The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (3 page)

“Ginny?” Vida scowled. “Why was she talking about Denise?”

A quick check of my watch told me it was going on ten. The morning was passing too quickly. I still hadn’t written my editorial. In fact, I hadn’t even decided on a topic. “Ginny’s waffling about coming back to work. She wants to wait until after New Year’s, and she suggested Denise as a fill-in.”

“Oh, for goodness sakes!” Vida stopped just short of removing her glasses and attacking her eyes again. “Denise is a nitwit! And whatever is wrong with Ginny? I thought she had more gumption than to act as if she’d been paralyzed in a car accident instead of merely having a baby. If you tell me she’s pleading postpartum whatever it’s called, I’ll lose all respect for her. Such nonsense! What’s wrong with young women these days? That’s what I’ve said all along about equality between the sexes. Why on earth did women ever want to lower themselves to the level of men? Ginny’s a perfect example, what my dear mother
would’ve called a ‘weak sister.’ She was, of course, referring to
men
who behaved like weak sisters.”

I’d heard similar rants many times from Vida, and given the tales she’d told about the early female residents of Alpine, most of them could’ve given Paul Bunyan a run for his money. Or his ox or axe or …

But Vida wasn’t finished. “Even Buck, who I must confess is sometimes rather old-fashioned in his views, thinks that women make excellent fighter pilots. He calls it their ‘mother lioness nature,’ in this case defending their country instead of their cubs.”

Buck Bardeen was a retired air force colonel who had been Vida’s longtime companion. His brother, Henry, managed the ski lodge, and although I didn’t know Buck well, he was obviously a man who could put up with Vida while accepting whatever limits—physical and emotional—she might set. “Understandable,” I agreed. “Most women can—”

I was interrupted by Mitch Laskey, who was standing in the doorway. “I’m off to interview the new prof at the college,” he said. “I’ll check the police log on my way back, okay?”

I nodded. “Sure. Good luck. He’s science, right?”

Mitch, who is in his fifties and a veteran of the
Detroit Free Press
, grinned at me. “Whatever he teaches will have to be translated. Science is not my specialty. Give me race riots, drug busts, crooks in high places, and a UAW strike with blood on the picket line any day.” With a casual wave, he headed back through the newsroom.

“Detroit,” Vida murmured. “It’s a wonder Mitch and his wife got out alive.”

“They lived in Royal Oak, a suburb,” I reminded Vida.

“It’s still Detroit.”

I didn’t argue. The Laskeys had moved to Alpine because their son was serving a five-year term in the Monroe Correctional
Complex for dealing drugs. Mitch and Brenda had thought he’d moved out west to find himself. Instead, he’d found a market and a supplier for doing business as usual. Troy Laskey might as well have stayed in Michigan.

Vida had gotten to her feet. “I’ll call Al Driggers. As funeral director, he should know if Denise or her grandparents have been notified of Larry’s death.”

“Okay.” I slumped in my chair as Vida walked out in her splay-footed manner. I was still pondering my various problems a few minutes later when Leo came into my office.

“You look like the last rose of summer,” he remarked, sitting down in the chair Milo had vacated. “A pretty rose, but fading fast.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “If you’ve got a dilemma, can you keep it to yourself until noon?”

Leo chuckled. “I’m still sorting out my Thanksgiving interlude with Liza and the kids. It seemed almost like old times. Except,” he added wistfully, “it wasn’t.”

Leo had finally been invited back into the family fold after ten years of divorce from his wife and estrangement from his children. “They must’ve been glad to see you sober and gainfully employed,” I said.

“If that hadn’t been the case, Liza would never have let me in the door.” Leo’s weathered face was like a map of the roads he’d traveled in the past twenty years or more. “It was tough at first for all of us, but what broke the ice was when the turkey caught fire. There’s nothing like a threat to life, limb, and a paid-off mortgage to bring people together. I didn’t even need to remind Liza that I was the one who made the last payment on the house in Santa Maria, the BBQ capital of the world. We must’ve violated a city ordinance by roasting the damned bird instead of firing up the grill. Which,” Leo went on before I could do more
than laugh, “brings up an idea I have for our advertisers. Why can’t Alpiners call themselves the something-or-other capital of the world and make some money off of it?”

“My God,” I said in mock horror, “have you turned into Ed Bronsky?”

