I SLEPT IN THE NEXT MORNING. WHEN I WOKE UP AROUND NINE-THIRTY, I didn’t see any sign of Milo, but the Yukon was in the driveway blocking my Honda. So was a third vehicle, a silver SUV that looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. After showering and getting dressed, I went into the carport, where the sheriff was talking to Scott Melville.
“Hey,” Milo called to me, “Scott’s got an idea on how to enlarge the carport and find some easier ground for the addition.”
“Hi, Scott. I haven’t had coffee. Come in and I’ll find my brain.”
Both men followed me into the kitchen. There were two used mugs on the counter. There wasn’t much coffee left, but I poured enough for myself and told the Pig Pair they’d have to wait for a new pot to perk.
“The plan,” Scott began, “was to add on out back. But now I think it would be better to extend the east side of the house in order to balance off the west-side carport extension. The ground’s softer on the sides, too.”
“But,” I said in dismay, “we want to keep the cabin’s look intact.”
“We will,” Scott said with his easy, still-boyish smile. “Instead of making the addition a mere frame, it’ll match the rest of the dwelling.”
I took another swig of coffee. “Won’t that cost more?”
Milo was rinsing out the mugs he and Scott had used. “We’ll do it right. When was the last time you did maintenance around here? You’re supposed to clean and recaulk the logs every so often. I offered to do it a couple of years ago and you turned me down.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.
The sheriff sat down. “It’s a wonder the place doesn’t fall apart.”
“It’s got a stone foundation,” I snapped. “The logs look fine to me.”
“They look like crap,” Milo said, glancing at Scott. “You saw them.”
Scott’s expression was apologetic. “You’re overdue for caulking and staining, but that can be done with the rest of the job. Arnie Nyquist can give you a quote when I finalize my own plans.”
Milo’s hazel eyes sparked. “No, he can’t. I won’t let that bastard near here. Hire somebody else—from out of town, if necessary.”
For years, Arnie and the sheriff had gone head-to-head over various issues, including a remodel of Milo’s office. Arnie—whose nickname was “Tinker Toy”—had savaged the sheriff at every opportunity. The Nyquist males tended to be arrogant. And Milo was stubborn. He had never forgiven Arnie. Maybe I’d acquired a small-town mentality, too. I couldn’t stand him, either.
But I had a more valid reason. “Years ago, Arnie built thirty houses in Ptarmigan Tract. Three fell down and many of the others had problems. That’s when he began focusing on commercial properties.”
Scott nodded. “That’s okay. I’ve worked with other contractors. Nyquist made a mint off of RestHaven, so he’s not hurting.”
The coffee was ready. Milo did the honors and sat down again. “Better explain how this side addition will work,” he said to Scott. “Emma doesn’t want to screw with the bathroom if we can help it.”
“No problem,” Scott said. “The new bathroom will be next to the present one with a wall between them. Access will be via Milo’s work area and the spare bedroom, which we’ll extend, as it’s quite small.”
“But,” I protested, “that means removing all the logs on the side of the house instead of just some at the back.”
Scott nodded. “As long as they’re still in good shape, we can use those and add a few more.”
“How much is this going to cost?” I asked in a weak voice.
“Emma,” Milo intervened, “Scott hasn’t added up all the numbers. We just came up with the plan this morning.”
“But—”
He put a finger to my lips. “Stop fussing. You’re driving me nuts.”
I failed to bite his finger as he withdrew it. “I’ll shut up. I haven’t eaten. I’ll go out and graze in the yard. I doubt we can afford food.”
“Before you do that,” Milo said, “sign off on the release for Scott to put the quote together. You own this place, including the grazing land.”
I took a pen from Scott and scribbled my name. Milo set his mug aside. “I have to head for the office, Scott. Two of my deputies are working security for the RestHaven opening, so I have to hold down the fort at headquarters. If I can get away, maybe I’ll see you at the facility.”
The men shook hands. I’d turned away from the fridge to glare at the sheriff. “Hey, big guy, you didn’t tell me you had to work today.”
“I didn’t?” Milo looked faintly sheepish. “Well—now you know. Got to change into my uniform.” He left the kitchen.
“I’d better go,” Scott said, getting up. “My SUV’s blocking Dodge’s Yukon.” He paused at the kitchen door. “He’s right, Emma. You won’t go broke. I did his headquarters remodel and he was satisfied with the final cost. I’ve gotten to know him as a neighbor. I still remember how kind you both were to us when Bev’s brother was killed.” He smiled. “That was ten years ago. We thought you made a good couple even then.”
“You did? I mean, we weren’t. A couple.” I needed food to clear my fuzzy brain. “We started going together later, but …” My voice trailed off.
