The Alpine Menace Part 28

"Poor Sam." Vida sighed. "Poor Kathy. Maybe it was self-defense. Henrietta had killed before. And Darryl-I only hope that his work can help mend him. He's suffered more than anyone."

"Except for the people who are dead," I remarked. "Kendra's had no picnic, either."

"She's young, resilient, and has some sense," Vida replied. "At least I think she does. I'd like to think that Maybeth will tell us what she knew now that her life's no longer threatened. But if she was blackmailing Henrietta or the Addisons or even Carol, she'll be afraid of the police."

I glanced in the rearview mirror, not to see if we were being followed, but as a symbolic farewell to the city behind us.

Vida must have read my thoughts. "I feel safer already," she declared. "This has been a terrible few days. Typical, I suppose. So much violence."

I said nothing.

"And such an incredible coincidence," Vida went on. "Imagine, Henrietta living next door to Carol Stokes. I find that almost hard to believe."

"Vida," I said with a small smile, "we have coincidences like that all the time in Alpine."

"That's because it's so small," she said. "Thank goodness."

"But a city like Seattle isn't so much different in some ways," I said. "It's really a bunch of clearly identifiable neighborhoods tied together. Henrietta Altdorf probably worked and lived all her life in the Ballard-Greenwood area. She'd know all sorts of people from way back, almost like you do in Alpine. Her circle would be quite small. Believe me, it happens all the time. I've even heard of neighbors who lived next door to each other for years and then found out by chance they were second cousins."

"They should have known that to begin with," Vida a.s.serted. "You see? Families become estranged in the city."

Again, I didn't argue that point specifically. "Families are strange."

Vida harrumphed, but remained silent for several minutes. We were approaching Everett and the turnoff to Highway 2 and Stevens Pa.s.s. As I guided the car around the big curve that led over the rich farmland of Sno-homish County, Vida uttered another, bigger sigh.

"I can see the mountains," she said. "Soon we'll be in Monroe. It won't be long then. We'll be home. Emma, don't ever invite me to go to Seattle again."

I hadn't invited Vida; she'd invited herself. And though she'd never admit it, I knew darned well that she'd had the time of her life.

We went straight to the office. To my relief and astonishment, everything seemed to be under control. We had even added another staff member, if not someone exactly new, and only temporarily: Scott had called on Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro to help out in our absence.

"I've got plenty of time this week," Carla said. "My parents were jealous because Ryan's folks spent Easter with us, so they insisted on having the baby stay with them in Bellevue for a couple of days. The college paper is still in the works. These kids are really slow."

Carla had never been all that fast, and when she was, carelessness reigned. But I enthused anyway. "That's terrific, Carla," I said, wondering what havoc she had wreaked since returning to The Advocate. "Would you like to get paid in free baby-sitting?"

"Cool," Carla replied. "Ryan and I were talking about going out to dinner this weekend. Omar will be back with us by then. How's Sat.u.r.day?"

I said Sat.u.r.day was fine, though I planned on making a day trip to Seattle-alone-to check in with Ronnie. "I should be back by five," I told Carla.

The latest Advocate was on my desk. Above the fold, everything looked good. Glancing below the fold, I winced at the bold black headline: MR. ED IS NOW A PIG.

Oh, well, I thought, Mr. Ed had always been a pig. It wasn't exactly front-page news.

Because there was quite a bit of catching up to do, I was late getting home that evening. It was after seven when I trudged through the side door and realized that not only was the house dark, it was empty.

There were no toys on the floor, no TV blaring from the bedroom, no sign of Amber Ramsey and her baby. Worried, I looked everywhere for a note. Finally, I checked the front porch. It would be just like Amber to forget that I often came straight into the kitchen from the carport, especially when I was carrying items like luggage.

Sure enough, there was a note attached to the screen door.

