The Alpine Xanadu (12 page)

“I’ll see what I can do. By the way, he has a fine-looking lady, too.”

“Stick it, Doubles,” I said, using his old nickname. But I laughed.

RestHaven’s grand opening started at one-thirty. I purposely arrived late, hoping to miss any speeches or other mind-numbing formalities. When I reached the former Bronsky ballroom, which had more often been a makeshift bowling alley, a speaker was going to the rostrum. It was Jack Blackwell. Luckily, Milo was nowhere in sight.

Jack began with thanks to all of the movers and shakers on the stage behind him, including Dr. Woo and his department heads. What followed was a mention of their careers and expertise, plus a lot of other sucking up. I drifted and was only roused by a comment from behind me.

“Twaddle,” said Vida, not quite under her breath. “Really,” she went on as she barged her way over next to me, “Jack fits in as a county commissioner. He’s as much of a blowhard as the rest of them.”

A couple of people I didn’t recognize frowned at my House & Home editor. She ignored them. “Patti never pressed charges when he beat her. She’s a bigger fool than he is.”

Jack was winding down. I looked for Mitch and spotted him off to the side up front. I hoped he was taking notes or taping the speech. On the other side of the stage Fleetwood was doing his remote
broadcast. Applause broke out as Jack finally finished and introduced Dr. Woo. The chief of staff was a spare-looking man in his late forties whose face crinkled nicely when he smiled.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said in a deep voice that belied his slight physique. “We hope you enjoy the tour of our facilities. I wish to introduce your guide, who knows this beautiful building better than anyone. Here is one of Alpine’s favorite sons—Mr. Ed Bronsky.”

“Oh, good grief!” Vida exclaimed, drawing more stares. “Was he listed in the program?”

“No,” I said. “Apparently they couldn’t fit him in.”

“Literally,” Vida said, alluding to Ed’s girth. “Oh! He’s
speaking
!”

I’d missed Ed’s opening, but caught him in mid-sentence: “… tell you about every nook and cranny of the way it was and how it is now with these great RestHaven people. At the tour’s end, I’ll be selling souvenirs from our time at Casa de Bronska. I know all of you swell folks will want mementos of this occasion, and I’ll be happy to …”

“Ninny!” Vida cried, the pigeon on her sailor hat looking as if it wanted to fly out of the building. “The least he could do is mention the volunteers who are offering their time and talent to RestHaven.”

We moved aside for the line that was forming. “Volunteers?”

Vida beamed. “Yes. Roger, for one. He’s not ready to return to academic life and he has no interest in joining the military. Instead, he’s helping here at RestHaven. Isn’t that generous of him?”

I felt like saying that it beat having him sit on his fat butt at Mugs Ahoy and downing schooners every night. “Is he here?” It was the only non-derisive thing I could say about the lazy wretch.

“I believe he’s in the medical rehab section,” Vida said. “That’s where Ainsley Sigurdson works as an aide.”

I backed up even further as the audience became bottlenecked at
the exits. Maybe Ed had gotten stuck in one of the doors. “Ainsley?”

“Roger’s sweetheart. Such a sweet blond girl. Her father works for the state wildlife department. Her mother—a distant Gustavson relation—teaches at the grade school. Ainsley joined Roger when he led the young people on the search for that recluse over a year ago.”

I recalled the buxom blonde, who, along with Roger and some other kids, had stopped their search in my yard to drink beer and smoke a joint. But it was Vida’s cavalier reference to “that recluse” that rankled. “You mean Craig Laurentis,” I snapped. “You’ve seen his
Sky Autumn
in my living room. He’s very talented, if wary of people.”

“What?” Vida was lost in thought, her thumb and forefinger on her chin. “Oh—of course. Have you news of him since he was shot last fall?”

“No,” I admitted, “but I haven’t been to Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery recently. I’ve been busy.”

“True,” Vida allowed. “Here comes Dr. Woo. Have you met him?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“I’ll introduce you. Yoo-hoo, Dr. Woo!” Vida sounded like an owl.

Dr. Woo detoured around a couple of people who were still in the auditorium. “Mrs. Runkel! How nice to see you so soon after our meeting at Parker’s Pharmacy this morning. I’m glad you could join us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Vida said with her cheesiest smile. “You must meet Emma Lord from the newspaper.”

Dr. Woo’s expression altered slightly. “Of course. Weren’t we originally scheduled to meet earlier?”

“Yes,” I said, shaking hands. “I had to turn the interview over to Mitch Laskey at the last minute.”

Dr. Woo nodded. “Mr. Laskey did a fine job.” He looked at Vida. “It must be hectic running a newspaper, even in a small town, Mrs. Runkel.”

