“That sounds like a typical wacky Alpine rumor,” I declared. “And it’s not called the reformatory anymore, it’s the Monroe Correctional Complex.”

  “Whatev’. You know what I mean. You don’t believe it?”

  “No, I do not,” I assured her. “I don’t know who she is, but she ran away from an abusive man and then…she hurt herself. That nurse should keep her mouth shut.”

  “Oh, crap! I liked her version better. Now I’ll have to tell Lori it’s not true. In fact, she’s calling me. Now I’m a nurse. Later, Emma.”

  Wearily I put the receiver back in its cradle. No wonder I felt a headache coming on. It might have been a short week, but it had been a long day. After taking two Excedrin, I collapsed on the sofa and watched the Mariners eke out a win over the Orioles. At least the M’s were having a better day than I was. That wasn’t saying much, since they were at the bottom of the American League West. But I was far from getting to the bottom of our latest murder.

  Milo got home a little after eleven. I was sitting up in bed reading David McCullough’s 1776. My husband leaned over to kiss me.

  “I got done an hour early,” he said.

  “Done with what?” I asked innocently.

  “My job.” His expression was vexingly blank as he headed for the bathroom.

  “Clam!” I yelled after him.

  He kept going.

  I went back to 1776. A few minutes later my annoying mate got into bed. “Why are you reading my book?” he asked.

  I stared at him. “I thought you’d finished it.”

  “Not quite. Where’s John Adams?”

  I gave Milo a dirty look. “He heard you come in, so he jumped out the window.”

  “Not his sort of thing. Kind of a dull guy.” He reached over to retrieve the book.

  “That’s why I quit reading his biography,” I confessed. “I like McCullough, but Adams isn’t a very sprightly subject.”

  “I finished it,” Milo said. “Find yourself a book I’m not reading.”

  “No. I’ll just lie here and ask you a lot of annoying questions.”

  “Don’t. I’m beat.”

  I studied his face. He did look tired. He’d put in a fifteen-hour day, which wasn’t unusual. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out an Agatha Christie mystery I’d read so long ago that I’d forgotten whodunit. “See?” I said. “I’m being quiet.”

  Milo kept his eyes on his book. “No, you’re not. You’re talking.”

  I knew when to shut up, focusing instead on Hercule Poirot grooming his elaborate mustache while exercising his little gray cells. Ten minutes and a second murder later, my eyelids felt heavy. Milo turned off the light. I curled up next to him and fell asleep in the sanctuary of his arms.

  —

  We both slept until almost nine. Milo got up first, heading to our recently added bathroom. I burrowed down under the covers for another twenty minutes. Saturday was my only day to be lazy in the morning.

  Unlike work days, when we rarely spoke to each other, our leisurely awakenings made us more talkative. Milo was eating breakfast when I arrived twenty minutes later. “Since when,” he asked, “do you dream about Marlon Brando?”

  “Brando?” I said in disbelief. “I never had a thing for him. I admired his acting, but why would I dream about him?”

  “You ever see him in The Wild One?”

  “No,” I replied, sloshing coffee into a mug. “I think it came out before I was born.”

  “I saw it years ago on TV,” Milo said. “Outlaw biker movie. It was pretty good for what it was. You were talking in your sleep again, saying something about motorcycles and Marlon or Mitchell. Some M name, anyway. You got a thing for Laskey?”

  “No. His real name is Menachem. I never recall dreams unless they’re really weird and wake me up.”

  “Guess it wasn’t that weird,” Milo said.

  After I sat down, the first jolts of caffeine brought my brain into focus. “Oh! I know why I dreamed about bikers. Mickey O’Neill came by on his motorcycle when I got home last night.”

  Milo frowned. “He came by here?”

  “No.” I explained how he’d zoomed by before pausing at the Nelson house. “There’s something off about the guy, but nothing weird happened.”

  The intense hazel eyes were unblinking. “So why would you dream about it?”

  “Well…Mickey beating up his girlfriend. In fact,” I went on, “I checked with the medics about the call you got at the shelter. What happened when you showed up?”

