The Alpine Xanadu Page 9

  “The plan,” Scott began, “was to add on out back. But now I think it would be better to extend the east side of the house in order to balance off the west-side carport extension. The ground’s softer on the sides, too.”

  “But,” I said in dismay, “we want to keep the cabin’s look intact.”

  “We will,” Scott said with his easy, still-boyish smile. “Instead of making the addition a mere frame, it’ll match the rest of the dwelling.”

  I took another swig of coffee. “Won’t that cost more?”

  Milo was rinsing out the mugs he and Scott had used. “We’ll do it right. When was the last time you did maintenance around here? You’re supposed to clean and recaulk the logs every so often. I offered to do it a couple of years ago and you turned me down.”

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” I said.

  The sheriff sat down. “It’s a wonder the place doesn’t fall apart.”

  “It’s got a stone foundation,” I snapped. “The logs look fine to me.”

  “They look like crap,” Milo said, glancing at Scott. “You saw them.”

  Scott’s expression was apologetic. “You’re overdue for caulking and staining, but that can be done with the rest of the job. Arnie Nyquist can give you a quote when I finalize my own plans.”

  Milo’s hazel eyes sparked. “No, he can’t. I won’t let that bastard near here. Hire somebody else—from out of town, if necessary.”

  For years, Arnie and the sheriff had gone head-to-head over various issues, including a remodel of Milo’s office. Arnie—whose nickname was “Tinker Toy”—had savaged the sheriff at every opportunity. The Nyquist males tended to be arrogant. And Milo was stubborn. He had never forgiven Arnie. Maybe I’d acquired a small-town mentality, too. I couldn’t stand him, either.

  But I had a more valid reason. “Years ago, Arnie built thirty houses in Ptarmigan Tract. Three fell down and many of the others had problems. That’s when he began focusing on commercial properties.”

  Scott nodded. “That’s okay. I’ve worked with other contractors. Nyquist made a mint off of RestHaven, so he’s not hurting.”

  The coffee was ready. Milo did the honors and sat down again. “Better explain how this side addition will work,” he said to Scott. “Emma doesn’t want to screw with the bathroom if we can help it.”

  “No problem,” Scott said. “The new bathroom will be next to the present one with a wall between them. Access will be via Milo’s work area and the spare bedroom, which we’ll extend, as it’s quite small.”

  “But,” I protested, “that means removing all the logs on the side of the house instead of just some at the back.”

  Scott nodded. “As long as they’re still in good shape, we can use those and add a few more.”

  “How much is this going to cost?” I asked in a weak voice.

  “Emma,” Milo intervened, “Scott hasn’t added up all the numbers. We just came up with the plan this morning.”

  “But—”

  He put a finger to my lips. “Stop fussing. You’re driving me nuts.”

  I failed to bite his finger as he withdrew it. “I’ll shut up. I haven’t eaten. I’ll go out and graze in the yard. I doubt we can afford food.”

  “Before you do that,” Milo said, “sign off on the release for Scott to put the quote together. You own this place, including the grazing land.”

  I took a pen from Scott and scribbled my name. Milo set his mug aside. “I have to head for the office, Scott. Two of my deputies are working security for the RestHaven opening, so I have to hold down the fort at headquarters. If I can get away, maybe I’ll see you at the facility.”

  The men shook hands. I’d turned away from the fridge to glare at the sheriff. “Hey, big guy, you didn’t tell me you had to work today.”

  “I didn’t?” Milo looked faintly sheepish. “Well—now you know. Got to change into my uniform.” He left the kitchen.

  “I’d better go,” Scott said, getting up. “My SUV’s blocking Dodge’s Yukon.” He paused at the kitchen door. “He’s right, Emma. You won’t go broke. I did his headquarters remodel and he was satisfied with the final cost. I’ve gotten to know him as a neighbor. I still remember how kind you both were to us when Bev’s brother was killed.” He smiled. “That was ten years ago. We thought you made a good couple even then.”

  “You did? I mean, we weren’t. A couple.” I needed food to clear my fuzzy brain. “We started going together later, but …” My voice trailed off.