“We’re online,” Vida said, “so we must keep up to the minute.”

For the umpteenth time, I endured an outsider’s assumption that Vida was the boss. It was natural, given her long tenure and take-charge air, which extended not just to the
Advocate
but to all of Alpine. I was seeking a tactful way to correct Dr. Woo’s impression when I spotted Milo leaning in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I must talk to the sheriff.”

I virtually shoved Milo back into the corridor. “Lucky you,” I murmured. “You missed Blackwell’s speech and Ed’s tour guide spiel.”

“Good. Let’s get out of here.” The sheriff grabbed my arm and led me down the hall. “Where’s an empty office?”

“Milo! We can’t—”

“We aren’t. I guess the offices are in the atrium.” He grimaced. “Nobody’s around. I got the autopsy report. Eriks wasn’t fried by lightning, which is a DC current. It was an AC charge, jabbed in his chest near his heart.”

“ ‘Jabbed’?” I echoed, not sure of what Milo meant.

He took off his hat and rubbed his head. “It’s crazy. Whatever electrocuted him left a definite pattern on his skin, but the M.E. said the burn marks on Eriks’s clothes didn’t match the ones on his body. That sounds like somebody killed him. Damned weird, isn’t it?”

“That,” I gasped, “is shocking!”

Milo’s expression was wry. “I realize you couldn’t stand the guy, but did you have to say that?”

“Oh!” I put a hand over my mouth.

He chuckled. “I know you weren’t trying to be funny. Or were you?”

“No! It’s gruesome. Who’d do that even to a jackass like Wayne? It had to be premeditated, right?”

Milo grimaced. “You know I won’t speculate.”

“I wish you talked in your sleep.”

“You do.”

I was aghast. “What do I say?”

“Just half-assed stuff that doesn’t make sense. Kind of like you do when you’re awake.”

“Milo!” I made as if to punch him, but he held up a big hand.

“That’s ‘Sheriff’ to you, Ms. Lord. Here comes Bronsky and his flock of curiosity seekers. If you want my official statement, check in later. I won’t give it to Fleetwood first.” He turned around and loped away.

I had no choice but to follow him, though he’d disappeared by the time I made up my mind. I managed to reach the atrium, where Vida was talking to a pretty, fortyish auburn-haired woman I recognized as Jennifer Hood, R.N., head of the medical short-term rehab unit.

“Emma, dear,” Vida said loudly, “come meet Ms. Hood. She was so disappointed that you had to cancel your interview with her.”

Jennifer didn’t look disappointed when she smiled and shook my hand. “Mr. Laskey was an excellent substitute. I see he’s taking pictures today. Which of you is writing the main story?”

“I am. As the
Advocate
’s editor and publisher,” I added, “I feel obligated to cover such a big event.”

“That’s very good of you,” Jennifer said. “We’re excited about being part of the town. Such a big turnout! I know we’re going to enjoy getting acquainted with everyone in this community.”

“My, yes!” Vida enthused. “Alpiners are such down-to-earth folks. We’re all so …” She stopped, her gray eyes veering off to her left. “There’s my dear grandson, Roger, one of your fine volunteers. I’ll introduce you.” She rushed off after Roger, who had the bovine Ainsley in tow.

Short of faking an aneurysm, I would do anything to avoid an
encounter with Roger. “I have to head back to the office,” I said to Jennifer. “Perhaps we can get together sometime soon.”

“I’m going outside,” she said. “It’s nice this afternoon and I’d like some fresh air. Medical rehab’s in a separate building with a connecting corridor,” she continued, moving quickly to the entrance, “but I find mountain air invigorating.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Vida seemed to be having difficulty talking Roger into meeting Jennifer. Maybe he already had, which was why she was making a quick exit. Once we were under the porte cochere, I cast tact aside. “Have you already met Mrs. Runkel’s grandson?”

Jennifer looked uncomfortable. “I’m sure he’s a fine young man, but he seems a bit slow at catching on. Does he have ADD?”

“Roger is many things,” I said, “but give him some time. He has trouble staying focused. Mrs. Runkel thinks the world of him.”

Jennifer nodded. “He volunteered, and that’s an encouraging sign.” She sighed. “I was raised in a small town not unlike Alpine—Dunsmuir, near Mount Shasta. Maybe you know it—you go through it on I-5.”

“I do. I always thought it was quite charming.”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes. It was once a thriving railroad hub. But it got stuck in a time warp eighty years ago. That wasn’t all bad. Dunsmuir was made a California historical town. A lot of tourists still visit, and like Alpine, there are plenty of outdoor activities. But social life is limited.”

