I wasn’t going to be the bearer of bad news. “You should call the sheriff’s office,” I said. “Let me give you the number.” I rattled it off. Ms. Compton thanked me and hung up. Vida practically flew into my office.

  “Why,” she demanded, “didn’t you tell her to call the brother?”

  “Maybe she did, but he was still in the hospital, where cells don’t work,” I said. “Grim news should be delivered officially.”

  “Well…perhaps.” Vida sighed. She glanced over her shoulder. “I see Alison is finally back at her post. Wherever did she go this morning?”

  “She had some errands,” I hedged.

  “It’s going on two,” Vida noted, checking the Bulova watch her late husband had given her over forty years ago. “Does Alison have a nursing degree I don’t know about?”

  I chose to play dumb, which wasn’t difficult, since I had no idea what Alison was doing. “Don’t ask me. I’m not her mother.”

  “True.” Vida frowned. “If you were her real mother, you’d be dead.”

  Given what had happened to the Advocate, that was not a cheerful exit line.

  —

  I didn’t talk to Alison until Vida had gone off on whatever task she had tucked under her blue sailor hat. When I finally went into the front office, our receptionist was glum.

  “The nurse appears displeased,” I observed, keeping my voice down.

  “I’m totally bummed,” she murmured through taut lips. “L.J. won’t talk to me. Not even after I offered to help him settle in at the ski lodge. I went with him anyway, but he wouldn’t let me into his suite.”

  I leaned against the counter. “Can’t talk or won’t?”

  “Won’t. He did tell me to take off.” She turned away to stare at the wall.

  I considered my words carefully. “He’s grieving and he’s been shot. You have to make allowances.”

  Alison finally looked at me again. “You’re right. I’m acting like a total drama queen. Maybe I should never have gone on that Alaska cruise earlier this summer.”

  I was puzzled. “What did that have to do with anything?”

  She sighed. “My BFF, Kelly—you don’t know her, she lives in Everett—wanted to go because she heard men outnumber women in Alaska. She’s been thinking about moving there. The whole time we were gone she kept talking about how we women either get married in our early twenties or not until we’re a lot older. She mentioned at least two dozen girls we’d gone to high school with who were already married and that our prime time was running out. I guess her attitude’s contagious. I came back here and maybe I pressured Justin a little. That’s when he said we should cool it for a while. I knew what that meant.”

  “But you’re not sorry now, are you?”

  “Not really.” She smiled faintly. “At the picnic I saw several girls still in their teens chasing little kids. I’m not ready to do that yet.”

  “Some of them won’t have the dads around for long,” I pointed out. “You know the divorce statistics.”

  She eyed me curiously. “It must be different when you’re older. I mean, it can’t be as exciting.”

  I just looked back at her. “Why not? We’ve had more practice.”

  Alison’s eyes widened. “Oh! I never thought about that.”

  I merely smiled.

  —

  Eleanor Jessup called around three-thirty to say they’d done the recount twice and—amazingly—Marlowe had found the remaining absentee ballots. He’d tucked them away in “a special place” but forgotten where that was. Luckily, another postal employee had decided to clean out the office refrigerator and found the ballots behind the dill pickles.

  “The final tally shows that the yes votes won by eleven,” Eleanor announced in a weary voice. Then she paused. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that Jack Blackwell is calling for an investigation. Apparently, he wants to hedge his bets. We can’t certify the election until we get a court order. That may take a few days. Judge Proxmire took this week off.”

  “Great,” I said on a sort of groan. “I assume it’s okay to post the unofficial count? And is Jack’s legal maneuver official?”

  Eleanor told me the results could be made public, but Blackwell would have to follow procedure with his stalling tactic. That might take until next week. I rang off and went in the back shop to have Kip post the not-so-final results. He still looked worn out.

  “Leave early,” I said. “You need a nap.”

  He didn’t argue. Fifteen minutes later, he stopped by my cubbyhole to say he was going home. I urged him to stay awake until he got there.

