"Good Lord, no!" I uttered an abbreviated laugh. "He asked me if I thought you were a good attorney. I told him of course-or words to that effect. But I'd never suggest that you'd take on his case, especially pro bono."

Marisa's expression was wry. "I thought not. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"I can't believe Ed knows what pro bono means," I said.

Marisa smiled slightly. "He knows what it means, all right, but he called it pro bueno. I guess he thought it was Spanish, not Latin. He told me once after Ma.s.s that he'd served as an altar boy. You'd think he might have remembered some Latin from the old days."

"He's lucky he remembers English," I responded. "Oh, I shouldn't be so hard on him, but Ed can be a trial. Say," I went on impulsively, "have you got time for a drink?"

"Well...yes," Marisa answered, obviously surprised by the invitation. The fact was, I'd been meaning to get to know her better ever since she'd moved to Alpine not too long after I arrived. Our relationship had been strictly professional, although we occasionally chatted briefly before or after Sunday Ma.s.s. We had a good deal in common, though, both being single career women and not having much in the way of social lives.

"Venison Inn?" I said, pointing just down the street to the restaurant's entrance.

The wry expression returned. "Where else?"

I laughed. "We could go to the liquor store, buy a cheap fifth of something, and drink under the statue of Carl Clemans in Old Mill Park."

"That would end up in Vida's *Scene,'" Marisa said.

"Not while I'm editor," I retorted as we headed down the street.

We made casual chitchat until we were seated in the bar and had given our orders to an effusive Oren Rhodes.

"Is he always like that?" Marisa inquired after Oren returned to the bar. "I don't come here very often."

"I think he saves the flattery for women of a certain age," I replied. "Maybe that's what they taught in bartending school thirty years ago."

"That sounds about right," Marisa remarked, her shrewd gaze moving around the rapidly filling room. Her voice was low and rather soft but well-modulated, probably a valuable a.s.set in trials. "So. What kind of off-the-clock legal advice do you need?"

I was surprised and faintly offended. "I don't. Is that something you're used to being asked for?"

"Of course." She looked amused. "Just like doctors get cornered by people with symptoms whenever they're out of the office or the clinic or wherever." Before I could respond, she waved a slim hand. "Sorry. I'm not used to life as a social animal."

"I can understand that," I said. "Alpine isn't really suited for single professional women. So why do you stay?"

Marisa shrugged. "I grew up in a small town. Omak, on the other side of the Cascades, in what is quaintly called high desert country." She smiled. "But you know all that. It's about the same size as Alpine, but even farther away from a big city. My parents moved to Arizona a few years ago. Then my father died and Mom had to go into a nursing home, so I found a place for her in Everett. I've thought about moving there to be closer, but her health is very fragile. My practice is fairly good because there are so few lawyers in Alpine, and property is much cheaper here. So I stay." She shrugged again. "Maybe that's a mistake."

"I can't offer any advice on that," I said and waited for Oren to set down Marisa's vodka martini and my bourbon and water. Briefly, I wondered if Vida was nursing her Tom Collins c.o.c.ktail at the ski lodge with Sophia Cavanaugh.

"Anything else, lovely ladies?" Oren inquired, bending down a bit, maybe a.s.suming that we were both deaf. "Dinner menus?"

I shook my head. "Can't. It's Tuesday, Vida's night to howl."

The bartender straightened up, and his beaming face turned serious. "You don't have to tell me that. This place is really dead when her show is on the radio." He gazed around the bar and fingered his chin. "Do you suppose Vida'd like to do her broadcast from here? What do they call it? A remote?"

"Probably not," I said, "but," I went on, feeling impish, "you could ask her the next time she comes into the restaurant."

"I just might," Oren replied. "You never know."

"So," I said to Marisa after Oren had again gone on his way, "you went to law school at the UW. I take it you didn't want to stay in Seattle?"