Leo leaned his head back and stared at the low dappled ceiling panels that were beginning to show wear and tear after four years. As the print media increasingly became an endangered species, I wondered if the
Advocate
or my office would be the first to collapse. “We’ll do okay during the Christmas season, but come January, we’re always a little thin. I’m scheduled to be the chamber of commerce speaker right after the first of the year. I thought I might stir up the merchants by suggesting we find something unique about Alpine as a promotional theme. ‘World Capital of Vida Runkel’ would be fitting, but I’m not sure it’d sell ads or goods beyond SkyCo.”

I grinned at Leo. “For a moment, I thought you might’ve been channeling your predecessor.” Ed’s ideas—on the rare occasions that he had them—were always borderline absurd. I sucked in my breath. “Speak of the devil,” I murmured. “Here comes Ed.”

Ed, however, had stopped by Vida’s desk. Leo turned discreetly to look into the newsroom. “He’s sitting down. That’s not a good sign.”

“Better Vida than me,” I said. “Or you.”

“True.” I leaned to one side, trying to see what Ed was doing. Talking, of course, and gesturing with his pudgy hands. He obstructed my view of Vida—no surprise, since Ed was wide enough to block out a hippopotamus.

Leo and I looked helplessly at each other. “Should I rescue the Duchess?” he whispered, using his nickname for Vida that she claimed to despise.

“She may’ve already passed out from listening to him.” But before I could say anything else, I heard her voice.

“That’s a fine idea, Ed,” she said in a calm manner. “Why shouldn’t you run for county commissioner? The trio we have now are all senile. And you aren’t deaf.”

Leo shot me an incredulous look. “Didn’t we just hold an election?” he murmured.

I nodded. The only commissioner who’d been up for reelection in early November was Alfred Cobb. He won because his opponent, Arnold Qvale, dropped dead on Halloween. There hadn’t been time to remove Arnold’s name from the ballot. Even though his opponent was deceased, Alfred had won by only a slim margin. Frankly, it had been hard to tell the difference between the two candidates. “You’ve heard talk about a special election in March, right? Alfred can barely sit up at the meetings, let alone participate.”

Leo sighed. “As I recall, Ed was going to run for office a couple of years ago, but didn’t make the filing date.” He stopped, seeing my signal to shut up. Ed was chugging toward us.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Ed exclaimed, greeting Leo with a loud slap on the shoulder. “Bronsky’s back and SkyCo’s got him!”

“I’ll be damned,” Leo said, wincing. “What’s up, Ed?”

My former ad manager pulled out the other visitor’s chair and wedged himself between the armrests. “I’ve got it on good authority that Alfred Cobb’s stepping down from the county troika. He’s announcing it at the commissioners’ meeting tomorrow night. You better tell Kip to stop those presses, Emma.”

“We always hold a space open for their meetings since they changed the night to a Tuesday,” I said blandly. “It’s a nuisance, especially when the meetings drag and drone on for so long.”

The chair creaked under Ed as he leaned forward, fists on my desk. “You got it! That’s why I’m running. This county is stuck
in the mud. You wouldn’t believe the plans I’ve got to perk things up!”

“I’ll bet I wouldn’t,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Will you be speaking at the meeting tomorrow night?”

Ed made a face. “I’m not sure. It depends on what happens. If Alf—I’ve always called him that, even when I was a working stiff—if he announces he’s stepping down due to ill health, I might. You know—to show that I’m ready for action and rarin’ to go.”

Leo, who had shot Ed a sharp glance, scooted his chair a few inches from his predecessor and stood up. “Excuse me,” he said, “but this working stiff has to work.” He winked at me. “Later, Emma. Don’t forget, we’re going seventy/thirty this week.”

“I can’t forget that,” I said with a grin for Leo. “Nicely done.”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Seventy/thirty? That’s … good.” He settled back in his chair. “It’s holiday season, of course. That always pushes the ad ratio up. Way back before you took over, I usually ran about seventy-five/twenty-five or better. Marius Vandeventer used to give me a bad time because he didn’t have enough room for news or photos. He was kidding, of course.” Ed chuckled.

As far I was concerned, Ed was kidding, too. If he’d even gotten us a sixty percent amount of advertising on a regular basis, I wouldn’t have had to scrimp and scrounge for revenue while he remained on the staff. “So, are you settled into your new house?” I asked, deciding to change the subject lest I say something rash.

