The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (22 page)

“How are your folks?” I inquired, trying to remember the last time I’d seen Howard Lindahl and his second wife, Susan. It had probably been at the trial, almost ten years ago.

“They’re good,” Alison replied. “Oh—here comes Mrs. Runkel. It looks as if she’s been to the bakery. Omigod, what’s that on her head?”

“A fried egg,” I said under my breath as my House & Home editor entered the front office.

“Alison!” Vida exclaimed, echoing my own greeting, but without surprise. “I knew you’d be a good trouper.” She set the bakery box on the counter and undid her headgear, a white knit wool cap tied under her chin with a yellow starburst on top. “Denise called me to say she couldn’t do the bakery run. She forgot to mention it to you. I’m glad your aunt JoAnne is coming to town. I must have a chat to catch up with her. She’s usually so busy, with her old friends and family.”

“I’m sure my aunt would enjoy that,” Alison said. “This isn’t
a happy visit, according to Denise. In fact, she tried to talk her mother out of coming. I guess Uncle Larry’s death really upset Aunt Jo.”

If Alison’s statement surprised Vida, she hid it. “Of course. Losing a spouse, even an ex-spouse, can be devastating. Now,” she went on, picking up the bakery box, “I must set out these delicious goodies. I managed to get quite an assortment. The snow must’ve gotten some of the early customers off to a late start.”

As Vida tromped into the newsroom, I asked Alison if there was anything she needed to know about Denise’s duties.

“I can play it by ear,” she insisted. “I know about the classifieds, but if anything stumps me, I’ll ask. That’s a big part of temping.”

“Wonderful,” I said. “I’ll let you get to it.”

The coffeemaker had finished its job as I went back to the newsroom. Leo and Kip were ogling the Italian slippers, three kinds of bear claws, a dozen various doughnuts, and a half-dozen napoleons.

“Duchess,” Leo said, “you must’ve drained all the petty cash on this stuff. Should we all bring in some store-bought cookies Monday?”

“My treat,” Vida responded. “I used my own money, since this wasn’t my usual bakery day. Besides,” she went on, standing back to inspect her handiwork on the tray, “I always think people get hungrier when the first snowfall in Alpine is deeper than an inch or two.”

“Not to mention,” Leo remarked, “that you must’ve sent KSKY’s ratings right over Mount Baldy. Fleetwood owes you a big Christmas bonus.”

Kip nodded enthusiastically. “That was killer, Vida,” he declared. “You really rocked last night. I expected the cupboard door to fall off its hinges. Ah—your phone’s ringing—again.”

“So it is,” Vida said a bit smugly. “I’ll answer it.”

I poured a mug of coffee and took a sugared doughnut. Leo nudged me. “I wonder what Denise thought about her brothers going at each other over the airways. Maybe that’s the real reason why she isn’t here this morning.”

“Being Denise,” I said, dropping my voice while trying to block out Vida’s animated chatter on the phone, “she may be the only person in Alpine who doesn’t regularly tune in to Vida’s show.”

“Are you adding anything to last night’s online posting?”

“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “The sheriff wants to hear the interview with Cole, and Spence may air the original again if he gets a lot of listener requests.”

Leo shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were him. He’d better talk to whoever his lawyer is first. One or all of the Petersens might sue him for exploitation or inciting harassment or God only knows what else. I remember one occasion when I was working in Orange County and the paper there ran photos of local firefighters who’d posed for a fund-raising calendar. It was such a hot item with all those good-looking studs that they were asked to run it again—in color. Within two months of publication, two of the guys had dumped their wives for women who’d contacted them after seeing their pictures. Both ex-wives filed a lawsuit against the paper for … I forget the exact reason, but basically it was for provoking alienation of affection, charging the publisher had violated their privacy and ruined their marriages.”

“Did they win the lawsuit?” I asked.

“No. Tom had smarter attorneys than the exes.” Leo suddenly looked embarrassed. “Sorry, babe. Didn’t mean to … you know.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I can hear his name and not burst into
tears. You worked for him a long time. It’s occurred to me that you knew him better than I did.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” He shrugged. “You look tired. Do you feel all right?”

“Yes,” I answered, wishing it were true. “It’s been a long week. I haven’t had time to get out my Nativity set and start putting the pieces up one by one.”

“Kip told me Denise was sick last night before she left,” Leo said. “I thought that was another reason she didn’t show up.” He gestured with what was left of his bear claw. “Here comes our star reporter now. Hi, Mitch. How do you like the new blonde?”

“Nice,” Mitch said, nodding to Vida, who was now on a second phone call. “I’d have introduced myself, but she seems to have her hands—and her ears—full with fielding calls for our radio star.” He removed his jacket before glancing at the pastry tray. “Wow. This is sumptuous. Italian slippers are my special vice.”

“Have you already checked the sheriff’s log?” I asked.

Mitch nodded. “Six vehicle accidents, none serious, mostly caused by the snow, including two in town. One porcupine on the loose at the Overholt farm, unapprehended so far. Grace Grundle thought one of her cats had been kidnapped, but she found Toodles later, trapped in the kitchen cupboard where she keeps some of her many kitty treats. Speaking of cupboards, how ’bout those Petersen boys?”

“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 campground 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.”