The phone was ringing when I entered our log cabin via the kitchen. I rushed into the living room, but the call had gone to voice mail. I waited for whoever it was to leave a message before picking up the receiver. Father Dennis Kelly’s mellow voice informed me that the parish council planned to hold a Thanksgiving dinner for people who were alone for the holiday or unable to afford a traditional turkey meal. He apologized for not calling during office hours, but he’d had a crisis.

  The holiday dinner was worthy of mention, but Father Den’s “crisis” smacked of news. I called him right back and asked if he’d resolved his problem.

  “Another poor girl who needed sanctuary from a man,” Den replied wearily. “I just got back from taking her to the shelter at the Alpine Hotel. There must be a dozen women staying there right now, and half of them aren’t even from Skykomish County.”

  “They want to make sure the jerks can’t find them,” I said. “I’ll interview some of the victims at the shelter before I write the domestic abuse series. I know you can’t give me names, but was this latest one a local?”

  “A recent local,” Den replied after a pause. “Cradle Catholic, but currently not practicing her faith. Young, vulnerable, pathetic. She spent the night in one of those shacks out on River Road. No money, either.”

  “A runaway?” I asked.

  “No. She’s of age, though barely. Her account’s garbled, but I think she’s from somewhere along the Highway 2 corridor. I got the impression she was living with a relative before she came to Alpine.” He uttered a sigh. “We middle-class Americans, especially around here, like to pretend the lower class merely doesn’t have as big an income as we do. We ignore the poor, the ignorant, the uneducated. For a black man, I sometimes lack a social conscience. Damn, Emma,” he sighed, “I didn’t mean to deliver a homily.”

  “If you can remember what you just said, work it into this week’s sermon,” I responded. “You’ve already got me feeling sorry for her. Maybe I should stop by the shelter tomorrow to start my interviews.”

  “I just blew the poor girl’s cover,” Den said in faint dismay. “Can you feign amnesia?”

  I heard Milo come into the kitchen. “I’d never use names in such a touchy a series.”

  “Understood. But if you want to interview me, you can use mine.”

  “I plan to do that,” I assured him. “I’ll call you to set up a time next week.” We rang off just as my husband came into the living room and flopped into the easy chair.

  “A time for what?” Milo asked. “You got a rendezvous with your lover?”

  I gave him a dirty look. “I can’t even get my lover to kiss me when he comes home.”

  “You were on the phone. I figured it was business.”

  I got up from the sofa. “It was. I was talking to Father Den about the battered spouse series. He had, in fact, just come back from hauling another poor female off to the shelter.”

  “I don’t suppose he told you who it was.”

  “He never does.” The query made me curious. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “Just curious. Frankly, I wish the shelter hadn’t been moved from the old Doukas house, but the damned thing was falling down. Having it in the hotel is a security problem. We get at least one call every couple of weeks about a husband or a boyfriend who shows up trying to find the woman he’s turned into a victim. Most of the volunteers from your church are older and can’t fend off those bastards. Then we get called in. It’s a damned nuisance.”

  “Isn’t that your job, Sheriff?”

  “It wasn’t as big a problem with a house,” Milo asserted. “Easier to secure. Why can’t Kelly hire somebody instead of using volunteers?”

  “Because he doesn’t have the money,” I said, starting for the kitchen. “The county owns the hotel and should come up with funding for it. Maybe they can with the commissioners and Fuzzy going off the dole.” I stopped and frowned at my husband. “Why aren’t you changing your clothes?”

  Milo’s face became unreadable, an expression I’d come to know over the years, especially when he was interrogating me about a homicide investigation. “I have to go back to the office.”

  “I guess there’s no point asking why?”

  “Right.”

  “Then I’ll start dinner.”

  “Fine.” He picked up the Sports Illustrated with its annual NFL preview. “Want to pour me a drink?”

  I leaned against the kitchen doorjamb. “Are you serious?”

  “Uh…I guess not. Never mind. I should be back at headquarters by six-thirty.”