Scott laughed. “Don’t try to explain. You and Dodge have always provided a lot of buzz. It livens up the community. Coming from L.A., Bev and I prefer it to gang warfare and other unsavory aspects of city life. The grapevine is local entertainment. Now that you’re engaged, people may lose interest. Maybe the RestHaven newcomers will provide some gossip.”
“You expect them to do that?”
Scott shrugged. “They’ve already had a dead body virtually in their front yard. It’s a start.” He suddenly broke into a trot. “Here comes Dodge. I’d better move my SUV.”
The sheriff waved at Scott but kept heading for the carport. “Don’t I get a kiss good-bye?” he asked, approaching the carport steps.
“Honestly, Milo,” I said in exasperation, “you’re too used to living alone. You should tell me what your plans are before you spring them on me. I didn’t know you had to work today.”
“I forgot.” He looked a trifle abject.
“It does take getting used to, doesn’t it?” I said softly.
“Yeah.” He lifted me off the top step and kissed me. “But I like it.”
I had not forgotten that Milo’s birthday was coming up the first of March. We had never given each other presents, not even when we’d been a couple a decade earlier. Maybe that was because he never remembered my November birthday. I had often treated him to drinks or dinner over the years, and if I did remind him about my birthday, it was only after the fact, and then he’d apologize—and forget again.
But this year I was going to buy him a present. The sheriff’s wardrobe needed refurbishing. A new men’s shop had opened recently in a vacant space next to Francine’s Fine Apparel. It was owned by Francine’s husband, Warren—a couple with a track record as rocky as our own. After the Wells remarried, he’d worked at Harvey’s Hardware. It was assumed that when Harvey Adcock retired, Warren would take over the store. But over time, the college had created a need for a better selection of men’s clothing than Alpine Inner & Outerwear could provide.
I was finishing breakfast when the phone rang. I hurried into the living room before it trunked over to voicemail.
“Where were you?” my brother asked in his crackling voice. “Not at St. Mildred’s helping Father Den with his Lenten soup kitchen, I gather?”
“You know Father Den doesn’t have a soup kitchen,” I said. “The Lutherans do because there are so many of them. God prevent the Presbyterians from having one. Vida might donate a casserole.”
“Stop! As you may recall, Adam and I were forced to eat one of those things. I didn’t know you could bake Elmer’s Glue.”
“It was that good? I’m shocked. Where are you?”
“Still in Biloxi, helping the local Redemptorist with his flock. I’m moving on at the end of the month. The Home Missions finally caught up with me, and I’m needed in El Paso to help with the influx from Mexico.”
“That’s a long way from here,” I said.
Ben chuckled. “You and Dodge don’t need me to chaperone. Any chance you’re going to make it legal? I’d think he’d want to, being an officer of the law.”
“Um … he would. I mean, he does. We’ve talked about it.”
Ben sighed audibly. “Damn, the Lord family curse of not being able to make up your mind. Don’t say it. I suffer from the same disease. That’s why I’m glad I have a job where I have to take orders, holy and otherwise. Just do it. By the way, Dodge should be getting a bunch of forms soon from the Archdiocese. He’ll pitch a five-star fit, but try to keep him from throwing something—like you—through your picture window.”
“He hates paperwork.”
“He’ll really hate this. It involves having his ex fill out a bunch of stuff, too. Have you ever met her?”
“No.”
Ben paused. “Maybe you should.”
“No.”
“Sluggly,” my brother said, reverting to his childhood nickname for me, “swallow your pride. You’re the other woman. Show—what’s her name besides Mulehide?”
“Tricia.”
“Show Tricia that you’re a good person. Fake it, if you have to. Let her see you realize why her marriage to Dodge failed without making her look like a villainess. Play on her sympathy, do what it takes, but win her over or there won’t be an annulment until you’re too old to care.”
“Oh, Ben, I … I’m not sure Milo wants me to meet her.”
“You’re not playing by his rules, you’re playing by the Church’s. Here comes my fellow priest. Got to save souls or something. Peace.”
A face-off with Tricia daunted me, if only because she’d speak ill of Milo. I’d get upset—and defensive. I couldn’t think about it. I preferred taking the woman’s way out. I’d go shopping instead.
Wardrobe by Wells was the name of Warren’s shop. I recognized one of the college profs I knew only by sight and, of all people, Iain Farrell, who was apparently having trouble choosing between a dozen subdued ties. I avoided him by hiding behind the sport coat sale rack. Unfortunately, none of the items was large enough to fit Milo.
Farrell made his choice and his exit. Warren spotted me and came out from behind the counter. “Hi, Emma,” he said, sounding surprised to see me. “Are you sure you’re in the right Wells emporium?”
“Your wife already fleeced me,” I said, and told him what I wanted.
Warren frowned. “I only have a couple of longs in his size. Not many locals are as tall or broad-shouldered as Milo. You’d never believe he used to be a skinny, gawky kid.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said. Warren and the sheriff had gone to school together. “I do know he’s put on a few pounds since I met him.”
