Vida stopped by my office just after eleven. “Where’s Alison?” she asked. “I haven’t seen her for at least an hour. I heard Lori Cobb was sick over the weekend. Did Alison come down with whatever it was?”

  “She’s running errands.” I wouldn’t admit that Alison was sleuthing. Vida was often jealous of other females in my life. There were times when I felt as if I were not her boss but a fourth daughter. She had Amy, Meg, and Beth; maybe I was her Jo. “Do you need her to do something for you? She ought to be back soon.”

  “No,” Vida said, looking owlish. “I was merely curious. Oh! My nephew Billy told me that the big motor home belongs to Milo’s brother. I must interview Clint while he’s here. I babysat him, you know.”

  I didn’t. Vida claimed to have babysat everyone in Alpine who was twelve or more years her junior. “He’ll be easy to find,” I said. “I suppose he put that thing in the RV lot off Alpine Way.”

  “Actually, he didn’t,” Vida said. “Billy saw it parked by the ski lodge this morning. As you know, Henry Bardeen has a reserved area for RVs on the building’s west side. It’s mainly for skiers, of course.”

  “Then you’ll know where to find him,” I said.

  “Indeed I will. Such an outgoing boy, unlike Milo, who kept himself to himself. I thought Clint might go into politics. But he was so very keen on the sciences. He seems to have done very well for himself, though why he had to go to Dallas to do it is beyond me.” She shuddered slightly and headed for the back shop.

  Mitch entered the newsroom and stopped to pour a mug of coffee before coming into my cubbyhole. “I tried to interview Blackwell,” he said, looking irked as he sat down. “He refused to talk and slammed his office door in my face. I went to his second-in-command, Bob Sigurdson. No luck. He insisted he was in the can when the shot was fired.”

  “Closing ranks,” I murmured. “Did the sheriff have anything new on the subject?”

  Mitch shook his head. “Just that he was glad to see Blackwell go this morning. The guy’s got to have some idea who’d want to shoot him. Is there anybody around here who has a serious grudge against him except the sheriff and those two ex-wives?”

  I started to say no, but suddenly remembered what Milo had once told me. “He married another girl here after Kay Burns left him. Her name was Anne Marie Olson. But after their marriage broke up, she moved away. Apparently that was when he took up with Patti Marsh. Her first marriage was a flop, so maybe she doesn’t care if Jack has never asked her to be wife number five.”

  “Staying married isn’t easy,” Mitch murmured, looking not at me but at my Blue Sky Dairy calendar. He gave a little shrug, picked up his coffee mug, and went out to his desk.

  Alison showed up a few minutes later as I zapped Kip my editorial wishes for a successful school year. She sank onto the chair Mitch had vacated and shook her head.

  “L.J.’s not good,” she declared.

  “You mean…the wound’s more serious than it seemed?”

  “Not that,” Alison said, frowning. “Dr. Sung told me he’d be fine, though he’ll have to stay in the hospital for another day or two. He’s a basket case emotionally. I tried to get him to open up, but I flunked.”

  “Was he making sense?”

  “Yes, but he didn’t want to talk to me.” Alison sighed. “One of the nurses—Julie?” She saw me nod. “Julie said he may be suffering from trauma, like combat soldiers. I didn’t argue, but after seeing him so upset at the VI, I think L.J. was on the brink before he got shot. In fact, I wonder if he wanted to be killed, too. Gemma was his twin.”

  “That’s extreme,” I said. “He’s young, he must have other family…” I paused. “You’re the only local I know who has some rapport with L.J. Let’s go see the sheriff.”

  —

  A red-nosed, watery-eyed Lori Cobb was at the reception desk. I asked how she was feeling. Improved, she said in a wan voice. Noting that the sheriff’s door was closed, I asked if he was in conference. Lori said he was on the phone, but since he hadn’t asked not to be disturbed, we should go in.

  Milo was hanging up as we entered. “What?” he barked. “Are you two lost?”

  I assumed a businesslike air. “Alison has information about the vic’s brother,” I said after sitting down.

  Typically, my husband showed no reaction. “Make it quick. I was about to head out for lunch with Rip Ridley. It’s the coach’s last free day before school starts tomorrow.”

