“Don’t give up,” I said, hoping to sound sympathetic. “You’re all of twenty-two.”

  Alison scowled. “I’ll be twenty-three at the end of this month.”

  “So? I waited until I was fifty-two to get married.”

  “That’s not very encouraging,” she declared. “Besides, you had a son before you were my age.”

  “Yes, and I had to raise him on my own,” I said. “Enjoy your freedom. I never got do that when I was young. I was too busy getting my college degree and then working full-time to support Adam.”

  “I really am a twit,” she said and again averted her gaze.

  I smiled. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I never met Justin, but I suspect you were too good for him. You’ll find someone better.”

  Alison looked at me, though she seemed dubious. “You think?”

  “I do. I did.” I thought back to all the years I’d waited for Tom Cavanaugh to be free of his rich, loony wife. Over a year after she ODed, we became engaged—and then Tom was killed. “I know you’ve got courage, Alison. I found that out when you were twelve and your mother was murdered. You were a real trouper.”

  She smiled wanly. “I guess. But my stepmother has always been the real deal.”

  I smiled back. “So are you.”

  “That’s really nice of…” Her blue eyes widened as she looked beyond me. “Omigod,” she said under her breath, “it’s L.J.! With a woman! Don’t look!”

  I didn’t have to. Bridget was leading Mr. Love God right past us to the other side of the pillar. He wasn’t alone. His companion was a young and very attractive raven-haired girl who looked as though she’d just stepped off the runway at a Nordstrom fashion show.

  Alison closed her eyes, “Oh, shoot! I’m doomed,” she whispered.

  “Maybe it’s his sister,” I suggested.

  “Dubious.” She pushed her chair back a few inches. “I can’t see anything but the back of his chair. She must be sitting across from him.”

  I felt like saying that was better than if she were sitting on his lap. But Alison lowered her voice again before I could say anything. “Do you think she came to Alpine with him? She’s got killer looks. Have you ever seen her before?”

  “Never,” I said. “Admittedly, we’re a little short around here when it comes to gorgeous. But you’re a beautiful blonde, Alison.”

  “I’m savvy with cosmetics. She looks like she doesn’t need any.”

  “Maybe she has the same knack.”

  “You can’t tell unless you get up close,” Alison shot back.

  Our salads arrived. We dropped the subject of L.J. and his knockout companion. Alison asked about my son, Adam. I told her he seemed to be getting along fine at St. Mary’s Igloo in Alaska and had just returned from a meeting in Fairbanks with other priests.

  “He’s probably coming to Alpine for Thanksgiving,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to meet him.”

  Alison regarded me with a sardonic expression. “You showed me a picture of Adam once. He’s good-looking. I’m not Catholic, but it’s a real waste that a guy like him can’t get married just because he’s a priest.”

  I didn’t argue, since it meant I’d never have grandchildren of my own. I’d been upset when my son told me he had a religious vocation, but a decade later he seemed content.

  However, Alison had a one-track mind and seemed determined to derail herself. As much as I hated to do it, I decided we should change the subject and talk about work. With any luck we could get out of the coffee shop without our receptionist hurtling around the other side of the pillar and throwing herself into L.J.’s arms.

  “Say,” I said, at my most ingenuous, “Leo gave me some good news about our ad revenue. Ever since Ginny Erlandson left last October to have her baby, none of our temporary help has been assigned to her office manager’s job. It’s been kind of catch-as-catch-can. If you wouldn’t mind taking on that task, I can offer you a raise.” And maybe have to chisel on the annual holiday bonuses…

  Alison brightened. “I’ll try. What does it involve?”

  “The budget, mostly. Paying bills, making out paychecks, handling ad revenue.”

  “I can do that,” she assured me.

  “If you need help getting started, call Ginny. She knows more about the job than I do.”

  Alison nodded. “I’ve met her a couple of times.” She frowned. “How many kids do she and her husband have now?”

  “Three boys,” I replied.

  “Three.” She stared at the pillar. “How old is Ginny?”

  I wasn’t sure, math not being my strong suit. “Early thirties?”

