The Alpine Legacy (20 page)

I was heading for the kitchen when my doorbell
sounded. As usual, I left the porch light on at night as a security precaution. Not that it had done me any good, since my break-in had occurred during the day.

A man in a heavy dark jacket stood outside my door. I hesitated, not recognizing him at first. Then he looked up and I saw that it was Nat Cardenas.

“Good evening,” I said, putting out my hand. “Come in out of the snow.”

Nat's usual genial mask had been stripped away, replaced by a sheepish, almost fatuous, expression. “Sorry to disturb you, Emma,” he said, stamping his booted feet on the mat. “Are you busy?”

I assured him I wasn't. Taking his jacket, I gestured at one of the matching armchairs. “Can I get you a drink? I was about to make one for myself.”

“A diet soda would be fine,” Nat said, easing himself into the nearest chair.

“No diet stuff around here,” I replied. “Will a real 7UP or Pepsi do?”

“That's fine,” Nat said quickly.

I went into the kitchen to pour a Pepsi for the college president and a weak bourbon and water for me. When I returned, Nat was rubbing his hands together, apparently trying to warm himself.

“I haven't built a fire yet tonight,” I said, sitting down on the sofa. “Shall I?”

“Please, don't go to any trouble.” Nat sounded as if he meant it.

“No trouble,” I said, stuffing old newspaper under the half-burned logs and adding some kindling. “I like a fire. I couldn't live in a house that didn't have a fireplace, especially with all the snow we have in Alpine.”

“This is a cozy place,” Nat remarked. He had been to my log house at least twice, the last time before Thanksgiving. Had he used that opportunity to take the sleeping
pills from my medicine cabinet? I shivered in spite of being next to the fledgling fire.

“Thanks,” I said, and wondered if I should be afraid. The phone was in reach; Nat wasn't behaving like a man with murder on his mind.

On the other hand, Nat wasn't behaving much like his usual confident self. As I reseated myself on the sofa, he spread his hands. “Emma, I feel like such a fool. Still, I want to thank you for keeping my name out of the paper. I pulled a stupid stunt last Friday night. If that story had gotten out, I could lose my job.”

“Oh.” My shoulders slumped in relief. Maybe he didn't intend to kill me after all. “That was Milo's doing. It's kind of a tradition, dating back, I suppose, to when sheriffs were elected, rather than appointed.”

“I should thank him, too,” Nat said, taking a sip of soda. “I acted recklessly. I usually don't drink. I suppose that was the problem.”

I pointed to his glass. “I understand.” Maybe that explained why he had nursed the drink I'd offered him on his last visit until it was mostly melted ice and water. “B ut this is the party season.”

“Yes,” Nat replied with a rueful expression. “You know how that goes—you stop in to see a friend, they insist you join them in a cup of cheer—and the next thing you know, you've had two.”

I doubted that two drinks would make even a neophyte boozer drunk. But that depended on several factors, including metabolism. I wanted to believe Nat, if only because he was big and strong, and I was alone with him in my living room.

“Crystal's funeral was this morning,” I said, changing the subject. “It went off well.” Unless, of course, I counted Aaron Conley's verbal attack on Victor Dimitroff. “Vida and I attended.”

“Why?” Nat asked, scowling.

“You couldn't keep Vida away,” I said with a twisted smile. “And I”—my eyes roamed to the pieces of my Advent set on the mantel—“I suppose I felt some kind of obligation. Guilt, for disliking Crystal so much.”

“She had an unpleasant way about her,” Nat said with a touch of the condescension that often shaded his attitude. “By the way, I gather that your…Vida, I believe… is going to interview my wife tomorrow. She'll go easy on Justine, won't she?”

I gave Nat a curious look. “Of course. The story's about Christmas customs in the various parts of the country where you've both lived.” At least that was Vida's cover, but Nat didn't need to know.

“Justine,” Nat began, not looking at me, but gazing into the fire, “is extremely shy. She strikes some people as standoffish, but that's not the case. She's the youngest of three daughters, a latecomer in her parents' lives. Her sisters were six and eight years older.” He turned, and offered me his engaging grin. For once, it looked like the real thing.

“Justine grew up with an inferiority complex,” he went on, “even though she was just as pretty and as smart as her sisters. It's been very hard for her to put on a public face and play faculty wife. She'd much rather stay home and work on her crafts.”