  I turned to Alison, who was looking vaguely intimidated. “Go ahead.”

  “Well,” she began, clearing her throat, “I’ve visited him in the hospital, and he won’t talk about his sister’s death at all. But…” She paused, no doubt taken aback by Milo’s intense hazel eyes. “I asked him about funeral arrangements. He wouldn’t answer. How weird is that?”

  Milo nodded once. “He’s not helping us much, either. In fact, he all but stonewalled me. He has to tell his mother, who’s been out of the country. She’s due back about now, though. Is that it?”

  Alison glanced at me. I shrugged.

  Milo stood up. “Okay, so beat it. Rip’s probably wondering where the hell I am. He’s got to be on the football field by one o’clock for the team’s practice.”

  I was on my feet. “Why do the Buckers bother practicing? They’ll go two and ten again this season.”

  “They may not even do that,” Milo said, following us out of his office. “They play two new schools. Rip doesn’t believe in scouting reports.”

  Halfway through the open area between the sheriff’s office and the front counter, I stopped. “Hey, have you talked to Jennifer Hood yet?”

  Milo shook his head. “I called, but she was with a patient. I’ll send one of my deputies after lunch.”

  “What about Anne Marie Olson?” I asked as we went through the double doors.

  “What about her? She’s been gone for almost thirty years. Are you trying to take over my job—again?” He darted a look at a blue Mustang that had run the arterial at Second and Front. “Damn, I’d better nail that jerk.” In two long strides Milo got into the Yukon.

  “It’s nearly noon,” I said to Alison. “Let’s go to the Burger Barn.”

  We found an empty booth at the rear of the restaurant. After we sat down, she gave me a worried look. “Is he always so mean to you?”

  The question startled me. “Mean? How was Milo mean?”

  “Well…” Alison looked uncomfortable. “The way he talked to you. You’ve only been married a few months. He was insensitive, even rude.”

  I leaned forward, keeping my voice down. “Milo and I have known each other for sixteen years. We’ve been friends and lovers off and on ever since we met. From the start, we’ve had to separate our personal feelings from our work responsibilities. Our jobs often put us at odds. That’s always been true of law enforcement and the media. When I walk into the sheriff’s office, I’m Ms. Lord, not Mrs. Dodge. I’ve kept my maiden name for professional purposes. We’re used to conflicts in our work.”

  “It still seems weird,” Alison murmured. “I guess it’s because you’re both older. Love and marriage must be more…practical, right?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer Alison without violating my own privacy. I resorted to redirection. “Your father and your stepmother were in their early thirties when they got married. How old were you then?”

  “Eight,” she replied. “Why?”

  “Do you remember how they acted with each other?”

  “Well…” She made a face. “They held hands a lot. Sometimes they’d kiss. But I was just a kid. I think they—especially my dad—didn’t want to hurt my feelings about my birth mother. She gave up custody, which was bad enough. I guess they wanted me to still respect her.”

  “That was considerate,” I said. “I admired how they were raising you. It was prudent not to overdo displays of affection. That might’ve upset you when you were still a little girl.”

  “I never thought about it,” Alison admitted. She seemed wistful. “Maybe I should.”

  —

  Back at the office, I edited and proofed copy. If there was time and we had space for anything more than the election results, I’d add a brief comment on the op-ed page. Our House & Home editor put out a call for last-minute “Scene” items. She asked if anyone had an election-related sighting.

  We were all mute until Mitch finally spoke up. “It’s the first time Brenda and I voted here since we moved from Royal Oak.”

  Vida frowned. “You know we don’t include staff members, at least not by name. I could say ‘Michigan transplants,’ though. Yes, that works.” She gave Mitch her cheesiest smile. “It speaks well of Alpine that newcomers become involved in the community.”

  Just before heading home, I conferred with Kip, telling him I’d zap the election results as soon as I heard from Eleanor Jessup. “It might be as late as eleven,” I warned him. “Will that screw up the press run?”

  “No,” he assured me. “I’ve had to wait that long when the county commissioners still held their meetings on Tuesday night.”

  “True,” I said. “Leave a two-inch box on the front page, okay?”

