TWO

I SPENT THE EVENING ALONE, WITHOUT EVEN A PHONE CALL FROM Milo. I was only vaguely miffed, knowing that he was coping with both Tanya and Tricia. But I missed him. We’d had less than three weeks living together in my little log cabin, and half the time we’d been so worn out from our own ordeal that by evening we were dead tired.

Milo hadn’t had time to assemble the new king-sized bed I’d bought during the January sale from Lloyd Campbell’s store. It had been delivered the day before Tanya arrived at his house in the Icicle Creek development. The standard-sized bed I’d bought thirty years ago in Portland wasn’t big enough to accommodate the sheriff. Even when we were a couple almost ten years ago, Milo didn’t stay over that often and neither of us ever complained. But now it was different. He’d be living here all of the time—if he could ever lose his ex and their daughter.

What was almost as frustrating for the sheriff was that he hadn’t been able to go fishing. Unlike Tricia, who’d balked at his need for solitude to slough off the rigors of his job, I understood. Fishing is part sport and part spiritual experience. Milo had recently told me he often used the time for introspection—something I thought he rarely did. But there were depths to him that I’d never plumbed. The truth was I’d never wanted to, for fear that maybe there weren’t any. Or that if there were, I’d realize how much I’d always loved him and give up the dream that had been Tom Cavanaugh and the enigma that had been Rolf Fisher. Emma Lord, Love Dunce—I’d spent thirty years perfecting the role.

It was still raining Thursday morning. The dark clouds hung over Alpine almost to the tree line at the rear of my house. As a native Pacific Northwesterner, I didn’t mind. Gray, not green, should be Washington’s official color, at least in the western half of the state.

As I drove down the hill to Front Street, I glanced toward the sheriff’s office. There was no sign of Milo’s Yukon. Maybe he’d stopped at the hospital to see Tanya.

Amanda had the bakery run that morning. When I arrived she was setting out sugar doughnuts, maple bars, and cinnamon twists. After greeting her, I poured a mug of coffee and grabbed a doughnut. Vida and Leo were both on the phone, Kip apparently was in the back shop, and Mitch arrived just as I started to head for my office.

“Hey, boss,” Mitch called to me, almost on my heels by the time I reached my desk, “you free for lunch today?”

“Yes,” I said, wishing I sounded more enthusiastic. I hadn’t given up hope that Milo might be free during the noon hour.

My reporter tapped his fingers on the door frame. “I’ve got some things I’d like to discuss with you. Not related to work.”

“Okay,” I said. “Unless things get hectic, that’s fine.”

Mitch nodded and went to his desk.

What to do with Brenda? I thought, sitting down. So many people had mental problems. Was the atmosphere full of emotional-disturbance germs? I’d spent thirty years waiting for Tom’s wife, Sandra, to drive him to divorce or run off with somebody else. She’d once done the latter, but her affair with a much younger man had ended abruptly. Eventually she had died from an overdose of her funny-bunny meds. Tom was finally free to make me his wife, but instead of marrying him, I ended up burying him. Now it was Tanya, and in between, Roy Everson with his Mama fixation and Mitch’s wife, Brenda. I’d never really gotten to know her. Though I blamed myself for lack of trying, she hadn’t seemed very social. Given her recent breakdown, I wondered if she’d brought her mental problems with her from Royal Oak.

Mitch left at eight-thirty to check the sheriff’s log. I had a ten-thirty interview with Rosalie Reed, so I went over my notes. Dr. Reed was forty-nine, a native of San Rafael, and had gotten her doctorate of psychology from UCLA. Married, one son. She’d moved to the Seattle area in 1997 and set up practice on the Eastside with offices in Bellevue. The glossy photo showed a serious, patrician woman who exuded strength and purpose. She was no beauty, but she had a kind of mystique that I figured men would find attractive. Maybe if I could get her to smile, she’d turn radiant. I resolved not to resort to a pratfall—being basically clumsy, I might do that without trying.

Mitch returned just as Amanda was delivering the mail. “Not much in the log today,” he said, poking his head into my office. “Nobody’s taken a shot or tried to run down Blackwell in the last twenty-four hours, but Cal Vickers thought the brakes in Jack’s car were iffy.”