  Scott laughed. “Don’t try to explain. You and Dodge have always provided a lot of buzz. It livens up the community. Coming from L.A., Bev and I prefer it to gang warfare and other unsavory aspects of city life. The grapevine is local entertainment. Now that you’re engaged, people may lose interest. Maybe the RestHaven newcomers will provide some gossip.”

  “You expect them to do that?”

  Scott shrugged. “They’ve already had a dead body virtually in their front yard. It’s a start.” He suddenly broke into a trot. “Here comes Dodge. I’d better move my SUV.”

  The sheriff waved at Scott but kept heading for the carport. “Don’t I get a kiss good-bye?” he asked, approaching the carport steps.

  “Honestly, Milo,” I said in exasperation, “you’re too used to living alone. You should tell me what your plans are before you spring them on me. I didn’t know you had to work today.”

  “I forgot.” He looked a trifle abject.

  “It does take getting used to, doesn’t it?” I said softly.

  “Yeah.” He lifted me off the top step and kissed me. “But I like it.”

  I had not forgotten that Milo’s birthday was coming up the first of March. We had never given each other presents, not even when we’d been a couple a decade earlier. Maybe that was because he never remembered my November birthday. I had often treated him to drinks or dinner over the years, and if I did remind him about my birthday, it was only after the fact, and then he’d apologize—and forget again.

  But this year I was going to buy him a present. The sheriff’s wardrobe needed refurbishing. A new men’s shop had opened recently in a vacant space next to Francine’s Fine Apparel. It was owned by Francine’s husband, Warren—a couple with a track record as rocky as our own. After the Wells remarried, he’d worked at Harvey’s Hardware. It was assumed that when Harvey Adcock retired, Warren would take over the store. But over time, the college had created a need for a better selection of men’s clothing than Alpine Inner & Outerwear could provide.

  I was finishing breakfast when the phone rang. I hurried into the living room before it trunked over to voicemail.

  “Where were you?” my brother asked in his crackling voice. “Not at St. Mildred’s helping Father Den with his Lenten soup kitchen, I gather?”

  “You know Father Den doesn’t have a soup kitchen,” I said. “The Lutherans do because there are so many of them. God prevent the Presbyterians from having one. Vida might donate a casserole.”

  “Stop! As you may recall, Adam and I were forced to eat one of those things. I didn’t know you could bake Elmer’s Glue.”

  “It was that good? I’m shocked. Where are you?”

  “Still in Biloxi, helping the local Redemptorist with his flock. I’m moving on at the end of the month. The Home Missions finally caught up with me, and I’m needed in El Paso to help with the influx from Mexico.”

  “That’s a long way from here,” I said.

  Ben chuckled. “You and Dodge don’t need me to chaperone. Any chance you’re going to make it legal? I’d think he’d want to, being an officer of the law.”

  “Um … he would. I mean, he does. We’ve talked about it.”

  Ben sighed audibly. “Damn, the Lord family curse of not being able to make up your mind. Don’t say it. I suffer from the same disease. That’s why I’m glad I have a job where I have to take orders, holy and otherwise. Just do it. By the way, Dodge should be getting a bunch of forms soon from the Archdiocese. He’ll pitch a fi
ve-star fit, but try to keep him from throwing something—like you—through your picture window.”

  “He hates paperwork.”

  “He’ll really hate this. It involves having his ex fill out a bunch of stuff, too. Have you ever met her?”

  “No.”

  Ben paused. “Maybe you should.”

  “No.”

  “Sluggly,” my brother said, reverting to his childhood nickname for me, “swallow your pride. You’re the other woman. Show—what’s her name besides Mulehide?”

  “Tricia.”

  “Show Tricia that you’re a good person. Fake it, if you have to. Let her see you realize why her marriage to Dodge failed without making her look like a villainess. Play on her sympathy, do what it takes, but win her over or there won’t be an annulment until you’re too old to care.”

  “Oh, Ben, I … I’m not sure Milo wants me to meet her.”

  “You’re not playing by his rules, you’re playing by the Church’s. Here comes my fellow priest. Got to save souls or something. Peace.”

