The Alpine Legacy (26 page)

Vida beamed and finally stood back. “Yes. Well, now.” She paused, and Tom took the cue.

“Let me get a chair from the dining room,” he offered.

“Thank you, Tommy.” Her gaze traveled to me. “I hate
to ask, Emma dear, but could I have a cup of hot tea? It's rather brisk outside.”

Dutifully, I put the teakettle on the stove. “You're lucky you didn't break something,” I remarked, and almost wished she had. What had started out as a romantic snowbound idyll was now utterly shattered. In novels, Tom and I would have whiled away the hours in bed. In real life, I had a jealous sheriff and a snoopy House & Home editor crowding my small kitchen.

“You could use more coffee,” Milo said, trying in vain for a refill.

“I'll make some more,” I muttered. “Sit down.”

“Are you having fun?” Milo whispered as he passed me on his way back to the table.

“Shut up,” I snapped, observing that Vida apparently couldn't hear us. She was in the kitchen doorway, talking to Tom and unlayering herself from the mohair shroud.

It took ten minutes for Milo to bring Vida up to speed. It took half that time to make her tea and put on another pot of coffee. Since it was going on noon, I asked if anyone wanted a sandwich. Tom and Vida declined. Milo asked what I had to offer.

“Tuna, chicken, or ham,” I replied, giving the sheriff an evil look.

“Ham,” Milo replied. “Got any cheese?”

While I made Milo a sandwich and piled some chips on a plate, Vida commented on the sheriff's interview with Nat Cardenas.

“After he found Crystal, do you think he searched for her files or notes or whatever you call those computer things?”

Apparently, Milo had wondered about that, too. “He might have. Which could explain why he didn't call us. He was too busy.”

“Where were the disks?” I inquired, handing Milo his plate.

“She had boxes of the stuff,” Milo answered, “which is why it took us so long to get through all of it. It would have taken Cardenas hours and hours to make a search. Crystal's labeling system was kind of weird. She used sort of a code, with just key words or letters. The Cardenas disk had ‘ICU' on it. When Dustin first saw it, he figured it had something to do with the hospital and the need for another doctor. You know, Intensive Care Unit.”

I shook my head. “I think it's a pun. Nat's first name is actually Ignacio. Crystal probably needed three letters for her computer files. Hence, ICU stood for ‘I See You.’”

Milo grunted. “Some pun.” He turned to Tom, who was at the window, watching the birds in the feeder. “How come you're not having lunch?”

“It's a bit early for me,” Tom said pleasantly. “I'll fix something later on.”

“You must feel at home, too,” Milo remarked.

“Emma is very hospitable,” Vida put in, apparently to save an awkward situation. “Too hospitable. It seems that someone knew what to look for in her medicine cabinet.”

“Cardenas, maybe,” said Milo. “The way I see those files, they're a motive for murder.”

Vida frowned. “I thought you were still suspicious of Victor.”

“I am,” Milo replied. “That's the problem. Too many suspects. I don't have a motive for that Russian guy, but what was he doing at Baring right after Crystal was killed? What if he made the noise that scared Cardenas off? And now it turns out that Conley's alibi isn't worth shit.”

Vida gasped, and shot Milo a disapproving look. He ignored
her. “Dwight Gould went back to that tavern in Monroe,” Milo said. “It turns out that Conley was gone for at least an hour, between nine and ten. He went off with some girl but she decided she didn't want any after all. She took off, but was bragging the next day about how she'd made it with this big-city-type rock musician. Her girlfriends knew she was lying, so we checked her out, and she'd gone straight home. Which means Conley can't account for that missing hour. He did show up again at the tavern to play another set around eleven. I guess he got there about ten-thirty. Unfortunately, my deputies weren't as savvy as her pals. They believed her the first time.”

“So what are you going to do now?” I asked.

Despite talking so much, Milo had wolfed down half the sandwich. It occurred to me that he was probably hungry. I pictured him getting up early and struggling through the snow to get to Nat Cardenas's house. The sheriff had probably skipped breakfast. After all, he had no one to look out for him. The thought made me feel sad and just a little guilty.