I didn’t give a hoot about Blackwell’s brakes. “Was the sheriff in?”

“He got there just as I was leaving,” Mitch said. “He looked grim. Given that he ignored me, I didn’t ask about his daughter.”

My watch said it was nine-thirty, giving me time enough to visit the sheriff’s office for a firsthand report. “The deputies didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing. You know how they close ranks, especially if it’s anything about their boss.”

“Right.” I smiled faintly at Mitch before he returned to his desk. Milo’s attitude about the job had not changed after we became engaged. In fact, we’d agreed that neither of us could bend, even after we got married. The often adversarial but necessary conflict between law enforcement and the press remained in place.

Five minutes later, I greeted Lori Cobb at the reception desk. My first question was a personal one for Lori. “How’s your grandma doing now that Grandpa Cobb’s been dead for almost two months?”

Lori’s plain face drooped. “She’s dating.”

I gaped. Mrs. Cobb was almost ninety. “Ah … who’s the lucky guy?”

“Chester Treadwell from Gold Bar. They met at senior bingo night in Sultan. He’s not much older than my dad.”

“My,” I said. “May-December romances are in vogue around here.”

Lori’s eyes widened. “You mean Jack Blackwell and Tiffany Eriks? I mean, Tiffany Rafferty. I only heard about that last night. He escorted her at Mrs. Rafferty’s funeral. Yuck!” She sighed. “I think Chester is after Grandma’s money. Grandpa had a nice little nest egg.”

“Well,” I began, not sure what to say, “if it’s a comfort to her, maybe it’s nice for them to … play bingo.”

“Maybe.” Lori didn’t look convinced. “It’s good that you and Sheriff Dodge are close in age. You seem like a normal couple.”

The other half of the normal couple stormed out of his office. “Got to go to the courthouse, Lori. It may take a while.” He practically knocked me out of the way coming through the swinging gate in the curving reception counter. “Later, Emma,” he muttered, and went out through the double doors.

“Now what?” I said under my breath. “Is it about Tanya?”

“I’ve no idea,” Lori said. “He’s not in a very good mood today.”

“No kidding,” I said as Jack Mullins strolled out from the jail area.

“Hey,” Jack said, his impish expression in place, “I hear your love nest’s empty lately. When do you expect the big bird to land?”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Do you want Dodge to deck you again?”

Jack involuntarily rubbed his chin. “I only stepped over the line with the boss that one time. I thought I was being funny. Don’t worry, I’ve never said anything else about you two that was remotely—what did old Father Fitz call it when he was pastor at Saint Mildred’s—‘suggestive’?”

Lori, who wasn’t Catholic, looked puzzled. “Suggestive of what?”

“Good question,” Jack said. “It’s an old-fashioned RC word for anything to do with sex. You know—like saying ‘underpants’ or ‘bosom.’ ”

Lori shook her head. “And I thought Grandpa and Grandma’s Baptist church was strange.”

Dwight Gould came through the door, looking like Dwight always did—sour. “It’s only ten o’clock and I’ve already cited five people for speeding. One of ’em right on Front Street. Those other idiots out on Highway 2 don’t know how to drive in the rain, especially Californians. Why do those people come up here to cause trouble?”

“Zip it,” Jack said cheerfully. “It’s money for SkyCo. God knows we need it. It’s a wonder we’ve got streets for people to drive on.”

“Damned budget,” Dwight muttered, moving behind the counter on his way to the coffee urn. “I haven’t had a raise in three years.”

On that glum note, I decided to leave before Dwight turned his ire on me. He seemed to have trouble deciding if I was the best thing that had ever happened to Milo or the worst. Maybe I should ask him to write a letter to Mavis explaining how herculean the sheriff appeared to his staff.

Out on the sidewalk, I was tempted to walk to the courthouse to see if I could find Milo. But that was a bad idea. Would I have done that if we weren’t engaged? Maybe. I was never good about boundaries. Breaking them is part of a journalist’s job. But I refrained.