  A face-off with Tricia daunted me, if only because she’d speak ill of Milo. I’d get upset—and defensive. I couldn’t think about it. I preferred taking the woman’s way out. I’d go shopping instead.

  Wardrobe by Wells was the name of Warren’s shop. I recognized one of the college profs I knew only by sight and, of all people, Iain Farrell, who was apparently having trouble choosing between a dozen subdued ties. I avoided him by hiding behind the sport coat sale rack. Unfortunately, none of the items was large enough to fit Milo.

  Farrell made his choice and his exit. Warren spotted me and came out from behind the counter. “Hi, Emma,” he said, sounding surprised to see me. “Are you sure you’re in the right Wells emporium?”

  “Your wife already fleeced me,” I said, and told him what I wanted.

  Warren frowned. “I only have a couple of longs in his size. Not many locals are as tall or broad-shouldered as Milo. You’d never believe he used to be a skinny, gawky kid.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I said. Warren and the sheriff had gone to school together. “I do know he’s put on a few pounds since I met him.”

  “He needed to fill out,” Warren said, displaying a black sport coat from the non-sale rack. “Here’s a Hugo Boss. Or were you thinking a brighter color?”

  “I doubt Milo would go beyond black, brown, or navy.”

  Warren’s eyes slid to the college prof, who was holding a couple of dress shirts. “Hang on, Emma. Let me take care of Bo Vardi. Check out that navy Versace—it’d fit Dodge.”

  I looked at the price tag on the Hugo Boss first—and almost had a fit. It was six hundred dollars. Milo would kick my butt if I spent that much. I never told him what I spent on my clothes. I would, if he’d ask—but he didn’t. I had a professional image to maintain. All Milo had to do was stand around in his uniform and look formidable. It worked for him, but it wouldn’t do the same for me.

  “… turned me down,” the prof was saying to Warren. “Odd duck, which was why I thought he’d be an interesting guest lecturer.”

  I remembered that Mitch had interviewed Vardi during the fall quarter. He was new to the college, teaching science, though his true love was genetics. Assuming Vardi referred to Iain Farrell, I sidled up to him.

  “Excuse me,” I said, putting on my friendliest face and introducing myself, “I’ve been hoping to meet you. My reporter, Mitch Laskey, wrote a story about you last November.”

  Vardi smiled, showing brilliant teeth in a darkly handsome face. “Yes, a very flattering article. He made me sound intelligent.”

  I smiled back. “Being a journalist, I’m a professional snoop. Did I hear you say Dr. Farrell refused an invitation to speak to your students?”

  Vardi’s limpid dark eyes grew wary. “Is this for publication?”

  I shook my head. “I’m curious. I’ve already had a run-in with him. I wondered if it was just me or if he’s unwilling to participate in the community. That seems unwise for a newcomer.”

  Vardi sighed. “Maybe I caught him at a bad time. It was early Thursday afternoon and he sounded rushed. They must be swamped at RestHaven, getting ready for the big event later today.”

  “Are you attending?”

  Vardi frowned. “I should. I’m still a newbie in town, but it’s my wife’s birthday.” He gestured at the shirts that Warren had rung up. “We’re going to Le Gourmand for dinner tonight, but first, we promised our kids to take them to Old Mill Park so they can play on the Big Toy—if it doesn’t rain. At least the river hasn’t risen too much. That’s a relief.”

  “So far so good,” I said, and wished the Vardis a happy evening.

  “Have you decided?” Warren asked.

  “Milo would arrest me for being extravagant if I spent too much. Any chance of getting something in for him that isn’t as pricey?”

  He checked his computer. “Would three hundred break the bank?”

  “What bank?”

  “How much is he worth?”

  I stared at Warren. “Oh, hell, go ahead. He never spends any money on himself unless it’s fishing gear.”

  “He’s got a fine-looking new SUV,” Warren remarked with a smile.

  “The county helps pay for that,” I said. “Milo uses it as his official vehicle. And the Nordby brothers gave him a good deal.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. By the way, he has a fine-looking lady, too.”

  “Stick it, Doubles,” I said, using his old nickname. But I laughed.

