The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (23 page)

“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.

B
Y 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.

“Thank goodness!” she cried softly. “I didn’t know who else to call. It’s Craig. He’s in the back, and he’s a mess.”

“Why didn’t you call 911?” I asked as we hurried through the gallery’s showroom.

“He wouldn’t let me. I didn’t know what to do.”

I managed not to gasp in shock when I saw Craig Laurentis. He was huddled on the floor, wrapped in a dirty hospital blanket. One foot was bare; the other still wore what was left of the treaded sock he’d worn during his brief stay. His face was even gaunter than when I’d last seen him. There was dried blood on one hand and I didn’t think I could bear to examine the bullet wound that was hidden by the blanket.

I cleared my throat. “Craig,” I said softly but firmly, “I’m calling the doctor. You can’t stop me.”

He couldn’t seem to speak, though his mouth was open and he tried vainly to raise the bloodied hand in protest. I turned my back on him and went into the showroom, where I dialed Doc’s office number. Marje Blatt, one of Vida’s many nieces, answered. I cut to the chase, telling her I had to talk to Doc immediately.

“He’s with a patient, Emma,” Marje replied in her usual efficient manner. “If it’s an emergency, you should call 911.”

I snapped. “Do you want me to send your aunt over to wring your neck? Let me talk to Doc. Now!”

Marje didn’t say anything, but I heard some noise in the background. Maybe she’d fallen out of her chair. I didn’t care, as long as she put her boss on the line. While I waited impatiently, I tried to see into the back room, but Donna was in the way, hovering over Craig.

“Emma?” Doc said. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Craig Laurentis. He’s in a very bad way at Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery. Can you please come?”

“Why don’t you … never mind,” Doc said briskly. “Is there a parking place in front of the gallery? It’ll be quicker if I drive.”

I glanced outside. “One door down, toward the corner of Eighth. I’ll stand in it until you get here.”

“Fine.” He rang off.

I decided I had two, maybe three minutes to wait outside, but first I asked Donna to come with me. She started to argue, but I was already at the door.

“Quick,” I said as we went outside. “How and where did you find Craig?”

“He called me from the gallery about half an hour ago,” she said. “He’d broken a back window to get in. I don’t know how he had the strength. He could barely speak, but I don’t think he got very far after he left the hospital. For all I know, he’s been sleeping by the dumpster in the alley. I
thought
he told me he’d tried to call you, but maybe he meant he wanted me to call you now. So I did.”

I suddenly remembered the incoherent and allegedly drunken calls Denise had taken the previous day. God only knew how she’d interpreted what he’d actually said if he could barely
speak. If Craig had wanted to talk only to me, then that explained why he’d hung up on Leo.

I realized Donna was shivering in her lambswool sweater and light wool slacks. “Go back inside,” I said. “I don’t want Doc to have to hospitalize you with pneumonia.”

“Okay. I should call home anyway to see how Ginny’s managing with the little ones,” she said, backpedaling to the gallery. “I had to ask her to stand in for me, but I didn’t say why.”

“Good thinking,” I remarked, though Donna didn’t hear me. She’d already ducked in out of the cold.

I felt slightly embarrassed standing in the gutter on Front Street. At least two cars and one truck honked at me, probably figuring I was about to jaywalk. Or maybe it was somebody I knew. I was so focused on watching for Doc that I didn’t notice.

After what seemed like a long time, but probably was less than five minutes, I saw his metallic blue Land Rover. I retreated to the curb and waited for him to get out.

“I alerted the medics,” he said, skipping any greeting. “This doesn’t sound good.”

Like his father before him, Doc was never one to gloss over medical problems. “It isn’t,” I said as we hurried inside. “Donna thinks he’s been outside until today.”

“Damn,” Doc said under his breath. “What fools these mortals be.” He took one look at Craig and made a shooing motion at Donna. “Out, out, young lady. You too, Emma.”

We both retreated to the showroom, seeing Doc on his knees, mumbling to himself—or to Craig. I whispered a question to Donna, asking if Craig was conscious.

“Barely,” she replied. “He must be starved and maybe dehydrated. This is so awful—I can’t imagine what he’s been through.”

“He should never have left the hospital,” I said. “But I wasn’t really surprised.” I gazed around the gallery. “Where’s that new painting?”

“I’m not finished framing it,” she replied, nodding in the direction of the back room. “It’s kind of a … challenge.”

I nodded. “I can imagine. I hear sirens.”

“Thank heavens,” Donna murmured. “Maybe this time those nurses will keep a better eye on him.”

“It’s the best place for him,” I said as Donna went to the door.

“Oh, of course,” she agreed, leaning out to look for the medics.

I didn’t say anything. It occurred to me that if Craig pulled through, he needed more than nurses to look out for him. If my fears for his safety were justified, he needed a deputy on duty, too.

Wes Amundson and a recent hire, Tony Lynch, entered the gallery with the gurney, IVs and oxygen at the ready. They barely looked at Donna and me on their way to the back room.