“He needed to fill out,” Warren said, displaying a black sport coat from the non-sale rack. “Here’s a Hugo Boss. Or were you thinking a brighter color?”
“I doubt Milo would go beyond black, brown, or navy.”
Warren’s eyes slid to the college prof, who was holding a couple of dress shirts. “Hang on, Emma. Let me take care of Bo Vardi. Check out that navy Versace—it’d fit Dodge.”
I looked at the price tag on the Hugo Boss first—and almost had a fit. It was six hundred dollars. Milo would kick my butt if I spent that much. I never told him what I spent on my clothes. I would, if he’d ask—but he didn’t. I had a professional image to maintain. All Milo had to do was stand around in his uniform and look formidable. It worked for him, but it wouldn’t do the same for me.
“… turned me down,” the prof was saying to Warren. “Odd duck, which was why I thought he’d be an interesting guest lecturer.”
I remembered that Mitch had interviewed Vardi during the fall quarter. He was new to the college, teaching science, though his true love was genetics. Assuming Vardi referred to Iain Farrell, I sidled up to him.
“Excuse me,” I said, putting on my friendliest face and introducing myself, “I’ve been hoping to meet you. My reporter, Mitch Laskey, wrote a story about you last November.”
Vardi smiled, showing brilliant teeth in a darkly handsome face. “Yes, a very flattering article. He made me sound intelligent.”
I smiled back. “Being a journalist, I’m a professional snoop. Did I hear you say Dr. Farrell refused an invitation to speak to your students?”
Vardi’s limpid dark eyes grew wary. “Is this for publication?”
I shook my head. “I’m curious. I’ve already had a run-in with him. I wondered if it was just me or if he’s unwilling to participate in the community. That seems unwise for a newcomer.”
Vardi sighed. “Maybe I caught him at a bad time. It was early Thursday afternoon and he sounded rushed. They must be swamped at RestHaven, getting ready for the big event later today.”
“Are you attending?”
Vardi frowned. “I should. I’m still a newbie in town, but it’s my wife’s birthday.” He gestured at the shirts that Warren had rung up. “We’re going to Le Gourmand for dinner tonight, but first, we promised our kids to take them to Old Mill Park so they can play on the Big Toy—if it doesn’t rain. At least the river hasn’t risen too much. That’s a relief.”
“So far so good,” I said, and wished the Vardis a happy evening.
“Have you decided?” Warren asked.
“Milo would arrest me for being extravagant if I spent too much. Any chance of getting something in for him that isn’t as pricey?”
He checked his computer. “Would three hundred break the bank?”
“What bank?”
I stared at Warren. “Oh, hell, go ahead. He never spends any money on himself unless it’s fishing gear.”
“He’s got a fine-looking new SUV,” Warren remarked with a smile.
“The county helps pay for that,” I said. “Milo uses it as his official vehicle. And the Nordby brothers gave him a good deal.”
“I’ll see what I can do. By the way, he has a fine-looking lady, too.”
“Stick it, Doubles,” I said, using his old nickname. But I laughed.
RestHaven’s grand opening started at one-thirty. I purposely arrived late, hoping to miss any speeches or other mind-numbing formalities. When I reached the former Bronsky ballroom, which had more often been a makeshift bowling alley, a speaker was going to the rostrum. It was Jack Blackwell. Luckily, Milo was nowhere in sight.
Jack began with thanks to all of the movers and shakers on the stage behind him, including Dr. Woo and his department heads. What followed was a mention of their careers and expertise, plus a lot of other sucking up. I drifted and was only roused by a comment from behind me.
“Twaddle,” said Vida, not quite under her breath. “Really,” she went on as she barged her way over next to me, “Jack fits in as a county commissioner. He’s as much of a blowhard as the rest of them.”
A couple of people I didn’t recognize frowned at my House & Home editor. She ignored them. “Patti never pressed charges when he beat her. She’s a bigger fool than he is.”
Jack was winding down. I looked for Mitch and spotted him off to the side up front. I hoped he was taking notes or taping the speech. On the other side of the stage Fleetwood was doing his remote broadcast. Applause broke out as Jack finally finished and introduced Dr. Woo. The chief of staff was a spare-looking man in his late forties whose face crinkled nicely when he smiled.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said in a deep voice that belied his slight physique. “We hope you enjoy the tour of our facilities. I wish to introduce your guide, who knows this beautiful building better than anyone. Here is one of Alpine’s favorite sons—Mr. Ed Bronsky.”
“Oh, good grief!” Vida exclaimed, drawing more stares. “Was he listed in the program?”
“No,” I said. “Apparently they couldn’t fit him in.”
“Literally,” Vida said, alluding to Ed’s girth. “Oh! He’s speaking!”
