The Alpine Legacy Read online

  Once again, Crystal Bird wrote, and I could see the venom dripping from her word processor,

  we suffer from a paucity of leadership as far as the local press is concerned. Emma Lord professes to be a member of St. Mildred's Parish, as well as editor-publisher of The Alpine Advocate. If Ms. Lord is so close to Father Dennis Kelly, why can't she use her personal influence to force him into action on social issues? Not only has Ms. Lord been ineffective in the creation of a women's shelter (see above), she hasn't spoken out strongly on a proposed day-care center at Skykomish Community College.

  President Ignacio (Nat) Cardenas utters glib responses to questions about the proposed center. “A committee has been formed to study the issue.” “At least three campus sites are being considered.” “We are, as always, sympathetic to the needs of our student-parents.”

  A male-dominated community pays a high price when half its population is neglected. Which, of course, is all the more reason for Emma Lord to step up and speak out on women's issues.

  Nor has her staff been active. Carla Steinmetz Tallia-ferro was replaced by a man whose only qualification for the job seems to be his good looks. We wonder if Ms. Lord was thinking with her brain—or some other, lower part of her anatomy.

  That did it. I reached for my Rolodex and looked up the number of Marisa Foxx, a local attorney who also happens to be a member of St. Mildred's.

  Unfortunately, Marisa was in conference. Despite assurances that Ms. Foxx would get back to me as soon as possible, I put on my coat and headed outside. Marisa and her partner, Jonathan Sibley, had joined Pratt & Pratt several years earlier after brief stints with the Doukas firm. Winfield Pratt had been dead for thirty years, and his son, Gregory Pratt, was now a superior-court judge. Marisa and Jonathan made up the firm, though their names had not yet been added to the frosted glass on their old-fashioned door in the Alpine Building.

  Pratt & Pratt's offices were directly across the street from The Advocate. Thus, I decided to jaywalk in the middle of the block. The snow had stopped, Front Street had been replowed, and midmorning traffic was typically slow.

  If I hadn't been so angry, I might have noticed the dirty white van that had pulled around the corner from Fifth Street. Maybe it blended in with the snow-covered sidewalks; maybe I was oblivious. It was the grinding of tire chains that caught my attention. Startled, I looked up and saw the van not more than three feet away. The driver was honking and had rolled down his window.

  “Hey, you dumb broad, look the hell where you're going!” he shouted.

  “You look,” I snapped, though my voice was uneven.

  “You're jaywalking,” he yelled. “You want to get killed?”

  “Do you?” I'd recovered from the shock and was still angry.

  The driver, who was in his late thirties, had long fair hair and a scruffy beard. I didn't recognize him, and saw that he had a California license plate. No wonder he couldn't drive in the snow, I thought. I was in no mood to be reasonable.

  Neither was the driver of the van. He gunned the engine, skidded as he tried to get traction, and came so close that I felt the vehicle brush my sleeve. For one ghastly moment, I thought he was going into a spin that would not only run right over me, but plow through the front of The Advocate building.

  Luckily, he regained control and roared off. By this time, three other cars were backed up on Front, so I dutifully waited for them to pass. When I reached the second floor of the Alpine Building, I was even more upset than when I'd left my office.

  Marisa's secretary, one of Vida's numerous nieces, informed me that my wait should be brief. The young woman's nameplate on the mahogany desk read JUDI HINSHAW. Vaguely, I remembered that the connection was through Vida's own family of Blatts, rather than her late husband Ernest's Runkel clan.

  Marisa greeted me with a surprise that seemed pleasurable, though perhaps her manner was practiced. We had never become friends, though we occasionally chatted after Mass. With women of my own age and interests in short supply in Alpine, I'd often chided myself for not making more of an effort to befriend Marisa.

  As it turned out, she had a few minutes to spare before heading for the courthouse. I had gathered all the copies of Crystal Clear that I could find, and now presented them to her.

  “I know you don't specialize in libel,” I said, “but maybe you can tell me if I have a case. I have to admit, I'm not up on the current changes in libel law.”