  I had to make dinner quick and simple. Luckily, Milo liked it that way. A few minutes later, I’d just put the skirt steak in the frying pan when he came into the kitchen and wrapped his arm around my waist.

  “Why didn’t you run like hell when I asked you to marry me?” he asked as I leaned against him.

  “I can’t decide what held me back,” I said in mock dismay. “Was it your charm or your sensitivity?”

  Milo kissed the top of my head. “I still don’t know how I finally snagged you.”

  “Stop saying that. I was a real bitch, fooling myself and trying to fool you because I thought Tom Cavanaugh was the only man I could ever really love. If I hadn’t been such an idiot, you and I could’ve gotten married a long time ago.”

  “You were worth the wait.” Milo let go of me. “Maybe I will have a quick shot. You want one?”

  “No. Dinner should be ready in ten minutes. Go relax.”

  I was dishing up when I heard my husband’s cell ring. I could only catch a few words at his end of the conversation. As soon as he disconnected, I told him dinner was ready.

  “Dare I ask who that was?” I inquired, sitting down at the table.

  “Mullins,” Milo replied.

  “That’s all I get?”

  “Yep.”

  “You look worried. Or,” I went on, studying his expression, “mad?”

  The sheriff sighed wearily. “There’s too damned much going on right now. Don’t ask.”

  “Not even about Ms. Compton?”

  “Rich women are a pain in the ass, but she’s got a right to demand that her daughter’s killer is, as she put it, ‘brought to justice for his monstrous act.’ And she’s not exactly pleased about her son getting in the way of a bullet meant for somebody else. Which reminds me, the slug matches the Remington.”

  “Gosh, that sounds like news,” I drawled. Seeing Milo grimace, I switched gears. “I can’t blame Ms. Compton. If she sent those postcards, she may feel guilty for Gemma coming here and getting killed.”

  “She’s out of her element in Alpine,” Milo replied after devouring a chunk of skirt steak. “This isn’t Coeur d’Alene. I get the impression she runs that town. I can see you’re still curious. You get one more question.”

  “Autopsy report?”

  “I got it at four-thirty. Manual strangulation causing asphyxia, but didn’t break her neck. There were other, minor bruises, indicating she put up a minimal struggle.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It was broad daylight, so she was probably killed at my old house in the downstairs room where Blatt found her,” Milo explained, looking as if the words pained him. “I told Tanya to stop kicking herself for leaving the key out for the phony Realtor. She couldn’t know it was a trick. Gemma may have gone to the house with her killer or been lured there. It’s a damned shame nobody saw them, but there it is.”

  “It must have been a man, right?”

  “Probably,” Milo conceded. “The SnoCo ME, Colin Knapp, told me the victim was in good physical shape. He figures she worked out or played sports. She’s not as young as you seemed to think. Closer to thirty than twenty is as close as Knapp will say.”

  “She seemed younger when I saw her at the ski lodge coffee shop,” I remarked.

  “Looks can fool you,” Milo said. “Being rich can’t hurt when it comes to wrinkles, but it didn’t keep her from getting killed. Gemma was attacked from behind. There were thumbprints on her throat.”

  I winced. “Ugh. Maybe I shouldn’t ask for details. Did you ask why L.J. was handing out Blackwell’s circulars?”

  “Jennings told me he volunteered because it let him interact with the locals, same as Gemma was doing with her waitress gig. Face it, something’s weird about this whole thing. I feel as if I’m being conned.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “It may be a con, but I can’t see you as the target. If Ms. Compton and her kids are from Idaho, who’d be the Alpine pigeon?”

  “Beats me,” Milo admitted. “My first choice would be Blackwell, but when somebody tried to shoot him at the picnic, L.J. was not only in plain sight but ended up taking the bullet. Gemma was already dead.”

  Briefly, we were both silent. “I give up,” I said. “At least for now. Any word from your relatives?”