All was well at the office. I went back to my Honda and drove toward River Road, site of the former Casa de Bronska. Turning off Front Street, I had to stop at Railroad Avenue for an eastbound Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight lumbering through town. After the barrier lifted, I was across the tracks on River Road, past Milo’s house in the Icicle Creek development, over the Icicle Creek bridge, beyond the golf course, and finally turning onto the drive leading to RestHaven. Gone were Ed’s gilded lions, which had always looked more like Bert Lahr in The Wizard of Oz than the kings of an African jungle. Gone, too, was much of the so-called Italian rose garden, which had succumbed to lack of care. The only recognizable thing about the Bronskys’ ill-advised attempt at grandeur was the building’s basic exterior. And even that was mercifully changed, the pink stucco having been replaced with a dull but less garish pale green.

Despite the wait for the BNSF train, I was three minutes early. The young woman at the desk in what Ed had called “the Atican” informed me there’d be a short wait, as Dr. Reed was still with a patient. I took a seat in a comfortable armchair, admiring the changes that local architect Scott Melville had made in converting the ostentatious home into a usable yet attractive facility. The atrium had never lived up to its name, only going up a single floor, but the open area that had been the living and dining rooms along with a den was now a functional reception area with offices leading at angles from the front desk. Nor was there a single Burger Barn wrapper, empty Fritos bag, or Twinkies box in sight.

At 10:35, I was ushered into Rosalie Reed’s office.

“So sorry about the late start,” Dr. Reed said, holding out her hand. “We’re still rushing to get ready for the grand opening. Please sit down. I’m afraid I can only give you about twenty minutes. Dr. Woo has called a staff meeting for eleven.”

“That should be fine,” I said, seating myself in an armchair covered in serviceable but handsome blue fabric. Pen poised, I opened my notebook. Unlike Vida, I couldn’t rely on a prodigious memory, nor did I trust tape recorders. “You had a practice for many years in Bellevue,” I began. “Why did you take a job here, in a more remote part of the region?”

Dr. Reed smiled, though her sharp dark eyes didn’t seem to get the message. “I wanted a new challenge, I’d known Dr. Woo as a colleague in the Los Angeles area, and I’m a firm believer in change. It helps us grow.”

“Very sound,” I murmured, scribbling as fast as I could. “I understand you have a son. Did he move to Alpine, too?”

“No,” she replied. “He started his first year this fall at UCLA. He wants to specialize in genetics. And,” she went on, “my husband is retired. He had his own practice for many years.” She patted her smooth, dark hair in what struck me as a congratulatory gesture.

My next queries focused on what I knew would produce psychobabble responses about services, philosophies, and patient protocol. But I had to ask, if only to show I’d done my homework. Most of the Advocate’s subscribers would have been more interested in personal information, such as favorite TV shows, eccentric hobbies, or what kind of toothpaste Rosalie Reed preferred.

She cut me off at precisely 10:54. “I do hope to see you Saturday,” she said, walking me to the door. “We understand there will be a large turnout. Oh!” She suddenly looked chagrined, though for some peculiar reason, I didn’t find the expression genuine. “We’ve been remiss in finalizing the program. Will first thing tomorrow work?”

“Is the advance copy incorrect?” I asked. “That’s what we ran in Wednesday’s paper.”

“Just a tweak or two. You have the proper stock to print it on?”

“Kip—my back-shop genius—said it arrived Tuesday afternoon.”

“Excellent.” She proffered her hand again. “I hope this is the first of many pleasant meetings between us.”

I concurred. But walking back through the open reception area, I had my doubts. Maybe my unease was partially caused by the sight of Wayne Eriks emerging from a PUD truck near the entrance.

“Well, well,” he said with his gap-toothed grin, “if it isn’t the sheriff’s lady. Guess I was slow figuring out why Dodge tried to nail me for Tim’s murder. I didn’t know until lately that you two were a hot item.”

Had it been just about anybody else, I would’ve said that I hadn’t known it, either. But Wayne’s remark annoyed me. “We’re engaged.”

“That’s nice,” he said. “From all I hear, it’s about time he made an honest woman of you. But you weren’t that from the start, were you?”

He was referring to my arrival with a grown son and no husband, which had fueled gossip. Not only did I have money to buy the Advocate, but I drove a Jaguar. The assumption was that I’d had a wealthy keeper. The truth was that my former fiancé, Don, had put me on his Boeing life insurance policy and forgotten to take me off after we broke up. When he died unexpectedly of a heart attack at forty-five, I’d come into enough money to buy both the newspaper and the secondhand car.