  “Clancy Barton was taking over from his dad, Frank,” Milo said. “The old boy’s almost ninety, but he’s got all his marbles. He told Clancy to check on the new arrival because, as Frank put it, ‘the little gal looks like the calves chewed her.’ ”

  “Colorful old guy,” I muttered. “Did his son follow through?”

  “He did. Frank had to go off to his supper, so Clancy went to see her. She’d already made a couple of cuts on her wrists.” Milo grimaced. “I had Dustin check in with the hospital around nine. She was stable, but wouldn’t be moved out of the ICU until morning.”

  “I take it nobody recognized her or made inquiries?”

  “Only us.”

  That reminded me to call Father Den. But first I had to fortify myself with food. Milo always made his own breakfast during the week because he had to leave for work before I did. But sometimes on weekends, I played the part of the good wife and made it for him. This Saturday wasn’t one of those times.

  “Can’t you put your dirty dishes in the dishwasher?” I asked.

  Milo looked up from the Seattle Times. “You say I load it wrong.”

  “You do. At least not as efficiently as…Never mind.” I sighed and took a cereal bowl out of the cupboard. I’d settle for corn flakes and the Times sports section. My husband always read that first.

  I’d almost finished eating when Milo put aside the rest of the paper. “Lot of 9/11 commemorative events going on this weekend,” he said. “I’m surprised Blackwell didn’t have the commissioners do something here so he could play up to the crowd. Is he hedging his bets until the recount’s a done deal?”

  “Judge Proxmire’s back in town Monday,” I reminded my husband. “I hope she acts fast to certify the election. Maybe I should talk to Rosemary Bourgette when I see her at Mass tomorrow. She might give Diane a nudge.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Milo said, getting up. “I’m going to my den to see if I can fix that yard vac you busted. How’d you do that?”

  I shot him a dark look. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have broken it in the first place.”

  “Twit,” he said, mussing my hair before heading out of the kitchen.

  The digital clock on the stove read 10:22. Father Den should be back in the rectory after saying the nine o’clock Saturday Mass. I went into the living room to make the call. Den answered on the third ring.

  “She’s out of the ICU,” he informed me, “but Dr. Sung says she’ll stay in the hospital at least until tomorrow. The cuts were fairly superficial, but she’s dehydrated and malnourished. From what she told me, she hasn’t eaten much lately.”

  “You figure she ran away from an abuser or…what?”

  “Honestly, Emma, I’m not sure. She’s holding out on me about who he is and what happened. Obviously, she’d been beaten, and not just in the last twenty-four hours. Elvis told me there were also some older bruises.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Yes,” Den replied, “but I can’t tell you.”

  “You could tell the sheriff.”

  Den didn’t respond right away. “So he’d tell you?”

  “No! Of course not,” I said sharply. “But the jerk’s a criminal. Whoever he is, he can’t go around beating up women without being held responsible. You know that.”

  “I do,” Den allowed. “The information isn’t under the seal of the confessional. It’s not the first time I’ve been in this situation, but it’s damned awkward. The abusers need help as much as the abused. They’re bullies, but generally they’re as low on self-esteem as the women they beat up. Sometimes the roles are reversed.”

  “I don’t want to badger you,” I said. “But I should be taking notes.”

  “Go ahead.” Den sounded bemused. “That way I won’t have to repeat myself.”

  On that note we rang off.

  Five minutes later Milo reappeared. “Your lawn vac is toast,” he said. “What the hell did you do with it? Don’t you empty it every time you use the damned thing?”

  “No,” I replied. “It takes a while for it to fill up. Usually.”

  “If it’d been any fuller, it would’ve blown up,” he growled. “I’m off to Harvey’s Hardware to buy a new one.” Milo stomped off to the garage.

  I finished cleaning up the kitchen and started the dishwasher. My next chores were to vacuum and dust the living room. I’d just finished when Milo returned from Harvey’s looking very pleased with himself.

  “Want to see the new lawn sweeper?” he asked.

  “Sweeper?” I echoed. “I thought you were buying a lawn vac.”

