The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery (33 page)

“Gold,” I murmured, thinking back to what Craig had been trying to say in his hospital bed. “I thought he was telling me to ‘go,’ as in go here to the gallery. But I might be wrong.”

Donna glanced at the painting. “Has any gold been found near Alpine in recent years?”

“Not that I ever heard,” I admitted. “Do you have any idea where Craig lives?”

“Only that it’s somewhere nobody else seems to go,” Donna said, turning as she heard the gallery door open.

I checked my watch. It was five straight up. “I’ve got to dash. You take care of your customer. Is it okay if I go out the back way?”

If the request puzzled Donna, she didn’t show it. “The key’s in the lock.” She lowered her voice. “It’s Mary Lou Blatt, Vida’s sister-in-law. She’ll talk my ear off and not buy anything.” With a little wave, Donna headed back into the gallery. “Mary Lou! How nice to see you! Is there something I can show …”

I was out in the alley before Mary Lou could start driving Donna crazy. The dumpster that Craig had apparently slept in was on my left. I shook my head, sorry for him, sorry for me, but even sorrier for Milo.

By going out the back way, it was only half a block to Ginny and Rick’s house. I should be able to catch most of the newscast. I walked uphill as fast as I could through the downpour. Melted
snow water was rushing into the drains next to the curb. Red, green, and yellow streetlights lit up the dark December evening like Christmas decorations. My mood, however, was far from festive. As I reached the Erlandsons’ front door, I realized my heart was beating far too fast. My hands were shaking as I pressed the doorbell. It seemed like it took a long time for Rick to open the door.

“Hi, Emma,” he said. “Kind of nasty out, huh?”

“Better than being snowed in,” I said. “Where’s Spence?”

“Watching the news,” Rick said, leading me into the small entryway. “Gosh, he’s got a worse cold than I do, poor guy. At least I don’t have to wear a bandage on my nose. I guess he’s following some news story for the station. Is it one you’re doing for the
Advocate
, too?”

“That’s what we’re both trying to determine,” I said, hoping to sound casual.

Ginny, carrying the new baby, came out of the kitchen into the hall. “Oh, hi, Emma. Can you take Bando? That’s what the other boys call him. Rick, you need to run to the store,” she went on, after handing off the infant to me as if he were a football. “I forgot I didn’t have any sauce for the lasagna.”

A loud crash sounded from the kitchen. “Brett?” Ginny cried. “Brad?” She raced back down the hall.

“I’d better go,” Rick said. “See you later, Emma.” He grabbed his heavy jacket from a peg near the front door. “What kind of sauce?” he yelled to his wife, who was out of sight if not out of hearing range.

I carried baby Bando into the living room. Spence was sitting on one half of a two-piece sectional. The TV showed what looked like another Iraqi neighborhood destroyed by one side or the other—or both.

“Well?” I said, sitting on the other sectional while the baby stared up at me with what seemed like a quizzical expression.

“Nothing.” Spence looked disgusted. “I missed the very beginning because one of the kids grabbed the remote and turned it to a cartoon. God, I’m glad I never had kids.”

Bando objected to the remark, letting out a piercing yowl. Or maybe he’d realized I wasn’t his mother. “What shall we do?” I asked, trying to jiggle the baby to shut him up.

“This is all international stuff,” Spence said, standing up. “Next will come the national after the commercials, and then we’ll get to local news. Since they haven’t broken in, I assume nothing’s happening. Or the situation is over.”

A chill ran up my spine. “But …” Bando was crying in earnest. Ginny appeared in the living room before I could say anything else.

“Oh, Emma, let me take him. You wouldn’t believe the mess in the kitchen.” She reached out to remove the screaming baby. “Did you want to stay for dinner? Whenever I make lasagna, there’s plenty left over. Once Rick gets back, it’ll only take half an hour or so to bake.”

“No thanks, Ginny,” I shouted. “But we’re grateful that Spence got to keep up with the news.”

Bando was calming down as his mother held him against her shoulder and patted his back. “Gas,” she remarked. “Oops!” The baby blurped all over the place. “Oh, darn! Mind if I don’t see you out?”

“Not at all,” Spence said, managing to sound unperturbed. “Enjoy your dinner. Cute kids,” he added over his shoulder as he opened the front door for me. “Thanks.”