  Alison nodded again. “Good. That makes me feel a little better.”

  I didn’t ask why. The answer might make me feel like a fossil.

  Around four-thirty, Vida announced that she needed items for her front-page “Scene Around Town” column. The homely snippets of everyday Alpiners were the best-read part of the paper.

  “Since we only have Tuesday before deadline, I want a head start, but not entirely focused on Labor Day,” she explained. “The only one I have that isn’t, is Janie Engelman shooing a rabbit out of her yard. Well?” The gray eyes behind the big glasses seemed to pinion us all in place.

  Leo went first. “Seventies VW hippie bus parked by Old Mill Park. California plates, no hippies sighted. Sorry.”

  Vida nodded. “Mitch?”

  “The architect in the remodel by the golf course is getting new lighting. The Mel-something-or-others?” He looked at me for help.

  “Scott and Beverly Melville,” I said. “Scott worked on our remodel.”

  Kip stroked his goatee and smiled. “Last night I saw a beaver family crossing the truss bridge over the Sky. I was wondering why they didn’t go under the bridge and swim the river. They’re beavers.”

  “Maybe,” Leo suggested, “the little beavers can’t swim yet.”

  We all chuckled before Alison spoke up. “Handsome young man handing out flyers on Front Street?” She winced as she saw Vida’s glare.

  “That’s a news item,” she asserted, usurping my editor’s role. It was a common occurrence during the sixteen years I’d owned the Advocate. “Try again, Alison,” she urged.

  Our receptionist frowned, then brightened. “Dr. Ferris changing a flat tire on his minivan a block from RestHaven’s medical rehab building.”

  “That’s Farrell,” Vida corrected her. “Dr. Iain Farrell. He heads their psychiatric division in the main building, where they also have the drug and alcohol rehabilitation patients.” She turned her gimlet eye on me.

  I resorted to Crazy Eights Neffel sitting in his long underwear on a block of melting ice and feeding tacos to pigeons in John Engstrom Park.

  Vida frowned. “You know I dislike using Crazy Eights’s antics, but if we come up short Tuesday, I’ll allow it. Really, Emma, you should be more aware of your surroundings.”

  Under her withering glance, inspiration struck. “Oh! Mickey O’Neill getting out of his Blackwell Timber rig to check his load after crossing the truss bridge.”

  Vida was still frowning. “You’re sure you want to mention Blackwell?”

  I shrugged. “He is the town’s largest employer. And he advertises.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But I’ll change the tire reference to ‘inspecting his vehicle.’ ”

  Vindicated, I retreated to my office. By quitting time, I was the last to leave except for my back shop guru, Kip, who was always grateful for downtime to deal with high-tech problems. He seldom offered details, knowing my eyes would glaze over. To me, a computer is just a fancy typewriter with pictures. During my tenure at the Oregonian in Portland, I was flummoxed when they went high-tech. I begged my editor to let me keep my IBM electric typewriter. He refused. The first time I tried to log on to the thing with its sickly green screen, I’d blown out the entire system. I was mortified. But they’d been warned.

  With a clear conscience, I left Kip lost in cyberspace. He could lock up. I shut the door behind me—and almost collided with Jack Blackwell.

  “Where’s Dodge?” he barked, forcing me up against the building next to our entrance.

  “Out of town,” I said. “Are you reporting a crime?”

  Jack sneered, an expression well suited to his dark, saturnine features. “Hell, no. Unless it’d be how that bastard runs this county’s law enforcement. When’s he due back?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied honestly. Blackwell was six feet tall and in decent shape for being in his late fifties, and his eight-inch height advantage was more vexing than intimidating. “Move it, Jack. I’m going home.”

  To my surprise, he backed off. “I want to see him the minute he gets here. Got that?”

  At least five pedestrians and a couple of drivers were staring at us. “Where do you want to see the sheriff? With guns drawn in the middle of Front Street?”

  Blackwell’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got a big bark for a little bitch. One day somebody may shut it for you.” He stalked off to a new silver Lexus parked near the corner.

