Our newly created officer manager set down a six-inch pile of what looked mostly like junk. To my surprise, I realized the spring was back in her step. “You recovered?” I blurted.

  She laughed. “I talked to my mother last night. She told me I was an idiot. Mom’s always been cool in a crisis.”

  I nodded. “I remember that from over ten years ago, when your dad was a suspect in your birth mother’s murder. She was a tower of strength for you and your father.”

  “She’s been a good role model,” Alison said.

  My phone rang. When I heard Milo’s voice blast my ear, I wondered why he needed to call instead of just shouting from his headquarters a block and a half away.

  “Blackwell’s goons are handing out more crap,” Milo bellowed as I held the receiver an inch away from my ear. “He claims a search for a city manager costs—”

  “Stop!” I yelled. “Calm down before you have a stroke. I don’t want to be a widow before we’ve celebrated our first anniversary.”

  I heard Milo let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, fine. Black Jack says he did a study on city manager salaries. They don’t come cheap.”

  “That may be true,” I allowed, “but it depends on the city’s size. Or, in our case, the county. With only eight thousand people, a county manager shouldn’t command a huge salary.”

  “That’s another thing,” he said, still irked. “Blackwell figures no one qualified will take the job.”

  “Dubious,” I responded. “Lots of people would like to move to a quiet, scenic area like this. Cities can be very wearing.”

  “Shit,” Milo muttered. “You used to be a city girl. What happened?”

  “You happened. Are you through bitching?”

  “Yeah. For now. But I’m still pissed off.” He hung up.

  Mitch had returned to the newsroom just as the sheriff rang off. My reporter lingered by my door. “Are you busy?”

  I smiled. “Your boss is always busy. Have you any weekend plans?” I hated to ask, sensing I already knew the answer.

  “Brenda and I are visiting our son at the Monroe Correctional Complex,” he replied. “Troy’s only got a year left to finish serving his sentence. We’ll stay over in Monroe to see the Evergreen State Fair. We moved here too late to take it in last September.”

  I didn’t want to admit I’d never been to the fair at Monroe. When Ben and I were growing up in Seattle, my parents had taken us to the Puyallup Fair a couple of times. It had been fun, but there are only so many pot-bellied pig races, giant gourds, and steroid-induced dahlias that I can admire without getting bored.

  “Did you have a state fair in Detroit?” I inquired.

  Mitch looked at me as if he thought I were kidding. “With exhibits featuring rusted-out GM cars, a wax figure of Jimmy Hoffa, and a bunch of panhandlers outside of the gates? In a word, no. The state fair is at Novi, about twenty miles from where we lived in Royal Oak, and it’s huge. We never went there.”

  That sounded typical of the often gloomy Mitch and his troubled wife, Brenda. “The one at Monroe should be more…homey,” I said for want of a better word.

  “Anyway,” Mitch went on, “we may stay at a motel to give us more time with Troy. It’s not a long drive, but I don’t want to tire Brenda.”

  Since he’d brought up a touchy subject, I asked how she was getting along.

  “She really is improving,” Mitch replied. “Brenda’s gotten back full bore into her weaving, and Christmas orders are already coming in.”

  “That’s good news,” I declared and meant it. Mitch’s wife had suffered a breakdown when Troy escaped from the correctional complex in December. “The weather should hold,” I went on. “I’m sure Brenda will enjoy the craft displays.”

  “I hope so.” Mitch tugged at one of his long earlobes. “Before the weather gets bad we’d like to go up to Vancouver or maybe Victoria. When we lived in Royal Oak we only went to Ontario once.”

  “You should check out British Columbia,” I said. “Especially since the tourist season is over. You can take the Victoria Clipper out of Seattle for a day trip.”

  “I’ll think about that,” Mitch said without much enthusiasm.

  I changed the subject. “Anything of interest in the sheriff’s log?”

  “The usual.” He started to turn away, but stopped. “Oh—we don’t run names, but the guy who beat up his girlfriend was that Mickey O’Neill you mentioned for Vida’s ‘Scene.’ I wondered if you’d still want to run it even if nobody knows he’s a bad guy.”