  “It’s better than that thing you had,” Milo asserted. “That was a piece of junk. What did you pay for it?”

  “I don’t remember,” I admitted, following him outside. “Under a hundred dollars?”

  “That figures,” he muttered. “Well? How’s this little hummer?”

  I gaped at the machinery on the lawn. It was red and black with a handle, wheels, a funnel, and I wasn’t sure what in the middle. “It’s nothing like my old lawn vac,” I said in an uncertain voice. “Is the red and black round thing an engine?”

  “You bet,” Milo replied. “Briggs & Stratton, one thousand CFM. You can push it instead of stumbling around to drag it behind you. Ball-bearing semi-pneumatic tires, sturdy chute. You won’t get all tangled up like you did with the old one.”

  “Nyuh.” I was overwhelmed. “H-h-how m-m-much?”

  “End of summer sale. Harvey gave me a real deal.” Milo looked very proud of himself.

  I finally collected my wits. “You paid cash?”

  “I usually do.” He put his arm around me. “Little Emma, how long does it take you to figure out you’re not on your own? Besides, I don’t throw my money around.”

  I sighed. “I’m so used to living from paycheck to paycheck.” I looked up at my better half. “It’s habit. And I forget sometimes that I’m not alone.”

  “Try to remember,” he said solemnly. “Okay?”

  I smiled. “Okay.”

  He smiled back and kissed the top of my head.

  —

  Milo had to try out his new toy, though he first showed me how to operate the Troy-Bilt Walk-Behind Jet Sweeper, as it was officially known. With a name like that, I felt it should have a room of its own.

  I resumed my domestic duties while Milo tended to yard cleanup. Shortly before noon, the phone rang. I cringed when I heard Kay Burns’s voice.

  “I’m afraid you’ve upset Iain,” she said, her tone frosty. “He’s a very sensitive person.”

  “I don’t like doing that,” I said calmly. “But Iain was very difficult.”

  “He’s candid,” Kay responded. “Occasionally people misinterpret him. You should apologize to him.”

  “He’s the one with no manners,” I said in a reasonable tone. “Farrell owes me an apology. Enjoy the rest of the weekend, Kay.” I hung up.

  Milo came in through the front door. “What’s for lunch?” He stopped to stare at me. “Whoa! You’re pissed. What’s wrong?”

  “Kay Burns,” I replied. “She wants me to apologize to Iain Farrell for being a jackass.”

  My husband looked puzzled. “You were being a jackass?”

  “No! He was. Didn’t I tell you he was a jerk when I talked to him?”

  “I thought Farrell was always a jerk. Remember when I had to bust him after he slugged Blackwell? I hated doing it, but Jack filed charges.”

  “Between those two, I wouldn’t know who to root for,” I muttered, getting up from the sofa. “Are you really hungry? We had a late breakfast.”

  “I ate before you did,” he reminded me. “Should I go pick up burgers?”

  “That’s a bother,” I said. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

  “Skip it. I’ll go to the Burger Barn. I can park in my usual slot and jaywalk to the other corner.”

  “You should ticket yourself,” I called after him. But he was already out the door.

  By the time I finished cleaning both bathrooms, Milo still wasn’t back with the burgers. It was almost one o’clock. Maybe he’d stopped at headquarters to make sure whoever was on the desk was awake. I stood at the front window, watching for the Yukon to pull into the driveway. Two boys on bicycles, an aging VW, a pickup filled with junk, and a young couple pushing a stroller went by, but I saw no sign of the sheriff. Three more cars and one RV later, I was starting to worry. Maybe I should call his cell. I was heading for the phone when I heard the Yukon pull into the garage. I met Milo at the kitchen door.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “That sonuvabitch Blackwell’s what happened,” Milo said angrily as he dumped the bag with our lunch on the kitchen table. “He saw the Yukon at headquarters and thought I was there. Heppner told him I wasn’t, so Jack left. Unfortunately, that’s when I came out of the Burger Barn. Blackwell wants to sue me.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For being alive, as far as I can tell,” Milo replied, then pointed to the bag. “You may want to heat up that stuff. It probably got cold while Jack was shooting off his face.”

