“Make that fifteen minutes,” I said sheepishly.

  Milo didn’t bother to look up from the Sports Illustrated he was reading. “Twenty,” he muttered.

  I didn’t argue about that, either.

  We didn’t discuss the current investigation again that night. In fact, we didn’t talk much at all. I remembered to turn on Vida’s program, but for once she was out of her element. The first half of the fifteen-minute “chat,” as Spencer Fleetwood liked to call it, went back to Evan Singer’s arrival fourteen years earlier. She queried him about how his love of movies had won over his grandfather, Oscar Nyquist, owner of the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre. After the commercial break, Vida launched into the subject of how fortunate Evan was, having been born into an upper-middle-class family in Seattle but eventually settling in Alpine. He adroitly derailed her by soliciting listeners’ suggestions for what SkyCo cinema buffs would like to see in the January film festival.

  After we were in bed, I asked Milo if he felt okay. He’d nodded off once during Vida’s show and twice later in the evening.

  “Yeah,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “It’s been busy the last few days. At least the tourists should be gone after this weekend.”

  “School’s started,” I remarked vaguely, twisting around to look at him. “Are you sure that’s all?”

  I felt as well as heard him sigh. “I ran into Doc Dewey today. He and Elvis Sung still need another doctor. I need two deputies. But we’re both out of luck because Blackwell and the two daffy old coots won’t spend the county’s money. It’s damned frustrating. Gerry and I haven’t had a vacation in almost two years.”

  “I know. You two didn’t get to take your fishing trip. And we never had a honeymoon.”

  “Are you sorry you married me?”

  I laughed. “Since I’d never been married before, the concept eluded me.”

  “You were going to go on a honeymoon with Cavanaugh.”

  “Only if we got married in the first place. He was killed instead.”

  “Hell of a way to avoid getting married.”

  “That’s mean. You told me you never thought Tom would get around to marrying me even though our son was almost thirty by then.”

  “I was right.”

  “I hate you.”

  “That’s okay.” Milo hugged me tighter. “God, I’m glad I married you. Tricia would’ve made me sleep in the garage.”

  “I wouldn’t have a garage if it hadn’t been for you.”

  Milo was quiet for a moment or two. “It’s that damned Blackwell,” he finally said. “I feel as if he’s waiting to pounce. I’ve felt like that since he became county commissioner.”

  “I know. There’s got to be a way….” I stopped.

  “A way to what?” Milo finally asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But when I figure it out, I’ll tell you.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said in a serious tone. “You can be a cunning little devil when you want to get your way.”

  “Never with you.”

  “No. No,” he repeated, with a sigh that evoked contentment.

  I fell asleep in his arms.

  —

  To my great relief, the Bourgettes were already on-site when I arrived at eight o’clock Friday morning. Not only was the new wall finished, but the front door was usable, though the broken glass hadn’t yet been replaced. Evan couldn’t get around to it until Harvey’s Hardware opened at nine-thirty. John and Dan wanted me to choose a paint color. I told them I wanted to stick with brown. It fit well with the other unimaginative storefronts on Front Street. I cringed at the memory of the yellow paint job Ed Bronsky had let a movie company use on our building when he was still ad manager. The connotation of “yellow” and “journalism” had evaded Ed in the same way that the meaning of the word “work” did.

  Mitch was already in the front office, having been assigned to the bakery run. “No Italian slippers,” he complained. “I should’ve called to tell them they’re my addiction.”

  “Remind whoever has Monday’s turn to get some,” I advised. “The Upper Crust often has Italian slippers to kick off the week.” I winced at my unintended pun, but my reporter didn’t notice. He was probably still lamenting the lack of his favorite pastry.

  Vida and Leo arrived together, though not amicably. They were, in fact, arguing.

  “Really, I can’t know everything,” she declared, one hand adjusting the brim of her straw hat with its magenta band and matching rose. “How would I know what became of Ronnie Davis after someone supposedly tried to run him down?”

  Leo shrugged. “Where’s your nephew Deputy Bill when you need him?” he asked in an innocent voice.

