The Alpine Xanadu (14 page)

I put my hands over my ears and screamed. Milo walked past me into the living room. I followed him with fire in my eyes. “Why not add a couple of stories? Maybe an elevator? A rec room with a movie theatre …”

The sheriff hung up his hat and jacket on a peg by the front door. He put a big hand over my mouth and his other arm went around my waist. “Why don’t you shut the hell up? Don’t you want to do this thing right? Just nod, and then I’ll let you jabber.”

I refused to budge. Milo simply stood there and waited. Finally I leaned my head against his chest, forcing him to take away his hand. “How much will this cost?” I asked weakly, though I didn’t want to know.

“With the garage, about a hundred and twenty grand.”

My head jerked up. “You’re serious?”

“It’s an estimate, but close. Melville stopped by headquarters on his way back from RestHaven. I asked him about the garage then.”

“Where do we get that kind of money until you sell your house?”

Milo lifted my chin with his free hand. “Emma, I’ve got that much saved up. More, if you want to know. I don’t throw my money around. I started investing what I’d been shelling out to my kids a long time ago. If I can’t spend it on us, what’s the point?”

“Oh, Milo …” I buried my face against his chest.

“Hey,” he said, chuckling softly, “did you really think I’d go into debt over this? I know you don’t have a lot of your own money. I never intended for you to be out a dime on this addition. I’ve always felt more at home here than I ever did at my place after Mulehide and the kids walked out. But the only way this can be
our
house and not just yours is for me to put money into it. That’s only fair, right?”

I nodded and finally looked up. “You really are wonderful.”

“I guess so.” He kissed my forehead. “I wouldn’t have finally snagged you if I wasn’t. Hey—are you purring?”

“I think so,” I said, and giggled. “I really am fourteen.”

He let me go but swatted my behind. “We’re maturing, though. You might be up to sixteen, even seventeen. Hell, I might hit twenty by March. I’ll change. You can make me a drink as the first thank-you.”

“Dare I ask what the second one is?”

Milo’s eyes sparked. “You know damned well what it is. But we’ll save that for later.”

I’d just finished pouring our drinks when the phone rang, and I had to hurry out to the living room again. Snatching up the receiver, I heard Vida assault my ears.

“Wherever did you disappear to this afternoon? You and Jennifer left like thieves in the night. I so wanted her to meet Roger.”

“She had to go to the rehab medical unit,” I said. “Patients were due to arrive. Didn’t Roger tell you he’d already met her?”

“He had? Well, no, he didn’t. He was so caught up in explaining his new duties. He wants to make Grams proud of him.”

I was glad that Vida couldn’t see my expression. “I hope he can do that,” I said a bit stiltedly.

“He will,” Vida declared. “He’s so eager to do his best. Which is more than I can say for Ed. He made less than twenty dollars from his so-called memorabilia. He had to lower prices to get that. Can you imagine anyone who’d want napkin rings engraved with Mr. Pig?”

“He did sell his self-published life story to Japanese TV.”

“As a cartoon. Did anyone in this country see it? For that matter, did anyone in Japan see it? I heard it was cancelled after a few episodes. Surprising in a way, for people who sleep in bureau drawers.”

“They’re a sort of pullout bed for travelers.”

“Very odd,” Vida said as Milo went through the living room into the kitchen. “They’re short, so I suppose they’d fit into drawers.”

“They’re not as short as they used to be,” I said. “Besides, they—”

“Oh,” Vida interrupted, apparently not in the mood to listen to reason, “I must give Cupcake a bath. He’s quite fractious today, hopping about in his cage and not singing.”

“A dirty canary is a temperamental bird,” I said as Milo returned to the living room and put my drink on the end table. “ ’Bye.”

Milo sat down and picked up the
Seattle Times
from the magazine rack next to the easy chair. “Spring training’s started. Is there any hope for the Mariners?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Why do I ask? The front-office dumbasses will trade anyone who’s decent. Damn. I’d like to see a couple of games, but they’ll want an arm and a leg for a decent seat.”

“You’ve got lots of money,” I said cheerfully.

Milo glowered at me. “Watching a bunch of bums who make a hundred times as much as I do and don’t work half as hard is why I have money saved up. Parking costs too much. The concessions cost too much. Screw ’em. We’ll catch the games on TV.”

“Gee, you sound like a husband.”

He shrugged, and all but the top of his head disappeared behind the sports section. I got up to go out to the kitchen, but detoured to the easy chair and kissed the top of Milo’s head. “Guess what? I like it.”

