Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) Read Free

was starting to squirm in my chair as my office seemed be growing warmer by the minute.
    “No.” Ren stared somewhere beyond me. Maybe she was passing judgment on my Blue Sky Dairy calendar’s color photo of Alpine Baldy. “I came to see you because”—she reached into her straw handbag—“of this.” Ren handed me a sepiatoned photo of a snowbound Alpine dated 1915. “It was with my birth mother’s poems. Look at the other side. I
think
that’s her handwriting. She wrote her poems in longhand.”
    I turned the card over, noting the professional imprint indicating this was a postcard rather than a personal photo. A scrawled word on the back looked like AUREA . “Do you know what this means?” I asked.
    She shook her head again. “I’ve researched it, of course. All I can find is a place in Brazil and an old Italian car. Oh, and a Brazilian female singer. None of that seems to pertain to my birth mother. But I thought someone in Alpine might be able to help me.”
    I felt Ren was overly optimistic. “Unless it’s a first name, I doubt our resident history expert can come up with anything.”
    “Who
is
the expert?” Ren asked.
    “Vida Runkel, our House & Home editor.” I peeked at my watch. “She’s been out for the last hour, so I doubt she’ll be back before one.”
    I handed the postcard back to her, but she put up a hand. “No,” Ren said. “Please. Keep that. I’ll be back to talk to…Ms. Runkel, is it?”
    “Yes, but I don’t know exactly when—”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Ren interrupted. “I’m not leaving town. There’s nowhere I have to be until August, when I judge the Monroe art show. Do you have any ads in your newspaper for short-term rentals?”
    “You’ll have to ask Ms. Hanson, our receptionist,” I said. “She and our ad manager, Leo Walsh, handle the classifieds. Our next edition doesn’t come out until Wednesday.”
    Ren stood up. “I’ll do that now before I visit the art gallery.”
    “It doesn’t open until five,” I informed her, also getting to my feet.
    “Oh.” Ren looked almost stricken, then regained her composure. “I’ll explore the rentals then. Be sure to show that postcard to Ms. Runkel as soon as she gets back.”
    “As I mentioned, I doubt she’ll—”
    Ren took a step closer. “I told you I was on a fool’s errand. A
quest
is more apt. You see, I’m convinced my birth mother was murdered, probably here in Alpine. I intend to stay until I find out who killed her.”
    Ren pivoted around and left my office in a less graceful—yet much more assertive—manner than she had come.

TWO
    “W ell now,” Vida said after I’d filled her in about my visitor, “that’s a queer kettle of fish. I’ve never heard of anyone named Kassia Arthur. Are you certain that was her mother’s name?”
    “Yes,” I assured her. “Ren Rawlings
is
a queer sort of woman. She’s either a basket case or so caught up in her mission that she’s over the top. Frankly, she spoiled my appetite for lunch. But now I’m starving.”
    Vida looked at the Bulova watch her late husband, Ernest, had given her some forty years ago. “It’s after one. You’d better eat something. You won’t survive the afternoon without at least a snack.”
    “You’re right,” I agreed. “I gather you already had lunch?”
    “I did,” she replied. “After taking Dippy to Amy and Ted’s, I heated the leftover casserole. Poor Amy couldn’t chew anything after her long session with Dr. Starr. Dippy and I enjoyed the leftovers together.”
    Maybe the kid looked so big because his stomach was made of cast iron. “That’s…nice,” I murmured, pretending something had fallen under my desk. I couldn’t look Vida in the eye. Unfortunately, I bumped my head on a partially opened drawer. “Oww!” I exclaimed, wincing.
    “My, my,” Vida said. “Do be careful. Are you sure you’re all right?”
    “I’m fine, just hungry,” I assured her. “I’m going to the Burger Barn