“Funny you should mention that,” I said, wishing that the burly jerk wasn’t blocking me on the path to my Honda, “now that your daughter is moving in with Jack Blackwell. Don’t you find that ironic?”

“Ironic?” Wayne wrinkled his snub nose as if he didn’t know the meaning of the word. “No. She’s going to work for Blackwell. It beats standing all day at the Grocery Basket ringing up bags of canned goods and half racks of beer.”

“I’m sure she’ll be off her feet at Blackwell’s.” I paused, seeing another figure approaching from the other side of the building. If memory served from looking at staff photos, it was Iain Farrell, the head of the rehab unit. “You know why Dodge considered you the prime suspect in Tim’s homicide. If nothing else, you impeded justice by lying—” I stopped, seeing that Farrell had passed the entrance and was about to join us.

Wayne’s back was turned to the newcomer, but noting my gaze move beyond him, he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re still a prick-tease and Dodge is a son of a bitch,” he muttered before greeting Farrell.

“More problems?” Farrell asked, gesturing at the PUD truck.

“Nothing serious,” Wayne replied. “The biggest problem is that the wiring and its connections had to be redone. For some damned reason, Bronsky hired from outside instead of using Alpine Service & Repair.”

Farrell’s lean face was thoughtful—or maybe he always took his time answering questions. “Good. So no holdups with our opening?”

“Not as far as I see,” Wayne said. “I’m just checking a few things. I’d better get busy.” He walked away, leaving me alone with Farrell.

I hastily introduced myself. “I won’t keep you. I know there’s a staff meeting about to start.”

Again there was a pause. “Yes. A pleasure.” He moved to the entrance but didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

A pleasure? Attending the meeting? Shaking my hand? Having Wayne on the job? I wondered how the afternoon’s interview with Farrell would go. At best, slowly … at worst, I couldn’t guess.

Predictably, lunch with Mitch at the Venison Inn turned out to be exactly what I’d expected. He was in a quandary about Brenda. Her emotional state was worse than I’d feared.

As my reporter unburdened himself at obvious personal cost, he began by telling me that his wife’s problems hadn’t been triggered solely by Troy’s most recent escape from prison. Her psyche had always been fragile, though it began to worsen after empty-nest syndrome set in.

“Brenda is first and foremost a mother,” he explained after our salads had been delivered by Nicole, one of Vida’s many relatives. “Not to say she hasn’t been a good wife. She has. But Brenda worked on her weaving at home while our kids were growing up. Our older two stayed close by and graduated from Wayne State. Jacob accepted an offer from Kimberly-Clark in Wisconsin and married a girl from Green Bay. They live in Appleton. After Miriam graduated, she went to work for a Pittsburgh landscaping firm.” He paused as Nicole brought our entrees.

“It sounds as if Jacob and Miriam are fairly close in age,” I said.

Mitch nodded. “Two years. There was a gap of five years before we had Troy. He was Brenda’s baby. In fact,” he continued, with a rueful expression, “Brenda insisted on calling him Troy rather than an Old Testament Jewish name. It seemed as if she stamped him as her own from the day he was born.” He stopped to take a bite of his pastrami on rye sandwich. “You know the rest of it,” he continued. “Dropping out of school, following a girl to Spokane, getting dumped, and then into drugs. In the meantime, Brenda wasn’t just frantic, she made herself sick. That’s when I decided to move here so we could be close to Troy. I thought it would save her sanity. It didn’t.”

I swallowed some of my shrimp salad sandwich. “Can you attach a name to whatever is wrong with her?”

“Clinical depression was the original diagnosis when we were in Detroit. Once she got here, she seemed better. Then Troy made his second escape, and that really threw her. At this point I don’t know what a professional would call it. The last few weeks before Troy broke out, she didn’t want to leave the house. I can’t keep her with Miriam. Our daughter has a job and can’t play round-the-clock nursemaid. I can’t, either. I may put her in RestHaven and hope for the best. From what I’ve seen of the place, it’s first-rate. Right now I feel as if I’ve abandoned her.”