  Dick Bourgette was as good as his word. He showed up shortly before five to say he and his sons would start putting up a temporary wall as soon as we cleared out of the office. I thanked him, and with Alison’s broken romance lingering in my head, I inquired after his daughter, Rosemary. She, too, had recently suffered through a breakup.

  Dick grinned at me. “I take it you haven’t talked to her lately?”

  “No. When I’ve been to the courthouse I’ve been in a hurry or she was plying her trade as prosecuting attorney. What’s up with her?”

  “Evan Singer,” Dick replied, referring to the 911 operator who also owned the Whistling Marmot movie theater. “Brief as her romance was with the movie script writer, Rosie got serious about film as an art form. She asked Evan about those old movies his grandfather had stored in the theater’s basement.” Dick’s blue eyes twinkled. “They seem to be hitting it off.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “I knew Evan had been seeing someone in Sultan for quite some time. I assume they broke up?”

  Dick shrugged. “I guess so. Not that we’re rushing her. But hitting the big four-oh this year seemed to affect Rosie quite a bit.”

  “At that age, I was settling in as a small-town newspaper owner,” I said. “In some ways, it seems like a lifetime ago. But I can testify that life doesn’t end at forty.”

  Dick grinned. “It doesn’t end at sixty, either. Hey, I’d better let you go. John and Dan should be here any minute. I’ll check back tomorrow about the insurance.”

  I thanked Dick and gathered up my belongings. It still felt strange to look out from my cubbyhole and see Front Street instead of the wall, the window, and Vida at her desk. Stranger yet was that I was leaving via the rear door. It could have been worse. I could be wading through rubble.

  —

  Milo didn’t get home until almost six. Predictably, he was grumpy. “SnoCo’s backed up more than usual because of the damned long weekend,” he groused after bestowing a halfhearted kiss on me. “Why do so many dumb-asses have to get drowned on a holiday? Why don’t they just stay inside and drink themselves stupid?”

  “Did anyone from here drown?” I asked at my most ingenuous.

  The sheriff glared at me before tossing his hat at the peg by the front door. He missed and swore under his breath. “No. But as usual, we’re last in line over in Everett. How soon are we eating?”

  “Twenty minutes? Or do you need time to unwind?”

  He picked up his hat and set it on a peg before answering. “I’ll change first. Save the daffy questions until I’m holding a drink.”

  By the time he returned to the kitchen to collect his Scotch, I had the potatoes boiling and the broccoli ready to cook. “Where’s the meat?” he asked, faintly dismayed.

  “It’s salmon fillets. You like them. They take ten minutes. Let’s sit in the living room. I want to hear all the things you’re not going to tell me.”

  Milo heaved a sigh as he followed me to our usual places. “I can tell you Blatt went up to the ski lodge to talk to Jennings. He didn’t have much to say.”

  “Poor guy,” I murmured. “Did you let his mother know?”

  “He didn’t mention his mother. The guy’s not in very good shape.”

  I was puzzled. “Wait. Didn’t Ms. Compton call you?”

  Milo scowled at me. “Ms. Who? What are you talking about? Did you hit the sauce before I got home?”

  “No!” I took a deep breath. “Georgiana Compton—Gemma’s mother in Coeur d’Alene—called our office this afternoon. I didn’t want to give her the bad news, so I told her to contact you.”

  “Jesus. This is…” Milo paused. “I wonder why she never got hold of me. Did somebody call her after she talked to you?”

  “How do I know? Who’d do that? Nobody around here knew she existed except L.J.”

  My husband stroked his chin. “I wonder if it was Blackwell. But how would he know Ms. Compton?”

  “When did he give up his mills in Idaho and Oregon?”

  Milo considered briefly. “Twenty years, at least. He’s so full of himself that he wants a hands-on operation. That was tough with mills in three different states.”

  “True.” It was my turn to think. “There has to be a connection. Two siblings from Idaho don’t come to Alpine on a whim. They had a purpose.”

  “It almost sounds like an undercover job,” Milo said wryly. “But if they were hired by someone, say a government agency, why wasn’t my office alerted? Unless we’re talking hocus-pocus in high places, that’s the usual drill.”

  “The feds haven’t always kept you up to speed,” I reminded him.