We both ran to the Beemer that was parked just one space down from the Erlandsons’ house. After I collapsed in the passenger seat, Spence reached over and patted my knee. “Take it easy, Emma. And hang on. We’re going to break the speed limit to get back to your place.”

He wasn’t kidding, especially since there wasn’t much traffic
at five-fifteen on a Saturday night. We pulled into my driveway at five-eighteen and were in the house a minute later. While Spence turned on the TV, I fell into the easy chair, still wearing my wet coat.

The anchors had moved on to national news. Spence hung up his parka, then stood next to me. “Coat, madam. Why don’t you finish that brandy? You look like you could use it. I’ll get another Henry’s. Then you can tell me about the painting.”

I merely nodded, before struggling to take the coat off. “Thanks.”

Spence went about his self-imposed duties. He was in the kitchen when the male anchor announced that there was breaking news from “the Bellevue hostage standoff.” I yelled to him before I practically fell out of the easy chair.

A grim-faced John was waiting for his cue. I held my breath. Spence had picked up the remote and turned the sound up a notch, as if he could force the reporter to speak.

“The Bellevue crisis has come to a tragic conclusion just minutes ago,” he said, as blue and red lights flashed in the background. “Despite the efforts of Bellevue and King County police to get the alleged gunman to free his hostages and surrender …”

“Say it, say it!” I screamed.

Spence rushed over to the chair and put his arm around me. “Shhh,” he said, tightening his grip.

“… when the gunman wounded the young woman thought by neighbors to be his fiancée before turning the gun on himself. Official identification is being withheld until the dead man’s next of kin have been notified. The injured young woman has been airlifted to Harborview Hospital in Seattle. Meanwhile, the other two hostages, Tricia Sellers, owner of the house, and her former husband, Jacob Sellers of Lake Sammamish, are being treated for shock at Overlake Hospital here in Bellevue.

So ends this sad drama in what until now had been a serene sylvan suburban neighborhood.”

“Hissing sibilant serpent sound-bite shit,” Spence said in disgust.

The picture switched back to the studio. “Thank you, John,” the pert blond anchorwoman intoned solemnly. “So ends another domestic tragedy involving …”

I barely heard her. I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt the salt on my tongue. “Where’s Milo?” I whispered hoarsely.

Spence let me go and stood up. “How do I know? At least he’s not dead.”

“You don’t know that!” I shouted, staggering to my feet. “Maybe Buster shot him in some other part of the house and they haven’t found his body!”

“Oh, for …” He caught me as I succumbed to a weak-kneed fit of hysteria. “Good God. Emma.” I was out of control, beating my fists against his chest. He shook me. “Emma! Stop it!”

I stopped. And passed out.

T
HE NEXT THING
I
KNEW
, I
OPENED MY EYES AND TRIED TO
focus. I was on the sofa under the comforter from my bed. At first I had no idea why I was there or why Spencer Fleetwood was in my living room, seated in the side chair and talking on his damned BlackBerry.
I must be dreaming. Why is Mr. Radio at my house and why does he have a bandage on his nose? This is crazy. I’ve got the flu, and Milo should be in the easy chair leafing through
Vanity Fair.

Then reality set in, like a knife to the heart. I struggled to sit up. “Spence?” I called shakily. “What’s happening?”

He motioned for me to be quiet. “What did he look like?” Spence said into his cell, and waited for an answer from whoever was talking at the other end. “Okay, let me know when you see him … What? Oh. Can you give me his home number?”

The ringing of my phone on the end table startled me. Still trembling, I twisted around to pick up the receiver on the third ring.

“Emma,” Vida said, “have you heard the news?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound normal. “It’s very upsetting.”

“Should we tell Kip?”

“I think we should wait,” I replied.

“What if Spencer gets it first?”

I glanced at Spence, who was jotting something down in a small leather-encased notebook. “He already knows.”

“How could he?” she demanded. “I only heard about it fifteen minutes ago. Did Doc call you?”

“Doc?” I said, wondering if I wasn’t dreaming after all. “Why would Doc call me?”

“Then who told you about JoAnne Petersen?”

“JoAnne?” I echoed. “What about her?”

“Really, Emma, you sound addled,” Vida declared. “What do you think I’m talking about? Buck and I had just arrived at the ski lodge for dinner. The early-bird special, you know. Doc and Nancy came in just ahead of us. Before they could look at a menu, he was called away. JoAnne apparently tried to kill herself with an overdose of sleeping pills.”

