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“Hell, no!” he exploded in my ear. “I can't leave my people. Adam's out there right now with about forty of them. They're standing around in the ashes looking like lost souls, trying to make sense of what happened, trying
to figure it out based on their culture and traditions. Or else muttering that it's God's will. Bullshit, blame it on the weather. Or maybe it was electrical. The wiring's always been patchwork.”

“What about insurance?” I inquired, unable to refrain from congratulating myself for checking out
The Advocate's
coverage with Brendan Shaw.

“I've got to check with Tucson on that. The Extension Society provides us with a subsidy. Remember how they helped us in Mississippi after the flood?”

I vaguely recalled Extension's work with the home missions, including Ben's. “I'll send you a check,” I said. “It won't buy much more than a couple of two-by-fours, but maybe I can get Dennis Kelly to take up a second collection. The parishioners here know you.”

“Den's got plenty on his plate as it is,” Ben said, again sounding glum. “Don't worry about it. We'll manage. These people are wonderful, really. They know hard times, they understand struggle. And I'll have Adam here to help for a few more weeks.”

“How is my son?” I could barely keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“He's fine. Upset, of course. But he's out there trying to keep everybody's spirits up. You'd be proud of him, Sluggly.”

Hearing the old childhood nickname forced a small smile. “I doubt that I'd recognize him,” I replied. It wasn't merely a slighting comment; the idea of my spoiled son extending himself to others still had a foreign ring. With a few more words of comfort, I let Ben go. My disappointment over his cancellation of the Alpine trip was small compared with what I knew he must be feeling.

The next day, Friday, I thought about calling him back. But I realized I didn't know where to reach him. If both the church and the rectory were gone, so was his phone. Wherever Ben had called from, it hadn't been at the mission. I'd have to wait until I heard from him again.

The long weekend now stretched out before me like a bottomless pit. No change in the weather was predicted. Vida had Buck, Ginny was going home to Rick, and Carla was headed for Seattle. I didn't pry into Leo's plans. Milo would be tied up for most of the three days. I'd left a message with Jack Mullins that my brother wasn't coming to town after all. By mid-afternoon, I still hadn't heard from the sheriff.

When my staff had all left by ten to five, I sat alone in my office staring at the computer screen with its half-finished editorial on coping with graffiti. “If private business owners won't take the initiative of removing the offensive artwork from their walls and windows, they shouldn't expect the city or the county to pony up the funds to clean it for them.” How bland could I get? Neither the city nor the county had the funds to get rid of graffiti. “If stiffer fines were imposed on the graffiti artists, the monies collected could be allocated for …”

I intended to hit the
save
command, struck something else instead, and wiped out the entire editorial. Frantically, I searched for
undo.
I found it, and restored the text. Then I wondered why I had bothered. The piece was still a bore. Maybe on Monday … Except that Monday was a holiday. But with no plans, I could come in for a while and get some work done. The thought held no charm. On a sudden whim, I called Francine at the apparel shop.

“If that dinner invitation is still open tonight, I can come,” I said, inserting a false bright note into my voice.

Francine hesitated at the other end. “Actually, Emma, it's not. Alicia and I have other plans. In fact, Alicia's gone into Snohomish to see an old friend who moved there. She's one of the Carlson girls.”

“Oh. That's fine, it's just that my brother had to cancel and … Have you got someone in the store?”

“Yes, I do. See you in church.” Francine rang off.

Gathering up my belongings, I headed for home. The sun fell full and bright on my windshield as I drove along
Front Street with vague thoughts of stopping at the Grocery Basket. Traffic was backed up on Alpine Way, waiting for a Burlington Northern freight to pass through. The train whistled twice as it slowed on its way through town before starting the steep climb through the mountains. By the time I could make a left turn, I decided to skip going to the store. There was hamburger in the freezer. If I wanted to bother heating up the grill, I could cook it outside. If I wanted to bother.

I didn't. Instead, I opened a can of oyster stew. It wouldn't take long to heat. Only then did I check the mail and the answering machine. Nothing. Not even Milo. How many wrecks and drug dealers and stalkers were there in Alpine? I had worked myself up into a fullblown pout by nine o'clock.

