Alpine Zen : An Emma Lord Mystery (9780804177481) (27 page)

“All she had was some of your poetry and a postcard from Alpine,” I said. “The name Aurea was on the back of the postcard.”

“Aurea?” Kay looked puzzled. “Oh—maybe it was Ourea. It's a reference to the primeval gods of the mountains in Greece. I was writing a poem about them, I suppose.” She grimaced. “I wrote some really awful poetry. If you read any of it, you know that.”

“I only heard some quotes Ren mentioned to Vida when she visited her in the hospital,” I replied.

“I merely dabbled at poetry. My late husband, Ross, was the PR creative force. I handled the business side and dealt with clients.”

“Mr. Burns,” I remarked, making sure I had Kay's mates lined up correctly. I posed an awkward query. “Was Mr. Arthur Ren's father?”

“No.” Kay seemed amused. “I'd met Matthew Arthur while I was carrying Ren. He offered to marry me, but I felt it'd be
wrong for him to take on a child who wasn't his. Oh, he argued, but my divorce from Jack wasn't final and wouldn't be for another couple of months. There were problems to be worked out.”

I recalled Milo telling me about his own breakup and that it had taken almost two years to finalize his divorce. “I understand,” I murmured. “This may seem like an odd question, but there is something I have to know. Is Bob Jenkins actually Craig Laurentis?”

Kay gaped at me. “You mean the recluse who's also an artist?”

She seemed sincere in her surprise. “Donna sells his paintings at her gallery.”

“I've never gone in there. I'm not really into art.” Kay gestured at the Paris wall posters. “That's as much of an art lover as I am. I like those because they have romance and the lure of a glamorous lifestyle.” She laughed self-consciously. “I've been to Europe twice, but I didn't visit museums. I don't know anything about the recluse. I've never seen him. I don't think he was around when I lived here.”

“No,” I said in a dull tone. “I don't think he was, either. Do you know what became of Bob Jenkins?”

Kay shook her head. “I lost track of him after I married Matt. He was probably off on one of his protests or demonstrations. I did admire him for his political activism, of course. It was a big part of our times.”

So much for that line of inquiry. But I wasn't done with Kay. “Donna thinks that painting is an early Craig Laurentis,” I said. “Apparently, he changed his name for artistic purposes.”

Kay smiled. “More likely to avoid the draft. He did talk about moving to Canada.”

“That fits,” I agreed. “In any event, you should have Donna appraise the painting, if only for insurance purposes.”

“Really?” Kay looked flummoxed. “Maybe I will. How did it end up at the dump site? I thought I left it in the apartment when I moved out after marrying Matt Arthur.”

“I've no idea,” I admitted. Maybe Bob—or Craig—had come to see Kay and found she'd left without the painting. Maybe he'd taken it with him—and eventually buried it as a bad memory. The young man might have felt either he or his art had been rejected. Maybe both.

“I never thought Bob was that good,” Kay was saying. “I have no appreciation or understanding of art. I left some of Bob's sketches with Ren. Rivers, waterfalls, streams—Pacific Northwest scenery. If she kept them, they might be of value to her. One was of the Olympics. Bob sketched it while I worked on a poem about the Ourea. My apartment on Seattle's First Hill looked to the west. I literally wanted to put the Cascades behind me.”

“Ren may still have them,” I said, standing up. “Are you going to tell her the truth?”

Kay was also on her feet. “Should I?” She seemed to be speaking to herself rather than to me.

“Wouldn't it be the right thing to do? For both of you?”

The tears returned to her blue—“cerulean blue”—eyes. “I'm not sure.”

“Is that because Bob was her father?”

“Bob?” Kay looked stupefied. “Heavens, no!” She took a deep breath. “I was pregnant when I left Alpine. Ren's father is Jack Blackwell.” She touched her face. “I finally told him I'd had his baby and given her away. That's why he hit me.”

—

I didn't offer Kay any more advice. That was a decision only she could make. After saying as much and assuring her any secrets were safe with me, I left. On a whim, I dropped down
to Alpine's First Hill to call on Donna Wickstrom. She was feeding lunch to her day-care charges.

“I just put the Overholt baby down for a nap,” she said. “Are you here to find out if Craig's dropped off a new work?”

“No, but it's Craig-related,” I replied, not taking time to mention that I'd seen him over the weekend. “Have you got a brochure here?”

