury. I called Stuart Electronics, formerly Stuart's Stereo, and asked them to make me their best offer. Ten minutes later, my head was reeling and Cliff Stuart had sold me “not the cheapest, but a quality item.” It better be. My new necessity was in a luxurious price range.

  On a late Monday morning, there wasn't much traffic along Highway 2, except for the blasted trucks. I frankly considered them a menace, especially on a two-lane, undivided road. For the past year or more, I'd considered starting an editorial campaign to get the trucks off the highway and load the freight onto trains. Or planes or ships or dogsleds. But I knew my feeble protests would go nowhere, and that in a community where trucks had been part of a once-thriving livelihood, I'd make even more enemies. Thus, I often seethed, particularly when stuck behind a semi on an uphill grade.

  Vida, however, showed remarkable patience. “Victor can't go very far,” she remarked as we passed the Money Creek campground. “He may even be glad to see us. I imagine he's getting cabin fever by now.”

  I was about to express my doubts when a horn honked as a driver passed us on a straight stretch of road.

  “Really,” Vida huffed, “I despise people who feel they must—goodness,” she exclaimed as the red Grand Cherokee pulled back into our lane, “isn't that Milo?”

  I strained to see who was at the wheel, but the Cherokee was too far ahead of us now. “I haven't memorized his new license plate yet,” I admitted.

  “It's the same as the previous one,” Vida responded.” ‘LAWMAN.’ “

  “Sorry,” I apologized. “I didn't catch it.”

  “He's turning off,” Vida said in surprise
. “Isn't that the road into Crystal's cabin?”

  “It sure is,” I replied, and was far from amazed when Vida hit the turn signal and we, too, left the highway.

  “Milo isn't going to like this,” I said as we wound along on the gravel road. “Assuming that is Milo.” Maybe I could appease him by telling him about the cell phone I'd ordered.

  Sure enough, the sheriff was at the front door to Crystal's cabin when we pulled in behind the Cherokee. He turned, saw us, and threw up his hands.

  “I should have guessed when I saw you on the highway,” he shouted, sounding irritated. “How did you find out so soon? Bill Blatt?”

  Naturally, the question was addressed to Vida, who gave a little start, then squared her wide shoulders. “Not Billy,” she said in a vague voice. “I do have other sources.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about, and was pretty sure she didn't, either. But I could bluff right along beside her. We were going up the steps to the front porch when Aaron Conley opened the door about two inches.

  “It's The Man,” Aaron mumbled. “Dudester Dodge. The Lawmeister. How's business?” Then, before Milo could respond, Aaron saw Vida and me, and slammed the door shut.

  “Come on, Conley,” Milo shouted, trying the knob. “Open up.”

  This time, Aaron only gave an inch. “Not with those broads around. Hey, forget it. Nobody stole anything. They didn't even get in. I scared ‘em off. I only called because …” He paused, apparently trying to remember why he had in fact summoned the sheriff. “Because of Crystal. I mean, like, maybe the killer returned to the scene of the crime.”

  Milo's shoulders slumped. “Jesus, Conley, I don't have time for jokes. Did you or did you not have a break-in?”

  “Not exactly.” The door moved another inch. “I mean, whoever it was, got scared off. Honest. I yelled when I heard the noise and then all I saw was somebody take off in a car.”

  “What kind of car?” Milo asked, obviously trying to keep his temper under control.

  “A dark one. Older model. Maybe a Chev, or one of its spawns.” Aaron seemed to be trying to cooperate, though even from my viewpoint on the porch, I could see his eyes were dilated and not quite focused.