That was just a few minutes before Milo called. The report of incidents at the sheriff's office had definitely picked up. Alpine had an accidental death on its hands, and it hadn't occurred on Highway 2 in a mangling collision of steel and smoke.

At the edge of town, the Skykomish River tumbles between big boulders before it begins a meandering course over a bed of smaller rocks and underbrush left by the near-flood conditions of late winter. The river appears benign, almost gentle as it flows into Alpine. Nevertheless, Ursula O'Toole Randall apparently had drowned in six inches of water just below Deception Creek. The sheriff thought foul play might be involved. Did I want to come down to his office?

I was there in less than five minutes.

R
ICHIE
M
AGRUDER, WHO
is Alpine's deputy mayor, and a retired logging-camp bull cook, had decided to try his luck at trout fishing after dinner. He had driven up Highway 2 by the Deception Falls turnoff. He'd left his van there and intended to fish as far as the eastern edge of town by the golf course and the Icicle Creek development. Richie was about to quit the river when he found the body.

“I just got back from the scene,” Milo said, slipping into his high-backed padded chair. He was wearing his uniform, and looked tired. “We'll have to send this one over to Everett to determine cause of death.”

“Where's Richie?” I inquired, not having seen him when I arrived at the sheriffs office.

Milo lighted a cigarette before answering. “We took his statement at the river. He was pretty shook up. It hasn't been that long since his wife had a corpse on her hands at the beauty parlor.”

I was the one who had discovered the dead body at Stella's Styling Salon. Stella Magruder had gone through the mill in the aftermath of the investigation. So had the rest of us. Last February had been an ugly time in Alpine.

But my mind was trying to focus on the more recent death. “Ursula Randall,” I said in wonder. “That's incredible. Is there any possibility that she did drown?”

Milo was fidgeting with his lighter. “Sure. People can drown in a bathtub. She may have been walking along
the river, fallen, hit her head, and landed in the water. It was only her head and shoulders that were actually in the river. But it seems damned odd. For one thing, would you hike along the Sky in satin pajamas?”

I goggled at the sheriff. “Are you kidding? I don't own any satin pajamas. I don't own pajamas, period.” I ignored Milo's faintly leering grin. “And if I did, I wouldn't go walking in them. What about shoes?”

“Only one. The other's missing.” Milo was back in business. “What do you call those things that are high but not a heel?”

The description baffled me until Milo drew a crude picture on a piece of note paper. “That's a wedge,” I said. “Did the rest of it look like this?” I drew an ankle strap and what was supposed to look like a sandal.

“That's it,” Milo said. “Sort of, anyway. No strap, except around the heel. The shoes were made of shiny stuff, like the pajamas. Definitely not Alpine hiking gear.”

“Did she have a purse with her?” I inquired.

Milo shook his head. “If she did, it wasn't at the river.”

“What about her car?” I recalled that Ursula had mentioned owning a Lexus.

“Not so far. Jack's looking for it along that stretch of unpaved road.”

I got out of Milo's visitor's chair and went over to the big map of Alpine on the wall next to the filing cabinets. “Show me where Richie found the body.”

Extinguishing his cigarette, Milo joined me at the map. A red pushpin had already been inserted in what I assumed was the spot of Richie's gruesome discovery. Ironically it wasn't far from Milo's home in the Icicle Creek development. But it was clear across town from Ursula's handsome residence in The Pines.

“Okay,” Milo was saying as he traced the route of the river. “Here's the golf course. Along the train tracks are those dumpy houses that originally belonged to the old
Cascade & Pacific Lumber Company. Railroad Avenue dead-ends just beyond the golf course, but on the north side of the Sky, River Road keeps going for about a mile.” Milo pointed to the fairly straight line between the river and the tracks. I knew that shortly after River Road crossed Icicle Creek, the pavement ended, and a single dirt lane continued through the woods. At one time it had been a logging road that had continued up the side of Tonga Ridge.

“There's not much out past the golf course except for what's left of an old water tower, a couple of sheds, and some kind of telephone-company installation,” the sheriff continued. “Except, of course, for the new house Ed and Shirley Bronsky are building/'

I stared at the map. “That's not on here.”

