The Alpine Legacy (29 page)

“Dean.” I drummed my fingers some more. “He's another unlikely candidate for a murder. Look, this was carefully planned, premeditated, the works. I can see Victor threatening Crystal in a fit of rage. Maybe Aaron doing ditto in a drunken stupor. Dean's another matter. He just doesn't fit either a cold-blooded killer or a homicidal fury. Besides, as I keep saying, this is premeditated.”

Tom nodded. “Have you considered what I mentioned earlier about who'd want both of you out of the way?”

“Because I was set up as the killer?” I shook my head. “I can't think of a soul. There are plenty of people in this town who dislike me, they may even think they hate me, but they resort to things like letters, bricks, and signs in the front yard. In other words, they vent in a relatively harmless way. I don't think anybody really wants to send me to prison with no possible hope of parole. What would be the point?”

“Nobody's offered to buy you out lately?” Tom asked as we approached the turnoff to Alpine.

I laughed. “Hardly. In all the years I've owned
The Advocate
, I've never had more than two offers, and they weren't serious. In fact, you've never made an offer.”

Tom chuckled. “Do you want me to?”

I turned in the passenger seat. “What kind?”

He let out a big sigh. “I don't know. Yet.”

“Hey!” I looked in the side mirror. “You passed the turnoff. I should have reminded you. Now you'll have to wait until we get to a wide spot in—”

“We're not turning off,” Tom said quietly.

“We're not?”

“We're going to Leavenworth.”

“Tom! What about the murder?”

“It's not going anywhere.”

“And we are? How come?”

“When that Christmas train went through Alpine, you looked wistful. Why not go see the Yuletide fun Bavarian-style?”

In all the years that I'd known Milo, as friend and as lover, we had often talked about going over to Leavenworth for the December tree lighting, the Oktoberfest, the January winter carnival, the summer river rafting, or just to sightsee. We'd never done it. Milo wasn't the impulsive type, and I didn't fancy myself a nag.

Now I was with Tom, and we were heading up over
Stevens Pass and down the eastern slope of the Cascades. I was smiling all over myself, which didn't prevent me from protesting.

“I look like a bum,” I said. “I'm wearing crummy clothes.”

“You look terrific,” Tom reassured me.

If Tom said so, it must be true. I had, in fact, dressed a bit more carefully that morning, simply because Tom was there.

“We don't have reservations,” I said.

“We won't need them. Didn't you say the tourist train had already left?”

“Yes, but lots of people stay over. The restaurants will be crowded,” I pointed out, reverting to my usual perversity.

“We'll wait.”

“You don't have chains. It could start to snow again.”

“I'll buy some. Besides, we aren't coming back tonight.”

“We aren't?” I stared at Tom.

“Do you really want to stay at your place and have a bunch of nuts come by slinging God-knows-what?” Tom shook his head at me. “Not smart. It'd ruin your disposition.”

“They might wreck the house,” I declared.

“I'm sure Milo has somebody watching it. Call him when we get to Leavenworth.”

My arguments, feeble as they were, justifiably faded away. “I will,” I said. “I'll call whoever is on duty.” There was no point in rubbing it in with the sheriff. “I should call Vida, too. She'll fuss if she calls and I'm not home.”

“She'll know you're with me.”

“She might think you left.”

“Emma …” There was a reproachful note in Tom's voice.

“Okay, okay. I'll shut up.”

I leaned back against the seat. It was different, it was strange, it was
good
to turn my life over to someone else for a change. My cherished independence could sit on the shelf for a few hours. I wondered if I could get used to it.

Leavenworth in December glitters like a Hapsburg jewel. The old railroad town's Bavarian-style architecture with its rococo storefronts and picturesque painted exteriors looks even more authentic at night. Thousands of fairy lights are strung along the main streets, and visitors bustle from shop to shop. There was no snow on the ground, only on the mountains that rose above the town. That suited me fine. I'd seen enough snow during the last few weeks.

I slipped my arm through Tom's. “This is wonderful. I'm glad we're here.”

“So am I.” He patted my hand, then looked up at one of the shimmering trees that towered over the town.