“Yes,” she replied, smiling. “Are you browsing?”

“I'm afraid not,” I admitted. “I've never seen your brochure. You didn't need a sales pitch to get me hooked on
Sky Autumn
.”

“The easiest sale I ever made,” Donna said with a laugh as she went to a drawer in the china closet. “Here. This needs updating, though. You can handle the job in your back shop, right?”

“Yes, talk to Kip.” I flipped through the pages—and stopped to stare at a Laurentis I'd never seen. “When did you sell this one?”

Donna glanced at a mountain scene. “That's the first of his I sold—over two years ago. You can tell it's the Olympics from a distance.”

I nodded. “I'll bet he painted this some time ago.”

“Probably. You know how he works. It takes him years to get everything the way he wants it. I suspect he did it from memory.” Donna gave a little shrug. “Don't ask me why. For one thing, it's the only thing of his I've ever seen that's from a distant perspective.”

I handed over the brochure. “I'm sure you're right. Who bought it?”

“Tourists,” Donna replied. “They were passing through on their way from Banff and Lake Louise. They live on the Oregon coast. I guess they were tired of seascapes. Is that early effort of Craig's still in custody?”

I made a face. “It got liberated. The owner claimed it.”

Donna was wide-eyed. “You're kidding!”

“Not really. I'm sworn to secrecy, but I have a feeling you'll find out soon enough. If not, you can torture me until I squeal.”

“Well! That's intriguing….” She spun around as shrieks erupted from the kitchen. A fair-haired little girl came racing into the living room. “What's wrong, Savannah?” Donna inquired.

“Jordan put pudding in my hair!” she cried, throwing her arms around Donna's legs. “He needs a time-out!”

“I think,” I said, “that's my cue to leave you in…chaos.”

“I'm used to it,” Donna said. “I'll be waiting for the Laurentis owner. Meanwhile, I'll check out Savannah's complaint against Jordan.”

I wished her luck and made my exit. Now I knew why Ren had passed out when she'd seen the brochure. Maybe she'd seen an earlier version of the Olympics that had been left behind by her mother. I was vaguely sorry that Craig wasn't Ren's father. Just about any local except Crazy Eights Neffel would be an improvement over Black Jack.

Leo was the only staffer in the newsroom when I got back around one. “Guess what,” he said, looking puckish, but not waiting for me to speak. “Brian sorted out things with his bosses at Raytheon and asked for a transfer. He got it—to their operation in Tukwila.”

“Tukwila!” I gasped. “You know that's just south of Seattle.”

Leo grinned. “Sure. I drove by it going and coming from the L.A. flight. Brian won't start there until after Labor Day, though. In fact, they're going to Hawaii for their honeymoon and think maybe they'll come back via Sea-Tac and look for a place to live in the area.”

“How does Liza feel about this?” I asked.

“Not good,” Leo replied, no longer smiling. “She tried to convince Brian he could find another, better job in the L.A. area, but this is also a promotion. I told her it's not as if they're moving to Saudi Arabia.”

“Do you think she'd consider moving up here?”

“I doubt it,” Leo replied. “Liza's a real California girl.”

I dreaded asking the next question. “Does this change your own plans about retirement?”

“I just found out ten minutes ago,” he replied.

I let the subject drop. Leo had to live his life the way he saw fit. Vida called an hour later to say she was using the Hibberts' computer to work on her page. “I'm already behind,” she told me in an exasperated tone. “Losing Monday to the long weekend has put me in a bit of a hole.”

“You'll dig your way out,” I assured her. “How's Amy?”

“Wan,” she replied. “I told her I'd phone in a prescription for gumption. That made her cry. Really now! Oh—I must see to Dippy. He's getting into the oven.”

Shortly after three-thirty, I felt as if
I
were in an oven. I'd put one fan in the newsroom and the other by my desk. It was too small to do more than riffle a few pages of press releases. My office still felt stuffy and I'd become restless. Having no further word from the sheriff's office, I decided to pester my husband in person.

“Maybe,” Lori said when I arrived, “you can cheer him up. He's kind of grouchy.”

I feigned shock. “Dodge is grouchy?”

“Maybe I shouldn't have asked him if he was going to Grandma's funeral tomorrow,” Lori murmured. “You better knock first.”

