The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (29 page)

“Don’t,” he said. “It’ll stay warmer if you keep them shut. The temperature’s dropping.”

“I thought you left,” I said, turning around.

“Why would I? I can’t go steelheading and I don’t feel like shoveling half a foot of snow to get out of your driveway.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “How do you feel, Swami?”

Involuntarily, I touched the towel on my head. “Depleted, weak, but not really sick.”

“You look washed out. Are up to eating something?”

“Not really. When did you get up?”

“A little before eight.” He dropped his hands. “I made some scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. You want coffee?”

I shook my head. “I’ll drink some ice water.” I looked up at him. “You didn’t shave.”

Milo rubbed his long chin. “I forgot my razor. I’m thinking of growing a beard. Maybe I’ll suspend myself for a couple more days and see how it looks before I go back to work.” He frowned at me. “You think it’s a bad idea?”

“I won’t know until I see it,” I said. “It might be … fine.”

“Too scratchy for you?”

I shrugged. “I have limited experience with bearded men. Or bearded ladies, for that matter.”

“Come again? Fisher had a beard.”

“It was more like a goatee.”

Milo virtually sneered. “Whatever. It must’ve scratched.”

“Is that why you’re growing a beard?”

He shot me an exasperated look. “No. I only met the guy once. I forgot what he looked like until you said ‘
limited
experience.’ Those goatees look silly. If I grow an honest-to-God beard, you can experiment with me.” Milo cocked his head to one side. “You’re still kind of shaky. Sit. I’ll get your ice water.”

I didn’t protest, but I followed him to the kitchen and sat down at the table. The sheriff was putting ice in a glass when his cell rang.

“Shit,” he barked, “why didn’t I turn this sucker off? Screw it.” He ignored the ringing. It stopped after seven rings. Milo had finished pouring water into the glass. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I’m empty, but not hungry,” I said, “if you know what I mean. Maybe toast later on.”

“Sure.” He poured himself more coffee and was about to sit down when his phone rang again. “Who is this asshole?” He picked up the cell and looked at the screen. “Oh, damn! It’s Mulehide.” He kept staring at the screen through the next four rings, finally muttered, “She won’t give up,” and clicked the phone on. “What now, Tricia?”

I could hear a woman’s high-pitched voice rattling away at the other end while the sheriff leaned back in the chair and began to look increasingly annoyed. Finally, his ex-wife stopped for breath.

“What the hell am I supposed to do about it? We’ve got a foot of snow up here. I’m stuck.”

Mulehide had gotten her second wind. Milo winced and held the phone out from his ear. I could make out only a few words—“meltdown,” “terrified,” and “you coldhearted bastard.” Tricia was bordering on hysteria. In fact, the next sound I heard was of sobbing. Milo finally moved the cell back within hearing and speaking range.

“If it’s that bad, call the cops,” he said. “Or are you exaggerating?”

I could hear Tricia’s blubbering protests, though I couldn’t make out what she was actually saying. I tried to read the sheriff’s reaction, which had changed from aggravation to unease and, finally, resignation.

“Okay, okay, cool down,” he said. “I’ll see if I can get out of here. I don’t know what this section of Highway 2 is like between here and Monroe, but I—”

I could hear her interrupt him. “Yeah,” he responded impatiently, “you already told me it’s forty degrees and raining in Bellevue. Get real. I’m in Alpine. I’ll call you back after I’ve checked my options. In the meantime, pull yourself together, keep the doors locked, and make Tanya unlock her bedroom door.” He hung up. “That really tears it,” he said, clutching the cell phone so tightly I thought he’d break it.

“What’s going on?”

Milo slowly shook his head. “If I can sort through what Mulehide told me, Tanya and her freaking idiot of a fiancé, Buster Van Stoop or whatever the hell his name is, had a huge fight and she’s threatening to kill herself and Buster’s threatening to kill her. Tanya’s locked herself in her bedroom and won’t come out. Buster’s howling at the moon or some damned thing. Mulehide thinks the situation is a tinder box and only good old What’s-His-Name-Besides-Sap Dodge can rescue everybody. If
Mulehide hadn’t dumped her most recent ex, she could ask him to handle it. Hell, he’s spent more time with my kids than I have in the last sixteen years. Suddenly I’m not the bad guy anymore, but the Great White Hope. ‘Dope’ is more like it, at least from Mulehide’s point of view.”