  “That’s what I mean,” he asserted. “Those cases involved undercover work, high finance—state and federal stuff. We can rule out Fred Iverson and the Venison Inn being mobbed up, so that leaves Blackwell. But he owns a logging company, for God’s sake.”

  “What if Jack made a pass at Gemma and things got ugly?”

  Milo leaned his head against the back of the easy chair and gazed at the beamed ceiling. “You’re off to fantasyland again. Sure, now and then the bastard might try to get laid by somebody other than Patti Marsh, but I doubt he’d pick on a waitress from the VI. Are we going to eat or are you trying to starve me?”

  I got off the sofa. “The salmon’s almost ready,” I fibbed. “Relax. You haven’t finished your Scotch.”

  Milo shook his head. “You haven’t turned on the oven. You’re lying again, little Emma.”

  “I hate you.” I shot him a dirty look and stomped off to the kitchen.

  “Right,” my husband muttered as the doorbell rang.

  I heard him cuss before he got up to see who was there. Then he cussed again before opening the door. “Hi, Clint,” he said. “What’s up?”

  I almost lost my grip on the oven door. Keeping out of sight, I quietly closed the oven and tried to hear Clint’s answer.

  “…pals from Wazzu…the Swifts in Sultan…Aunt Thelma…how she puts up with…always was weird…a damned Remington 700! How the hell did it get in our…stand here all night?”

  Curiosity got the best of me, so I ventured into the living room. Clint was already in the house. By the time I reached my husband’s side, Pootsie was skittering through the door, looking bug-eyed.

  “Hi,” I said, but neither of the other Dodges seemed to hear me. Clint was eyeing both the easy chair and Milo’s almost-empty glass of Scotch.

  “You got any more of that stuff?” he asked.

  “Hold it,” my husband said, putting out a long arm to stop his brother from moving toward the chair. “I want to see that rifle. Let’s go.”

  The Dodge brothers went, but Pootsie stayed. She made for the sofa, but at least she flopped down at the opposite end from where I usually sat. “Have you got martooni makings?” she asked.

  “I think I have gin, but no vermouth,” I replied. “Is there anything you’d like instead?”

  Pootsie blinked several times. “Vodka tonic?”

  I made a face. “I don’t have tonic, either.”

  “Well, shoot!” Pootsie looked as if she’d like to shoot me. “Okay, I’ll be a sport. Vodka rocks will do.”

  “Fine.” I forced a smile. Pootsie remained in place, which was just as well. I didn’t want her to see my dinner preparations. She might get ideas about joining us. After pouring her drink, I topped off my Canadian and 7-Up. I wanted to fortify myself in case Milo and I were in for the long haul.

  When I returned to the living room I looked through the picture window but realized I couldn’t see the motor home. “Where’s the Star?” I asked, handing Pootsie her drink.

  “The RV park. Where else?” She stared at me as if I were Alpine’s Village Idiot.

  “Oh.” I sat in my usual place. Since they’d gone on foot, our spouses wouldn’t be back right away. Milo would have to get a deputy to take custody of the Remington. I was stuck with Pootsie. “What’s this about a rifle?”

  Her face contorted slightly. “That was the darnedest thing. It was between the bed and the wall. We didn’t see it until I changed the sheets. I thought we’d borrow your washer and dryer. Have you eaten yet?”

  I couldn’t lie. “No.” Then I settled for a fib. “We were thinking of going out.” I was thinking about it now that the in-laws had arrived.

  “We’ll go with you. I hope Clint remembers to get the wash. He was so upset about the gun that he forgot to grab it on the way out.”

  At the start of the tourist season we’d run a story about the RV park and mentioned its laundry facilities. But Pootsie had seen our new washer and dryer when they’d come in the back way on their earlier visit. I was up a stump, as the old-time loggers would say.

  “Where will we eat tonight?” Pootsie asked. “The ski lodge has so many heavy Scandinavian dishes. What else have you got around here?”

  “The Heartbreak Hotel Diner. You probably saw it after you crossed the truss bridge.”