  Marisa's smile didn't exactly convey warmth, but somehow it made me feel more at ease. She was actually a few years younger than I, a tall, slim woman with short blonde hair, and a no-nonsense attitude that had been interpreted by some of the locals as a symptom of lesbianism. “I've seen all of these,” Marisa said, “except this one.” She scanned the first page. “Today's date. I thought Crystal Clear came out last week.”

  “It did. This is an extra edition,” I explained, resting my hands on the polished oval table that served as Marisa's desk. “She had something of a scoop. See, that logging-ban story about the Wenatchee Forest.”

  Marisa's cool gray eyes studied me. “Is that the one that bothers you?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. Though I'd like to know how she got hold of it before anybody else did. Go to page four. I assume you've read her other attacks on me.”

  “Oh, yes,” Marisa replied, turning the publication over. “And those on several other people as well. I must admit, she seems to have it in for you.”

  “That's right.” I bit off the words, then waited for Marisa to read the short, if virulent, article. “Well? What do you think?”

  Marisa paused before answering. “First, I'd have to study all the issues where she's written about you. Then I'd have to research the current laws. Frankly, they've changed in recent years, specifically with regard to public figures. Which, you realize, is what you are in Alpine.”

  I let out a hissing sound. “I may be a public figure, but am I a lumplike one? That's how Crystal described me last week.”

  Marisa waved a slim hand. “Define lumplike under the law. You're aware that I'm no libel expert. If I find that you have a case, I may refer you to someone who specializes in the field.”

  I nodded. “I understand. Maybe I'm being impulsive or overreacting. But this sort of personal attack drives me nuts. Last week, after Crystal charged that I'd been sleeping with the enemy, I got some of the nastiest letters and phone calls in my tenure at The Advocate. And that's saying something! Luckily, most of the letters, as well as the phone messages, were anonymous.”

  Marisa gave me a knowing look. “But you recognized most of them, I imagine.”

  “Oh, yes.” I sighed. “The worst of it was that there were voices belonging to people who until now had never gotten nasty with me.”

  “And Sheriff Dodge?” Marisa asked. “Was he also the butt of the article?”

  “I don't know,” I answered. “Milo's been out of town until last night. He had to attend a sheriffs' conference in Bellingham.”

  “All right.” Marisa sat back in her handsome black leather chair. “I'll get the rest of the issues of Crystal Clear. When I've come to a decision, I'll call you. Meanwhile,” she added, “this consultation is free.”

  I hadn't thought of the financial aspect. Contrary to Crystal's allegations, my bank account was far from fat. Puny was the word I'd have chosen.

  “Thanks, Marisa,” I said in surprise. “But you really don't—”

  Marisa waved her hand again. “Occasionally, I don't charge for a consultation if it involves a fellow parishioner. I don't have time to volunteer at St. Mildred's, so this is my contribution.”

  “That's very generous,” I said, getting to my feet. “By the way, have you ever met Crystal Bird?”

  “Yes,” Marisa replied, but didn't elaborate.

  I should have known better than to press an attorney for information. But my job involves persistence. “The other people she's attacked in print—have any of them consulted you?”

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p; “I've had inquiries,” Marisa admitted, her gaze level but her face expressionless.

  “Elected officials?” I waited, but Marisa said nothing. “Academic types?”

  Marisa still didn't respond, though the faintest of smiles touched her mouth.

  “I wondered,” I said, and made my exit. The county commissioners might remain on their dead butts, as was their habit, but Nat Cardenas wasn't likely to take criticism lying down. If nothing else, the college president had a shrewd sense of his political presence in the community.

  Shortly after lunch, Paula Rubens called me. “I just read Crystal's latest,” she said in a sympathetic voice. “I assume you're furious.”

  “Assumption correct,” I replied. “I've been in a funk ever since I saw it. At this rate, I'm not only going to have to go back on Doc Dewey's sleeping pills, but get him to prescribe some tranquilizers, too.”

  Paula uttered a truncated laugh. “Just tie one on. In the long run, it's probably easier on your constitution.”

