The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (28 page)

“Go ahead. But you really needn’t—”

“Hush,” Vida said firmly, picking up her mug and heading for the kitchen. “You can’t stay alone,” she added, raising her voice after leaving the room. “I’ll clear away our supper things after I get back.”

As ever, there was no point arguing with Vida, even if I’d had the strength to try. Two minutes later, she was out the door. I lay on the sofa like a lump, but I was starting to feel better. Maybe I had a twenty-four-hour variety and the worst was over. After another five minutes had passed, I sat up, wondering if I could clean the kitchen. The phone rang before I made the effort.

“Emma,” Vida said in a weak voice I hardly recognized, “I’m sick, too. I’m sorry. I’ve already … oh, dear …” She hung up.

I sank back on the sofa. At least it was the weekend. Hopefully, Mitch, Leo, and Kip would stay germ-free. Vida and I had
two full days to recover. I felt sleepy, but I wanted to change my clothes. I finally got up, surprised at how shaky I still was. Moving slowly, I went into the bedroom and took off my sweater and slacks. I was slipping into my robe when I heard the front door open. I froze with my hands on the bathrobe’s ties. Had Vida left the door unlocked? Of course she had, I thought stupidly. She had no key. I started to call out, but my vocal cords were paralyzed.

“Emma?”

It was Milo. I still couldn’t utter a sound.

A moment later, he was in the hallway. “You can stand up, but you can’t talk?”

I stumbled toward him, tripped over my own feet, and started to fall. He caught me before I hit the floor. “Where should I put you?” he asked.

“Sofa?” I finally managed to say.

“You sure?”

I nodded, my head against his chest.

“Okay. Vida called. She’s sick, too.”

I nodded again. He carried me into the living room. It was only then that I noticed his lower lip was cut. “Oh,” I said, barely audible even to myself. “You’re hurt.”

“You ought to see the other guys,” he muttered, setting me down on the sofa.

I stared at him.
“Guys?”

He stood up, thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt. “Yeah,
guys
. You need a pillow?”

It felt like I was smiling. “We did this before.”

“Right. You managed to fall over your own feet, sprain your ankle, get drunk and then high on Demerol. Pillow or no pillow?”

“No. Tell me what happened with those
guys
.”

Milo sat down on the floor next to me. “I can only take so much crap about certain things.” He didn’t look at me but off toward the far end of the living room. “Fleetwood opened his big mouth once too often. Then Mullins did the same thing. I decked both of them. End of story.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. Did you eat the rest of that pie?”

“No.”

“Maybe I will.” He turned back to look at me. “How do you feel?”

“Better. Really.” My voice was almost normal. “What about the suspensions?”

Milo rubbed the back of his head. “I suspended Jack after I hit him. Then I decided it was only fair to suspend myself, too. I was officially off duty, but Jack was just coming on.”

I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t have the strength. “Oh, Milo! For how long?”

“Forty-eight hours.”

“Dare I ask why you …?”

He reached out and put a big hand over my mouth. “No. And don’t even think about licking my hand. You’re sick.”

My eyes widened. His hand stayed put.

“Damn, but you’ve got pretty eyes,” he said. “Soft, like fur on a brown bear.” He stared at me for another moment or two before taking his hand away.

“Brown bears don’t have soft fur,” I said after taking a couple of breaths. “Couldn’t you say ‘kitten’?”

“I could’ve said ‘pit bull.’ ”

“Speaking of dogs, what do you make of Greg Jensen’s arrest?”

“Not much. I’m on suspension, remember?” He stretched out on the floor, leaning on his elbow.

“Why didn’t you call me today?”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“Are we really fifteen?”

“You’re fourteen, I’m seventeen.”

I shifted around on the sofa, trying to get into a more comfortable position. I still felt stiff and sore from our impassioned adventures the previous night.

“What’s wrong?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re a load, Dodge.”

He stopped just short of smirking. “I haven’t gained more than twenty-five pounds since I was twenty. If you’re hurting, it’s the flu.”

“You outweigh me by a hundred pounds, big guy. I can tell one ache from another. Which,” I went on, “reminds me. Have you considered that the poaching and the shooting could be two different incidents?”

“I don’t like coincidences,” he said, “but given that Laurentis hasn’t been much help telling us what he saw or where he was when he was shot, I’m sticking with the obvious—for now, anyway. We can’t get a blood trail in this weather.”

“Maybe something will come back to him later,” I said.

“Maybe.” Milo got up. “I’m going to get that pie. You want anything?”