  “Billy is not obligated to tell me everything that—” Vida stopped, noticing that Mitch and I were present. “Well now, we have an outer wall. That will definitely go into next week’s ‘Scene,’ self-serving or not.”

  Apparently Leo had also dropped the argument. “Lemon-filled bear claws,” he noted. “Try not to eat all of them, Laskey. It’s unfair that you never gain weight.”

  Seeing Kip come in from the back shop, I went into my office. I usually waited until my staff had gotten their goodies before I checked out what was left over. Besides, I needed more caffeine to become fully alert. I was still staring at my blank monitor when Mitch appeared with a raspberry bear claw and a mug of coffee.

  “What did happen to that Davis guy?” he asked. “The last I heard was after he asked Leo for help.”

  “That’s all I know,” I replied. “If he was hired as a pollster, it must’ve been a temporary gig. Check him out. He’s supposed to be working for Blackwell, but you can use the newcomer angle. He’s staying at the Lumberjack Motel.”

  “Speaking of Blackwell,” Mitch said after swallowing a chunk of bear claw, “how come we don’t have any spies working for him?”

  “Because he runs a company that’s the local economy’s backbone,” I replied. “I’ve never criticized his business acumen. That’s why I’m surprised somebody apparently took a shot at him. Trust me—if Milo or I could find out anything detrimental, it’d make news.”

  Mitch looked thoughtful. “There’s always something that’s off. There was in Detroit.”

  “This is Alpine,” I said with an ironic little smile.

  My reporter didn’t look convinced. “Human nature doesn’t check population statistics. Are you sure you don’t know someone who works for Blackwell who wouldn’t rat you out if you asked a few questions?”

  “I doubt any of his employees would complain to us,” I said. “Jobs are too hard to find around here. Hold off. Maybe we can back-door this.”

  Mitch glanced into the newsroom. “Vida?”

  “Younger.” I gestured at Alison, who’d entered the newsroom with a FedEx delivery for Leo.

  “Good luck,” Mitch said, looking as if he thought Alison or I would need it. I figured we both would.

  —

  Ten minutes later, when my phone rang I didn’t recognize the male caller’s voice. “I want to see you in my office at eleven o’clock,” the man said.

  Maybe it was a wrong number. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

  “Iain Farrell,” he replied, sounding impatient. “We’ll converse when you get here.” He hung up. I felt as if I’d been talking to Milo.

  I stared at the receiver for so long that I didn’t realize Leo was in the doorway staring at me. “You look miffed,” he said, sitting down. “Don’t tell me it’s an irate reader.”

  “That I can handle,” I assured him. “Dr. Farrell is another matter. Have you ever had to deal with him?”

  “Just a brief encounter for RestHaven’s opening last February,” Leo replied. “He was terse, but that was fine with me. I only wanted a heads-up on his photo in the double-truck ad they took out for the special edition. He okayed it despite the fact that he looked like a werewolf. I haven’t seen Farrell since.”

  “That image suits him,” I said. “He wants to see me. I suspect it’s about him joining forces with Kay Burns for the domestic violence series she agreed to help us put together.”

  Leo wore his off-center grin. “Is Farrell in favor of domestic violence? It probably gets more patients for RestHaven.”

  “I don’t think they have to solicit patients. Which is interesting, now that I think about it.” I gave Leo a quizzical look. “They must rely on referrals. Why would people outside of the greater Seattle metro area come eighty-five miles away from their homes and families to be treated for dependencies or medical rehab?”

  Leo lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Because they want to get away from their families? Maybe they drove them to drink in the first place. When I was in my days of Scotch and roses, I drove on autopilot. It’s a miracle I didn’t kill myself or somebody else when I was at the wheel. Did you tell me Rosalie Reed had her practice on Seattle’s Eastside?”

  “Yes, that’s where Spence met her. They’ve gone public since Rosalie’s husband died.”

  Leo nodded. “Maybe she recruits patients from the greater Seattle metro area. Some of our advertisers have mentioned that Rosalie and Spence shop together. They bought a new bed for her condo at Parc Pines. Queen-sized.”