Milo ate two chips and lightly touched my arm. “What kind of stuff are you really made of?” he asked.

I wrinkled my nose. “How do you mean?”

“Technically, you're still a suspect,” he said in an even voice. “I'd like to lull these other bastards until we collect some solid evidence. I can't afford a mistake like I did last time and make a wrongful arrest, especially with somebody like Nat Cardenas involved. How would you feel if I used you as a smoke screen? I want to let everybody know that you're the prime suspect. Can you take it?”

I sagged in the chair. “Why should I?”

Milo's eyes darted in Tom's direction. “Let's say you owe me.”

I bit my lip and reluctantly agreed.

* * *

Naturally, Tom thought I was crazy. Vida, however, felt that Milo's suggestion made sense.

“Don't discourage him,” she said under her breath as she stood at the back door, winding herself back into the mohair outfit. “For once, he's showing some imagination. You must admit, he's not getting anywhere as it is.”

“The thing is,” I said, an ear cocked to the apparently innocuous conversation between Tom and Milo at the kitchen table, “I wish I hadn't agreed. You know how people jump on negative things and ignore reactions. My reputation will take a beating.”

“Nonsense,” Vida declared, yanking the ski hat over her gray curls. “You either killed Crystal or you didn't. When Milo arrests the real killer, your name will be cleared.”

“What if he never does?” I asked in a bleak voice.

“Well …” Vida's eyes, which were almost hidden by the ski hat, veered toward the kitchen table. “That could be a problem,” she said in a tone that was far too chipper for my taste.

I felt more than bleak. Frankly, I was scared.

B
Y TWO O'CLOCK
, Tom had a path shoveled from the house to the street. He'd also cleared off his rental car, which had all but disappeared under the previous night's snowfall. Tom seemed exhilarated by the task. Although he kept himself in good shape, he wasn't used to manual labor.

“I haven't shoveled snow since 1964,” he said, grinning at me and leaning on the shovel. “My dad had hurt his back, so I came home from my apartment on Eastlake to clear the walks for him and Mom. It was just about this time of year.”

Meanwhile, the Peabody brothers and their plow had reached Fir. If necessary, we could get out in Tom's car, though mine was still blocked by the snow in the driveway.

“I was going to get my Christmas tree today,” I said, standing in front of the broken picture window. “Maybe I can do that tomorrow. It's still not snowing much.”

“Isn't it early to get a tree?” Tom asked. “Sandra never ordered ours until the eighteenth.”

“Ordered?” I gave him a curious look.

He nodded. “She always had Neiman Marcus deliver and decorate our tree. Last year—the last one she picked out—was all burgundy and gold.”

I started to say that it sounded very beautiful, but candor got in the way. “I think that's horrid. What about
tradition? What about using ornaments that have been handed down through three generations? What about letting the kids decorate the damned tree?”

Tom gave a faint shake of his head. “That wasn't Sandra's way.”

I didn't comment further. My gaze wandered to the mantel, where eleven pieces of my Nativity set reposed. I'd neglected to get out the twelfth piece the previous night, having been too caught up in the throes of passion. Instead of a sheep, I should have put up a figure of Salome.

“I'm an Advent disaster,” I said out loud. “I don't know why I'm criticizing Sandra. I'll bet I'm worse than she ever was.”

“What are you talking about?” Tom was standing in front of the TV set, having turned on a college basketball game.

I didn't feel like elaborating, so I went to the closet and took out two more sheep. “Have you ever hated anybody?” I asked, arranging the sheep between the shepherds.

Tom hit the mute button on the remote control. “I don't think so. Hatred is actually rare, and requires some very strong feelings. I've never gone beyond despising a few people.”

“That's not the same,” I asserted, turning my back on the Nativity scene. “I mean hating someone so that you'd like to wring their neck?”

“Their? Or her?” Tom looked amused.