Dear Emma, Amber had written in an awkward hand, My dad closed the deal on the McNamara house last weekend. I forgot to tell you about it when you were here a couple of days ago. He was able to move right in, so I did, too. He bought some new furniture and the rest will come from Oregon when the family moves in later. Thanks for all your help. You've been just like a mother to Danny and me. Love, Amber.

I thought I'd been a b.i.t.c.h. Well, maybe not all the time. By comparison with Amber's oddball mother and indifferent stepmother, I guess I wasn't so awful after all.

Ironically, the house felt empty, even lonely. I didn't recall that it had seemed that way before Amber and Danny moved in, certainly not since Adam had gone away to college. Bemused, I wandered from room to room, ostensibly looking for any items Amber might have forgotten. In reality, I was in search of comfort. Even the cats were gone, receiving their creature comforts from Mrs. Holmgren across the street.

The phone rang. I hurried from Amber and Danny's old room to answer it.

"Sluggly, what's up?" demanded my brother, Ben. "Where the h.e.l.l have you been? Still trying to bake a cake that can hold a file? I've tasted some of your cakes, and n.o.body would ever notice. Why don't you try using flour instead of library paste?"

"Shut up, Stench," I shot back. "I'm exhausted and I don't need any c.r.a.p from you."

Ben just laughed. Funny man, I thought grimly. Hilarious brother. Zany priest. I wanted to kick his b.u.t.t.

"Ronnie didn't do it," I said, still irked. "So ha-ha on you because I found out who did."

"Wow, I'm impressed," Ben said sarcastically. "Tell me all about it."

I did, because I knew that deep down, Ben was impressed. He was just faint with praise. I always figured that was because he didn't want to puff me up and encourage me to vanity and other forms of sinfulness. Or maybe it was just because he was my rotten brother.

"Amazing," he finally said when I'd summed things up as succinctly as I could. "You and Vida. What a team. Tell me, how many different hats did she wear, and were any of them used as a defensive weapon?"

"I feel like I've been away off and on for weeks," I said, having wandered into the kitchen with the gypsy phone to make a hefty drink. "I still have to go back this weekend to see if Ronnie's really getting out. Honestly, Ben, I don't understand how he and his parents could be so different from the rest of us. Do you remember Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene very well?"

"Sort of," Ben said. "They were always loud and often drunk. Sometimes I feel remiss, though. I mean, they're living in the same state as I am, and yet I've never made an effort to visit them. Of course they're at the other end of Arizona. I guess that's my excuse."

"Don't beat yourself up," I said. "You've got a full plate as it is. I'd just like to know how our dad and his sister could have turned out so totally unalike. They sure ruined Ronnie, and probably their two daughters. I suppose it was Uncle Gary's influence on Aunt Marlene."

"That's a big part of it," Ben said. "Aunt Marlene must have felt she had to live her husband's lifestyle. And of course you've got to remember that she was adopted."

"Adopted?" I shrieked. "I not only don't remember it, I didn't even know it. Are you kidding me?"

"No," Ben said calmly. "You really didn't know? That's weird."

"Are you sure?" I demanded, still aghast. "Where did you ever hear such a thing?"

There was a long pause. Finally, Ben spoke. "Well," he began, and I could picture him scratching his crinkled chestnut hair, "I think Dad told me when we were having one of our heart-to-heart talks before I went into the seminary. I honestly can't remember why he told me. Maybe it had something to do with charity, and how his parents had taken pity on a family they knew who couldn't afford to raise another child during the Depression. Anyway, Grandma and Grandpa took Aunt Marlene off the neighbors' hands and adopted her. I guess they'd always wanted another baby, but had had no luck."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," I said, a little breathless. "Then Ronnie isn't really family after all."

Another pause, much briefer than before. "Oh, yes he is, Sluggly. We're all family, and you d.a.m.ned well better not forget it."

The journey, if that is what it was, had begun in memory, of a small boy tied to Ben in a sack race. Now that small boy was a grown man, seated across from me in a coffee shop several blocks away from the county-city complex where he'd been wrongfully imprisoned. Ronnie Mallett had finally won something, though I feared that his freedom could still be his undoing. Hopefully, the experience had changed him. But I was probably wrong.