I looked up at Tom. Despite the deep lines etched on his face, he still had that Roman-like profile and those keen blue eyes. Last night in bed, he'd told me more about how he earned those lines and the gray hairs. I realized that when I thought of Tom, which I often did, I always pictured him presiding over business meetings, or heading out on the town to whatever gala event San Francisco had to offer. I never dwelled much on what his life was really like. Inside that big brick mansion in Pacific Heights, there had been misery I couldn't possibly gauge. It showed in Tom's face, if not in his manner.

After calling Sam Heppner at the sheriff's office to let him know I wouldn't be home, we explored the shops. I bought a fierce-looking nutcracker for Ben, a denim shirt for Adam, and several varieties of German cheese. Tom and I also picked up some necessities, including toothpaste, toothbrushes, and a change of underwear. Then, in
a fit of extravagance, I splurged and bought an Austrian ski sweater and a pair of black slacks which I wore out of the store. My vanity had gotten to me.

Inside one of the shops that featured Christmas decorations, I was entranced by a Madonna and Child carved out of wood. Their star-spun halos were made of something that looked like gold. Maybe it really was gold. The statue cost five hundred dollars.

“You really like that, don't you?” Tom asked.

“It's beautiful,” I said, and started to turn away.

Tom signaled to the saleswoman, who seemed to belong in a Bavarian shop. She was tall and buxom, with blonde hair pulled back in a tidy knot. Her name tag read
MARTA.

“Is that the only one of its kind?” Tom inquired.

Smiling pleasantly, Marta nodded. “The artist is very well-known in Germany. Everything he does is one of a kind.” She tapped the Virgin's mantle. “See here? The folds are so graceful, so realistic. And look at the Infant's face. Isn't he precious?”

“Do you have a box?” Tom asked.

Marta nodded. She had the faintest of accents, and I wondered if somewhere along the line she had married an American serviceman. “Certainly. Are you shipping it or taking it with you?”

“We're taking it with us,” Tom said, and got out his Visa card.

“Tom!” I exclaimed. “You can't. It's too expensive.”

“I can. I will.” He slipped the card to Marta. “I did.”

I slumped against the counter. “I don't know what to say.”

Tom grinned.” ‘Thank you' comes to mind.”

I hugged him around the waist. “I've never had such an expensive present. Never.”

“Merry Christmas,” Tom said, and kissed the top of my head.

With Tom carrying the statue in its sturdy cardboard box, we wandered off to Café Mozart for dinner. From there, he called the Leavenworth Village Inn to see if they had a vacancy. They did—amazingly, one of their two luxury suites. I grew dizzy with happiness, full of Viennese pastry and Rhine wine.

Unlike the previous night, when I felt that Tom and I were making up for lost time, we made love leisurely on the rug in front of the fireplace, in the tiled spa, and under the canopy of the four-poster bed. Sometime around midnight, I fell asleep in Tom's arms and didn't wake up until almost nine.

At first, I was confused, almost panicky. Then I saw Tom coming out of the bathroom, wearing one of the white terrycloth robes the inn provided.

“Mass is at ten,” he said. “I checked. The church is called Our Lady of the Snows.”

“No snow here,” I murmured into the down pillow. “Would people condemn us for going to Mass after we've made love like minks?”

“Of course.” Tom smiled, opening a package of new socks. “But that's not the point of going to Mass, is it?”

“No,” I replied, prying my eyes wide open, “it's not. It's for sinners. Like us.”

“Then get your rear in gear so we can have breakfast first,” Tom said, slapping me on the behind. “They serve it continental style in the Garden Room.”

Stark naked, I stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
This can't last
, I told myself as I stuck my head under the shower.
Enjoy it while you can.
I had to shed my usual perversity and seize the moment.
Carpe diem, carpe diem
, I repeated as the warm water beat down on my body.

I panicked. Hurriedly toweling off, I threw on the matching robe and rushed into the bedroom.

“What happens next?” I all but shouted, throwing myself against Tom.

“Hey!” He braced my elbows with his hands and held me away from him so that he could see my face. “What are you talking about?”

“This.” I freed one arm and lashed out at the luxury suite. “Us. Tomorrow and next week and next year—”

Tom laid a finger on my lips. “Hush, Emma. Why are you so upset?”

“B-b-because,” I sputtered, “th-th-this isn't real. This is a fairy tale, a dream. I'm going to wake up tomorrow in that crappy little cubbyhole I call an office and go over my useless editorial on the women's shelter and make sure Leo's got enough ads for all our special editions and check up on Scott to see if he's making his deadlines and—” I broke off and looked away. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I thought I was having fun.”