Picturing Justine in my mind, I could well imagine that some would think her a snob. I'd wondered myself. She was not merely distant, but seemed cold. “We all have our armor,” I said, more in response to my own thoughts than to Nat's words.

“Armor?” The grin dwindled into a faint, ironic smile. “Yes, I suppose you could describe her detachment that way. It
is
armor, or at least a shield. I'm afraid Justine feels she lacks social skills. Over the years, I've done my
best to convince her otherwise, but she doesn't believe me. It's very painful for Justine to host even a faculty tea. And speaking in public is impossible.” The small smile now turned pleading. “That's why I asked how Vida would handle the interview. Your House & Home editor seems like a very dominating personality.”

“She is that,” I admitted. “I'll mention it to her before she sees Justine. Tactfully, of course.”

“Thank you.” His laugh was strained. “I seem to be spending my time being grateful. I feel like an idiot.”

Again, Nat sounded sincere. Apparently, I was seeing another side of President Cardenas. It was vulnerable, and I shouldn't have been surprised. He had come from humble roots, no doubt fighting prejudice and humiliation along the way. But this evening, a glass of Pepsi, a dancing fire, and his self-confessed peccadillo had allowed me to penetrate a bit of Nat Cardenas's own armor.

“It's nice to have someone say thanks,” I said. “That doesn't happen very often in the newspaper business. Usually, readers tell me
I'm
the idiot.”

A light flickered in Nat's eyes. “Have you taken the brunt of this thing with Crystal?”

“You mean letters and such?” I nodded. “Oh, yes. Everything, including accusing me of murder.” The missives were still arriving, another half dozen, all unsigned, having come in the morning mail. “I didn't realize Crystal was so popular.”

Nat put down his glass and stood up. “She's undoubtedly more popular dead than alive.” He gave me a remorseful look. “Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

I also got to my feet. “I know what you mean. And you're right. It happens. Martyrdom is the best way to restore a flawed reputation.”

Nat picked up his jacket from the back of the sofa. “How
true. But now we don't have to cringe while waiting for the next edition of
Crystal Clear.
It's over.”

I walked with him to the door. “Not quite. There's still a killer out there.”

He hesitated with his hand on the knob. “Of course. I meant that—” He stopped and shook himself. “I meant that what Crystal did to the rest of us is over.”

I supposed that was what he'd meant. Thoughtfully, I watched him trudge through the unplowed walk to his car, which was parked behind mine in the driveway. I felt that I'd seen more deeply into Nat Cardenas in the last half hour than I ever had before.

“Really,” Vida snapped after I cautioned her to use a kid-gloves treatment on Justine Cardenas, “what do you think I intend to do? Grill her like a lamb chop?”

“No,” I responded, “you know I didn't mean that. I'm just saying that she's very shy. And don't mistake it for snobbishness.”

“Propaganda,” Vida muttered. “How do you know that Nat Cardenas isn't pulling the wool over your eyes? His wife seems very sure of herself. Too sure, if you ask me.”

Vida's judgment was usually on target, but she tended to be overly critical. “I don't think Nat was trying to dupe me,” I responded. “Why should he?”

Vida harrumphed, but offered no rejoinder. Pulling her orange wool hat over her ears and snatching up her camera, she stomped out of the office.

Before I could carry my third cup of coffee to my desk, Ginny entered the news office. “More letters.” She sighed. “Not to mention Christmas cards. I'll dump them in your basket after I get rid of Leo's and Scott's. Vida has so many cards that I have to make a separate delivery.”

Leo and Scott were out on their morning rounds. I went into my cubbyhole and sorted the wheat from the
chaff. I'd open the cards later, since they were mostly from local merchants and a couple of politicians. Except for the half-dozen letters that were signed and vented spleen on such issues as moving the bridge over the Sky (two for, two against), a rumored bypass of Monroe (both for), and Averill Fairbanks stating that he'd seen a flying banana land in his backyard, the other ten were from readers all wrought up about Crystal. Three, who actually signed their names, expressed regret over Crystal's death, but not over the demise of her newsletter. Somewhat to my surprise, Molly Freeman, the high-school principal's wife, praised me for my restraint in not taking Crystal to task in my editorials.