I’d missed Ed’s opening, but caught him in mid-sentence: “… tell you about every nook and cranny of the way it was and how it is now with these great RestHaven people. At the tour’s end, I’ll be selling souvenirs from our time at Casa de Bronska. I know all of you swell folks will want mementos of this occasion, and I’ll be happy to …”
“Ninny!” Vida cried, the pigeon on her sailor hat looking as if it wanted to fly out of the building. “The least he could do is mention the volunteers who are offering their time and talent to RestHaven.”
We moved aside for the line that was forming. “Volunteers?”
Vida beamed. “Yes. Roger, for one. He’s not ready to return to academic life and he has no interest in joining the military. Instead, he’s helping here at RestHaven. Isn’t that generous of him?”
I felt like saying that it beat having him sit on his fat butt at Mugs Ahoy and downing schooners every night. “Is he here?” It was the only non-derisive thing I could say about the lazy wretch.
“I believe he’s in the medical rehab section,” Vida said. “That’s where Ainsley Sigurdson works as an aide.”
I backed up even further as the audience became bottlenecked at the exits. Maybe Ed had gotten stuck in one of the doors. “Ainsley?”
“Roger’s sweetheart. Such a sweet blond girl. Her father works for the state wildlife department. Her mother—a distant Gustavson relation—teaches at the grade school. Ainsley joined Roger when he led the young people on the search for that recluse over a year ago.”
I recalled the buxom blonde, who, along with Roger and some other kids, had stopped their search in my yard to drink beer and smoke a joint. But it was Vida’s cavalier reference to “that recluse” that rankled. “You mean Craig Laurentis,” I snapped. “You’ve seen his Sky Autumn in my living room. He’s very talented, if wary of people.”
“What?” Vida was lost in thought, her thumb and forefinger on her chin. “Oh—of course. Have you news of him since he was shot last fall?”
“No,” I admitted, “but I haven’t been to Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery recently. I’ve been busy.”
“True,” Vida allowed. “Here comes Dr. Woo. Have you met him?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“I’ll introduce you. Yoo-hoo, Dr. Woo!” Vida sounded like an owl.
Dr. Woo detoured around a couple of people who were still in the auditorium. “Mrs. Runkel! How nice to see you so soon after our meeting at Parker’s Pharmacy this morning. I’m glad you could join us.”
“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Vida said with her cheesiest smile. “You must meet Emma Lord from the newspaper.”
Dr. Woo’s expression altered slightly. “Of course. Weren’t we originally scheduled to meet earlier?”
“Yes,” I said, shaking hands. “I had to turn the interview over to Mitch Laskey at the last minute.”
Dr. Woo nodded. “Mr. Laskey did a fine job.” He looked at Vida. “It must be hectic running a newspaper, even in a small town, Mrs. Runkel.”
“We’re online,” Vida said, “so we must keep up to the minute.”
For the umpteenth time, I endured an outsider’s assumption that Vida was the boss. It was natural, given her long tenure and take-charge air, which extended not just to the Advocate but to all of Alpine. I was seeking a tactful way to correct Dr. Woo’s impression when I spotted Milo leaning in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” I said. “I must talk to the sheriff.”
I virtually shoved Milo back into the corridor. “Lucky you,” I murmured. “You missed Blackwell’s speech and Ed’s tour guide spiel.”
“Good. Let’s get out of here.” The sheriff grabbed my arm and led me down the hall. “Where’s an empty office?”
“Milo! We can’t—”
“We aren’t. I guess the offices are in the atrium.” He grimaced. “Nobody’s around. I got the autopsy report. Eriks wasn’t fried by lightning, which is a DC current. It was an AC charge, jabbed in his chest near his heart.”
“ ‘Jabbed’?” I echoed, not sure of what Milo meant.
He took off his hat and rubbed his head. “It’s crazy. Whatever electrocuted him left a definite pattern on his skin, but the M.E. said the burn marks on Eriks’s clothes didn’t match the ones on his body. That sounds like somebody killed him. Damned weird, isn’t it?”
“That,” I gasped, “is shocking!”
Milo’s expression was wry. “I realize you couldn’t stand the guy, but did you have to say that?”
“Oh!” I put a hand over my mouth.
He chuckled. “I know you weren’t trying to be funny. Or were you?”
“No! It’s gruesome. Who’d do that even to a jackass like Wayne? It had to be premeditated, right?”
Milo grimaced. “You know I won’t speculate.”
“I wish you talked in your sleep.”
“You do.”
I was aghast. “What do I say?”
“Just half-assed stuff that doesn’t make sense. Kind of like you do when you’re awake.”
“Milo!” I made as if to punch him, but he held up a big hand.