  RestHaven’s grand opening started at one-thirty. I purposely arrived late, hoping to miss any speeches or other mind-numbing formalities. When I reached the former Bronsky ballroom, which had more often been a makeshift bowling alley, a speaker was going to the rostrum. It was Jack Blackwell. Luckily, Milo was nowhere in sight.

  Jack began with thanks to all of the movers and shakers on the stage behind him, including Dr. Woo and his department heads. What followed was a mention of their careers and expertise, plus a lot of other sucking up. I drifted and was only roused by a comment from behind me.

  “Twaddle,” said Vida, not quite under her breath. “Really,” she went on as she barged her way over next to me, “Jack fits in as a county commissioner. He’s as much of a blowhard as the rest of them.”

  A couple of people I didn’t recognize frowned at my House & Home editor. She ignored them. “Patti never pressed charges when he beat her. She’s a bigger fool than he is.”

  Jack was winding down. I looked for Mitch and spotted him off to the side up front. I hoped he was taking notes or taping the speech. On the other side of the stage Fleetwood was doing his remote broadcast. Applause broke out as Jack finally finished and introduced Dr. Woo. The chief of staff was a spare-looking man in his late forties whose face crinkled nicely when he smiled.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said in a deep voice that belied his slight physique. “We hope you enjoy the tour of our facilities. I wish to introduce your guide, who knows this beautiful building better than anyone. Here is one of Alpine’s favorite sons—Mr. Ed Bronsky.”

  “Oh, good grief!” Vida exclaimed, drawing more stares. “Was he listed in the program?”

  “No,” I said. “Apparently they couldn’t fit him in.”

  “Literally,” Vida said, alluding to Ed’s girth. “Oh! He’s speaking!”

  I’d missed Ed’s opening, but caught him in mid-sentence: “… tell you about every nook and cranny of the way it was and how it is now with these great RestHaven people. At the tour’s end, I’ll be selling souvenirs from our time at Casa de Bronska. I know all of you swell folks will want mementos of this occasion, and I’ll be happy to …”

  “Ninny!” Vida cried, the pigeon on her sailor hat looking as if it wanted to fly out of the building. “The least he could do is mention the volunteers who are offering their time and talent to RestHaven.”

  We moved aside for the line that was forming. “Volunteers?”

 
Vida beamed. “Yes. Roger, for one. He’s not ready to return to academic life and he has no interest in joining the military. Instead, he’s helping here at RestHaven. Isn’t that generous of him?”

  I felt like saying that it beat having him sit on his fat butt at Mugs Ahoy and downing schooners every night. “Is he here?” It was the only non-derisive thing I could say about the lazy wretch.

  “I believe he’s in the medical rehab section,” Vida said. “That’s where Ainsley Sigurdson works as an aide.”

  I backed up even further as the audience became bottlenecked at the exits. Maybe Ed had gotten stuck in one of the doors. “Ainsley?”

  “Roger’s sweetheart. Such a sweet blond girl. Her father works for the state wildlife department. Her mother—a distant Gustavson relation—teaches at the grade school. Ainsley joined Roger when he led the young people on the search for that recluse over a year ago.”

  I recalled the buxom blonde, who, along with Roger and some other kids, had stopped their search in my yard to drink beer and smoke a joint. But it was Vida’s cavalier reference to “that recluse” that rankled. “You mean Craig Laurentis,” I snapped. “You’ve seen his Sky Autumn in my living room. He’s very talented, if wary of people.”

  “What?” Vida was lost in thought, her thumb and forefinger on her chin. “Oh—of course. Have you news of him since he was shot last fall?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but I haven’t been to Donna Wickstrom’s art gallery recently. I’ve been busy.”

  “True,” Vida allowed. “Here comes Dr. Woo. Have you met him?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I’ll introduce you. Yoo-hoo, Dr. Woo!” Vida sounded like an owl.

  Dr. Woo detoured around a couple of people who were still in the auditorium. “Mrs. Runkel! How nice to see you so soon after our meeting at Parker’s Pharmacy this morning. I’m glad you could join us.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of missing it,” Vida said with her cheesiest smile. “You must meet Emma Lord from the newspaper.”

  Dr. Woo’s expression altered slightly. “Of course. Weren’t we originally scheduled to meet earlier?”