  “I considered it because of the Blackwell connection,” I said. “Yes, I’d better delete it. Vida never checks the paper after it comes out. Who was the girl?”

  Mitch grimaced. “Mullins didn’t know. Mickey refused to say and apparently she wouldn’t talk.”

  “Maybe she couldn’t,” I said. “Or she was too embarrassed. Mickey comes from a rough background. His father and two uncles were wiped out in an infamous feud with another equally bellicose family.”

  “Sounds like Detroit,” Mitch remarked. “I’m almost sorry I missed that one.”

  I wish I’d missed it, too. But that was another story.

  —

  An hour later Vida returned from her rounds. “I’ve been lacking in hospitality,” she declared, sitting down at her desk. “I’ve never hosted the Laskeys to dinner since their arrival a year ago, so I’ll invite them for tomorrow. I received a new casserole recipe in today’s mail. It sounds very tasty, with chicken gizzards and turnips. Would you and Milo care to join us?”

  I glanced into the newsroom to make sure Mitch was gone. “The Laskeys are leaving for the weekend.”

  “Oh.” She frowned. “A visit to Troy, I presume?”

  I nodded. “In fact, more than once over the holiday.”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured, shoulders slumping. “So difficult.” She quickly brightened. “Would you and Milo like to come anyway?”

  “Milo hasn’t told me his work schedule for the three-day weekend.” And he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than eat one of your gruesome casseroles. “Will Buck Bardeen be in town for the weekend?” I asked, referring to the retired Air Force colonel who was her longtime companion.

  “Yes, I planned to ask him, too.” Vida repinned what resembled a flying saucer on her unruly gray curls. “Maybe we’ll go out to dinner—perhaps the French place on the highway. He enjoys restaurant meals.”

  I didn’t doubt it. The colonel might prefer eating scientific specimens to Vida’s cooking. Her phone rang, so I headed to my office.

  My own phone started ringing. “Why don’t you wander down here to see me?” the sheriff asked.

  “I just saw you this morning before you left for work,” I replied.

  “You’re never awake when you get up. We need to talk.” He hung up on me.

  Wondering why it couldn’t wait until lunch, I dutifully trudged off to the sheriff’s headquarters. Deputy Sam Heppner was in charge of the front desk and receptionist Lori Cobb was looking wistful. Sam, not a talkative type, nodded at me. Lori uttered a big sigh.

  “Have you seen the hunk who seems to be working for Blackwell?” she asked in a breathless voice.

  “No,” I replied, assuming Lori was referring to the same guy who’d dazzled Alison. “Is that why you’re hyperventilating?”

  She nodded. “He’s real eye candy. Are you here to see the sheriff?”

  “Yes, but maybe I should ogle the hot dude, even if he’d think I was his mother.”

  “He was on the corner of Third a while ago,” Lori said.

  “I’ll take a look when I leave.” I opened the half-door in the counter and headed for my husband’s office. “The door’s closed. Should I go in?”

  “What?” Lori was still dazed. “Oh, sure, go ahead. But he’s not in a very good mood.”

  “Oh?” I said in mock surprise. “He’s always such a sweetie at home.” I heard Sam grunt as I entered Milo’s office. “Well?”

  My husband was holding his head. “Blackwell’s having the county commissioners investigate how I run my operation.”

  I was so rattled that I almost missed the chair when I sat down. “No! Why? I mean, why now?”

  “Because he can,” Milo replied. “Those two old duffers who serve with him as county commissioners can’t say no to Blackwell. Hell, Engebretsen and Hollenberg are too senile to remember that they are county commissioners.”

  “What does Blackwell think will come of an investigation?”

  Milo shrugged. “Unless they plant stuff, nothing. But announcing an investigation sends a message that something’s wrong. By the way, he’s dropping off a news release for you. I suppose Fleetwood will get one, too. Avoid Black Jack when he shows up.”

  “No biggie. The last time he pitched a fit in the office, I found out Mitch knows martial arts. Unfortunately, he didn’t have to use his skills.”

  Milo leaned forward in his leather chair. “Did Jack threaten you back then? You told me at the time he only shot his mouth off.”