  “Oh.” Milo grinned. “Not all my news is bad. The Dutch Star’s AC stopped working in Bothell. God help Clint and Pootsie if they’re not able to travel in total comfort. They’re stuck there for at least another couple of days. Clint thought that after they got the thing fixed, they might head into Seattle for a day or so and then drive down I-5 into Oregon and…whatever. Maybe we’ve seen the last of them. You got pie?”

  “No. I’ve got some of those snickerdoodle cookies left, though.”

  “Aren’t they about two weeks old?”

  “Approximately,” I admitted. “How come you haven’t eaten all of them by now?”

  The sheriff made a face. “What would my deputies think if they knew I ate something called a snickerdoodle? Besides, they’re stale.”

  “How about some fruit?”

  Milo pushed his chair back and stood up. “Are you trying to starve me, woman?”

  “No!” I got to my feet. “I’m trying to keep you trim and healthy,” I said, coming around the table to put my hand on his arm. “Do you want to get as hefty as your brother?”

  The hazel eyes snapped. “Hey—don’t start something we can’t finish. It’s six twenty-five. I’m out of here.”

  I retreated. “You’re a real beast. Do you think I’m trying to—”

  His cell went off before I could finish. Milo yanked it out of his pocket and stopped at the door to the garage. “Dodge here,” he barked. Then his expression changed to dismay. Or maybe it was disgust. Sometimes I had trouble reading him. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll handle it. Not that we can do much. It’s up to the medics. I’m on my way.” He shoved the cell back in his shirt pocket and opened the door.

  “Hey!” I yelled. “You can’t go off without telling me what happened!”

  He started to get into the Yukon. “Shit! Oh, hell…some woman tried to off herself at the shelter. She’s on her way to the ER.” He slammed the SUV’s door shut, turned on the engine, and reversed out of the garage at warp speed.

  It might have been an emergency call for the sheriff, but it was breaking news for me. I guessed that Milo would head for the Alpine Hotel, but I’d go to the hospital. Ordinarily, I don’t chase ambulances. This was different, given the domestic abuse series I was planning. I knew there wasn’t much information I could learn from the victim, but I’d get a sense of how the battering cycle could play out into an attempt at self-destruction.

  As I turned off Fir to drive down Third, twilight was settling in over Tonga Ridge. At Cascade Street, I passed St. Mildred’s, wondering how often Den heard the emergency siren and rushed off to comfort a parishioner. Like Milo, Doc Dewey, and Dr. Sung, my pastor was never off the clock. To a lesser extent, neither was I.

  I pulled into the loading zone on Cedar. After having gotten a ticket last February for parking there, I’d taken Milo’s advice and obtained a permit. I hadn’t heard a siren since leaving home, so I assumed the patient had arrived. I went inside and headed for the ER.

  To my surprise, Alison and Lori were in the waiting room. I hurried over to where they were sitting by the aquarium. “Who’s sick?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

  “I am,” Lori said in a feeble voice. “I should never have come back to work so soon. I think I’ve got pneumonia.” She turned away and coughed, as if to prove it.

  Alison looked peeved. “I tried to tell her to stay home Tuesday, but she wouldn’t listen. I don’t nag. Why are you here? Are you sick, too?”

  “No, this is business.” I glanced at an older couple who were sitting a half dozen chairs away. “I’m following a possible story lead. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Before I could make my getaway to the ER ambulance entrance, a nurse I didn’t recognize summoned Lori. Both young women stood up.

  “I’m coming with you, ditz,” Alison said to her roommate. “If I don’t, you might try to convince me you’ve had a miracle recovery.”

  By the time I reached the emergency drop-off area, Del Amundson and Tony Lynch were getting back into their van. I called to the medics, who turned at the sound of their names. Del, as usual, looked amused. The always serious Tony had been on the job for only a year.

  “What’s up?” Del asked.

  “My curiosity,” I replied. “Professional, not prurient.”

  The veteran medic chuckled. “It usually is. How’s life with the sheriff? Does he ever loosen up when he’s away from the job?”

  I shook my head. “I’m still waiting for him to smile. But then we’ve only known each other for sixteen years. Dare I ask who the patient is?”