  Kip nodded and returned to the back shop.

  Driving home I wondered if the Dutch Star would be parked in the driveway. There wasn’t room on Fir Street’s dirt and gravel verge. Sidewalks and curbs didn’t exist where I lived, six blocks from the business district. The voters had turned down every local-improvement-district proposal that had been on the ballot for the last ten years.

  To my relief, the big motor home wasn’t in sight. I pulled into the garage, entering our log cabin via the kitchen. Before I could start for the bedroom to change, I heard a knock on the back door. Warily, I moved closer to ask who was there.

  “Just us Dodges,” Clint boomed. “We brought our own martoonies.”

  Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door. “Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “How’d you get here?”

  “We walked from the RV park,” Clint replied. “They let us leave our rig there. Say, this is a nice little place you and my kid bro have got here. But what’s with the crime scene stuff at his old house?”

  “Long story,” I replied, leading the way into the living room. “I’ll let Milo fill you in.”

  “Our niece was just pulling up,” Clint replied, commandeering Milo’s easy chair while Pootsie sat in my usual place on the sofa. They had plastic glasses for their martinis. Maybe the Dutch Star had its own bar. “So Tanya’s living there,” he went on. “I thought she was in the ’burbs near Seattle.”

  “She was,” I said, sensing that Milo hadn’t revealed his daughter’s tragedy with her late fiancé. “Tanya wanted a change.”

  I’d sat down on the sofa with Pootsie, who gave me a quizzical look. “We heard Tanya was getting married before Bran did. What happened?”

  The sound of the garage door spared me an answer. “That must be Milo,” I said, getting up and hurrying into the kitchen. “Hi!” I greeted my husband with feigned enthusiasm. “Clint and Pootsie are here.”

  Luckily, our visitors couldn’t see their host’s expression. He took a deep breath, squared his broad shoulders, and went into the living room. “You’re early,” he said. “Why are you drinking out of plastic cups?”

  “Part of our traveling party gear,” Clint replied. “We bought a top-of-the-line blender just for this trip. Hey, bro, get yourself some happy juice and take a load off.”

  “I have to change, okay?” Milo managed to sound affable.

  Clint waved a hand. “Sure, sure. Wouldn’t want the locals thinking you were arresting us. You still got that fire-engine-red Grand Cherokee as your official vehicle?”

  Milo paused in the hall doorway. “No. I’ve got a Yukon Denali.”

  “Whoo-ey!” Clint shouted, raising his hands. “We can ride with you in that big buggy.”

  “Right.” My husband disappeared into the hall.

  I steered the conversation to Clint and Pootsie’s twins. Muffy, who I gathered was female, had recently finished her doctorate in environmental sciences at Baylor and was mulling job offers in at least nine different states and a couple of foreign countries. Duffy had attended Texas A & M, Rice, and Hardin-Simmons. I finally figured out that Duffy was a male when Pootsie lamented that it had been hard for him to find his academic niche. Apparently he was now considering an out-of-state school or maybe barber college.

  After Milo changed and we both fortified ourselves with a couple of short drinks, he suggested we leave early for Le Gourmand. I excused myself to call Peter, coincidentally half of another set of twins whose parents owned the restaurant. He and his brother, Paul, took turns as the managers. At my humblest, I asked if we could be seated sooner than our original reservation.

  “Sure,” he said. “I can’t refuse the sheriff’s wife.”

  I thanked Peter and rang off.

  The evening passed in a relatively peaceful manner, given the vagaries of Milo’s relatives. Of course, the in-laws’ comments about Le Gourmand suggested they thought our local restaurant lacking when compared to the wonders of Dallas’s many fine dining establishments. I drifted a bit while my husband interjected an occasional comment, such as “That right?,” “No kidding,” and “Huh.”

  But we had an excuse to escape before Clint got launched on Dallas’s undeniable cultural supremacy. Just after eight, Milo managed to catch his relatives stopping for breath and said I had to check election results before the paper went to press.

  Pootsie evinced surprise. “Can’t you wait for the late TV news?”

  “Odd time for an election,” Clint muttered, fumbling with a hand-tooled wallet. “Now where’d I put…”

  “Emma owns the newspaper,” Milo said.