  “Well…” I felt sort of silly. “I didn’t want to upset you….”

  Milo’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Did or did he not threaten you?”

  “Not really,” I replied.

  “Did you feel threatened?”

  The sheriff’s intense gaze made me feel like a perp in a lineup. “Kind of. But I didn’t think he’d—”

  “Stop.” Milo sat back in his chair. “If there’s any fear a situation might get physical, it’s enough to file charges. You know that from the domestic abuse stuff you run in the paper.”

  “Damn,” I said under my breath. “I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.”

  “You should’ve told me at the time.” He took a cigarette out of an almost empty pack and offered me one. I declined, not having smoked for almost two weeks. “But you might be right about holding off on busting Blackwell right now,” Milo went on. “It’d look like retaliation for his dumb-ass investigation. I’m not forgetting about it, though. And for God’s sake, give him a wide berth from now on.”

  “You think I like dealing with him?”

  “Hell, no.” Milo waved his free hand. “Here’s one more pain in the ass. My brother, Clint, called from Dallas. He and his wife, Pootsie, are coming this way. He claims he feels bad about missing his nephew’s wedding. Hell, Bran hardly remembers Clint. They’ve only been back up here four times in almost thirty years since he got his biology Ph.D. from Wazzu and took the Texas job. They’ll hit the road tonight in their fancy RV.”

  “I’ve never met him,” I said. “Did you tell him we got married?”

  Milo looked a bit sheepish. “Yeah. I had to. I couldn’t explain you away as some stray I picked up at the Icicle Creek Tavern.”

  The comment annoyed me. “Why didn’t you tell him in the first place, jackass?”

  Mile let out an impatient sigh. “Because Clint wouldn’t give a damn. He’s always been full of himself. It took three years before I told him Mulehide and I were divorced. He only saw her twice after he was the best man at our wedding.”

  “Did he like Mule…I mean, Tricia?”

  “Clint only likes himself—and Pootsie. Oh, maybe their twins, Muffy and Duffy.”

  “You made up those names.”

  “No. They did. I saw those kids only once on their second trip up here. They were about eight.”

  I stood up. “I’d better get back to work. Any chance you can meet me for lunch?”

  “I can’t,” Milo replied, coming around the side of his desk. “It’s Dustin Fong’s birthday. I told him I’d buy lunch at the ski lodge.”

  “Give your deputy my best—” I never finished. Milo had wrapped his arms around me and kissed me. It was a very intense kiss.

  “I think,” I gasped, “you were lonesome.”

  “Hey,” he said, “we’re still newlyweds.”

  I laughed. “After more or less sixteen years together?”

  “Should’ve been more.” He swatted my rear. “Beat it. You’re still a distraction.”

  I left, still smiling.

  —

  Leo stopped me halfway through the newsroom. “I saw one of those broadsides Blackwell’s guys are handing out.”

  I perched on the edge of my ad man’s desk. “It’s worse than you think.” I told him about Black Jack’s investigation of the sheriff.

  Leo looked grim. “That’s not good. Are you putting it online?”

  “There’s nothing official,” I replied. “I’ll wait until Blackwell or one of his stooges gives out the announcement.”

  “You won’t wait long,” Leo said, lowering his voice. “Black Jack just came in. He’s talking to Alison.”

  I glanced into the front office. Jack wheeled around and left. “That’s weird,” I murmured before hurrying to quiz our receptionist.

  Alison looked chagrined. “No, I didn’t ask about L.J., because Blackwell was in a rush. He told me to give you this.” She handed me a typed sheet of paper. “I think it’s a news release.”

  “It is,” I said. “The county commissioners are going to investigate the sheriff’s department.”

  Alison looked aghast. “Why?”

  “Jack’s a world-class jerk. He and Milo never got along, back to when they were both in their twenties. They clashed from the start.”

  “He’s not originally from here, is he?” Alison asked.

  I shook my head. “Jack’s from California—the northern part, I think. But I heard he had mills in Idaho and maybe Oregon before he came to Alpine thirty years ago.”