  It took me a few seconds to gather my composure. Maybe we should dump the Mickey O’Neill sighting in “Scene.” Black Jack may not have intimidated me, but the confrontation was disturbing. Milo reported to the three county commissioners. The other two, Leonard Hollenberg and George Engebretsen, were way past their prime when it came to butting heads over county issues.

  I got into my aging Honda and tried to forget about Blackwell.

  But I couldn’t.

  Chapter 2

  Driving away from the office, I noticed that Blackwell’s employees were gone from the streets. The mill whistle had sounded its usual quitting time at five, so his workers were off the clock. With a sense of relief, I headed up Tonga Ridge to my now not so little log cabin. Our log cabin, since Milo had paid for the entire remodel, insisting that was the only way it could be home to both of us after our February marriage.

  His Yukon SUV wasn’t in the new double garage. I went inside through the kitchen but left the door open. The summer heat wave was ebbing, though the house still felt too warm. After changing into cotton slacks and a well-worn Jamie Moyer T-shirt, I was peeling potatoes when I heard Milo pull into the garage. He looked grumpy when he entered the kitchen. I set the peeler down and kissed him, in case he’d forgotten that I was his wife.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Was the Olympia meeting a pain?”

  He tossed his regulation hat onto the dishwasher. “Yeah. Let me change. Traffic was a freaking mess.”

  I didn’t comment. After sixteen years of being together—more or less—I knew when to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t bother to tell the sheriff that he shouldn’t have left his hat in the kitchen. Instead, I took it into the living room and put it on a peg by the front door.

  By the time Milo returned, I’d made us each a drink—Scotch for him, Canadian for me. I set the potatoes on the stove and waited for him to speak. To my surprise, he picked up his drink and headed for the living room. I turned on the burner under the potatoes, grabbed my drink, and left the kitchen to join him.

  “Well?” I said, flopping down on the sofa.

  Milo shifted in the easy chair across from me. “It was a waste of time. Most meetings are. Just a lot of bullshit about seasonal weather changes and upcoming highway projects and why it’s a bad idea to take a shot at your neighbor just because he looks like a deer. Especially if you’ve just polished off a half rack.”

  I stared at him. “This lecture was aimed at law enforcement?”

  Milo ran a big hand through his graying sandy hair. “It was about reminding us lowly county sheriffs that the big shots in Olympia know we exist.”

  “Did they feed you?”

  He nodded. “Decent doughnuts, but the coffee was weak. Lunch was okay. It’s a hell of a long drive. Worse for the guys on the other side of the state. Four of them flew in. Anything going on around here?”

  I took a deep breath. “I had a run-in with Blackwell. He’s retaliating about the ballot issue.” I described his anti-change campaign.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. “The sonuvabitch won’t go quietly. Did he touch you?”

  “No. I told you—we were in public. Jack’s evil, but he’s not stupid.”

  “Damn. I need a refill,” Milo said. “Anything else I don’t want to know?”

  “Sort of.” I grimaced. “Vida’s quitting.”

  Milo swirled the dregs of his drink in his glass. “Is she serious?”

  I nodded. “You know she’s gotten harder to deal with ever since her grandson, Roger, got into trouble last year. She’s been touchy, moody—whatever. Vida’s been my rock from the moment I took over the paper. At least she won’t quit until I find a replacement.”

  Milo downed the last of his drink and hoisted his six-foot-five frame out of the chair. “That could take some time.”

  “True. Are you still hoping to find money for another deputy?”

  He shook his head. “Not right now. But it has to happen. The county’s growing. You want a refill?”

  “I’m good.”

  “You are,” Milo said, pausing to muss my hair. “Good for me, anyway. I feel better already.”

  —

  The dinner hour passed without annoyance. Just as we finished eating, I remembered that Vida’s Cupboard was on KSKY. Her weekly program was must listening in Skykomish County. Tonight’s guest was Kenneth McClelland, the new pastor at her Presbyterian church. Milo nodded off a couple of times during the fifteen-minute segment, but I paid attention in case Vida was preparing a quiz.