“That’s ‘Sheriff’ to you, Ms. Lord. Here comes Bronsky and his flock of curiosity seekers. If you want my official statement, check in later. I won’t give it to Fleetwood first.” He turned around and loped away.
I had no choice but to follow him, though he’d disappeared by the time I made up my mind. I managed to reach the atrium, where Vida was talking to a pretty, fortyish auburn-haired woman I recognized as Jennifer Hood, R.N., head of the medical short-term rehab unit.
“Emma, dear,” Vida said loudly, “come meet Ms. Hood. She was so disappointed that you had to cancel your interview with her.”
Jennifer didn’t look disappointed when she smiled and shook my hand. “Mr. Laskey was an excellent substitute. I see he’s taking pictures today. Which of you is writing the main story?”
“I am. As the Advocate’s editor and publisher,” I added, “I feel obligated to cover such a big event.”
“That’s very good of you,” Jennifer said. “We’re excited about being part of the town. Such a big turnout! I know we’re going to enjoy getting acquainted with everyone in this community.”
“My, yes!” Vida enthused. “Alpiners are such down-to-earth folks. We’re all so …” She stopped, her gray eyes veering off to her left. “There’s my dear grandson, Roger, one of your fine volunteers. I’ll introduce you.” She rushed off after Roger, who had the bovine Ainsley in tow.
Short of faking an aneurysm, I would do anything to avoid an encounter with Roger. “I have to head back to the office,” I said to Jennifer. “Perhaps we can get together sometime soon.”
“I’m going outside,” she said. “It’s nice this afternoon and I’d like some fresh air. Medical rehab’s in a separate building with a connecting corridor,” she continued, moving quickly to the entrance, “but I find mountain air invigorating.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Vida seemed to be having difficulty talking Roger into meeting Jennifer. Maybe he already had, which was why she was making a quick exit. Once we were under the porte cochere, I cast tact aside. “Have you already met Mrs. Runkel’s grandson?”
Jennifer looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure he’s a fine young man, but he seems a bit slow at catching on. Does he have ADD?”
“Roger is many things,” I said, “but give him some time. He has trouble staying focused. Mrs. Runkel thinks the world of him.”
Jennifer nodded. “He volunteered, and that’s an encouraging sign.” She sighed. “I was raised in a small town not unlike Alpine—Dunsmuir, near Mount Shasta. Maybe you know it—you go through it on I-5.”
“I do. I always thought it was quite charming.”
Jennifer nodded. “Yes. It was once a thriving railroad hub. But it got stuck in a time warp eighty years ago. That wasn’t all bad. Dunsmuir was made a California historical town. A lot of tourists still visit, and like Alpine, there are plenty of outdoor activities. But social life is limited.”
“You mean when it comes to eligible men?”
“Or the wrong kind,” she said grimly. “It was weird when that poor workman died next to this property. Medical rehab is closer to the road and it was raining hard, so I didn’t see him, but I noticed smoke by the van. I thought it was odd, but figured the wet weather would douse whatever was burning. Do you know if that had anything to do with the accident?”
The word “fried” came back to haunt me. But I had no idea if the smoke might have come from Wayne or something else. “No,” I said. “How soon was that before you heard the sirens?”
Jennifer considered. “Five minutes at least.”
“The sheriff will make a formal announcement later this afternoon. You might want to check our website.”
“I will.” She smiled. “I must dash. Our first two patients are arriving soon. Keep in touch, Ms. Lord.”
“Make that Emma,” I called after her.
I heard a familiar laugh not far behind me. “Wooing sources, I see,” Spencer Fleetwood said. “Jealous?”
I turned around to face Mr. Radio. “Then you admit you have a special contact here?”
Spence shook his head. “I thought we dropped that subject.”
“You brought it up.”
“Alas, I did.” He sighed. “If anybody should be jealous, it ought to be me. I’m not sleeping with the sheriff.”
“You know damned well that Milo never tells me anything until he’s ready to go public. He never has and he never will.”
“The man has incredible willpower, I’ll give him that.”
“The man is a stubborn—if disciplined—mule.”
“Not quite the word I’d have chosen.” Spence pointed down to the road. “Obviously, Dodge suspects the possibility of foul play. Have you spoken yet with the Widow Eriks?”
“No. Have you?”
He shook his head. “I tried to this morning, but her sister-in-law—April, isn’t it?—wouldn’t let me in. Cookie must be overcome with grief.”
“Maybe she’s just overcome. Wayne wasn’t an ideal husband.”
Spence grinned. “I forgot—Dodge arrested him for grabbing some part of you that belonged to Dodge.”
“Milo arrested Wayne because he had sufficient evidence. In case you forgot, Wayne lied in his original statement concerning Tim’s death. He also had a credible motive to kill his son-in-law.”
“The tale was much juicier on the grapevine.”
“We’re old news now,” I said. “Come on, you must have some ideas about who might want Wayne dead.”
