The Alpine Fury Read online

  Praise for Mary Daheim

  and her Emma Lord mysteries

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  “The lively ferment of a life in a small Pacific Northwest town, with its convoluted genealogies and loyalties [and] its authentically quirky characters, combines with a baffling murder for an intriguing mystery novel.”

  —M. K. WREN

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  “Editor-publisher Emma Lord finds out that running a small-town newspaper is worse than nutty—it’s downright dangerous. Readers will take great pleasure in Mary Daheim’s new mystery.”

  —CAROLYN G. HART

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  “If you like cozy mysteries, you need to try Daheim’s Alpine series…. Recommended.”

  —The Snooper

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  “[A] fabulous series … Fine examples of the traditional, domestic mystery.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  By Mary Daheim

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  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

  THE ALPINE MENACE

  THE ALPINE NEMESIS

  THE ALPINE OBITUARY

  THE ALPINE PURSUIT

  THE ALPINE QUILT

  THE ALPINE RECLUSE

  THE ALPINE SCANDAL

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by this Author

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Other Books in this Series

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  THE FROST WAS on the pumpkin, and also on Leo Fulton Walsh’s rear end. My new advertising manager had skidded on one of Alpine’s icy sidewalks, landing in Front Street, across from the newspaper office. The accident wasn’t entirely Leo’s fault. He was from California, and unused to winter weather. If there was blame, it rested on me for hiring Leo in the first place.

  The situation had been desperate. My former ad man, Ed Bronsky, had inherited a small fortune from an aunt in Iowa. His exit had evoked mixed emotions. Though Ed showed occasional flashes of enthusiasm, he usually acted as if he were being forced to walk the plank. Gloom had hung on Ed Bronsky just like his baggy raincoat. But money had done wondrous things, and Ed was now downright chipper.

  He was also off The Alpine Advocate’s staff, which was why I’d hired Leo Fulton Walsh. Ed’s abrupt leave-taking had put me in a bind. Leo had been available, and had come recommended by my son’s father, Tom Cavanaugh. Tom is not and never was my husband, but he does own several small weeklies west of the Rockies. I’ve always had faith in his judgment. I’m not sure why, since twenty-two years ago he was the one who assured me I couldn’t get pregnant. Adam’s arrival nine months later proved Tom wrong. I was beginning to think that Tom might be mistaken about Leo, too.

  “He’s drunk. Again.” Vida Runkel, my House & Home editor, looked up from a sheet of contact prints taken at the Alpine Elementary School’s Halloween party. “I’m afraid Leo is an alcoholic, Emma. You’ll have to do something about him.”

  “I already did,” I replied dryly. “I hired him. And he’s not drunk.” My tone turned defensive, though I wasn’t sure whether I was defending Leo or myself. “It’s really icy this morning. There’s a snowstorm coming.” I tapped the latest wire service forecast for the central Cascade Mountains.

  “He’s drunk.” Vida’s voice brooked no argument. Neither did her gaze, which didn’t blink behind the tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses. As ever, she looked daunting, even sitting down. Vida is in her sixties, a big woman with strong shoulders, a formidable bosom, and unruly gray curls. She gave me her gimlet eye, then resumed squinting through a magnifier at the Halloween picture. “Is Bryce Bamberg wearing a mask in this photo? I can’t tell.”

  I glanced over Vida’s shoulder. I couldn’t tell, either. Bryce Bamberg, fifth grade, was one homely kid. I shuddered, and dismissed Bryce from my mind.

  “Leo may have sprained his ankle,” I said, looking out through the small window above Vida’s desk. Front Street was busy on this first Monday of November. That is, there were at least a dozen cars in sight. With not quite four thousand residents, Alpine, Washington, isn’t inclined to gridlock. Indeed, the traffic was somewhat lighter than usual, due not only to the ice, but to the local economic crisis. The backbone of Alpine’s industry is, as I once inadvertently said in print, rooted in trees. But logging has been curtailed by environmental restrictions, and as yet, the community hasn’t been able to regroup.