  Pootsie’s pixie face grew puzzled. “Owns?” She acted as if the word was foreign to her.

  Clint leaned across his wife to put a hand on his brother’s arm. “I left my damned Amex card in the Star. Can you cover this?” He waved his other hand to take in the restaurant. “I’ll make it up to you.”

  I saw Milo’s hazel eyes spark. But he nodded once. “Sure.”

  The five minutes that followed passed in a haze of my husband presenting his own Visa card to Peter, signing the slip with tip included, and Pootsie nattering away about how she hoped Muffy would take an offer from a Dallas firm, even if it meant less money than the one in Chicago.

  The half-mile drive from Le Gourmand into town was mercifully brief. Clint thought they might spend Wednesday looking up old friends in Monroe and Mill Creek. Pootsie reminded him that they should call on his aunt Thelma and uncle Elmer at their farm.

  “They gave up the farm five, six years ago,” Milo informed them. “They’re in the retirement home.”

  “I’ll be danged,” Clint said. “Guess I haven’t kept up with them like I should. They both still got all their marbles?”

  “Aunt Thelma does,” my husband replied, crossing the green truss bridge. “Uncle Elmer’s another matter. But then he always was.”

  “He’s not a Dodge,” Clint stated. “That’s good news for the likes of us, bro. Maybe we won’t lose it when we get that old.”

  Milo didn’t comment. He was too intent on driving up Alpine Way at least twenty miles over the speed limit. It couldn’t have taken us more than a minute to turn off onto Fir and see the RV park up ahead.

  “Where to tomorrow night?” Clint asked, leaning close behind Milo.

  My mate kept looking straight ahead. “I can’t make a commitment yet. I’ve got a homicide investigation. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “A homicide?” Clint sounded startled. “Hell, bro,” he said, clapping Milo on the shoulder, “that’s big stuff! You should’ve told us!”

  “It’ll be in Emma’s paper tomorrow,” my husband said. “Have a good night.”

  Clint and Pootsie got out of the Yukon. I could see the outline of their motor home in the late summer’s dying light as Milo reversed out onto Fir, shaking his head.

  “Hey,” I said, poking him in the arm, “you remembered the paper comes out tomorrow. I’m stunned.”

  “Lucky guess,” he muttered. “I swear Clint gets worse with age. If Pootsie wasn’t such a dim bulb, she’d have walked on him years ago.”

  “She can’t be a total dope or she’d never have finished college.”

  “She didn’t,” Milo replied, turning into our driveway. “She quit to help Clint finish grad school. Hell, maybe she flunked out. But Pootsie came from money. Her folks were wheat ranchers over in the Palouse, the kind that’d take off for Europe or somewhere in the winter.”

  We got out of the Yukon and went inside. “I’ll bet Clint and Pootsie have a lavish house in Dallas,” I said. “Have you seen pictures?”

  “Yeah,” Milo said, shrugging out of the sport coat I’d given him for his birthday. “They went through a phase of sending Christmas cards with the four of them looking out of different windows. Spanish style, stucco, tile roof, and all that. Swimming pool, fountain, gnomes.” He put his arms around me. “You jealous?”

  I shook my head. “We’ve got gophers.” I leaned my head against his chest. “And I’d rather have you than your big-mouthed brother.”

  “Good.” He scooped me up, his face close to mine. “Prove it.”

  I smiled. “With pleasure, Sheriff.”

  —

  Half an hour later, I rolled over in bed to look at the clock. It was almost eight-thirty. It was too soon for the election results to have been counted, but I still planned to call Eleanor Jessup as soon as I got dressed.

  “What’s the rush?” Milo asked. “You’re suddenly anti-snuggling?”

  I started putting my clothes back on. “I’m still working, remember? Say, did you send another deputy to see L. J. Jennings?”

  “I sent Mullins.” Milo tossed the covers aside and got up. “If Jack shuts up long enough, he can get other people to talk. But he flunked with Jennings. I’ll haul him in after he gets out of the hospital. Doc Dewey figures that should be tomorrow.”

  I pulled on a UW T-shirt. “I don’t get it. His sister’s been murdered and he’s a clam?”