Spence wore his most serious expression, which was fairly convincing. “An irate husband or boyfriend is my guess, the same motive that caused your favorite bear to resent Eriks. But names?” He shook his head. “I’m not in the gossip loop. Have you asked Vida?”
“No. Right now I’m disgusted with her for acting as if Roger were still her little darling. Didn’t she learn her lesson?”
Spence steered me out of the way to allow some visitors to make their exit. “She wants to see this volunteer stunt of his as positive. She can’t let go until he lands in prison for twenty years. Her priority is keeping him close, which wouldn’t happen if he joined the military or went away to college. My latest nightmare is that she’ll invite him to be on her show to talk about his altruistic volunteer duties at RestHaven.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “I wish she’d listened to Buck.”
“Speaking of listening, I’ve got to head for the studio,” Spence said. “Have you ever tried withholding your charms to see if that’ll make Dodge open up about his investigations?”
“No.”
Spence stared at me, grinned, and shook his head. “God, Emma, you are one strange woman.” He sauntered off to his BMW.
I waited until he drove away before going to my car. Driving down to River Road, I had a whim to pull onto the verge where Wayne’s body had been found. The Sky was running high, but not yet near flood stage. Clouds flirted with the sun as they lowered over Mount Baldy. Depending on the temperature, I didn’t know if that was good or bad.
I parked twenty yards away from the pole where Wayne had been working. I knew Milo and his deputies had scoured the area, but my curiosity was piqued by Jennifer’s remark about something burning near the van. There was no sign of ash. The rain would have erased any traces. I moved to the drop-off between the verge and the riverbank, treading carefully in case the ground was undermined. The water ran fast and off-color, coursing past a half-dozen houses at the base of First Hill. Windy Mountain was now obscured at the three-thousand-foot level. We’d have more rain before sunset. Why, I asked myself, would someone try to burn anything during a downpour? Why not throw it in the river? Because, I realized, there were snags, branches, even trees where items could get hung up no matter how swift the current. I looked around the near bank, where exposed roots stuck out like grasping fingers. A candy wrapper dangled from one, a scrap of newsprint from another. I moved back to the pole, where I saw a white rag hanging on a branch above the river. The cloth was wet, perhaps from the rain. There was no path nearby, and I doubted that I could reach it. I wondered if I should mention it to Milo. He’d probably scoff. I went back to my car.
As I started down River Road, I recalled Spence’s comment about calling on Cookie Eriks. April had probably rebuffed him because he’d gone there as a newshound. I, however, had a personal relationship with the widow. After the loss of her son-in-law, I’d offered comfort. Following Wayne’s arrest, I’d consoled Cookie—and managed to scoop Spence in the process. I decided to see if I could one-up him again.
I turned into the Icicle Creek development, driving by Milo’s split-level and the Melvilles’ remodeled house, both of which were almost adjacent to the golf course. The Erikses lived several doors north, closer to the railroad tracks, where property was cheaper.
Maybe it was just the circumstances, but the house’s exterior looked bleaker than I remembered it. The cream-colored paint was faded and chipped in places, the chimney was missing a couple of bricks, the small front lawn was patchy, and the roof—which had needed replacing on my last visit—was still deteriorating. I put on my most sympathetic face before I rang the doorbell.
April Eriks came to the door after, I assumed, she’d peered through the peephole. “Emma,” she said with a wary look in her big brown eyes, “are you here to interview Cookie?”
“No,” I replied. “I wanted to offer my condolences. Cookie has been through some awful things the past couple of years. I understand how she must feel. A lot of us have had some bad luck.”
Flipping her prematurely gray hair over one ear, April stepped aside to let me pass into the small foyer. “Isn’t that the truth? You certainly had a scare a few weeks ago. Cookie’s baking scones. Let me see how soon they’ll be done. I’ll put on the teakettle.”
Indicating I should sit in a rocking chair by the empty fireplace, April went out to the kitchen. The interior looked as well maintained as I remembered it. Basically, the house was similar to Milo’s, if somewhat smaller. There was no TV in sight, so I guessed there was a family room, probably downstairs.
April and Cookie entered the living room together. Though not related by blood, both were slim, almost wraith-like women. Given that the Eriks brothers were burly, I figured they shared a penchant for waifs. I stood up to hug Cookie, something I rarely do with people I know only slightly, but I had devious motives. Journalists are born with them.
“So kind of you to stop by,” Cookie said, sitting on the leather sofa as April excused herself. “How are you? I haven’t seen you since the explosion at your house. You’re looking very well.”