  Cars, including Sheriff Milo Dodge’s Cherokee Chief, continued to trickle past the Advocate office. I gave up waiting for Vida’s response. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. But she had—Vida can hear people even when they don’t speak out loud.

  She had finished choosing the Halloween pictures for the Wednesday edition. “Give me something,” she demanded abruptly. “I’m doing ‘Scene.’”

  “Scene Around Town” is our version of a gossip column. Vida writes it, but we all contribute. Rarely are these items juicy; only occasionally are they of interest. Still, Alpiners love to see themselves and their relatives and neighbors and friends in print. The column is the best-read in the paper, with the possible exception of the obituaries. When we have any.

  “You could use Leo,” I suggested. “Falling down always makes news.”

  “Not when it involves drunkenness.” Vida looked both grim and prim. “So far, I only have three items: Tim Rafferty and Tiffany Eriks enjoying double-tall nonfat lattes at the new Starbucks; high school coach Rip Ridley losing his voice after the football team’s 45–7 defeat in Sultan; and Dot Parker seeing sparrows ice-skating on her frozen birdbath. Give me something useful.”

  But Front Street looked very ordinary from my vantage point. Running east-west on the flat, the heavy frost which had turned to ice was almost melted by eight-thirty. The north-south streets heading up the mountainside were another matter. That was where Leo had slipped, coming down Fourth and crashing at the corner by the Alpine Building. He had walked from his apartment on Cedar Street because he was afraid to drive his new Toyota on the ice. Our office manager, Ginny Burmeister, and I had rescued Leo, guiding him the two blocks to the medical clinic where he was having his ankle X-rayed. Ginny was still with him.

  My remaining staff member arrived just as I was pouring a mug of coffee. Carla Steinmetz is young, pretty, enthusiastic, and flighty. On this Monday morning, she seemed uncharacteristically withdrawn. Carla’s step dragged over the threshold.

  “’Morning,” she mumbled, not looking at either Vida or me.

  Vida’s mouth set, and her eyes narrowed. “Good morning, Carla. How are you?”

  It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Carla’s gaze slid in Vida’s direction, then fixed itself on the coffeemaker. “Depressed,” my reporter answered in a bleak voice. She poured herself a cup of coffee and went into the front office, presumably searching for her soul mate, Ginny.

  Vida was looking out the
window. “Francine Wells is wearing new boots. Very smart, probably not suitable for this weather. The refrigeration repair truck is in front of Harvey Adcock’s hardware and sporting goods store. Maybe his bait box blew up. Cal Vickers’s tow truck needs washing. Ah! Cal’s towing Fuzzy Baugh’s Chrysler! The mayor must have gone into a skid.” Vida shot me a quick look over her shoulder. “You see, Emma, even after going on four years, you still don’t have the knack for picking up small-town news. It’s the everyday occurrences that people like to read about. In Alpine, we don’t need drive-by shootings and arson fires and drug raids to entertain us.”

  I managed to refrain from retorting that even callous city people didn’t exactly consider tragedy a source of entertainment. At least most of them didn’t. Vida knew as much; she was merely tweaking me for being an outsider. I probably wouldn’t ever be anything else if I lived until I died in Alpine.

  Vida was back at her typewriter, rattling off her three new items for “Scene Around Town.” “I need at least four more,” she announced, throwing the carriage of her archaic machine with a flourish.

  “You’ve got until five P.M. tomorrow,” I pointed out as the phone rang on Carla’s desk. I picked it up. “Emma Lord,” I said into the receiver just as Carla reentered the newsroom.

  Ginny was on the line, calling from the clinic. She wanted Carla to help her bring Leo back to the office. According to Dr. Peyton Flake, my ad manager had suffered a slight sprain and was on crutches.

  But Carla folded her arms across her chest and planted her booted feet squarely on the worn linoleum. “I’m not going to the clinic. I’m never going to the clinic, not even if my arms and legs fall off. Ginny can put Leo on a sled.” She slammed back out of the office again.