He uttered a short laugh. “Good thing. According to the first Mrs. Dodge, I flunked the job.”

The phone rang again before I could reach the kitchen. But I realized it was Milo’s phone, so I kept going. Dinner was simple—baked potatoes, fresh broccoli, and the T-bones. Or so I
thought, until I realized I still hadn’t cleaned the oven. I was scrubbing it with a Brillo pad and Comet when I caught some of what Milo was saying.

“Didn’t the damned fools lock their doors? With a herd of people going through the place? … Right, they think they’re safe here in the woods.…” He lowered his voice again, but my curiosity was piqued. I hurriedly cleared away the worst of the grease and went into the living room just as Milo put his cell back in his shirt pocket.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Milo lit a cigarette before he responded. “Dr. Woo called Dwight—he’d just come on duty at five—to say somebody ransacked his patient records. I thought they kept those on a computer these days, but Dwight told me they hadn’t had a chance to do that since the new system was installed. Anyway, Woo reported a burglary and wants to see me ASAP.”

“Are you going to headquarters now?”

Milo fingered his chin. “Oh—I should, I suppose.”

I sat on the arm of Milo’s chair. “I’ll hold dinner. It shouldn’t take long, right?”
I can finish cleaning the oven
, I thought.

“I hope not. You’re not mad?” He looked faintly surprised.

“Why would I be? When have I ever been mad at you for doing your job? You’re a news source, big guy. I need to fill space.”

Milo grinned. “I asked because
you
don’t sound like a
wife
.”

“Maybe,” I said, “it’s because I’ve never been one.”

By the time I’d finished cleaning the oven and started the potatoes, my curiosity kicked back into gear. Why would anyone want to look at Woo’s files? As far as I knew, all the patients had been transferred from outside of the area. It didn’t make much sense.

Milo returned shortly after six-thirty. I put his steak in the skillet
and started water to boil so I could steam the broccoli. “Well?” I said as he poured us each half a drink.

“Those damned fools, Woo included, pawed through the files to see if any were missing. They don’t lock their offices because they want, and I quote, ‘patients to have a sense of freedom and access.’ That means any nut job who can tell a patient file from a banana peel can swipe the staff’s wallets. Maybe the inmates
are
running the asylum.”

“Did you go to RestHaven?”

“Hell, no. Woo came down to headquarters. Dwight went to the scene of the screwup. He did his job, but I doubt we’ll get much.”

I took my drink from Milo. “Was anything missing?”

Milo leaned against the opposite counter. “Not that they could tell. If they wanted patient information, Woo’s printer has a copier, so they wouldn’t have to take anything out of the office. But that woman doc—Reed?—told Dwight he didn’t understand. They all felt violated. I didn’t want to know how Dwight handled that remark.”

I laughed. “I don’t, either. Deputy Gould isn’t the soul of tact. How could they be sure it wasn’t one of their own looking for something?”

“All the big guns swore they didn’t go near Woo’s office. That doesn’t cover the rest of the staff, though. Maybe I can nail Roger.”

I turned Milo’s steak and put mine in the skillet. “He doesn’t have that much imagination—or curiosity. Did you soothe Dr. Woo?”

Milo shrugged. “I told him never to mess with what he called a crime scene. Reporting a burglary when nothing’s been taken isn’t smart, either. You can’t even call it a break-in if the door’s not locked. Sure, we’ll check for prints, but we won’t find much after they rummaged through everything but the ceiling. The fingerprint lab in Marysville might be worth a shot, but I hate to bother them.”
He paused. “Unless this was a cover-up for somebody who’s up to something.”

I looked at the sheriff with an expression of mock surprise. “Gosh—are you speculating? Are you using imagination? I’m stunned.”

Milo grimaced. “Damn. Living with you has a bad effect on me. Pretend I never said what I just said.”

“How about
good
effects? It works both ways. I cleaned the oven.”

In the morning, the river was too high and off-color for Milo to go fishing. I left him reading the
Times
while I headed to Mass shortly before ten. It was the second Sunday in Lent. Father Dennis Kelly’s homily was on St. Matthew’s gospel of Jesus’s Transfiguration. As usual, it was very well-organized and slightly soporific. Den was a much better administrator than he was a speaker, tending to sound as if he were lecturing a class. It was understandable, given that he had taught in a seminary for several years before coming to St. Mildred’s.

Francine and Warren Wells were the first parishioners to accost me outside. “I can get that Hugo Boss in navy,” Warren said. “Don’t you think the color would suit Milo better? In a black sport coat he’d look as if he was about to gun down somebody in the middle of Front Street.”