“I am,” I said, surprised at Cookie’s concern, though I couldn’t say the same for her. Not only was she haggard, but she appeared older since our last meeting. Yet it was her manner that had changed most. During the crisis following Tim’s death, Cookie had seemed unhinged. I’d compared her spates of jerky speech and mannerisms to a wind-up toy. Maybe she’d been on drugs—or she was on them now. Losing a husband must be harder than losing a son-in-law. “I’m glad April’s here,” I said.
Cookie smiled. “We’ve always been more like sisters than sisters-in-law. Like the rest of us, she’s had her own trials.”
“You seem to be coping,” I remarked.
Cookie shrugged. “What can I do? Wayne shouldn’t have been working in that storm. He always said weather never stopped him.”
I heard a teakettle whistle in the distance. Cookie got up. “I must check my scones. I’ll make some tea, too.”
Just as she went out to the kitchen, Tiffany wandered into the room carrying a small child. “Oh, hi,” she said vaguely. “Ashley just woke up. You want to hold her while I get some juice?”
I could hardly refuse. “Will I scare her?”
Tiffany shrugged. “She doesn’t mind strangers. We’re taking off soon anyway.” She handed over Ashley before exiting the living room.
Ashley stuck a finger in her mouth and regarded me with big blue eyes. Sure enough, she didn’t seem to care that I was a mere visitor. At a little over a year, she was a cute, plump little creature, more intrigued with looking over my shoulder out the window than with me.
Tiffany returned, glass in hand, but didn’t offer to retrieve Ashley. “How come you’re here?” she asked, slouching in an armchair and flipping limp strands of blond hair over her shoulder. In her faded jeans and shabby bouclé sweater, she didn’t look like a kept woman.
“I wanted to tell your mom how sorry I am about your dad,” I said.
“Oh. Right. Mom’s okay. Aunt April’s solid.”
“And you?” I asked as Ashley turned to look at Tiffany.
“Me?” The query seemed to surprise her. “I’m fine.” She glanced at a wall clock set in a metal frame of grape clusters and leaves. “Gee, it’s after three. I should get going.” Tiffany drank some juice, set the glass down, and got up. “I’ll change Ashley first.”
I handed over the child and watched them disappear into the hallway. The doorbell rang. April rushed out of the kitchen to answer it. I heard her faintly from the entryway, but the moment the second voice spoke, I held my head.
“Come into the living room,” April said. “Emma’s here, Sheriff.”
“So she is,” Milo said, looking as if he’d like to stuff me up the chimney. “Hello, Emma.”
“Hi,” I said with a fixed smile as he loomed over me.
“I’ll tell Cookie you’re here,” April said, scurrying to the kitchen.
“Beat it,” Milo murmured to me. “I’m delivering the bad news.”
“But—”
Milo grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. “I mean it. This is official—and ugly—business. Go home, clean the damned oven.”
I left the sheriff to make excuses for my hasty exit, but I only drove as far as the development entrance. If Milo’s announcement was official, I wanted to hear it before Fleetwood did. Ten minutes later, it started to rain and I was still waiting. Milo didn’t like tea and I’d never seen him eat a scone. What was worse, I realized I was hungry. I’d skipped lunch because of my late breakfast. I wondered what the RestHaven staff had served at the reception following Ed’s tour. Visions of salmon sandwiches were dancing in my head when I saw the Yukon coming toward me. In a fit of pique, I turned the ignition key and blocked the sheriff’s exit.
“God damn it, Emma,” Milo roared as he got out of the SUV, “why’d you pull a stupid stunt like that?”
I’d rolled down my window. “Because I want to know what you told Cookie and I want to hear it before Spence does. Well?”
The sheriff heaved an exasperated sigh. “Follow me to my office. No—lead me there, you ornery little pain in the ass.”
I smiled sweetly. “Okay.” After giving my future husband an obscene gesture, I rolled up the window and pulled back onto the Icicle Creek Road. I was sorely tempted to take Milo’s reserved parking place just to see how he’d react. But this was business, both mine and his, so I parked two spaces down, next to Jack Mullins’s pickup.
“Mullins is back from security duty at RestHaven,” Milo said as I joined him on the sidewalk. “He better not be screwing off.”
Jack looked up from whatever he was doing at the reception counter. “Hey, it’s my favorite pair of—”
“Shut the hell up, Mullins,” Milo growled. “Are you AWOL or are they finished with the big bash at RestHaven?”
“Just got here,” Jack replied, patting down his red hair, which had a tendency to stick up in various places. “All’s quiet on the nut shop front.”
“Where’s Doe?” the sheriff asked.
“She was officially off duty,” Jack said. “I’m about to go on patrol.”
“No, you’re not,” Milo countered. “Heppner’s on patrol. You’re staying here so I can go home after I put together the statement about Eriks. Ms. Lord and Fleetwood have a need to know.” He turned to me. “Stay here until I’m finished.”
“Gee,” I said, “guess you don’t need anybody with writing skills to help you … Sheriff.”