I did. Milo barked back. I assumed he meant I should come in.

“Oh,” he said, “it's you.”

“Don't sound so thrilled about it,” I retorted, shutting the door behind me. “At least you've got big fans in here. I forgot to bring my new one to the office.”

“You came here to bitch?”

“No. I came here to annoy you. And to tell you that Jack Blackwell is Ren Rawlings's father. I bet you didn't know that, Sheriff.”

“Shit.” He shook his head. “So that's what happened with him and Kay? Or was it just reflex on his part? And how did you find out?”

“Kay told me,” I replied. “She's Ren's mother.”

“Oh, Christ!” Milo half-spun around in his chair. “No wonder their kid's half nuts. Do I want to know how you figured all this out?”

“No,” I asserted. “Because I only got the Kay part right. I was wrong about Craig being Ren's father. Blackwell's her father.”

My husband paused to collect himself. “You can tell me the gruesome details later after I've got a Scotch in hand. I've spent two hours listening to Ellerbee and Ramsey spill their guts. Before it slips what's left of my mind, Ellerbee confessed he's the lurker, and yes, he's Wes's brother. We tracked down the family members in Montana, who claimed to have lost track of both Wes and Des years ago. Maybe that's true. I don't blame them. Des has also been known as Aaron Conley. He's got a California rap sheet for window peeking. No assaults, no showing off his anatomy. He just likes to look. He claims he's curious, doing research for his movie script. But he's going down this time for the murder of Glenn McElroy.”

I gaped at the sheriff. “Are you sure?”

Milo sat up straight and gave me an arch look. “Ellerbee owned a Colt forty-five. I saw it when I searched the cabin. He also had a carry permit, so there was no reason to ask him
about it. When I took Rosemary home last night she mentioned McElroy had been nosing around. That gave Ellerbee a motive to get rid of McElroy. Now the Feds will take over. Their agent, some guy named Smith, takes over now. He's legit. But I've got a call in to the state arson squad. They can't be here until tomorrow. Ellerbee's out of my hands, even if he is in my jail.”

I was momentarily overcome, “Poor Rosie. What about Dean?”

“That went down with Conley the way we figured,” Milo replied, lighting a cigarette. “Ramsey was being a nice guy and checked in with Conley now and then to see how he was getting along. But the last time—the spring of ninety-nine—Conley was really cranked up on something and got violent. He charged at Dean, yelling and screaming. There was a scuffle, Conley fell, hitting his head on the fireplace tools. The pointed end of the shovel went through his ear and killed him. That's why Doc and the Everett ME couldn't find any apparent skull damage. Freak accident, but Ramsey can't stop blaming himself.”

“What did Dean do then? Drive the body to the dump site?”

“He swears he doesn't remember much about the aftermath except digging a hole after it got dark.” Milo nodded at his SkyCo map. “I asked if he knew about the dump by Carroll Creek. He was vague, said he'd heard it mentioned, but had never gone there. He probably hasn't, except for burying Conley. Why would he? He doesn't live in Alpine.”

I was silent for a moment. “So no charges against him re Conley?”

“What could I charge him with? The stabbing this morning is another matter.” Milo put out his cigarette and stretched.
“It's iffy, though. Ramsey was trying to unlock the door to get out. Ellerbee tried to stop him. I'll go with some half-assed assault charge.”

“I can't quote that in the news,” I said with a dirty look.

“The paper doesn't come out until next week,” the sheriff responded. “Your deadline's…Tuesday, right?” He looked uncertain.

“You know damned well when our deadline is,” I declared. “I'm talking about posting it online, jackass.”

“That's
Sheriff
Jackass to you, Ms. Lord,” he said sternly.

We glared at each other. Then we stared at each other.

“God, I'm glad I married you,” he muttered.

I smiled. “I'm glad you did, too.”

I left him then. I was still smiling.

—

Dinner. I couldn't bear to turn on the stove. I hated to ask Milo to barbecue. I knew he was not only hot, but he'd put in a rougher day than I had. I wondered if I could set off the charcoal. I'd probably incinerate myself and set our log cabin on fire. Then the arson squad would have two jobs. I stopped at the Grocery Basket to peruse their deli items. Having skipped lunch, I was hungry. I also lacked imagination, so I bought fried chicken, a green salad, baked potatoes, and an apple pie.