  “She didn’t need that for her husband while he was a mental patient at RestHaven,” I pointed out. “The poor guy had problems even before Rosalie came here.”

  “In some weird kind of way Spence and Rosalie seem right as a couple,” Leo said. “I figured him to go for a flashier type. I always wondered if he put the make on you.”

  “Never,” I declared. “We have no chemistry. And I’m not flashy.”

  “You’ve got dash, if not flash.”

  I laughed. “Save the flattery for advertisers. Speaking of which, how are we doing?”

  “Getting there.” His green-flecked eyes danced. “Why don’t I ask Blackwell if he’d like to buy a bigger ad to show that somebody taking a shot at him only makes him more macho?”

  “I like it. Go ahead.”

  Leo rapped his knuckles on my desk. “I will. I’ll go see him now.” He stood up. “If I don’t come back in a couple of hours, call the sheriff. Or maybe he wouldn’t care if Black Jack broke my neck.”

  “Yes, he would,” I asserted. “He knows I need your ad revenue. He got over being jealous of you a long time ago.”

  “Right. Dodge figured I was harmless.” For a fleeting moment, Leo looked wistful. “I guess I was. But now it doesn’t matter.”

  I smiled. “You got Liza back. Maybe you never really lost her.”

  Leo looked up at my low ceiling. “Maybe. But I lost myself for a long time. Liza’s tougher than I am. Thank God.”

  —

  Later that morning I was still arguing with myself about obeying Iain Farrell’s insolent summons. But as a journalist, I couldn’t let my emotions dismiss a news source. I decided to take off for RestHaven.

  I paused at the reception desk to tell Alison where I was going. She was on the phone, but pointed at the new pebbled glass in the front door. I went outside, where Evan Singer was getting on his bicycle.

  “Looks good,” I called to him. “Did you give Alison your bill?”

  Evan, who had never quite outgrown giving the impression that he was all gangly arms and legs, grinned. “No. I’m not charging you. I want to see you and the sheriff at the opening of my film festival in January. I’m kicking off with High Noon. I’ve never seen Dodge at the Marmot since I took it over. He owes me.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” I promised. “It’d be our first movie date.”

  “That’s a deal. I haven’t seen you there, either.”

  I winced. “We don’t get out much.”

  “You two were at the picnic, but I never had a chance to say hello,” Evan said, waving a long arm at Ronnie Blatt in his UPS truck. “I got involved helping Rosie round up some of her nieces and nephews. Those Bourgettes are a lively bunch. I haven’t been around children that young since I was a kid.”

  I asked Evan my obvious question. “Were you in the crowd when the young man got shot?”

  “No,” he replied. “Rosie and I figured the kids would be a distraction during the speeches. We herded them down to the river so they could splash around for a while before they ate. Bad idea. Some poor girl was crying her eyes out. Rosie tried to talk to her, but she told us to get lost. So we did.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  Evan shook his head. “No clue. Rosie thought she’d seen her before, but couldn’t remember where. Maybe she lives somewhere else along Highway 2. There were several people at the picnic I didn’t recognize.”

  The cast iron clock tower by the bank showed 10:58. After thanking Evan for his artistry with the window glass, I told him I was off to a meeting. He hopped onto his bike and pedaled away before I could get into my Honda. I pulled into RestHaven’s parking lot at 11:05. If Farrell pitched a fit over my tardiness, he could unload on his shrink. But the guy was so arrogant that he probably counseled himself.

  Remembering where Farrell’s office was located off the atrium that had once been the Bronsky family’s indoor barbecue pit and bowling alley, I kept going. I was almost there when I heard someone call to me. Turning my head, I saw Sid Almquist coming my way.

  “Ms….?” he began, apparently forgetting my name. “Did you check in at the desk?”

  “I didn’t know I had to,” I said. “I haven’t been here for a while. I’m Emma Lord from the newspaper. We met a couple of months ago.”