“No, I don’t.” He headed for his office and slammed the door.
“Is he always so nice to you?” Jack asked with a mischievous grin.
“Pretty much,” I said. “On the job, anyway. We agreed to keep our personal and professional lives separate.”
“Hunh. Nina and I did the same thing, except in our case, she agreed to keep our personal lives separate.”
“Jack, don’t talk about Nina like that. You know you’re nuts about her. I’ve seen you hold hands in church.”
The deputy’s eyes twinkled. “That’s to keep her from stealing my wallet. Say,” he said, lowering his voice, “what are the odds you can get the boss man to go to church with you? I haven’t seen him there yet.”
“About as good as the chances of the Mariners winning the World Series. The sheriff is not a churchgoing kind of guy.”
“I know, but …” Jack shrugged. “Seriously, he’s marrying into a family with two priests. Don’t you think that makes a difference?”
“Not to Dodge. They’re just a couple of guys who have a different job than he does.”
Jack’s puckish grin returned. “He’ll have to go inside a church if he gets his marriage annulled. The real question is, how are you going to get him to wear a suit?”
I laughed. “That thought has occurred to me. In fact, this morning I went to look for—” I stopped as Milo reappeared.
“Come and get it,” he said, motioning to me.
I sat down in a visitor’s chair while he remained standing in front of his SkyCo wall map. To my critical eye, the statement looked fine. The bottom line was that Eriks had died from a lethal 110-volt charge to the chest and that his death was under investigation.
“You don’t mention ruling out an accident or foul play,” I said. “Is that because you and Colin Knapp can’t be sure?”
“That’s right,” Milo replied, turning around. “Those burn holes in his clothes not being a match makes me suspicious—Knapp, too—but there’s always the possibility of something weird in terms of the entry from a hot wire. And where did anybody get one in the first place?”
“The truck?”
“That’s the most likely. But why would a live hot wire be there in the first place?” Milo took out a pack of cigarettes. “You want one?”
I shook my head. “I’m on the job. I want to avoid temptation.”
He ruffled my hair. “Me too. Go away so I can give Fleetwood the news. You’ll put it online, right?”
“I’ll have Kip do it,” I said. “I’ll call from home.”
“See you there,” he said after lighting the cigarette and picking up the phone. “I wouldn’t mind a steak for dinner.”
I’d gotten up and was in the doorway. “I’m working. Go shoot a cow.” I made my exit.
If the sheriff wanted steak, I’d go to the Grocery Basket before I went to my little log house, which was inexorably being turned into a stately mansion. I called Kip from my car and read Milo’s statement to him. He was bewildered. “Weird,” he said. “Did Eriks fall on a hot wire?”
“It’s possible,” I hedged. “That’s why Milo’s investigating.”
“He doesn’t mention an accident,” Kip pointed out.
“That’s because he isn’t sure.”
“Wow. If it’s not, then it’s really grim.”
“That’s why Milo’s cautious. Can you put it on the site now?”
“Sure,” Kip said. “Is it raining where you are? It just started here, so Chili’s letting me stop doing yard cleanup. It’ll spoil the Erikses’ barbecue, though. Isn’t it a little early in the season for that?”
Raindrops were falling on my windshield, a half mile from Ptarmigan Tract, where Mel and April Eriks also lived. “April’s not home,” I said. “She’s staying with Cookie. Why is Mel barbecuing? That’s odd.”
“Maybe their kids are here for Wayne’s funeral. They both work in Seattle. Heck, I don’t know. I can’t see over the fence. It could’ve been a brush fire. I didn’t think of doing that with the dead stuff I hauled out of the yard. Now it’s raining.”
“Enjoy your leisure,” I said before disconnecting.
Driving up Alpine Way, I wondered what Mel was really doing outside. Small fires seemed to be a leitmotif in connection with the Eriks family. My musings were diverted by the store’s reader board, where a Help Wanted sign was posted. The O’Tooles had to replace Tiffany. After picking up two T-bones, I saw Betsy facing out deli shelves.
“Looking for a second job?” she asked with a smile.
“I should, given our remodeling project. Any applicants yet?”
“Two,” she replied. “College students, no experience. Not that Tiff was the sharpest cutter on the cheese wheel.”
“Were you surprised when she quit?”
“Yes.” Betsy rubbed Lubriderm on her hands. “No notice, either. Jake and I were irate, but what could we do? I wrote a check for the money she’d earned this month and that was that.”
I shrugged. “She got a free ride and a man to lean on.”
Betsy stepped aside to let an elderly couple pass. “Oh? I wonder.”
“What do you mean?”
Betsy made a face. “She seemed scared, which was odd. When Jake or I had to chew her out, which we sometimes did, she’d get sullen. This was different, but I don’t know why.”
I didn’t, either. But, as with all bad things, we’d find out.