“I know. This thing needs updating.” Milo picked up a green pushpin and stuck it in the map. It looked to me as if the Bronsky site was a stone's throw from where Ursula Randall had been found. “See—the body was kind of in between the old dumpy houses and Ed's, new palace, just after the asphalt part of River Road ends. Ordinarily a fisherman has to climb up to the road to get to the next hole. But the Sky's so low right now that there's plenty of room to walk the rocks along the river. Richie was going to give it one last try a little further down, where there's a big clump of brush caught on an old snag. He heard somebody had luck there last week.”

Ursula hadn't had much luck, I thought, still appalled at the news of her death. “Does Father Den know?” I asked.

Milo arched his sandy eyebrows at me. “Kelly? No. Why?”

“Oh …” It was silly, but the thought nagged at me. “What we. used to call the last rites, but are now the Sacrament of the Sick can be administered an hour after death. I think. But I suppose it's too late now.”

“Hell, yes,” Milo replied, returning to his chair. “Doc
Dewey figured she'd been dead at least half an hour, and he made that judgment call around eight-thirty.” Milo and I both glanced at the clock, which showed that it was now a quarter to ten. “The body's on its way to Everett by now.”

“Its?”
I echoed. It always struck me as ironic that human beings lose more than their lives when they die. Ursula Randall might have been an arrogant pain, but until now, no one would have dreamed of referring to her as
it.

Even if he'd been so inclined, Milo didn't get a chance to address the philosophical issue. Dustin Fong poked his head into the office, wearing a perplexed expression on his youthful face.

“We can't find Mr. Wells, Sheriff,” the deputy announced. “He's not at Ms. Randall's house. Nobody in The Pines knows where he's gone.”

Milo looked pained as he turned to me. “Warren's living there, isn't he?”

“I don't know,” I responded, realizing that I hadn't had the sense to check the address on the parcel he'd claimed at the post office. Vida would never have let such an opportunity pass. “There wasn't much sign of a man around the house when I called on Ursula, but I suppose he's living there. Unless they wanted to keep up some kind of appearances until they got married.”

“Damn,” Milo breathed, then frowned. “Dustin, have you got a local address for Warren Wells?”

Dustin's almond-shaped eyes widened. “No. Jack Mullins told me to go find Mr. Wells at Ms. Randall's house. I didn't check. Sorry.” The young man hung his head.

“Check now,” Milo ordered, though his tone was relatively mild.

Dustin departed. “I never thought to ask Warren where he was staying when I ran into him the other day,” Milo said, more to himself than to me. “I just assumed….
Damn, that's what I always tell my people—don't assume anything.”

“You could hardly foresee that Warren's fiancee would end up dead,” I pointed out. “It still seems unbelievable.”

“It isn't.” Milo was looking grim as he poked the buzzer on his intercom. “Dustin—you there? Who's interviewing the neighbors up at The Pines? Dwight? Okay. What?”

I couldn't catch Dustin's words, but I sensed the deputy was being apologetic. Milo switched off the intercom and sighed. “There's no listing for Warren, which leads me to believe that he's living at Ursula's.” He got to his feet. “I'm heading back out on patrol. There's not much I can do around here until we get the ME's report from Everett, which probably won't happen until Monday, or even Tuesday, what with the holiday. Jack gave Jake and Buzzy the bad news. Of course,” Milo added as he put on his hat, “it was easy enough to find Buzzy.”

“How come?” I had joined Milo at the door.

The sheriff nodded in the direction of the big map. “Those old dumps by the railroad tracks? That's where Buzzy lives. He was less than a quarter of a mile from where his sister drowned. Tough, huh?”

Vida wasn't home when I tried to call her at ten-thirty. I guessed that she'd been telling Alicia Wells Lowell the truth about going with Buck to a musical in Everett. I connected with Dennis Kelly, however. He was dismayed, but immediately got down to the business of funeral arrangements. Would Ursula be buried out of St. Mildred's or from her former parish in Seattle? I had no idea, of course. Then the pastor asked if Ben would be able to take over for him since he had planned on visiting his mother in Tacoma Monday and Tuesday. I felt like a fool. I'd been so busy feeling sorry for myself that I'd forgotten to let Father Den know that my brother wasn't coming to Alpine. Thus I hadn't told him of the fire at the
Tuba City mission. Now I didn't have the gall to ask if he'd put out a plea for a second collection to help Ben rebuild his church.