"I was fine while I went through the U," Marisa said. "Focused on my studies, lived on campus in one of the dorms until my final year, and then I moved to a boardinghouse nearby. But the big city kind of frightened me. I worked for the state in Olympia for several years, and that wasn't too bad. Then I decided to go into private practice, and the opportunity came up here in Alpine. I took it. And I haven't budged in all these years, despite a couple of tempting offers."

"In bigger cities?"

She nodded. "One in Seattle, but the firm was too big. I'd have felt lost. The other was in San Francisco, and it was a much smaller firm. I was tempted because it was fairly prestigious. But when I found out I'd be replacing a lawyer who'd been murdered, I didn't feel right about it. That was three or four years ago, and I suppose I'm not really sorry I said no. *Kill all the lawyers' suddenly seemed like more than a mere quote from Shakespeare. Silly, huh?"

"Maybe not," I allowed. "Walking in a dead lawyer's shoes might not be comfortable. Did an outraged client do the dastardly deed?"

Marisa shook her head as she swallowed a sip of martini. "The last I heard, the case was never solved."

"I hope the sheriff has better luck with our current homicide," I remarked.

"Dodge seems very competent," Marisa said without expression. No doubt she knew that Milo and I had an off-and-on-again affair.

"He is," I agreed, "though he tends to go by the book. Still, that's important these days. I imagine that lawyers, especially prosecutors, prefer law enforcement types who are sticklers for going about their jobs the right way."

"Oh, certainly," Marisa said. "Not that I do any serious criminal law. DUIs, speeding tickets, a rare burglary or a.s.sault. Even some of those are often frivolous from a defense attorney's viewpoint. Myra Sundvold's husband, Dave, insists that I represent her every time she's charged with kleptomania. The last case I had to take to court involved her stealing a three-pack of boxer shorts from the men's store in the mall. Dave said she had no reason to take them because he wears briefs and she wears bloomers. The prosecuting attorney, Rosemary Bourgette, suggested that Myra might have a lover. That's when the fur began to fly. But you know more about crime in Alpine than I do since you have to publish the offenders' names."

I admitted that naming names in the paper was always very touchy in a small town. "They can't sue because the police log is a matter of record," I pointed out. "But that doesn't mean they can't hara.s.s me by phone, mail, or even in person. Not to mention their irate friends and relatives. Sometimes I feel very unpopular."

"I understand," Marisa said. "I've had some ugly reactions-even threats-when I win a judgment for one local against another. What makes it worse is that sometimes the two sides are related to each other. Talk about family feuds!"

We spent the rest of our drinking time discussing the various perils of our professions. It was almost six-fifteen when we left the Venison Inn. "We should do this another time," I said just before we parted company on the sidewalk.

"I'd like that." Marisa smiled. "We should have done it a long time ago."

"I know. But life-or maybe I should say the rut we get in-often seems hard to change. Next time we'll do dinner, but not at a time that interferes with Vida's program."

"Right." Marisa's smile seemed genuine, though she immediately sobered. "You know something? Talking about that job offer in San Francisco made me think that I should follow up and find out whatever happened to that lawyer I was supposed to replace. I completely lost interest after a couple of months went by. Now I'd like to find out if they ever solved the case."

"And if the lawyer they hired instead of you turned out to be a dud?"

She laughed, a sort of low little chuckle. "Oh, they probably got some eager beaver from Stanford or Cal who's now making big money. Most of that practice was probate, and frankly, I'd find it very limiting. I'd have gone stale in six months."

After we made another vow to get together, she headed for her office in the Alpine Building, across the street from the Advocate. I considered checking with Kip but knew that if he'd had any problems he would've called me on my cell phone. With only a glance at the front door to our modest digs, I got in my car and went home to my equally modest log house.