“Yes. There’s some 7-Up in the fridge. Ice, please.”

He ambled off to the kitchen. A moment later I heard him swear. “For chrissakes, did you and Vida eat this French crap?”

“Yes,” I called back as loudly as I could manage.

“No wonder you’re both puking. That Fisher bastard probably tried to poison you in revenge for not traipsing after him to France. I’m tossing the stuff you opened.”

“Milo …” I gave up. He could be partly right. The food might’ve spoiled in transit. I heard him sweep off the table, open
the garbage can, and dump the offending delicacies. “
Adieu
, Rolf,” I murmured. My only regret was for the truffles. I would’ve liked to try one. Feeling sleepy, I closed my eyes. I could hear the sheriff rummaging around in the kitchen. Then I heard the faint ring of a phone. Not mine—it was on the end table next to the sofa.
My cell?
I wondered vaguely. But it wasn’t the same ring. Maybe my ears were buzzing.

I heard Milo’s voice. “I’m on suspension, damnit. I don’t give a rat’s ass if Jensen calls the attorney general. Tell me on Monday.”

Silence. A few moments later, he was back in the living room, pie in one hand, a Henry Weinhard’s dark ale in the other. He sat down in the easy chair. “You asleep?” he asked.

“With my eyes open?” I turned onto my side to get a better look at him. “Greg asked for a lawyer?”

“Marisa Foxx,” he said. “She’ll probably get him bailed out.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Hell, no. Don’t tell me
you
forgot I’m suspended?”

“No. But I know you pretty well, big guy. You don’t take off the uniform and stop being a lawman.”

His expression was droll. “You sure about that? If I didn’t, I’d have arrested both of us last night for indecent behavior.”

I flung a hand to my forehead. “Oh, Milo! Stop!”

He didn’t say anything. Suddenly he seemed preoccupied with his pie. I dozed off and on for what seemed like a long time. Then I realized I was thirsty. I stretched my neck and sat up. “Where’s my 7-Up?”

Milo was thumbing through the
Vanity Fair
Vida had been reading. “Oh—I forgot.” He tossed the magazine aside and stood up. “Ice, right?”

“Yes. What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch. “How would I know? I never got
around to getting a new battery. Maybe I’ll just buy another watch. I kind of like the time this one stopped.”

The sheriff went out to the kitchen.

I was speechless. Milo was not sentimental. Not ever. I tried to look at my watch, but I hadn’t turned on the end-table light.

“Ten-forty-seven, according to the clock on your stove,” he called to me.

I’d managed to sit up and turn the lamp on. “That’s right. What’s the weather doing?”

“Six inches and still snowing,” he answered after a brief pause. “We could have a foot by morning.”

“You’d better get home,” I said as he came into the living room and handed me a glass with 7-Up and ice.

“I’m not going home,” he said, nodding toward the front door. “I brought my stuff with me in that kit.”

“Do I dare ask where you plan to sleep?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t you be better off alone? I can bunk in Adam’s room.”

My bed was a double; Adam’s was a single. My son was six-three, the same height his father had been. But Milo was six-five and more big-boned than either Adam or Tom. “You can sleep with me,” I said.

The sheriff shook his head. “Can’t do that.”

“Why not?” I realized it was a stupid question as soon as it came out of my mouth. “Never mind. I’ll sleep in Adam’s bed and you can sleep in mine.”

“No. You need to be in your own kip. I’ll manage. I did it before when you damn near totaled yourself in the kitchen.”

“I’d been in a collision and a fight before that happened. Cut me some slack.”

“Face it, you’re a klutz, a human train wreck about to happen.”

“I’ve got the flu,” I said stubbornly. “Or something like it.”

“Did I say I give a damn if you’re not a ballet dancer? You’ve got some good moves of your own, but walking isn’t one of them.” He reached out and mussed my already disheveled hair. “Drink your pop. I’m going to the can.”

He’d barely disappeared when the phone rang. Startled, I fumbled for the receiver and was surprised when I heard Vida—or a pale imitation thereof—at the other end.

“Billy came to check on me,” she said. “I
am
better. How are you?”

“Improving,” I replied.

“Good. Billy told me about Greg. Marisa Foxx posted bail for him. She took him back to the house he and Denise bought, but Greg wouldn’t go in. He refused to spend any more time with his ex. I can hardly blame him.” She stopped for a moment, probably to catch her breath.

“Did Greg say anything about Denise being sick?” I asked.