  I raised my eyebrows. “What did Leo do to Carla? Or is she mad at Ginny?”

  Vida was editing her new copy. She didn’t look up. “Carla isn’t angry with either of them. She’s broken off with Peyton Flake.”

  “Oh.” Vida’s niece, Marje Blatt, worked at the Alpine Medical Clinic. Like so many of Vida’s kin, Marje was not so much a relative as a conduit. If Marje had ever taken an oath regarding patient confidentiality, there had been an asterisk excluding Vida. Had Vida been Catholic—perish the thought from her Presbyterian soul!—my pastor, Dennis Kelly, would have sent a note off to the Vatican stating the seal of the confessional did not apply when it came to my House & Home editor. Doctors, lawyers, merchants, and chiefs acknowledged Vida as both source and repository. If any of them objected, they didn’t dare say so.

  I sat down on Vida’s desk. Never mind that there were stories to write, proofs to read, and a newspaper to lay out. An unhappy staff is an unproductive staff. Leo was injured, Ginny was detained, and Carla was in a funk. I needed the facts if I was to cope with my personnel and meet a deadline.

  “Dr. Flake is too big for his britches,” Vida declared. “Since he came to Alpine last year, the clinic’s practice has grown. Young Doc Dewey gives all the credit to his new partner for actively soliciting new patients from the Stevens Pass corridor. It’s true, I’m sure. Young Doc is like his late father, competent, thorough—and passive. But Peyton Flake is, as you know, a maverick. Not only does he possess the latest methods in medicine, but he markets himself aggressively. He also considers himself a god. Carla is irked.”

  I didn’t blame her. Carla isn’t stupid, but she does a fine imitation. Peyton Flake might take advantage of what I considered her lack of focus. Maybe he belittled her, or at least teased too much. At twenty-five, Carla’s self-esteem wasn’t firmly rooted. At forty-two, my own was on shaky ground.

  “Maybe they’ll make up,” I said. “They’ve been going together for six months.”

  Vida didn’t reply; she was inserting a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter. Using only two fingers, her hands danced across the keys. I retired to my office, wondering about our lead story.

  It had been an uneventful week in Alpine, as most of them were. The icy streets would give us an extensive list of minor accidents. The annual spate of Halloween vandalism would fill another six to eight inches of copy, plus photos. The only out-of-the-ordinary event was the resurfacing of Highway 187, unofficially known as the Icicle Creek Road, between town and the campground. The project had begun in mid-October, with a rush date to finish before the first heavy snow. Maybe I could squeeze a lead story out of Big Mike Brockelman, the construction foreman. I dialed his cellular number.

  “Sorry, Ms. Lord,” said Mike. “No news here. We can’t work this morning because of the ice.”

  “That’s great,” I said, then hastened to explain. “I mean, that’s news. ‘Weather delays highway project.’ You see?”

  “What?” Big Mike’s deep voice went with his muscular build and imposing height. “Oh, yeah, sure, I guess.”

  I needed another three inches of copy. A photo of the idle road machinery would help. “What does the crew do when this sort of thing happens?” I inquired, delving for information to pad the story.

  Mike snorted. “They stay home. Like I’m doing. You called me in Monroe.”

  “Oh.” I was disappointed. For some reason, I’d thought that Brockelman and company were holed up in the Lumberjack Motel. Briefly I’d envisioned two pictures—one of the immobilized equipment, the other showing the six-man crew playing pinochle. “How soon before you’ll be able to resume work?”

  “Can’t say. The stretch we’re working on is just past the Petersen farm. Lots of big evergreens, no sun even if the clouds lift. Tomorrow, maybe. If it doesn’t snow.” Mike sounded as gloomy as the weather.

  I asked a few more questions, the kind that people find stupid, because there are no real answers. Completion date, additional costs, possibility of further postponement—I knew Mike couldn’t do anything except guess, but even ambiguity fills the front page. By the time I finished my interview, Mike was testy and his wife was yelling at him from somewhere in their Monroe-area home.