Ed nodded, chins jiggling. “We got in for Thanksgiving. Really nice, cozy, too. That double-wide was cramped. And of course I quit the restaurant business. But you knew that—Vida put it in ‘Scene.’ ”

Ed, who had squandered his sizable inheritance on the so-called villa he’d built above the golf course, had not only been forced to sell Casa de Bronska to developers, but had become so mired in debt that the family had to move to a mobile home. To keep the wolf from the door, he’d gone to work at the Burger Barn. I’d actually felt sorry for him. But the final payment from the house sale had come through in the past month, enabling the Bronsky brood to buy a small home near the fish hatchery. His wife, Shirley, had renewed her teaching certificate and was substituting for the Alpine school district.

“I understand ReHaven will open its doors not long after the first of the year,” I said, noting that Vida had put on her new plum-colored winter coat and an almost-matching pillbox hat with swatches of long bright feathers.

Ed didn’t look pleased at the mention of ReHaven. “I hate to think of all those drunks and druggies trashing our villa, but I suppose it’s for the best.” He grunted as he stood up. “Better get going. Don’t forget—big news tomorrow night. Will Lashley be there?”

“It’s Laskey,” I told Ed for at least the third time. “Yes.”

“Good.” He stumbled a bit, apparently over his own feet. “Oof. New shoes. I need to break them in.”

“Do that. Bye, Ed.” I’d remained seated. Vida had already left the office. Ed took a detour, and though he was briefly out of sight, I knew he was probably stuffing his pockets with Upper Crust pastries.

Maybe Ed had inadvertently given me an idea for my editorial. Alfred Cobb, and his fellow county commissioners, George Engebretsen and Leonard Hollenberg, weren’t the only public officials who’d outlived their usefulness, if not their ability to pork-barrel. The U.S. Senate and House had several members who couldn’t function much more effectively than an oven mitt.
I’d also heard firsthand tales about certain Supreme Court justices who had trouble remaining conscious while hearing arguments on vital national issues. Then there was the judiciary on the state and local level, not to mention Mayor Fuzzy Baugh …

My mind wandered in and around these possibilities until I, too, began to feel drowsy. I might’ve nodded off if the phone hadn’t rung to jolt me out of my lethargy.

“My computer died,” my brother Ben announced. “I can’t e-mail, so I’m calling to see if you survived Thanksgiving all by yourself.”

“I had a wonderful time,” I said with unbridled sarcasm. “It was such fun to
not
have my brother and my son with me as planned.”

“Hey—we’re priests. We have a higher calling. Besides, the Pilgrims were Protestants. Don’t tell me that in your basic Scandinavian community you didn’t celebrate Martin Luther’s birthday on November tenth.”

“We only do Martin Luther King’s,” I retorted. “Now that I think about it, he wasn’t a Lutheran or a Scandinavian.”

“You always were a little slow,” Ben said with that familiar crackle of humor in his voice. “Seriously, were you too miserable?”

“Well …” I thought back to the previous Thursday, with the promise of sun in the morning, followed by heavy clouds, a brisk wind off the mountains, and stinging sleet before sunset. “Let’s say it wasn’t exactly festive. Even Father Den had taken off for the long weekend. It’s not a holy day of obligation, so I didn’t drag my lonely body to the communion service.”

“Jeez,” Ben said, though I couldn’t tell if he was dismayed or mocking. “You really are a mess.”

“I
was
, past tense. I’ve recovered. It just happened to be the
first time that everybody around here had somewhere else to go for Thanksgiving and I didn’t have you and Adam to keep me company. I’m over it, okay?”

“Okay.” Ben paused. “It’s possible that you may be seeing much more of me in the coming year.”

The sudden heaviness in my brother’s voice alarmed me. “Why?”

“Father Jim—the priest I’m filling in for—is giving up his religious vocation. He’s fallen in love with a widow and they’re getting married in June. I hope and pray he’s doing the right thing, but meanwhile I’m stuck here in Cleveland until a replacement can be found. When that happens, I’m taking my long overdue six-month sabbatical to sit on my ass, drink beer, and watch sports on TV.”

“Oh! You scared me. I thought you were the one in crisis.”

Ben laughed. “Hell, no. I picked the right vocation. If I’d gotten married, I’d probably have about four ex-wives by now. You and I were never intended for domestic bliss.”

I bristled at the remark. “I would’ve done just fine if I’d finally married Tom instead of having him buried.”