  I started to tell Paula that I'd seen Marisa Foxx, but thought better of it. So far, I hadn't even confided in Vida. “If I showed up at the liquor store too often, Crystal would start calling me a drunk,” I said bitterly.

  “Possibly. But I didn't call merely to commiserate.” Paula's tone was quite serious. “It occurred to me that maybe you two should get together. Frankly, I can see why Crystal is picking on you. She's frustrated.”

  “She's frustrated?” I shot back. “How do you think I feel?”

  “I know, I know,” Paula said hastily. “That's my point. It's ridiculous for the two of you, who are both involved in publishing—and never mind how silly you may consider Crystal Clear—to be at odds. She's obviously angry with you because you're the only other woman around with a real voice in the community. Maybe if you explained your side of it, how you have to deal with advertisers and sources, she'd ease off. Remember, Crystal's never been in the commercial newspaper business. You're articulate, Emma. You might be able to get through to her.”

  Paula was making sense. “Well… Maybe it's worth a try.” I doodled on a piece of scrap paper and tried to think through Paula's suggestion. “What's the worst that could happen?”

  “More virulent attacks?” Paula said, and laughed. “No, really, it can't hurt. Do you want me to speak to her?”

  “You mean to set up a meeting?” I hesitated. Crystal Bird struck me as an unreasonable, perhaps unbalanced, person. “Do you think she'd bend?”

  “I'm not sure,” Paula answered slowly. “I honestly don't know her that well. I met her years ago when I did a piece of glass for the bank lobby in Portland. Crystal wrote an article about it in their newsletter. Since she moved up here, I've seen her maybe a half-dozen times. Crystal contacted me after she bought that cabin down the highway at Baring. She thought a stained-glass window would add class. Calla lilies, that's what she had in mind. But she didn't want to pay more than three hundred dollars, which was absurd. That type of window would be at least a grand.”

  “So where does she get her money?” I asked, still undecided about meeting my nemesis.

  “I gather the bank gave her a decent package when they let her go,” Paula replied. “Plus, her parents passed away within a year of each other. She and her sister sold the family home by the middle school on Tyee Street. I doubt that it went for more than seventy grand, but the old folks might have had some savings. Lester Bird used to own the Venison Inn before he sold it to one of the Iversons.”

  I hadn't known that Crystal had a sister. “Does she live around here?” I asked after admitting my ignorance.

  “Yes,” Paula replied. “She's April Eriks. Her husband, Mel, works for Blue Sky Dairy.”

  I was vaguely acquainted with Del and Luana Eriks, and their daughter, Tiffany. They seemed like decent people. Del and Mel were brothers, according to Vida. “Okay.” I sighed. “See if Crystal would deign to meet with me. I suppose it's worth a try.”

  Vida was alone in the newsroom when I told her about Paula's suggestion. Since it came from another friend of mine, she pooh-poohed it.

  “You'll get into a shouting match, mark my words.” Vida tapped a pencil on her desk. “I remember Crystal as a little girl. Even then she was ill-tempered, and she gave poor April a terrible time of it.”

  “You never told me about April and the Eriks connection,” I chided.

  “Yes, I did,” Vida declared. “Back in the spring, when Crystal moved here. You probably weren't paying attention.”

  That might have been the case. Vida dispenses so much information about so many people that I can't keep track unless I take notes. “I ought to meet her,” I said doggedly. “It can't possibly make things worse.”

  Vida harrumphed. “You think not? Go ahead, confront her. I think it's not only a waste of time, but a bad idea.”

  I usually heed Vida's words. But I didn't on this occasion, and later I would bitterly regret it.

  Paula called late Thursday afternoon to say that Crystal had agreed to see me Friday evening around seven-thirty. I didn't mention the meeting to Vida, and drove home in a bit of a funk. It wasn't my habit to keep too many secrets from Vida, but now I was holding two things back from her: the meeting itself, and my consultation with Marisa Foxx.