“You mean when it comes to eligible men?”

“Or the wrong kind,” she said grimly. “It was weird when that poor workman died next to this property. Medical rehab is closer to the road and it was raining hard, so I didn’t see him, but I noticed smoke by the van. I thought it was odd, but figured the wet weather would douse whatever was burning. Do you know if that had anything to do with the accident?”

The word “fried” came back to haunt me. But I had no idea if
the smoke might have come from Wayne or something else. “No,” I said. “How soon was that before you heard the sirens?”

Jennifer considered. “Five minutes at least.”

“The sheriff will make a formal announcement later this afternoon. You might want to check our website.”

“I will.” She smiled. “I must dash. Our first two patients are arriving soon. Keep in touch, Ms. Lord.”

“Make that Emma,” I called after her.

I heard a familiar laugh not far behind me. “Wooing sources, I see,” Spencer Fleetwood said. “Jealous?”

I turned around to face Mr. Radio. “Then you admit you have a special contact here?”

Spence shook his head. “I thought we dropped that subject.”

“You brought it up.”

“Alas, I did.” He sighed. “If anybody should be jealous, it ought to be me. I’m not sleeping with the sheriff.”

“You know damned well that Milo never tells me anything until he’s ready to go public. He never has and he never will.”

“The man has incredible willpower, I’ll give him that.”

“The man is a stubborn—if disciplined—mule.”

“Not quite the word I’d have chosen.” Spence pointed down to the road. “Obviously, Dodge suspects the possibility of foul play. Have you spoken yet with the Widow Eriks?”

“No. Have you?”

He shook his head. “I tried to this morning, but her sister-in-law—April, isn’t it?—wouldn’t let me in. Cookie must be overcome with grief.”

“Maybe she’s just overcome. Wayne wasn’t an ideal husband.”

Spence grinned. “I forgot—Dodge arrested him for grabbing some part of you that belonged to Dodge.”

“Milo arrested Wayne because he had sufficient evidence. In case you forgot, Wayne lied in his original statement concerning Tim’s death. He also had a credible motive to kill his son-in-law.”

“The tale was much juicier on the grapevine.”

“We’re old news now,” I said. “Come on, you must have
some
ideas about who might want Wayne dead.”

Spence wore his most serious expression, which was fairly convincing. “An irate husband or boyfriend is my guess, the same motive that caused your favorite bear to resent Eriks. But names?” He shook his head. “I’m not in the gossip loop. Have you asked Vida?”

“No. Right now I’m disgusted with her for acting as if Roger were still her little darling. Didn’t she learn her lesson?”

Spence steered me out of the way to allow some visitors to make their exit. “She wants to see this volunteer stunt of his as positive. She can’t let go until he lands in prison for twenty years. Her priority is keeping him close, which wouldn’t happen if he joined the military or went away to college. My latest nightmare is that she’ll invite him to be on her show to talk about his altruistic volunteer duties at RestHaven.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “I wish she’d listened to Buck.”

“Speaking of listening, I’ve got to head for the studio,” Spence said. “Have you ever tried withholding your charms to see if that’ll make Dodge open up about his investigations?”

“No.”

Spence stared at me, grinned, and shook his head. “God, Emma, you are one strange woman.” He sauntered off to his BMW.

I waited until he drove away before going to my car. Driving down to River Road, I had a whim to pull onto the verge where Wayne’s body had been found. The Sky was running high, but not yet near flood stage. Clouds flirted with the sun as they lowered over Mount Baldy. Depending on the temperature, I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

I parked twenty yards away from the pole where Wayne had been working. I knew Milo and his deputies had scoured the area, but my curiosity was piqued by Jennifer’s remark about something burning near the van. There was no sign of ash. The rain would have erased
any traces. I moved to the drop-off between the verge and the riverbank, treading carefully in case the ground was undermined. The water ran fast and off-color, coursing past a half-dozen houses at the base of First Hill. Windy Mountain was now obscured at the three-thousand-foot level. We’d have more rain before sunset. Why, I asked myself, would someone try to burn anything during a downpour? Why not throw it in the river? Because, I realized, there were snags, branches, even trees where items could get hung up no matter how swift the current. I looked around the near bank, where exposed roots stuck out like grasping fingers. A candy wrapper dangled from one, a scrap of newsprint from another. I moved back to the pole, where I saw a white rag hanging on a branch above the river. The cloth was wet, perhaps from the rain. There was no path nearby, and I doubted that I could reach it. I wondered if I should mention it to Milo. He’d probably scoff. I went back to my car.