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

fan above us. “Maybe Ren—what the hell kind of name is that?—thought our headquarters was an art gallery. She spent a long time studying the Wanted posters.”
    “Did Ren mention who might’ve murdered her mother in Alpine?”
    Milo waited to answer until after Kinsey delivered my food and his coffee. “No. Only the black magic bit that seemed weird. Ren unloaded that one on me about ten, fifteen minutes into her opening monologue. I’d drifted off by then, reminiscing about the past—like almost a week ago, before it got too damned hot to go fishing or make love to my wife. Why the hell didn’t I have AC put in with the rest of the remodeling job on your—
our
—little log cabin?”
    “It’s not so little anymore,” I remarked. “I got lost twice this morning. Again.”
    “That’s because you weren’t awake.” Milo polished off his burger.
    “I assume you don’t recall a woman named Kassia Arthur being murdered in SkyCo some thirty years ago?”
    Milo looked pained. “As far as I can tell from Ren’s long-assed tale, that would’ve happened in 1975. I’d started as a deputy less than three years before that. There were only two female homicide victims after I joined the department. Onewas an out-of-work logger who strangled his wife before shooting himself. The other woman was the mother of the Claymore family with the crazy father who offed all six of the kids and Mom before he put the 22-caliber rifle to his own head and blew himself away.” Having eaten his own fries, my husband stole three of mine. “Why don’t we check into the ski lodge if it gets as hot as they’re predicting? They’ve got AC.”
    I glared at him. “Because everybody would know, Vida would put it in her ‘Scene Around Town’ column, and we’d ruin our hard-earned staid reputation after making lovesick fools of ourselves in public last winter. Got any more dumb ideas, Sheriff?”
    He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Guess not. I’d better get back to work since you’re being a pain in the ass.” He hauled himself out of the booth, but paused to ruffle my hair. “I’ll pick up fried chicken at the Grocery Basket on my way home. No point in turning on the stove.” He loped away, leaving me with my unpaid bill. That was only fair, I suppose. Washington is a community-property state.
    To my surprise, Vida wasn’t being pinned to the wall by Ren Rawlings when I returned to the
Advocate
. “No such person has been here,” she informed me rather glumly. “Harvey is out of fans, by the way. He expects more by Thursday. Everyone’s panicking at the prospect of hotter weather.”
    “That,” I mused, “is a story in itself. Of course, I suppose we have it covered with Mitch’s humor piece.”
    “I can mention in it ‘Scene,’ ” Vida said. “I assume Harvey is taking out a bigger ad than usual this week.”
    “He should. Talk to Leo about that.” I remembered the postcard Ren had left. “Hold on, I’ve got something to show you.”
    Apparently Vida’s rampant curiosity couldn’t be contained. She followed me into my office. I handed her the postcard andexplained why I’d suggested to Ren that my House & Home editor should see it.
    “The date on the front is 1915,” Vida murmured, sitting down in one of my visitor chairs. “Only five years after Carl Clemans began his logging operation here. You’ll note that there are very few buildings except for the mill itself.”
    “Yes,” I agreed, “but a lot of snow.”
    “My, yes,” Vida agreed, studying the back of the postcard. “Eight feet on the ground for much of the winter in the town’s early years. You can get a sense of that from this photo. No road into Alpine, access only by train. Such hardy people in those days. Aurea…what can that mean?”
    “That’s what I hoped you could tell Ren,” I said. “I thought it might be someone’s name.”
    Vida slowly shook her head. “No. No, I’ve never heard or seen it. The writing looks