“You’ve done the best you can,” I said, “but I understand. Are you covered for that sort of thing through SkyCo?”

Mitch looked at me curiously. “You’re the one who had me sign up for it. Don’t you know what the coverage is?”

I was embarrassed to admit that I didn’t. “I’m not very good at reading fine print. It’s not something I’ve ever had to check on.”

“Then I guess we both should do that.” Mitch stared at the rest of his sandwich as if it were poisoned.

“I’m sorry,” I said lamely. I liked Mitch, but he had a habit of putting me in the wrong, and this wasn’t the first time. “When you run a small newspaper, there are a lot of things you have to put on hold. I try to keep focused on the tasks at hand. This may not be Detroit or the Free Press, but these days I’m lucky to keep the paper going.”

“Then let’s do it as soon as we finish here.”

“How about now?” I said, pushing my plate away.

“Fine.” He appeared to be reaching for his wallet.

“I’ll pick up the tab. Let’s go.”

Mitch didn’t argue. Nicole quickly added up our bill. I handed her twenty-five dollars, telling her to keep the change. We walked the half block in a torrential downpour. The clouds hovering over the rooftops had turned an ominous black. We arrived semi-soaked to find an empty office. I got out the SkyCo health care binder and placed it on Mitch’s desk. “You want to look or should I?”

A bit sheepishly, Mitch said he’d do it. I went into my office and called Ellen Nordby, the hospital’s benefits maven. Not surprisingly, she was out to lunch. While hearing the rain pelt our tin roof, I went over Dr. Farrell’s background. I realized he hadn’t recognized my name or remembered our two o’clock interview. It was now almost one. On the off chance that Milo might be in his office, I dialed his number.

“Not here,” Sam Heppner said, sounding as close as he got to glee.

“Is he still at the courthouse?”

“No.”

“When do you expect him?”

“Can’t say.”

I slammed down the phone. When it came to choosing between Sam and Dwight as the most misogynistic deputy, it was a dead heat.

Mitch appeared in the doorway, looking gloomy. “It doesn’t sound as if mental health is covered unless it’s accident-related.”

I refrained from suggesting that maybe he could run over Brenda with his car. “Has she ever suffered any sort of head trauma?”

“Not that I recall. In over thirty years of marriage there might’ve been an incident I missed or forgot.”

“Maybe she had a head injury when you weren’t home. You could ask her and quiz your kids to see if they remember anything like that.”

“I suppose.” He put the binder on my desk and walked away just as lightning flashed.

A boom of thunder soon followed. Such storms weren’t infrequent in our high-elevation aerie. They could occur any time of year. In summer, there was often no rain, just spidery lightning over the mountains and thunder rolling down the Valley of the Sky. An awesome sight, though in dry weather I worried about forest fires.

Amanda was back at her post. Leo and Vida arrived a minute later. The lights flickered several times. I heard Vida complain because she’d forgotten her rain bonnet and her maroon pillbox was soaked. A few minutes later, Kip appeared to tell me we’d lost our online connection.

“Just hope nothing big happens until it’s restored,” he said.

“With any luck,” I responded, “lightning will hit KSKY’s antenna.”

Vida had overheard. “That’s unkind. My program is on tonight.”

“Sorry. I’m still miffed about Spence scooping us.”

I’d barely spoken when our lights dimmed. My first reaction was to check to see if the phones worked. Mine didn’t, but I had my cell.

“A pole must’ve been hit,” Leo said, raising his voice to be heard over the thunder. “At least it’s not dark enough to need candles.”

“Coleman lanterns,” Vida said. “That’s what they used in the old days in Alpine until the houses got electricity.”

Another five minutes passed before the storm moved on. I asked Mitch to check on the extent of damage. Heading to my office, I heard sirens, no surprise in severe weather. The storm passed just after one-thirty. Through the window above Vida’s desk I could see that the rain had dwindled. There were no visible lights across the street. Before I got to my desk, my cell rang.

“Emma,” Milo said, “Wayne Eriks is dead.”

“What?” I shrieked.

“He either fell off a pole or got fried by a hot wire. Maybe both.” Milo hung up.