“I thought you were, too.” Tom looked very serious, even worried. Maybe he wondered if I was as crazy as Sandra.

“Damn.” I staggered over to the closet where I'd put my new sweater and slacks. “I feel like a fool.”

Tom, who was already dressed, sat down on the bed. “I can't tell you what's going to happen tomorrow or after that. I don't know. Some of it's up to you. Some of it's up to me. And most of it's up to forces we can't control. We're not kids anymore, Emma. We have burdens and we have responsibilities. Why can't you accept whatever happiness comes your way and not try to spoil it with worry?”

“I am,” I said. “Therefore, I worry.”

Tom sighed. “I know you do. You always have, as far as I can tell. And that's another thing,” he went on, getting
to his feet and pacing the width of the bedroom. “We don't know each other that well. We did twenty-six years ago, but that's a long time. Our lives have changed us. You're not a wide-eyed twenty-one-year-old girl. I'm not a mixed-up twenty-eight-year-old working the slot in the city desk. We've both traveled some bumpy roads, and done it alone, for the most part. When we first met, where did you think you'd be twenty-six years later?”

I had no answer. “Have I changed so much?”

Tom shrugged. “I don't know. I haven't been around you enough to find out.”

Of course I had changed, in the sense that we all become more of how we began. But sometimes we are the last to understand how those changes affect us. We can't really see ourselves, except in dreams. And even then, there is illusion.

Illusion.
Maybe that was all I was seeing now. This was a dream, and it would pass. The here and now felt very fragile. I hadn't seized the day or the moment. Instead, I was spoiling our precious time together. I wanted to cry.

“Just wait,” Tom said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Wait?” I practically choked on the word. “That's all I've ever done.”

“Then you ought to be good at it,” Tom said lightly. He squeezed my shoulder. “How about getting dressed?”

I did, with hands and feet that felt like lead. We stopped in the Garden Room to eat some fruit, muffins, juice, and coffee. Then we walked to the church, which was a rather nondescript white building.

As the priest and the small procession of acolytes and lectors came down the aisle, I glanced at Tom, who was singing his head off. The man had a terrible voice, off-key and almost adenoidal.

I started to smile and put my hand over my mouth. Tom looked at me and frowned, but he didn't stop singing.
Maybe he thought I was on the verge of hysterics. To ease his mind, I patted his arm. The hymn ended and the priest began the Mass by inviting us to recall our sins.

Was gloom a sin? Pessimism was, which is the same, and hope is a virtue. I concentrated on the altar and felt my spirits rise. Not very high, but no longer completely stifled by
gloom.

After checking out from the inn, we spent a couple of hours seeing the sights around Leavenworth, then had lunch at a restaurant called Lorraine's. The main square was packed again, with visitors admiring Father Christmas in his crushed-green-velvet robes, the life-sized teddy bear sitting outside of the chocolate shop, and the man who carried a huge cross depicting the crucified Christ.

On the way home, we encountered no new snow and arrived at my house a little before four. As I expected, there was a message on the machine from Vida. Actually, there were four messages, each one more anxious than the others.

“I should have known,” she exclaimed in an overwrought voice, “whoever killed Crystal has gotten you, too. Couldn't Tommy stop them?”

Tom was laughing. “Vida thinks I'm Superman?”

“Apparently.” I smiled, dialing her number.

At the sound of my voice, Vida let out an ear-shattering squawk. “Emma! You're alive! Where on earth have you been?”

“In Leavenworth,” I replied. “With your so-called Tommy.”

“Oh.” Vida immediately deflated. “You should have called. I worried so.”

I didn't explain, though I knew I'd eventually tell all to Vida. There was no way to avoid it, unless I had my vocal
cords surgically removed. “Did anything happen in my absence?”

“Wellll…, “Vidahesitated. “Inaway.”

“What way?” I asked with an amused glance at Tom, who was rebuilding the fire we'd abandoned the previous day.

“After church, I decided to swing by the Methodists,” Vida said, speaking very fast lest it occur to me that the First Presbyterian was in the opposite direction from Vida's house. “The Driggers attend services there, you know. I had to ask if anyone had collected Crystal's ashes.”