  Del’s smile disappeared. “I’m not sure. Honest, Emma. Even if I were, I couldn’t say.”

  I nodded. “She was from the shelter, right?”

  He nodded back. “Pathetic little thing. Tried slashing her wrists. I doubt if she’s much out of her teens.”

  “No ID?”

  “There wasn’t time to find it,” Del said. “We got the impression she’d just arrived.”

  My heart sank, for both the girl and Den. “Will she make it?”

  “She might. Clancy Barton had just arrived to take over the evening shift, so he went to check on the new arrivals. He caught her in the act. Neither Tony or I recognized her.”

  Tony, who was solemn by nature, looked even grimmer than he usually did. “My guess is she’s a runaway. But don’t quote me.”

  “I won’t,” I assured him. “It’s not a story. The sheriff went to the shelter, so he’ll find out what he can about her. I’ll check back at the hospital later tonight.”

  “Go for it,” Del said as another call came through. “Got a wreck out on the highway by Cass Pond. Take it easy, Emma.”

  “Right,” I murmured, wondering why I’d come in the first place. I could have stayed home and learned as much by making a couple of phone calls. Maybe, I mused as I drove up the hill, I was getting too old to chase stories. On the other hand, not only was my reporter older, but he didn’t like leaving his wife alone at night. Mitch attended at least a couple of meetings that were on his beat, but on one recent occasion, he’d taken Brenda with him. Maybe she liked meetings. I don’t.

  I was still mulling as I slowed down to turn into the driveway of our log cabin. A motorcycle roared by my Honda before coming to an abrupt stop some fifty yards away. The rider removed his helmet, apparently staring at the overgrown road to the neighboring Nelson house. There was something vaguely familiar about the young man, but at the moment it eluded me. I turned off Fir and drove into the empty garage. Obviously, Milo wasn’t home yet. I went into the living room to close the picture window’s drapes. Again I heard the motorcycle nearby. Then, as I reached for the drapery cord, I saw the biker roar past our house. Something had struck me about his rusty red hair and the pugnacious way he was leaning forward. It was Mickey O’Neill, whose hobby was beating up his girlfriend.

  But what bothered me was why he’d stopped to check out the Nelson house. The only occupants were Laverne Nelson, her daughter-in-law, Sofia, and the toddler, Chloe. I couldn’t think of any connection between the Nelsons and Mickey. He’d slowed down after seeing my turn signal. Did that mean he recognized me? If he had, so what? I hadn’t seen him up close since his father’s funeral six years ago. Even in Alpine, there were a half dozen aging tan Hondas.

  But there was still something about Mickey that bothered me.

  Chapter 15

  I phoned Father Den to tell him what had happened to the girl he’d brought to the shelter. He was predictably upset.

  “I wondered what the siren was for,” he said. “I always do, since I’m only a block away from the hospital. I’ll call, but there’s no point in going over there until tomorrow. The poor girl’s probably still being treated and then she’ll be out of it.”

  I asked Den to call me in the morning to let me know how she was doing. He assured me he would.

  I’d just finished the dinner cleanup when the phone rang half an hour later.

  “Bronchitis,” Alison announced. “Not pneumonia. Which is worse?”

  “How do I know? Didn’t you or Lori ask Doc Dewey?”

  “It wasn’t Doc,” she replied. “It was Dr. Sung. He’s really kind of attractive. How old is he? He’s not married, right?”

  “He’s single, but he’s got a girlfriend over in Leavenworth,” I responded. “He skis, and I think he met her up at the pass a few winters ago when we had real snow. Besides, he’s in his midthirties.”

  “So? Older men are more mature.”

  “That’s…generally true,” I said. Then, wanting to get off the subject, I asked how Lori was feeling.

  “Beat,” Alison replied. “But the antibiotics should start kicking in by Sunday. Hey, did you hear about the mystery girl who was rushed to the ER? A nurse told us somebody said she was a runaway hooker from Monroe who sneaked herself into the reformatory to turn tricks and she’d been attacked by an inmate’s girlfriend who was visiting him.”