“It's not funny.” I glared at Tom. “It's a terrible thing, like a cancer. It eats away at you. That's how I feel about Crystal, even now that she's dead. She didn't know me, and yet she must have hated me. Here,” I said, going to my desk and pulling out the back issues of
Crystal Clear.
“Read this to see how Crystal took a hatchet to poor old Emma.”

Since I'd highlighted the stories that attacked me, it didn't take Tom long. To my chagrin, he still seemed amused when he finished.

“Except for the part about you and Milo, it doesn't sound all that bad. Mostly, it's Crystal's opinion. I don't think you would have gotten far with a libel suit.” He put the newsletters back on the desk. “Isn't it your pride that's hurt?”

I'd never thought of it that way, and Tom's suggestion angered me. “It's a hell of a lot more than my pride. It's my professional competence, my virtue, my ethics, my integrity,” I said, my voice rising. “Not to mention my lack of Christian charity.”

“For Crystal?”

The irony wasn't lost on me. “That's my point,” I retorted. “I haven't got any charity for Crystal Bird. That's why I feel so crummy.”

“You'll get over it,” Tom said, glancing out the window. “It's stopped snowing. Want to go for a walk?”

“No.” Arms folded across my breast, I plopped down on the sofa. “People will probably throw rocks at me. Or snowballs, at any rate.”

“That's possible,” Tom replied, a bit too breezily for my taste. “But I require some fresh air.”

He went to the closet and put on his jacket. “G'bye,” I muttered.

With a wave, he was gone. I pouted for another couple of minutes, then turned off the TV and dialed Vida's number. She should be home by now, unless she'd stopped too often with her usual gawking into open windows. By foot or by car, Vida couldn't resist peering into people's houses. I honestly believed she not only knew who lived
at every address in Alpine, but what they did in their daily routine.

“You'll never guess who I ran into on the way home,” Vida said. Then, before I could say anything, she went on: “Dean Ramsey. He was walking around town, looking at some of the houses that are for sale. He was particularly taken with the Burleson place by the football field on Spruce. They've moved into the retirement village, you know. It was in ‘Scene' two weeks ago. They wanted to get settled by Christmas.”

I didn't know the Burlesons, but I evinced interest. Vida, however, had zigzagged back to Dean Ramsey. “Dean seems like a very nice man, if a bit timid. Naturally, we talked about Crystal. He's been lying to us, Emma.”

“About what?” I asked in surprise.

“Crystal. He saw her at Baring.” Vida, I imagined, was looking like a cat in cream.

“Did he say so?” I inquired.

“No, not directly. But you recall the timber-parcel story that she got before we did? He told her about it. Dean apparently had some advance notice from Olympia.”

“How did you wheedle that out of him?” I asked, even though I could imagine the answer.

“Oh, we got to chatting,” Vida said airily, “and somehow it came up and I told him how mystified we were that Crystal had the news first and he became very apologetic and said it was his fault, he'd mentioned it. What do you think of that?”

“I'm thinking, why? Why, I mean, did he see—or at least talk to—Crystal?”

“I can think of several reasons,” Vida said, her voice now jerky. “First, they
were
married. A courtesy call wouldn't be amiss. Didn't he—” She stopped for a moment
and I heard a rustling sound in the background. “Didn't he tell us that he'd
intended
to see Crystal? But because she was… Oops!”

More rustling and a few cheeps ensued. I sighed, realizing that Vida was doing something with her canary, Cupcake. A bath, perhaps, or a claw clipping. Maybe she was putting his feathers up in rollers.

“So let's say,” Vida went on, apparently subduing Cupcake, “that he had indeed seen her or spoken to her, but he didn't want to admit it after she was murdered. It would be quite natural. After all, they had a…Oof!”

“Vida, what are you doing?” I asked in a beleaguered tone.

“I'm changing Cupcake,” she replied grimly.

“Changing him? He now wears pants?”

“Of course not,” Vida huffed. “I mean, I'm changing the papers in his cage. In fact, I'm using old copies of
Crystal Clear.”

“That's fitting,” I remarked. “What were you saying about Crystal and Dean?”