  Sid’s thin face looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Ms. Lord. I knew you looked familiar, but…” He offered me what passed for an apologetic smile. “You came to see…?”

  “Dr. Farrell.” I gestured to my right. “Isn’t his office over there?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to sign in,” Sid said. “We’ve tightened up things around here lately. It’s for the sake of the patients, of course.”

  I figured if they got any tighter, visitors would have to receive engraved invitations before they could get into the facility. “Okay, fine. Thanks, Sid.”

  I went over to the redheaded young man at the desk and signed in. Two minutes later, I entered Iain Farrell’s office. He looked up from a sheaf of papers and glared at me. “You’re late.”

  “Security detained me,” I said, not waiting for him to offer me a chair, but plopping down across from his sleek mahogany desk. “Sid’s memory for faces needs work.”

  Farrell looked perplexed. “Why should he remember you?”

  I hesitated, not wanting to get Sid in trouble. He and his family had been through hard times several years ago after Blackwell had bought out the old Cascade & Pacific Mill and fired Sid along with everybody else. But what had popped into my mind was that a security guard should remember faces. I stared at Farrell. “Why do you care?”

  He arched one of his black eyebrows before picking up a pale blue file folder. “Let’s move on. We’ve already lost valuable time. I’ve put together an essay on domestic abuse. I assume you prefer a hard copy.”

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t answer. We locked gazes for an instant before he handed over the folder. I thanked him.

  “Of course,” Farrell said, no longer looking at me but at his desk calendar. Maybe he was hoping his next appointment would be someone whose company he enjoyed. “Do you understand domestic abuse?” he asked, now staring beyond my left shoulder.

  “Legally? Or in depth?”

  “In any way.” Finally he looked directly at me. “Did your father beat your mother? Did your parents beat you?”

  I stifled a smile. “My parents were smart enough to devise other forms of punishment. Depriving us of things or activities was their disciplinary method.”

  “You were fortunate,” Farrell said somberly. “Many children of your—of our—generation were not. Savage beatings were common. Often those heinous practices become a cruel legacy.”

  I had to ask the question. “Do you have children, Dr. Farrell?”

  He looked faintly startled. “No. I never married. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered if you did, how you’d raised them.” I shrugged. “But you don’t deal with children in the rehab unit, correct?”

  “No. We deal only with adults of legal age who have alcohol and drug dependencies.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve gotten off-topic. You realize there are many forms of abuse—physical, emotional, sexual, and economic. You may dismiss economic abuse as less likely to occur in a First World country such as the United States, but I assure you that’s not the case. As you might surmise, the male is usually the abuser. Inner cities and isolated communities are prime examples.” Farrell paused, presumably for breath.

  “Communities such as Alpine?” I said, for lack of anything more cogent. Frankly, I wasn’t sure where his diatribe was going.

  “Yes, a classic situation.” Farrell leaned forward. “Isolated, small population, timber town, lost its economic base in the eighties, struggling to survive ever since. I wasn’t aware of all those factors when I accepted the job. But the environment is perfect for my project.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  Farrell sat back, stroking the chair’s upholstered arms as if they were cats. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “That’s a pity. Then I can’t explain what you’re submitting to me. My readers and I would need an interpreter. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time—and mine.” I clutched my purse, preparing to stand up.

  “You can’t be serious.” His black eyes widened and his skin darkened as he took umbrage to new heights. “How can an ignorant, uneducated readership learn unless you study all of my works so that you can present them in a language they can understand?”

  I was on my feet. “They understand English. Save your academic treatises for your erudite peer group. They’ll appreciate your expertise. My readers would not.”

  I stomped out of his office and didn’t bother to slam the door behind me. It was only after I reached the exit that I wondered why Farrell hadn’t uttered a parting sally. Maybe he was overcome by someone disagreeing with him. At RestHaven, he was surrounded by congenial peers and pliant patients. He didn’t seem to socialize much. If he had, Vida or I would have heard about it. By the time I got to the parking lot, I stopped trying to figure out Iain Farrell and focus on my own motives.