I started to tell Warren that I really didn’t want to spend that much money, but in a sudden fit of perverse pique over Milo’s reticence about his investments, I said yes.

Francine’s eyes bulged. “My God, you’re going to spend … I mean, it’s for his birthday, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “I want to spoil him.”

“I guess spring is in the air,” Francine said with a bemused expression. “Tiffany Rafferty came in yesterday with a wad of cash
and bought a boatload of Tory Burch separates and Hanky Panky lingerie. Patti Marsh never had that kind of money to toss around when Blackwell was keeping her in a style to which she never became accustomed.”

I glimpsed Betsy and Jake O’Toole talking to Father Den. “Really?” I said, recalling Betsy’s remark about Tiffany looking frightened. “Of course Patti’s never been a fashion maven.”

“Neither is Tiff,” Francine said. “The collection is very trendy, but she put together some ghastly combinations. And frankly, she hasn’t lost all the weight she gained with the baby. I don’t think she works out.”

“She sure doesn’t work,” I said.

“Define work,” Francine retorted. “Got to run. We haven’t had breakfast yet. Oh—spoil yourself! I’ve got some new Max Mara items coming in this week.”

“Right,” I mumbled, already feeling guilty about the Hugo Boss sport coat. Milo would pitch a fit if he knew what it cost. Worse yet, I wasn’t sure I had room on my credit card to pay for it.

Caught up in my cash flow crisis, I didn’t see Ed Bronsky coming. “Hey, hey, hey,” Ed greeted me, looking unusually cheerful. “Guess what? I talked Fuzzy Baugh into letting me set up a booth to sell my memorabilia at the Summer Solstice Festival. Terrific, huh? I didn’t get a chance to show the tour folks the bigger stuff I had in Cal Vickers’s pickup. Anything you and Milo need? I’ve still got those Louie Kens chairs.”

“Those …” I stopped, realizing that Ed meant the spindly reproductions of a Louis Quinze dining room set. The chairs probably had never been used, given the girths of the Bronsky brood. It was no wonder that Ed had gone broke after bumbling away his inheritance. “I doubt those would work for Milo,” I said. “He’s kind of a big guy.”

“You’re right,” Ed said, frowning. “Not his style, maybe. Well, you’ll see all of it at the Solstice shindig. I may loan some things for
the parade, like the Venus de Milo statue for the Miss Alpine float. Hey,” he said, beaming, “that’s good. Maybe Milo would like the Milo statue.”

“It’s actually pronounced MEE-lo, not MY-lo,” I said gently. “I don’t think the sheriff is into large garden statuary, either.”

“You sure that’s how to say it? It’s spelled like Dodge’s first name.”

Luckily, Shirley was calling to her husband as she waited with the rest of the Bronsky brood by the SUV they’d gotten after they traded in their last Mercedes. I wished Ed a pleasant day and practically ran to my Honda. It had started to rain again by the time I got home. To my surprise, the Yukon wasn’t in sight. Milo had moved it onto the verge so I could get out of the carport. Maybe he’d gone to headquarters. I hurried inside to check my phone messages, since I always turn off my cell in church.

There was no call, but I found a note by the phone on the end table in the living room. “Emma,” Milo had written in his big but legible handwriting, “Mulehide called—Tanya’s a mess—won’t go back to the shrink—I’ll try to be home for dinner.”

I uttered a frustrated sigh. I should have known that we hadn’t yet heard the last of the Tanya crisis. The rest of the day suddenly stretched out before me long and lonely. Not that we’d made any plans. We’d had so little time to ourselves that just being together was enough.

I wasn’t in the mood to call Mavis or answer her letter. Instead I opened my laptop and decided to look at bathroom fixtures online. I was dismayed by the cost for the addition, but I wasn’t going to buy a Louis Quinze chamber pot from Ed, even if he had one.

I was dizzy from staring at plumbing fixtures when the phone rang half an hour later. I hoped it was Milo, but Vida’s number came up on the caller ID. “I hate to say this,” she began, “but these interim ministers simply don’t compare with Pastor Purebeck when it comes to sermons. For all his foolishness in running off with
Daisy McFee—who, I might add, had lived in Alpine for less than two years—no wonder they moved to Mukilteo! But he knew how to preach. These fill-ins are quite young and they talk more Bible interpretation instead of sin. With Pastor Purebeck, you knew what sins were being committed and sometimes by whom if you were alert to what was going on. And poor Selena hasn’t been able to show her face at church since her husband left town.”