  Twenty minutes later, I had finished my lead story. Carla, however, demurred at taking a picture.

  “It’s too dangerous,” she pouted over a sugar doughnut she’d fetched from the Upper Crust Bakery. “My car may be old, but it’s new to me, and I’m not risking it by driving up 187. Can’t we use stock?”

  We could, since she’d taken several shots of the road equipment when it had arrived two weeks earlier. We’d featured the six-man crew in the previous story; this time I’d run Big Mike, leaning on his steamroller. This was one of those weeks when there wouldn’t be much drama on the front page. In a small town, that was often the case. There had, however, been a few issues in the past when I had wished for tamer topics. I shivered a little as I recalled the murders we’d had in Alpine. Some victims had been familiar; others were strangers. Either way, we didn’t need news like that to liven up the paper. Vida could create readership with Francine Wells’s new boots.

  “Ha!” Vida had sprung out of her chair after rubbernecking through the window again. “Now, that’s an item!” She plastered herself against the wall and peered out as if she could see around corners. She probably could. “Little Bobby Lambrecht,” she whispered, as if whoever he was could hear through walls. “He’s heading into the Bank of Alpine. My, my!”

  “Who cares?” The small, desolate voice belonged to Carla, eating her third doughnut. “I’ve never heard of Little Bobby Lambrecht.”

  Vida had resumed her seat. “Of course you haven’t. You’re new in town.” The gray eyes darted in my direction. “And you, Emma. You wouldn’t know Bobby, either.”

  By Vida’s standards, Carla and I were both babes in the woods when it came to Alpine background knowledge. I’d hired Carla four months after I bought the paper from the original owner, Marius Vandeventer. Having arrived as adults, fully formed by forces outside of Alpine, we could never truly belong. As usual, we endured Vida’s smug, insider’s expression.

  “So?” I asked, feeling prickly. “Who’s Little Bobby Lambrecht?”
<
br />   Vida squared her shoulders, which caused the black polyester vest to quiver over the black-and-white print blouse with the pussycat bow. “Robert Lambrecht is Faith Steiner Lambrecht’s son. The Steiners were great friends of my parents, Earl Ennis and Muriel May Woolrich Blatt. My father and Edward Steiner were among the first elders of the Presbyterian church in Alpine.” Pride rang in Vida’s voice. “Faith married a minister from our church. Years later, he was posted to Wenatchee. The family moved there when Bobby was a junior in high school. Bobby and Milo Dodge went through school together. I still hear from Faith—she’s widowed and lives in Spokane—and Bobby is quite the bigwig with the Bank of Washington in Seattle. Now, why is he in Alpine?” Vida peered first at me, then at Carla. I flinched; Carla ate another doughnut.

  “What difference does it make?” Carla was defensive. I thought she was talking about Little Bobby Lambrecht. She meant the doughnuts. “So I get fat and ugly and old? Who’ll care? This town is a dead end. I’m going to die without ever having lived.”

  “Did you get glazed?” Vida was looking severe. “The Upper Crust does glazed only on Monday and Thursday.”

  I felt like snatching the white bakery bag from Carla’s hands. Before I could move, Ginny opened the door and edged into the office. Leo Walsh was leaning on her. He looked sheepish.

  “No ballroom dancing for a while,” he said, hopping to his desk. “Sorry, Emma. I didn’t realize the sidewalk was so slippery. Hell, up the hill by your house, you don’t even have sidewalks.”

  It was true. At least one third of Alpine didn’t have sidewalks. My street was paved, but it was lined with a thin trail of dirt. Or mud or slush or snow, depending upon the season. All my editorial efforts at putting a Local Improvement District bond issue on the ballot had been in vain.

  “Black ice is hard to see,” I conceded, pulling out Leo’s chair. “How do you feel?”

  If Leo truly had been drunk this morning, he was sober now. His face reminded me of tree bark—rough, seamed, weathered, indifferent to the elements but vulnerable to time. His graying auburn hair wasn’t combed as carefully as usual, and his sharply pressed flannel slacks were rumpled.