I fell back on the cushion, incredulous. “Why?”

“I’ve no idea,” Vida replied. “It’s a good thing she was staying with Olga. Being a nurse, she figured out what had happened. JoAnne took her cousin’s pills. Olga seldom uses them, but being on the night shift, she occasionally has trouble going to sleep when it’s light outside. I must go. Buck is ordering for both of us.”

She rang off. It occurred to me that many of my recent phone calls had ended abruptly, a symptom of the last few days of stress and strain that had infected not only me but much of Alpine.

Spence had also concluded his call. “What was that all about?”

I told him as succinctly as I could.

“That’s a strange turn of events,” he said. “Depression, maybe? Guilt for not visiting Larry? Feeling like a flop for having raised two boys who may hate each other and a daughter who’s a dimwit?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “How long was I out?”

“Two, three minutes.” He shrugged. “You just sort of caved. You probably need to eat something.”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Mia at KOMO,” Spence said, standing up and fiddling with the bandage on his nose. “This is beginning to itch. I asked her if anybody who looked like Milo had been spotted at the scene in Bellevue.”

I pulled myself into a sitting position. “What did she say?”

“She had to look at film they hadn’t shown on TV. There were some plainclothes guys mingling around with the cops, but she didn’t know if they were Bellevue or KingCo detectives or some other official presence, like doctors. John the Rookie was going home to recover from his first big-time reporting assignment, but she gave me his number. I’ll call him in a few minutes after he dries himself out.”

“Have the cops gone through the house?”

Spence scowled at me. “Searching for Milo’s bullet-ridden body? Come on, Emma, get real. Don’t you think somebody would’ve heard the shots?” He started into the hallway. “I’m going to try to do something about this damned bandage. It’s driving me nuts. I can’t even blow my nose. How am I supposed to get over this damned head cold? I’ve probably got a sinus infection by now.”

“Tough,” I muttered as he went out of sight. Realizing that the receiver was still in my lap, I picked it up to set it in the cradle. That’s when I noticed my message light was on. It hadn’t occurred to me to check for missed calls after returning home. I dialed the number and code to retrieve my messages. There were three. The first had come in at four-forty, just after Spence and I had left for the hospital.

“Hello, Emma dear,” Edna Mae Dalrymple chirped in her birdlike voice. “I’m calling to remind you that bridge club is
moved to Thursday this week. Or did I tell you earlier? Maybe not, since I wasn’t sure until today. We have to change dates because Charlene Vickers and Janet Driggers have other engagements on Wednesday, and this time of year it’s so difficult to get substitutes. See you soon. Bye-bye.”

The second call, fifteen minutes later, was also from Edna Mae. “Oh, Emma, we forgot Thursday is Vida’s program. The change in dates, you know. And after her last show—well, we’re all agog. We’ve decided on Tuesday unless we wait to start after
Cupboard
. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Do you have Vida’s recipe for glögg? I called her, but she’s not home. Thank you, dear.”

I sighed. Edna Mae and the rest of the bridge players hadn’t considered that Tuesdays were deadline night for me. If our current lead stories were still evolving by then, they’d have to find a sub for
me
.

My ear was getting tired and my headache had only just begun to ebb. I took a deep breath before listening to the third and last message, logged at five-fourteen.

“Where the hell are you?” Milo asked angrily. “Pick up the damned phone.” A pause. “I’m on my way to Harborview with Tanya. That sonuvabitch Buster shot her and then blew his own brains out. Don’t call back. I won’t be able to use my cell at the hospital.” I could hear raised voices in the background and a loud whirring noise. “I’m coming, dickhead, just hold—” The line went dead.

I went limp with relief, dropping the receiver out of my hand onto the floor. Spence came into the living room. “Emma!” he shouted. “Good God, what now?”

I couldn’t answer right away. Spence just stood there, looking aggravated. Fleetingly, I noticed that the bandage had been replaced by two large Band-Aids.

“Milo’s alive,” I finally said. “He’s gone to Harborview with Tanya.”

“Well.” Spence grinned, looking, if not yet sounding, more normal. He retrieved my phone from the floor and set it back in the cradle. “Didn’t I say he was alive and well and being his usual belligerent self?”