“Do you think she’s really exaggerating?”

“Oh …” He sighed. “I don’t know. Tanya and this guy aren’t kids. I mean, they may act like it, and I still think of all three of my kids as … kids, but they’re allegedly grown-ups. Tanya must be … thirty? I suppose Buster’s about the same age.”

“Is his name really Buster?”

“No. I never can remember it. I’ve only met him twice.”

“Tanya must’ve gone through school with the Petersens,” I said.

“All our kids did. Brandon was the same year as Frankie,” Milo said. “I mean Strom. See what I mean? What difference does it make if I call Buster Buster? These kids change their names anyway. Michelle is Mike now. No wonder her marriage didn’t last more than ten minutes. She says she’s a lesbian. Why not? Her mother’s a witch. Some role model for a girl. I’m lucky if any of our three didn’t turn out to be axe murderers. The closest they’ve come so far is Bran getting arrested for a hit-and-run a few years ago. How did he expect not to get caught right in front of Bellevue Square? I still don’t understand where he found the brains to become a vet.” Milo drank his coffee and picked up his cell. “Let’s see if Dwight can do me a favor, even if I’m not his official boss right now.”

“Who is?” I asked, still taking in Milo’s revelations about his offspring. He hadn’t talked about them that much at one time in all the years we’d known each other.

“Sam?” He shook his head as he dialed. “No, Dwight’s got seniority. He’s his own boss.”

“What kind of favor?” I asked.

Milo didn’t answer. He already had Dwight on the line. “This is your non-boss. Does your snowplow still work?” He paused. “Yeah, I need you to get me out of here. Family emergency in Bellevue.” He paused again. “No. I’m at Emma’s. If you say just one word, you’ll end up like Mullins. Get your ass up here ASAP. And thanks.”

“You’re going to Bellevue? What about the highway?”

“It’ll be fine. That Grand Cherokee’s so damned heavy, it couldn’t slide if it wanted to. I’m chained up, too.” He got out of the chair and put his coffee mug in the sink. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

“Yes.”

He looked uncertain. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

He still seemed indecisive. “I could stay. Maybe Mulehide can pull herself together and get everybody straightened out.”

“But you know she can’t.”

He sighed even more heavily. “You’re right. I’m going to go out and make sure the Cherokee’ll start. I don’t usually leave it outside in this weather.” Milo went into the living room to get his jacket. After I heard the front door close, I got up and went into the bedroom. I might as well get fully dressed. A heavy sweater on top of the T-shirt and wool slacks would be warmer than my bathrobe. My hair was still damp, so I made a haphazard attempt at finishing the job with the blow-dryer and a brush. By the time I was finished, Milo was back inside.

“Dwight’s here,” he said. “Offer him a cup of coffee after I pull out. He’ll do just about anything for decent coffee. He used to bitch all the time about the coffee at work before we hired Lori.”

“He had a right to,” I said, recalling the dismal dark dishwater that had been dispensed at the sheriff’s headquarters for years. “Did the Cherokee start?”

Milo nodded. “I thought it would.” He took a step forward and enveloped me in his arms. He was holding me so tight and for so long that I could hardly breathe. It scared me. I felt as if he didn’t want to let go because if he did, he’d never hold me again. Worse yet, I was thinking the same thing. At last he eased up on his grip. “I’m not going to kiss you good-bye.”

I nodded. “Save it to kiss me hello.”

Without another word, he released me and went out into the cold, white mountain morning.

T
HE SHERIFF WAS RIGHT ABOUT
D
WIGHT
G
OULD
. A
S SOON
as the deputy finished plowing all the way up to my Honda, I came out into the carport and asked if he’d like some coffee.

“You didn’t have to do the whole driveway,” I told him as he entered the kitchen.

“The plow’s fun, better than a horse,” he said. “Horses are too much like people—unpredictable and a damned nuisance.”

Dwight wasn’t the most affable of Milo’s deputies, running a close second to Sam Heppner when it came to a cynical view of human nature. He’d been married once many years ago, but it hadn’t lasted long. His wife, Kay, had left him for mill owner Jack Blackwell, who later dumped her. Jack, whose oily charm eluded me, had a serious history of discarding wives and girlfriends. I’d lost count over the years.