Ms. Lord must be commended for not responding to Ms. Bird's biased and often unfair attacks.
I decided to call Molly and thank her personally. I hoped her attitude was shared by Linda Grant, the high school PE teacher and my fellow bridge player.

The unsigned letters were another matter, calling me everything from a slut to just plain evil. I recognized at least two sets of handwriting. They were the same cranks who had never forgiven me for taking Marius Vande-venter's place. They never would, and I usually managed to ignore them. The odd thing was that they could pass me on the street or in the grocery aisles, and nod and smile. I often wondered if they thought I was too stupid to recognize them as the vindictive letter writers. But I'd fingered them early on, and refused to give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their hostility.

Finishing the rest of the mail, most of which were the usual handouts, I headed for the sheriff's office. It was well after ten, and Scott should have already covered his beat. I didn't want him to think I was checking up on him.

Milo was in, drinking his wretched coffee and eating a cinnamon twist. He regarded me with neutral hazel eyes,
and, as usual, asked if I wanted some coffee. As usual, I declined.

“I've been thinking about something,” I said, sitting down across the desk from him. “Who uses a straight-edged razor these days?”

“Old-timers, mostly,” Milo replied without hesitation. Obviously, the same thought had crossed his mind.

“Certainly not Aaron Conley or Victor Dimitroff, both of whom have beards,” I noted.

Milo rested his chin on his chest. “So you deduce that…?”

I made a face. “Don't get cute, Dodge. There's not much to deduce, just guess at. Yes, there's a ‘third man' theme here, but have you heard anything about another guy? Especially,” I added with a touch of sarcasm, “an old-timer?”

“There's always Crazy Eights Neffel,” Milo said, referring to our local head case who had last been seen on Thanksgiving, wearing red spandex and leading two turkeys on a leash into the midst of the morning service at First Presbyterian. Vida, naturally, had been irate, refusing to put the tidbit into her “Scene Around Town” column.

“Right,” I drawled, “except that Crazy Eights has a beard, too.”

Milo's eyes twinkled. “Not anymore. Ask Vida.”

I was astonished. “You mean he shaved after all these years? I thought he had birds living in that mess.”

“Nope. He shaved off the beard right after Halloween. He told Jack Mullins it scared some kids who came trick-or-treating. Jack figured it wasn't the beard, but the shotgun Crazy Eights was holding. You ought to keep up with the news around here, Emma.”

“Hunh.” I leaned back in the chair. “Okay, but let's
leave Crazy Eights out of this. Have you been able to identify the razor in any way?”

“No.” Milo deflated a bit. “It's old, it was somewhat rusty, it hadn't been sharpened recently, and it was made in England. It could have belonged to anybody. My guess is that it came with the cabin when Crystal bought it.”

That seemed reasonable. According to Vida, the cabin had belonged to a family from Seattle for use as a vacation retreat. But their children grew up and moved away, then the dad died, and his widow sold the property to Crystal. Perhaps Milo was right. The previous owner could have had a straight-edged razor.

“No help there,” I murmured. “It sounds as if it hadn't been used recently. What about the house itself? Did you find anything of interest?”

“We finished up this morning,” Milo answered. “We still have to sort through a few things. Crystal got her share of hate mail, but how many letter writers carry out their threats? You ought to know.”

I nodded. “If they did, I'd have been dead years ago. Were the letters signed?”

“A couple of the more reasonable ones were,” Milo said, dumping the dregs of his coffee in a sickly jade plant. It wasn't hard to figure out why it was sick. I'd be, too, if I drank the sheriff's coffee regularly. It was no wonder that Toni Andreas kept having to buy new ones from Alpine Gardens. “There weren't that many,” Milo continued, “and they were all postmarked within the last few days before Crystal died. In fact, three of them came in after that. We opened them, of course. I guess she'd thrown the rest out.”

“I would,” I admitted. “What about Aaron? Has he posted bail yet?”

Milo looked pained. “Somebody did that for him. He got sprung this morning. Don't worry, Scott took the info.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Dean Ramsey,” Milo replied.

I was astonished. Again.

I owed Dean a follow-up interview, so I went back to the office to get my camera, and retraced my steps past Milo's office and hurried across Front Street to the courthouse. It wasn't snowing, but it felt colder than it had been so far this December. My guess was that it had dropped into the teens. The sidewalks had been shoveled and swept, but the footing was still precarious.