  Snow had been falling for most of the afternoon. It was slow going as the Jag climbed the hill that led to my log house on Fir Street. Only Front and Alpine Way had been plowed again. By the first week of December, it's taxing work to keep the streets clear and sanded. The snow-removal crew is made up of the Peabody brothers, who are strong of body, but slow of mind.

  My spirits lifted a little, however, as I saw several houses with Christmas lights strung over the eaves, and decorated trees, both inside and outside. It was two weeks too soon for me to put up my usual lush Douglas fir, though I'd started to display my Nativity figures. Beginning with the first Sunday of Advent, they emerged one by one from their tissue paper until Baby Jesus would be placed in his crib on Christmas Eve.

  The log house was dark when I pulled into the drive, stopping first to get my mail at the box by the street. Mostly bills, I noted, along with a few Christmas cards. Mine weren't quite finished, though I planned to send them out by the tenth.

  I gathered a couple of pieces of wood and some kindling from the stash in the carport, then trudged the fifteen feet to my front door.

  It was open. Juggling the wood and my handbag, I called in panic: “Who's there?”

  No sound could be heard, except for the wind in the evergreens behind the house. Had I forgotten to lock the door when I went to work? I'd been careless once or twice in the past, but not in recent years. Peering at the front yard, I tried to see footprints. There were none, only my own, leaving a trail from the carport.

  I called out again. Nothing. Milo had once warned me that it was risky to enter a house that might have been broken into. I reached around the door frame to turn on the lights. I couldn't see that anything had been disturbed. Still, the ominous silence frightened me. Maybe I should get a cell phone. Milo had also urged me to do just that, but I'd put it off, not wanting to spend the money. Common sense required that I get back in the car and drive to the sheriff's office.

  The idea angered me. This was my house, my property, my privacy, and it was likely that it had been invaded. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, I stepped inside. I unloaded everything but the larger piece of wood and began exploring the rest of the house. The kitchen, like the living room and dining area, seemed undisturbed. Off the little hall that led out of the living room, I went first into what I still called Adam's room, though he hadn't lived with me on a regular basis for almost ten years. Indeed, he had never occupied the bedroom for more than a few months at a time because he'd started college the same year that I'd purchased The Advocate.

  He had, however, used the room for storage. Among his treasures was a mason jar filled with pennies, some of which he insisted were rare. The jar was gone from the windowsill. So we
re his autographed Mariners baseball and several of his heavy-metal tapes.

  Cursing, I rushed into my bedroom. My mother's pearls were missing, along with some of my other less expensive jewelry. Pulling out dresser drawers, I saw that an old fox boa that had belonged to my paternal grandmother was also gone.

  The closet had been searched, but I couldn't see that anything had been taken. I told myself that it was probably just as well that I'm unable to afford a lavish lifestyle.

  I glanced in the bathroom, but saw nothing to alarm me. The shower curtain was pulled aside so I could see that no one was lurking in the tub. Finally putting the piece of wood down on the hearth, I dialed 911.

  Beth Rafferty was on duty and expressed sympathy when I told her what had happened. “I can send Jack Mullins or Bill Blatt.” she informed me. “It shouldn't be long unless we get a wreck out on the highway.”

  I thanked Beth and hung up. Then I poured a stiff bourbon and water before checking the front door. The lock was simple, and apparently had been jimmied. Again, Milo had told me to get a dead bolt. Stupidly, I'd put it off. Without the sheriff to nag me, I'd gotten careless when it came to safety precautions.

  I was almost finished with my drink when Milo himself showed up fifteen minutes later. “I just got home and was getting out of my car when I heard your call come in,” he said, shrugging out of his regulation jacket. “I told the deputies I'd handle this.”

  “Thanks, Milo,” I said, feeling relief sweep over me. “You're going to be mad. I never got the dead bolt.”

  He scowled at me from under his heavy sandy brows. “That's really dumb. You know damned well we've had more break-ins around here since the college opened.”

  “Yes,” I said meekly. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “Not until I've checked the place out,” Milo replied, returning to the front door. “Jeez, this was like opening a Crackerjack box. Easy as pie.” He shook his head, apparently at my stupidity. “They picked the lock. It's the original, isn't it?”