The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (12 page)

It was all I could do not to say something waspish, but the conversation had already deteriorated enough. “Me too,” I mumbled, refusing to look at Milo. Instead, I turned to Debbie. “How long will Mr. Laurentis be in the hospital?”

“That’s up to the doctors,” she replied primly.

“Of course,” I said, ignoring Milo’s departure. “How much of his stay is covered by welfare?”

Debbie blushed. “I wouldn’t know. That’s up to the billing department. Are you saying he has no health insurance?”

“I’ve no idea,” I replied. “He’s self-employed, of course.”

Her blue eyes widened. “He is?”

I couldn’t help but give her a withering look. “You didn’t know he’s an acclaimed painter?”

“No,” she said. “Does he paint any of the places around here?”

I was still in perverse mode, enjoying Debbie’s discomfiture. “You mean his subjects?”

“I mean, like buildings or houses or … you know.”

“Oh!” I feigned surprise. “Not
that
kind of painter.” I sounded even more condescending than I’d intended. “An artist—like Childe Hassam or Mark Tobey.”

Luckily for Debbie, a patient’s light went on. “Excuse me,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “I must check on Mrs. Stuart.”

On the way back to the
Advocate
, my less evil side surfaced and I felt guilty for my shabby treatment of Nurse Debbie. She probably did more to comfort and help other human beings in a day than I did in a month. I wondered if Ben would hear my confession over the phone. I suspect he’d tell me to get off my butt and go see Father Den at St. Mildred’s. He knew I was long overdue for a confession session. Part of the reason for my reluctance was that I was always sure whoever was waiting in line outside could hear me, even if I whispered my sins into the screen that separated me from my pastor. Small towns have no anonymity. The other reason was that like so many Catholics, I dreaded the sacrament of penance, despite the fact that when I did go, I always felt much better after receiving absolution.

I was still dwelling on this conundrum when I reached the corner by the Bank of Alpine. Rick Erlandson was standing on the sidewalk talking to a husky young man who looked vaguely familiar. I nodded in their direction.

“Emma,” Rick called, “got a minute?”

“Uh—sure.” I walked over to join them, smiled a brief greeting at the man whose name proved elusive, and asked Rick if he wanted to talk about Ginny.

“I thought you were all squared away with that problem,” Rick said. “You’re not mad at Ginny, are you? Honest, she’s really worn out. I try to help, but she insists on getting up at night to feed the baby.”

“It’s okay,” I fibbed. “I’m just disappointed. We’ve got a replacement, thanks to you. How relieved are you to get rid of Denise?”

Rick looked stricken. “I don’t …”

“Never mind,” the other young man said grimly and offered me his hand. “I’m Frankie Petersen, Denise’s older brother. Call me Strom. It’s short for my middle name, after my mother’s dad, Alf Bergstrom.”

My hand was limp in Strom’s firm grasp. “I don’t know what to say. I made a terrible gaffe. I’m sorry.”

He let go of my hand. “Denise is an airhead,” he said, “but she can follow simple commands. Just don’t try to make her do numbers.”

“We can handle that part of the job,” I assured him. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time. By the way, may I please offer my condolences on your father’s death.”

Strom made an indifferent gesture. “Thanks. Maybe he’s in a better place now.”

“True,” I acknowledged.

“That’s why Strom’s in town,” Rick said. “We still have
some family accounts at the bank. He’s looking after them for his mom.”

Strom nodded. “I haven’t been to Alpine in almost ten years. It’s changed a bit. Rick tells me it’s grown since the college opened.”

Rick put a hand on Strom’s shoulder. “This guy’s got an MBA from the University of Oregon. He works for an investment firm in Seattle. I could take lessons from him.”

I noticed that despite wearing his suit jacket, Rick was shivering slightly. The wind had suddenly come up again and the blue sky was disappearing. “I’ll let you two go back inside,” I said. “It’s getting chilly again and I’ve got a deadline to meet. Nice to see you, Strom.” I gave him the friendliest smile I could offer and hurried across the street.

“I put my foot into that one,” I told Vida, who was the only staffer in the newsroom.

She shot me a dark glance. “Interrogating Craig Laurentis?”