“Pardon? Oh—I’ve no idea. But he asked Marisa to get the dog for him. She wasn’t keen on the idea, but he pleaded with her and she finally gave in. Denise came to the door and then went to fetch the dog. She was up and about, so maybe she’ll come to work Monday. Anyway, while Marisa waited on the porch, Greg got into his own car and roared off.”

I was surprised. “What did Marisa do then?”

“Billy wasn’t explicit, as he has a tendency to omit details and I wasn’t feeling well enough to prod him. He described Marisa as upset. She’s afraid he may be fleeing the county or even the state.”

It took a moment to absorb the news. “Marisa related all this directly to Bill or … who?”

“Billy,” Vida replied wearily. “He took over for Doe at ten. She’d put in a fourteen-hour day and has to get up early tomorrow
to help her mother give a baby shower for a cousin in Marysville. Naturally, she wanted to get ahead of the snow before the pass is closed.”

“I wouldn’t think Greg would leave the dog,” I said.

“That’s what Marisa thought, too. But now she thinks that all he really wanted was a ride back to where his car was parked and that he’d already planned to make his getaway. The dog was a ruse.”

“That sounds right,” I agreed.

“Of course,” Vida continued, “I assume he’d intended to take—Doukas? No, no, I’m confusing the name with the Doukas family. How silly of me.”

“It’s Doofus,” I said. “Very apt for Denise. Go on, what then?”

“What? Oh.” Vida wasn’t tracking as well as usual. “I assume Greg did come up here to get Doofus.” “Probably,” I agreed.

Milo had come out of the bathroom. “Who the hell are you talking to at eleven o’clock?” he asked gruffly.

“Vida,” I said, making a face at him.

Shaking his head, he collected his kit. “If you’re going to jaw on the phone all night, I’m heading for bed. Can you make it on your own?”

I’d put my hand over the mouthpiece, but knew that Milo’s deep voice carried to Vida’s house on Tyee Street. “Yes. Good night.”

He paused to kiss the top of my head. “Yell if you need me.”

I nodded. He headed for Adam’s room. Vida hadn’t spoken since Milo had come into the living room. “Are you going to be all right tonight?” I asked her, trying to sound natural.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “Amy offered to stay with me, but I told her that wasn’t necessary. Besides, Diddy has croup.”

Now I was wondering if Vida was feverish and delusional. “Diddy? Or Daddy?”

“Ah—I’ll explain when I feel better. Good night, Em—” She hung up so abruptly that I didn’t hear the last syllable of my name.

Unless I’d missed something in the last fifteen years, I’d never heard Vida refer to her son-in-law, Ted, as “Daddy” and certainly not as “Diddy.” There could be an explanation that was suggested by the old-fashioned word “croup” to describe a baby’s cough or cold. Had the Hibberts taken in Roger’s baby by Holly Gross? It was possible, even likely. That struck me as a bad idea. Roger was about to join the Marines, usually a four-year hitch. Amy and Ted were almost fifty. The idea of people in my peer group raising a baby dismayed me. Couples were now waiting much longer to have children, but even in their younger years, the Hibberts hadn’t been shining examples of parenthood. Maybe they’d learned from the Rotten Roger experience, but I doubted it.

It wasn’t my problem, I told myself as I finally got off the sofa. I walked gingerly into the kitchen. Milo had cleaned up except for a couple of plates, the cheese knives, and Vida’s tea mug. I put everything in the dishwasher, made sure the stove was off, looked outside at the snow still coming down, and turned off the light.

Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom. Milo had left the door to Adam’s room open. In case, I guessed, I needed help.

I left my door open, too. In case I needed Milo.

It was after nine when I woke up, feeling slightly disoriented. Rolling over, I lifted the shade so I could look outside. The
world was white, with drifts almost up to the windowsill. And quiet. Only a few fitful flakes were still coming down. I sank back down, collecting my thoughts and my strength. A few minutes later, I got up, heading for the bathroom. The door to Adam’s room was still open. The bed was made. There was no sign of Milo. Maybe he’d risen early and gone home.

I went into the bathroom, taking longer than usual with my morning ritual. It seemed useless to get fully dressed, so I put the bathrobe back on over my bra, pants, a long-sleeved Jamie Moyer Mariners’ T-shirt, and thick wool socks. I’d already washed my hair in the shower, so I wrapped a big towel around my head. When I finally got to the living room, I already felt worn out. The drapes were still closed. I was about to open them when Milo’s voice startled me from behind.