  She wrinkled her pug nose. “A diner?” She made the word sound obscene. “How about going…what’s that bigger town where the jail is?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from asking if she liked prison food. “Monroe’s over an eighty-mile roundtrip,” I said. “I doubt Milo wants to leave town when he’s working a murder investigation and trying to nail whoever bombed my newspaper office last night.”

  Pootsie burst out with an ear-rattling howl. “That’s funny!” she managed to get out between yuks. “You’re quite a kidder. Hey,” she went on, staring at the melting ice in her glass, “how about a refill? Where are the boys? How long does it take to get a laundry bag?”

  “Not much longer.” Another lie. I hadn’t veered from the truth so much since Ed Bronsky was my ad manager and I encouraged him to find new advertisers by praising his nonexistent work ethic. Flattery hadn’t worked any better than Ed did. “Let’s wait for refills. You and Clint must have had a busy day.”

  The comment evoked a suspicious look from Pootsie. Before she could respond, the phone rang. I picked up the receiver to hear Alison on the other end. “Guess what?” she exclaimed. “L.J. asked me to dinner Friday night to apologize for acting like a total jerk. I am so hyped!”

  I tried to ignore Pootsie’s curious stare. “He must be feeling better. Do you know where you’re going?”

  “No,” Alison replied. “It could be Mickey D’s. I don’t care. Do you think I’m insane?”

  “Of course not. I’m glad for you. We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure. Oh! Hang on.” She turned away from the phone to speak to someone. Lori, probably, since I heard a female voice in the background. “We’ve got company.” She lowered her voice. “It’s that pollster doofus, Ronnie Davis. He’s asking to be buzzed in. I wonder what he wants. Talk to you later.”

  I put the handset back in the cradle. “Sorry,” I said to Pootsie, who looked as if she’d be frowning if her forehead had any wrinkles. She’d probably had a face-lift. Or two. “That was one of my—”

  Just then the Dodge brothers returned. “Mission accomplished,” Milo announced. “Let’s head on out.”

  Pootsie leaned forward so far that I thought she might fall off the sofa. “Where’s the wash?” she demanded of Clint.

  Her husband grimaced. “Hang it, Poots, I plumb forgot! We can pick it up on the way back here, okay?”

  Somehow Milo was staying calm, though I knew he must be seething inside. “I’m afraid that won’t work. I have to go to headquarters, and Emma’s going with me so she can post the latest homicide investigation news on the paper’s website. Besides, you both have to come to my office to get fingerprinted so we can rule out your prints from any others that haven’t been smudged into oblivion.” The last words held a trace of disgust.

  Clint looked bewildered. “We were thinking of taking off tomorrow.”

  “You still can,” Milo responded. “You’re not suspects. Let’s go.”

  Clint’s bewilderment gave way to irritation. “We can’t park the Star in those skimpy diagonal spaces on Front Street. That’s a pain in the butt, bro.”

  “So’s murder,” Milo retorted. “Come on, Emma. We’re out of here.”

  But Clint was shaking his head. “No can do, kid. The least you can do is give us a lift down there. Then maybe one of your deputies can cart us up to the RV park.”

  Milo hesitated but gave in. “Fine.” He was first through the front door. Clint grabbed Pootsie’s hand to lead her from the house. Bemused, if not relieved, I suddenly realized that my husband had forgotten he’d put the Yukon in the garage. I made my exit through the kitchen, hitting the door opener keypad on my way out. Milo stormed into the garage with his kinfolk trailing behind him.

  “Thanks,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  We rode to headquarters in a loud silence. We also rode fast. I marveled that Milo hadn’t turned on the siren. He bailed out first from the Yukon. The rest of us trailed behind like Gypsies driven from their caravan.

  Sam Heppner was at the desk, looking grim. If he was curious, it didn’t show. Sam wasn’t the emotional type. Long ago he’d learned the hard way that emotions can be ruinous. He’d checked his own at the gateway to manhood. His boss and I were the only ones in Alpine who knew why. Young love had made the deputy old before his time.

  Milo introduced Pootsie. Apparently Sam had come to the motor home to get the rifle and had already met Clint. “I need their prints,” the sheriff told his deputy.