"I'm pickin' up Buddy this afternoon," Ronnie said with a shy grin. "Mr. Chan is lettin' me keep the apartment. Maybeth said Buddy showed up two days ago, all hungry and lookin' kinda bad. He'll be okay, doncha think?"

"He'll be fine," I a.s.sured Ronnie. "I'm so glad Alvin got you out of jail. How do you feel?"

There was still a small bandage on Ronnie's ear. He looked pale and drawn, but otherwise he seemed all right. At least for a guy who was terrified of facing the real world.

"I'm okay," Ronnie said. "I still can't believe that that nurse killed Carol. And then Kendra's mom killed the nurse. That seems just plain wacko to me."

Kathy Addison had come out of her coma on Thursday. She had admitted striking the fatal blow to Henrietta's skull, but insisted that the victim had threatened to kill her first. It seemed that Kathy was right: a butcher knife had been found under Henrietta's body. Vida and I had never seen it, because we didn't see the corpse being taken away.

Maybe the Addisons would somehow heal themselves and be a family with Kendra again. She was their daughter. Some birth mothers must discard their children, for various reasons. The burden of raising them, with whatever motives, falls on the adoptive parents. We are complicated creatures, and rarely are any of our actions pure.

"Roy's takin' care of Buddy right now," Ronnie said, finis.h.i.+ng his hamburger. "Roy's okay. Maybeth don't like Buddy, but she'd never hurt him. Can you drop me off at the apartment?"

"Of course," I said. "Do you think you'll get your old job back?"

"I hope so," Ronnie said with feeling. "Mr. Lang's a good guy. Maybe I gave him a lot of s.h.i.+t. I'll try harder this time."

"That's a good idea," I said, and picked up the tab.

The last time I saw Ronnie he was running to meet Buddy outside of the apartment house in Greenwood. He embraced the dog, then stood up to wave at me.

"Hey-keep in touch, okay?" he called.

I leaned out of the car window. "I will, Ronnie. I promise."

Ronnie nodded, then picked up something and threw it about twenty feet away. Buddy ran after the object and brought it back to Ronnie. Man and dog embraced again.

I drove away, wanting to remember Ronnie as happy. After a mile or so, I realized that Ronnie was happy, in his own strange way. For him, happiness was a simple thing-a dog fetching a stick. For others, like me, it was more complicated. I shouldn't judge the Ronnies of this world. We were all different.

And, as Ben had reminded me, we were all the same.

Family.

MARY: Welcome back to the Big City, Emma. You grew up here in Seattle, but you've lived in Alpine for almost ten years. I've lived in small towns twice in my life, and frankly, I had trouble adjusting. How do you manage?

EMMA: It's att.i.tude, Mary. When I made the decision to buy The Alpine Advocate, I knew it would be a long-term investment of my life, maybe even a permanent one. That made it easier for me-I knew I was going to stick around. The other thing that helped was being the local newspaper's editor and publisher. I automatically became part of everyone's life. I had an ident.i.ty. But don't get me wrong-since I wasn't born in Alpine, I'll always be something of a stranger. And, yes, I definitely miss the cultural and sports activities of a big city. Weekend high school football and the St. Mildred's Christmas pageant just don't do it for me. And while they got rid of Log-gerama, I don't think I can stand another year of Ed Bronsky as the Winter Solstice Parade's grand marshal. Ed should never ever wear anything diaphanous.

MARY: I don't really want to think about that. Let's talk career paths. Like you, I always thought I had printer's ink in my veins and started out in newspapers. Then I discovered you had to walk a lot, so I went into P.R. What made you hang in there?