  Alison frowned. “If he was only in his twenties, where did he get the money to buy up timber mills?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” I admitted. “Maybe Vida does, since she knows all things Alpine.” But glancing into the newsroom, I saw no sign of her. “I’ll ask when she gets back.”

  I took the news release into my office to give it my undivided attention. When it came to his business, Blackwell was beyond reproach, disliked only by those of us who had to deal with him away from his timber company offices. He’d been married and divorced before coming to Alpine. There had been two failed marriages here early on, but they were before my time. Jack had stayed single ever since, living off and on with Patti Marsh, who didn’t mind being his regular punching bag. At least she’d never filed charges against him. I got the impression she actually loved the guy. In my opinion, even that wasn’t any excuse for beating on her.

  I steeled myself for what I figured was Blackwell’s announcement of investigating the sheriff. But I was mistaken. In fact, I had to read the first sentence twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

  As a longtime resident and an experienced county commissioner, if Tuesday’s vote favors a change in government, I feel not only well qualified for the task, but also a personal and professional obligation to become manager of Alpine and Skykomish County.

  Maybe I should have expected this. Taking a deep breath, I continued reading.

  After completing a thorough study of the process to hire a city manager, I discovered that this is a costly and time-consuming task. I’ve discussed it with my fellow commissioners, George Engebretsen and Leonard Hollenberg, two conscientious men who have served this county so long and so well. They have given me their full support to take on the responsibilities of governing our honest, courageous, and compassionate citizens who have built our community from its very beginnings ninety years ago. I look forward to leading Skykomish County when Alpine celebrates its centennial in five years.

  I was quivering with aggravation by the time I finished. Jack made his case for the manager’s job sound like a fait accompli. Milo would really explode. My next thought was how Mayor Fuzzy Baugh would take Blackwell’s power play. Fuzzy might be old and sometimes addled—or maybe it was the result of taking too much Southern Comfort right out of the bottle. But he was from New Orleans and well steeped in what I might kindly describe as bayou backstabbing. I called the courthouse to see if the mayor was in. And sober.

  The mayor’s secretary, Bobbi Olsen, informed me her boss was “under the weather.” I asked if that meant he was still on the job.

  “No,” Bobbi replied. “He felt some heart palpitations earlier, so Mrs. Baugh insisted he go to the clinic. They’re still there, as far as I know.”

  “Would the palpitations have been set off by Commissioner Blackwell?” I inquired.

  “They usually are,” Bobbi said. “Jack called on him earlier today. It was a closed-door meeting, so I don’t know what went on between them. I doubt it was pleasant, though.”

  I opted for discretion. “Just talking to Blackwell could bring on a spell for Fuzzy. Keep me posted, please.”

  “Will do. I worry about our mayor. He’s no spring chicken.” Bobbi rang off on that worrisome note.

  I looked into the newsroom to see if Mitch was around, but he was nowhere in sight. Vida, however, was heading for her desk. I hurried out to meet her. “It’s almost noon,” she said. “The Venison Inn?”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  The VI, as it’s known, is two doors down from the office. To my relief, I saw no sign of Blackwell’s stooges. With the long weekend under way, traffic on Front Street was heavy by Alpine standards. I saw at least three out-of-state license plates. The morning clouds had lifted, revealing Alpine Baldy to the north and Mount Sawyer to the south. A BNSF freight train crawled through town a block away by Railroad Avenue. Warning bells clanged to alert drivers that the train was approaching the truss bridge over the Skykomish River. When I first arrived, it had taken some time to adjust to a small town after sixteen years in Portland. By now the warp and woof of my adopted home were second nature. If I had changed, so had Seattle, the city of my birth. It was no longer a woodsy Northwest outpost, but an influential, progressive metropolis. Maybe my hometown and I had become strangers.

  All this flashed through my mind as Vida made her usual royal progress through the VI. The restaurant was busy, so we headed for the rear as she paused to greet several locals. I trailed along like an afterthought.

  “Well now,” she said, surveying her surroundings. “No window booths.” She held on to her saucer-like hat as she slid into the last available booth. “I do hate it when I can’t see what’s going on outside.”