“No,” I responded, taking off my coat. “Insulting Denise in front of her brother, Frankie. I mean Strom, as he likes to be called since he got his MBA and is working in high finance in the big city.”

Vida eyed me even more keenly. “I heard he was in town,” she said. “Where did you run into him?”

“Outside the bank, where he was chatting with Rick Erlandson. I didn’t recognize him, and immediately opened my big mouth to criticize his sister for being a pinhead.”

“An easy thing to do,” Vida murmured. “I must talk to … Strom, you say? Well, why not? He should aspire to be like his grandfather. JoAnne Bergstrom’s father was a fine man.” She rested her chin on her hands. “Well now. I wonder if this is the point at which Strom takes over the bank.”

“How old is he?”

“Early thirties? He was at WSU when the bank tragedy unfolded.
He came back to help JoAnne move to Seattle.” She frowned. “I wonder if Cole will come, too. He’d just started at Western Washington State back then. Denise will know what he’s up to. I hope she knows
something
.”

“If she doesn’t, Strom will,” I said as Mitch emerged from the back shop.

“Any late-breaking news?” he asked.

“Alas, no,” I said, “except that Laurentis is improving. He insists he didn’t see who shot him or when it happened. He lost track of time, which is understandable, given the bullet wound and blood loss. Besides, I don’t think Craig owns a watch. Time isn’t important to him.”

“Dr. Sung figured it had to be after midnight, judging from the amount of blood he’d lost and given the type of wound,” Mitch said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Craig wouldn’t come into town until after dark, and he must’ve dropped the painting off while the Wickstroms were at the late movie. Their kids probably didn’t hear him. He would’ve stopped by their house between nine-thirty or ten and midnight.”

Vida wore a troubled expression. “Do we assume that Craig lives near the poaching site?”

“Nobody knows where he lives,” I said. “I see what you’re getting at. How did he happen upon the poachers unless he lived nearby?”

“It was beyond the old Petersen farm, correct?”

“That’s what Milo told me,” I replied.

Vida shuddered. “That’s in the same vicinity where Roger found Linda Lindahl’s body. I shall never get over that grisly experience. Poor Roger!” She suddenly stared at me. “Maybe that was so traumatic for him that he finally had to use drugs to cope with the memory.”

“It took him a long time to get to that point,” I said in a neutral
tone. “Unless he started much sooner than anyone thought.”
Which is damned likely
, I thought,
trauma or no trauma
. At the time, Roger had taken a ghoulish delight in discovering Linda’s corpse.

Vida had ignored my last comment. “I must talk to Thelma Petersen. She should be in touch with some of her husband’s family. Perhaps I’ll stop at the retirement home after work.” She squared her shoulders. “Last call for ‘Scene.’ It’s tasteless to use the Strom Petersen sighting and the new Laurentis painting this week. I need two more items to fill the four column inches.”

Mitch and I exchanged glances. “Why,” I asked, “can’t we mention Amanda returning to the post office? That’s not self-promotion for us.”

Vida nodded. “That’s fine. I might, however, mention that she did a good job in her temporary post.”

I agreed. Having done my duty, I looked back at Mitch. “Your turn.”

He frowned. “I wish I recognized more of the locals. I noticed somebody on the courthouse steps dropping a folder yesterday and chasing the papers all over the place in the wind.”

“Man or woman?” Vida asked.

“Woman. Five-six, five-seven, thirties, good-looking, black fur-trimmed jacket, red slacks.”

“Ah!” Vida exclaimed. “Rosemary Bourgette, the prosecuting attorney. The Bourgettes all have a sense of humor. Rosemary won’t mind being in ‘Scene.’ Anything else? I can squeeze in one more. Leo gave me three.”

Mitch looked as if Vida had thrown down the gauntlet. “I was out of town for a few days,” he reminded her. “Let me think back to last week after the Thanksgiving edition went to press …”

“You’re a good photographer,” Vida said. “Pretend your eye is a camera. I often do that.”

It occurred to me that Vida’s mental photo album could probably reach around the world twice over. Mitch, however, was game. “Two preteen boys at Old Mill Park dressed like Pilgrims going down the big slide,” he said, obediently shutting his eyes. “Irate curly-haired woman honking at car with flasher lights blocking her VW on Alpine Way and Fir. Older guy with telescope standing in the middle of the football field at the high school.” He opened his eyes. “Any help?”