EMMA: For one thing, Mary, I don't have flat feet like you do. Maybe the real difference is that I do have printer's ink my veins. Keeping the public informed, having the power to wield some influence (though it be rather small) through my editorials, and meeting deadlines all keep me alive. There's an enormous satisfaction to producing a paper every week. You can see what you've done. You can share it with the community. You feel as if your job has some meaning in a nutty world where personal achievement is hard to find.

MARY: You also have a knack for sleuthing. How did you develop this, or is it a gift?

EMMA: Journalism is all about sleuthing. It's tracking down graft in the union pension fund, it's figuring out the rationale of timberland swaps, and sometimes it's as simple-and important-as making sure you've identified the right John Smith in an article about s.e.xual perversion. I once made a horrendous mistake in The Oregonian. There were two Alan Barkers in the news. Alan L. Barker had won a prestigious poetry prize. Alan R. Barker had been arraigned for indecent exposure at Jantzen Beach. I got them mixed up, and there was all h.e.l.l to pay. What made it even worse was that at the trial the Barker exhibitionist quoted Tennyson's "Some civic manhood against the crowd." The jury was bewildered.

MARY: Speaking of sleuthing, don't you feel that the murder rate is rather high for a town the size of Alpine?

EMMA: You mean since I arrived? I have to admit, sometimes I feel like a one-woman crime wave. But, in fact, the murder rate has risen in smaller communities over the past few years. People are increasingly transient, communication is so much faster, and while small town residents didn't used to feel the same pressures as city dwellers, that's changing quite rapidly. Also, historically, Alpine has been a lumber town. It's a rough, dangerous way to make a living. Life and death in the woods goes back five or six generations. Violence is no stranger here.

MARY: Let's get personal, Emma. Do you ever see yourself married to Tom Cavanaugh? Or do you ever see yourself married, perio d?

EMMA: That's a toughie. I've thought and thought about it, and I can't come up with a straight answer. I love Tom. I've tried not to, but you can't simply tell love to go away. I realize that maybe it's not a healthy att.i.tude. There are practical considerations, too. I can't quite envision Tom living in Alpine. On the other hand, I can't imagine giving up The Advocate. Maybe what I'm really saying is that I've put my career between us, though that sounds horrid to me. I mean, newspapers are a dying breed. Ten years from now, there may be no Advocate. In fact, there's a radio station starting up in town. How will that affect us? Again, I don't have any cut-and-dried answers.

MARY: What will you do if Vida Runkel, your House and Home editor, ever retires?

EMMA: I can't even think about that! An Advocate without Vida would be like Alpine with no mountains. But I don't think she ever will-she's strong as a horse, and she couldn't bear not to be involved with the paper. If printer's ink runs through my veins, curiosity runs through Vida's. I'm not sure she needs a rationale to snoop, but as long as she's on the staff, she has an excuse.

MARY: One last question-do you think that you and Milo Dodge can ever be real friends again?

EMMA: I hope so. I actually love Milo, but not necessarily in a romantic way. I suppose I've always felt he's rather limited as a person. That's not fair-who isn't limited? But now that I see him in a new relations.h.i.+p, I must admit I feel jealous. Maybe annoyed is a better word. Or perhaps I worry about him. He's kind of vulnerable, and I don't want to see him hurt. I already did that to him, and he doesn't deserve another unappreciative woman. I do wonder, if there had never been a Tom Cavanaugh, would there have been an Emma Dodge? But that's speculation, one of the things I am good at.

MARY: Well, keep your spirits up, Emma. And thank you for the insights.

EMMA: I'm the one who should be thanking you.

By Mary Daheim.

Published by The Ballantine Publis.h.i.+ng Group.

THE ALPINE ADVOCATE.

THE ALPINE BETRAYAL.

THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS.

THE ALPINE DECOY.

THE ALPINE ESCAPE.

THE ALPINE FURY.

THE ALPINE GAMBLE.

THE ALPINE HERO.

THE ALPINE ICON.

THE ALPINE JOURNEY.

THE ALPINE KINDRED.

THE ALPINE LEGACY.