  I put our lunch in the microwave. “What triggered this latest outburst?”

  “I haven’t found out who tried to kill him.”

  “I thought he didn’t have any enemies.”

  Milo poured the last of the coffee into a mug. “He says he doesn’t, that it has to be a nut job, but I still have to find out who it is. At least he didn’t repeat his accusation that one of my deputies tried to shoot him. Gould would be the most likely suspect, but he was right there in the crowd in plain sight. Hell, for all I know it could be some loony just passing through.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No.” He sat down at the table. “Jack and Farrell had that row at RestHaven a few months ago, but I doubt the nut doctor would take a shot at him. I don’t remember what they were fighting over, except that it had something to do with Kay Burns.”

  “Her honor, as I recall.” I paused, thinking back to what had started the fracas that had landed Farrell in jail. “You were on the scene.”

  “After the fact,” Milo reminded me. “It was crazy. Mullins and I never did figure out who started the rough stuff. Then I had to bust Blackwell for slugging Kay.”

  I removed the burgers and fries from the microwave and brought them to the table. “A pair of egotistical alpha males,” I said. “Even if Kay was married to Jack almost thirty years ago, I doubt that he’d be jealous if she and Farrell might have something going on.”

  “Who knows with Blackwell?” Milo muttered. “His ego’s as big as Alpine Baldy.”

  “So’s Farrell’s. Say, have you heard anything more from Ms. Compton?”

  My husband shook his head. “She’s still here, but so far she hasn’t done anything illegal.”

  We concentrated on eating for a few moments. “Maybe,” I finally said, “you should check deeper into Ms. Compton’s background. She’s rich, but how did she get that way?”

  Milo didn’t look enthused. “You think she held up banks?”

  “Of course not. But the family wealth was founded on silver mining. You know all the tales about sinister doings with the miners in the old days.”

  “So after a hundred years somebody followed the Jennings twins to Alpine?” The sheriff’s expression was beleaguered.

  I tried to look ingenuous. “It’s not impossible.”

  “You’re impossible,” Milo muttered after chewing the first big bite from his second burger. “According to Ms. C., Gemma’s murder was random. She might buy into the serial killer theory.”

  “Does she know about the previous murders?”

  Milo made a face. “I thought about telling her, but it’s conjecture. Besides, you know I have my own doubts. Georgiana Compton is not your typical mama. At first I wondered if she was on some heavy-duty drugs. But her eyes were clear and I couldn’t see any other signs that she was doped up. The word that describes her best is ‘cold.’ ”

  “Random or not, Gemma’s still dead. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” Milo asked.

  “Unless it wasn’t Gemma who was killed,” I said slowly, “and it was Sarah.”

  My husband’s eyes sparked. “You mean Gemma’s played the part of Sarah before?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just occurred to me. But Ms. Compton’s on a mission.”

  “You got it,” Milo agreed. “If she finds who killed her daughter, I hope she’s not armed, because she’s definitely dangerous.”

  —

  We spent the rest of the afternoon doing more yard cleanup. I got to use the fancy new lawn sweeper, which definitely was a vast improvement over the old lawn vac. A little after five we retreated to the chairs in the back yard.

  “Let’s eat out,” Milo said.

  I made a face. “I’m dirty and sweaty. I’d have to shower and get dressed. It sounds like too much effort.”

  He shrugged. “Your call, little Emma.”

  “Stop calling me ‘little.’ I’m average. I recently checked. You’re the one who’s a freak.”

  “No, I’m not. If I were in the NBA, I’d be a squirty little guard from off the bench.”

  Trying to picture my husband as “squirty” was beyond me. I was about to say so when I heard a motorcycle nearby. I couldn’t see the street from the backyard, but I could tell it was getting closer, as if it had turned off the street—and then stopped.

  I nudged Milo, who appeared to be resting his eyes. “I think that motorcycle went into the Nelson driveway,” I whispered. “I bet it’s Mickey O’Neill.”

  “So?”

  “Oh, never mind. I’m going inside to clean up. Then we can go to dinner.”