“That last one was undoubtedly Averill Fairbanks,” Vida said. “I never put him in ‘Scene.’ He was probably looking for aliens who’d stolen his turkey drumstick. In a pinch, I could use the Pilgrim boys, but it does seem a bit dated now. By the way,” she went on, turning to me, “I finished Larry’s obit. See what you think.”

I sat down by her desk, noticing that she had a file photo of Larry that had been taken at least fifteen years ago. “Do you think we should run that?” I asked.

“Why not? I’d do it if he hadn’t died in prison,” Vida replied. “Larry was a member of a very important Alpine family. I’m certainly not going to show any pictures of him from the trial or in his jail costume.”

I tried not to wince at the word “costume,” but agreed with Vida’s rationale. “One column,” I said, and began reading:

“It sounds fine,” I said. “Most people will know the story behind it. How are you going to find out where Cole lives?”

“I’m going to call Rick right now,” Vida replied. “If he doesn’t know, he can get hold of Strom—or Denise. I debated about listing his memberships and affiliations, but decided not to. Though Larry was very active in the community, it didn’t seem right to lavish too much praise on him.”

“Probably not,” I said. “I wonder if the family wants any kind of memorial donations in Larry’s name.”

“That would be up to JoAnne,” Vida said. “She seems to be in charge, divorced or not. Maybe she hasn’t made up her mind. We could run something on that later.” With an impatient sigh, she picked up what looked like a handwritten letter. “One more for the advice column. This idiot addressed it to ‘Vida
Rankle
.’ Really, now!”

I laughed. “Is it from Carla?”

“It could be, given all her typos,” Vida grumbled. “I will not even repeat what she did with Darla Puckett’s name years ago. It’s a good thing we caught it in time.”

“Ah, yes.” I stood up, glancing at the time. It was after four. Leo entered the newsroom wearing a big grin. “Christmas bonuses for everybody! I finally talked Gus Swanson into running a full-color double-truck co-op with two other Toyota dealerships in the area for next week. Fleetwood’s getting a piece of the action, too.”

Mitch chuckled. “There go a few hundred more jobs in Detroit.”

I congratulated Leo.

“Just trying to make you stop regretting losing Ed all these years,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Oh—almost forgot.” He reached into his briefcase. “I stopped by Le Gourmand to get the gift certificate for Amanda as a thank-you. Your fifty bucks and the other fifty the rest of us put in was gratefully appreciated, but I mentioned that since the Hansons’ dinner there would probably be in ‘Scene’ and thus free advertising, they threw in another fifty, figuring it’d cost that much to get a really good bottle of wine.”

I took the embossed envelope from him. “Nice,” I said. “I’ll give it to her just before she leaves.”

An hour later, I was ready to go home, but not until I stopped by the front desk, where Amanda was packing up her belongings.

“Here’s a little something for your good work.” I slid the Le Gourmand envelope across the counter. “Take time out during the holidays to use this up.”

Amanda looked genuinely surprised. “You didn’t have to do anything. I was a real twit the first week. Or so.”

“Then you became anything but a twit,” I responded.

She opened the envelope and her eyes suddenly grew moist. “Oh, Emma!” She leaned across the counter and awkwardly hugged me. “Thank you! If you ever need me again …”

“Who knows?” I said as she let go of me. “It’s not carved in stone that Ginny will come back.
Bon appétit
—and
merci beaucoup
.”

She gathered up her belongings, and I opened the door for her. “Let me know if you hear any news kiddy-wise,” I called after her.

“I will,” she said over her shoulder. “But Vida will probably
find out before we do. She always hears everything first in Alpine.”

I returned to my cubbyhole and collected my coat and handbag. Everything except the county commissioners’ meeting was set. I left Kip in charge, knowing if there were any last-minute problems, he’d let me know. After a brief stop at the Grocery Basket to pick up something ready-made for dinner, I pulled into the carport and went inside. I was unwrapping the fried chicken, mac and cheese, and small Caesar salad when I remembered to go over to the Marsdens’ house to collect the package from Paris.