  My husband yawned and stretched. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Not really,” I replied as I perched on the easy chair’s arm. “The usual newcomer reaction to life in the majestic mountains, with a touch of Christian fellowship for his flock. It’s a wonder Blackwell hasn’t insisted that Vida put him on her show.”

  Milo shook his head. “She’d never go for that.”

  “She might. He’s an advertiser. Face it, Jack owns the only timber company in town. Even you can’t criticize how he runs his business.”

  “I never have. It’s his private life that’s sketchy. Speaking of that sort of thing,” he went on, putting an arm around my waist, “I think I’ve recovered from the drive. That kiss when I came home was half-assed.”

  “I had to kiss you,” I snapped.

  “Want me to make up for that?”

  I smiled. “Yes.”

  —

  Half an hour later, I was drifting off to sleep when the phone rang in the living room. I started to get out of bed, but Milo grabbed my arm. “Stay put. If it’s important, whoever it is will leave a message.”

  “You know I hate doing that. It could be Adam or Ben. I haven’t talked to my son or my brother in over a week.” But the ringing stopped.

  “Where’s Ben now?” Milo asked. “The last I heard, he was somewhere in Texas.”

  “He’s back on the Mississippi Delta. He spent so many years there after he was ordained that he’s still drawn to that part of the church’s Home Missions. It seems to have a stronger hold on him than Tuba City and the desert.” I heard a phone ring again, but this time it was nearby. “That’s your cell,” I said to my husband. “Where is it?”

  He looked irked. “Under my shirt. Grab it, will you?”

  I leaned down, fumbled a bit, but finally got a grip, and chucked it at Milo. He palmed the cell and answered with his usual “Dodge here.” At first his expression didn’t change, but when it did, the sheriff looked irked. “Tell the SOB to stay the hell out of the office or you’ll arrest him for harassing a law officer. You got that?” He paused. “Good. You earned your keep this week, Mullins. For once.” He disconnected.

  “What?” I asked.

  Milo set the cell on the nightstand. “Blackwell came roaring into headquarters this evening. I was tired of fighting traffic, so I didn’t check in at the office. Mullins doesn’t know I’m back, and I’m keeping it that way. He’d tried calling here first, so that was probably the ringing you heard.”

  “How do you plan to avoid Blackwell tomorrow?” I asked, getting out of bed and reaching for my robe.

  “Damned if I know,” Milo replied. “I’ll deal with him when it happens. The jerk’s avoided me ever since I busted him earlier this summer for beating up his ex-wife, Kay Burns. I guess he didn’t like the food when he spent a night in one of our jail cells.”

  “Promise you won’t try coaxing him to take a swing at you?”

  “No. I don’t want to have to lock him up again. I hate just looking at that bastard.”

  I didn’t comment. But again, I worried.

  —

  On Friday we were busy making up for the short work week to come. Leo had managed to get enough ads for a little more than the desired eighty-twenty split.

  “Some is co-op advertising between us and Fleetwood,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You can’t say your archrival isn’t willing to share.”

  My original animosity toward Spencer Fleetwood had all but disappeared during the seven years since he’d set up his KSKY-AM station. “Like us, Spence struggles to survive,” I said. “But his chances are better than ours. The print media’s disappearing faster than radio.”

  Leo nodded, then glanced at Vida’s vacant chair. “What’s up with the Duchess? She seems subdued.”

  “She’s fine,” I said. “Like most natives, Vida’s not fond of heat.”

  My ad manager chuckled. “Even after living here for ten years, you people still amaze me. Frankly, I’m dreading what happens in October when the gray clouds and endless rain start. Liza may head south.”

  “Hey, she might enjoy the change of seasons,” I said. “Has she ever seen snow?”

  “Only the fake kind,” he replied, stepping aside for Alison, who was bringing me the mail. “By the way, I hear Blackwell hired a pollster to see how the voters are leaning. Ronnie Something-or-other. Hope the guy shows up here. He’ll get an earful. Later, babe.” He strolled back to his desk.