Dwight lived alone in a small house off the Burl Creek Road and seemed to enjoy his own company. He was at least five years older than Milo, and I always wondered if he resented having a boss who was younger. But Dwight was a hard and
thorough worker, traits much appreciated by his boss. They weren’t actual friends, though they’d occasionally gone hunting and fishing together. I assumed the sheriff preferred Dwight’s taciturn company to more talkative types. Milo liked to fish alone, but if he had to have someone with him, only certain words were permissible, such as “Got anything yet?” “Nice fish,” or “That a snag or a bite?”

I poured coffee into a mug for Dwight. “You’re off duty, I gather.”

He nodded. “Fong and Heppner are on. Poor bastards.”

“Sugar? Cream?”

Dwight shook his head.

“Take a seat,” I offered.

“Well …” He eyed the chair suspiciously. “Okay.”

“I hear your poaching suspect took off last night,” I said, sitting down across from Dwight.

“Damned fool. Now he’s really in for it.”

“Do you think he cut the trees?”

Dwight shrugged. “I’m not on a jury. I just follow orders.” “His alibi sounded credible.”

Dwight scowled at me. He was short and stocky, with a pugnacious bulldog face. “Who’s telling tales?”

“Vida.”

He snorted. “That figures. Bill Blatt should stand up to that bigmouthed aunt of his.”

Making conversation with Dwight wasn’t easy, especially when my strength was depleted. “Was Greg a troublemaker growing up?”

He shook his head. “No more than most teenagers. They’re all a pain in the butt.”

“Maybe he just wanted to go home to his place in Brier.”

Dwight didn’t comment.

“Do you think he had help cutting down the maples?”

“Maybe, but he could do it with a decent gas chainsaw.”

“Does he own one?”

Dwight scowled again. “How do I know? That’s up to Dodge to get SnoCo to check out his place in Brier.”

“The sheriff says you’re in charge while he’s on suspension.”

“He does?” Dwight looked shocked. “That’s crazy. How can he expect me to run his operation?”

“You might start by getting a warrant for the house Greg and Denise own here.”

“Hey,” he said, clenching his hands into fists on the table, “are you trying to make trouble?”

I was annoyed. “No. Don’t be a jerk, Dwight. Just because Milo’s not around doesn’t mean the rest of you are on vacation.”

His small jet-black eyes narrowed for just an instant. “What’d he do, deputize you after he … skip it.” Dwight took a big gulp of coffee. “We can check his alibi. If he was at a pub watching football Monday night, he’d have more witnesses than just his so-called buddy.”

“True.” I tried to be pleasant. “I assume the pub was in Brier.”

“That means SnoCo, too. But Jensen knew the game. He thinks the Patriots will end up in the Super Bowl. I’m not sure about that.”

At last we’d reached neutral ground—or turf. “Who’s your pick?”

“The Chiefs, maybe. They beat New England in that game. Only two points, but KC still looks good. You like football?”

“Not as well as baseball or basketball, but …” I stopped. “The Monday night game wasn’t New England and Kansas City. That was the week before.”

Dwight’s small eyes grew wide. “It was?”

“You watched it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but …” He looked genuinely puzzled. “Maybe I nodded off. I’d worked over the weekend. I could’ve sworn … hell, maybe I’m thinking of one of the ESPN highlight shows.”

“The Packers-Rams game would’ve put anybody to sleep this last Monday,” I said kindly. “No contest.”

Dwight took a final swig of coffee and stood up. “I’d better go. Maybe I should do some homework before Dodge gets back on the job.”

“Thanks for the plow job,” I said, getting up to open the door.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Dwight said. “It’s the real deal.” He paused. “I hope you are, too.”

As he walked through the carport, I pondered his last remark. If nothing else, it indicated he liked his boss.

Half an hour later, I finally felt like eating something. I made a soft-boiled egg and two pieces of finger toast. I poured myself some coffee, but the first sip didn’t taste right. I dumped it out along with what was left in the pot. Then I realized that Milo had made it. Maybe Dwight had been kinder than I thought about both his coffee and his boss.

Shortly before noon, the city plows had arrived on my street. Life was returning to normal. I stepped outside to check the temperature. It was hovering under thirty and the wind was blowing. It felt like a Chinook, which meant the weather was warming up. Returning inside, I called Vida to ask how she was getting along.

“Much better,” she replied, sounding more like herself. “Buck says the forecast calls for rain by later today. You must be recovering, too.”

“I am,” I said. “I might even try to get out of the house.”