The mail I removed from my box by the side of Fir Street was all junk, with the usual couple of promos for credit cards. No phone calls awaited me. Except for a batch of advertising messages, there were no new e-mails of interest. The refrigerator and freezer were bereft of any tempting items. I took out a frozen chicken and noodle ca.s.serole and a handful of little peeled carrots. The ca.s.serole went into the oven. I might take shortcuts in food preparation, but with some muddled rationalization that I wasn't completely lazy, I rarely microwaved frozen entrees. Then, despite already having downed a preprandial drink, I poured a half-inch of bourbon over ice and added some water. Now I was set to enjoy my evening's big event, listening to Vida chat her head off from her gossipy cupboard.

The ca.s.serole wasn't done by the time the usual sound effects of creaking hinges announced that Vida was opening her cupboard. She immediately launched into her usual "Good evening to all my dear friends and neighbors in Alpine and the surrounding area of Skykomish County. As ever, I take my hat off to each and every one of you for..."

The rest of the salute varied from week to week. This time her apparent theme-not that she always had one-was the Fourth of July or, as Vida insisted on calling it, Independence Day, and her hat was doffed to everyone who appreciated the American way of life, especially those who had the good sense to live within the range of her trumpetlike voice.

She continued her holiday theme by talking about more of the descendants of the early town settlers and the mill workers. Ruby and Louie Siegel had moved to Sultan and raised three sons; one of the mill owner Carl Clemans's three daughters had married her fellow Alpiner Payson Peterson and settled in Snohomish; the former logging camp cook Webster Patterson and his wife, Clara June, had two sons, one of whom had become a doctor and the other a Jesuit priest. And so on, names from the distant past that still seemed to resonate across the river valley from Mount Baldy to Tonga Ridge.

During the commercial break, I took my ca.s.serole out of the oven and began to eat. The subst.i.tute for the ailing Maud Dodd was Vida's nephew, the SkyCo deputy sheriff Bill Blatt. As was her custom, she called him "Billy," despite the fact that he was now in his mid-thirties and probably would've preferred just plain Bill. The interview was about observing a countywide restriction against setting off fireworks except in Old Mill Park or on the high school football field. The law was aimed not only at preventing careless people from blowing off their fingers but also preventing forest fires. There were always several arrests and fines for those who ignored the ordinance. The previous year our resident UFO spotter, Averill Fairbanks, insisted that his teenage grandson had launched several mortars in the backyard to prevent a half-dozen hostile s.p.a.ceships from landing on top of First Baptist Church across the street. Milo didn't buy the argument, and the Fairbanks family had to sh.e.l.l out-so to speak-two hundred bucks in fines.

My mind wandered during the interview. Bill Blatt was reiterating much of what we were running in the Advocate, as we'd been doing for the last few years since the ordinances had gone into effect. I had finished my meal by the time Vida closed her cupboard-more creaking hinges followed by Spencer Fleetwood's recorded message to return next week when "Vida Runkel is back at this same time on KSKY with all the news that isn't fit to print."

I shut off the radio and tidied up the kitchen. Feeling at loose ends, I turned on the TV to catch the Mariners playing the Texas Rangers at home in Safeco Field. My brain, however, wasn't focused on the game. Vida probably would call me as soon as she got home to tell me about her chat with Sophia Cavanaugh. Remembering Adam's request, I started to dial Father Den's number at the rectory but stopped on the third digit. Tuesday was our pastor's night for conducting a cla.s.s on St. Matthew's gospel. I'd phone him in the morning.

Ten minutes later, I heard a knock on the door. Vida, I thought and hurried to let her in. But she wasn't my visitor. Graham Cavanaugh stood on the small front porch, smiling pleasantly.

"I decided it was time to talk," he said. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"No," I said, stepping aside. "I'm not very busy."

I offered him the armchair by the hearth and asked if he'd care for something to drink.

Graham shook his head. "I'm good," he replied, surveying my living room with its exposed logs and rafters. "So this is the little log cabin in the woods."

"Yes," I said, resuming my place on the sofa. "Can you picture your father living here?"

"No, I really can't," Graham said after a pause. "He'd become a true San Franciscan. No offense, but we never believed he'd move away after thirty years."

"Really." My tone was skeptical.

"Oh, I realize that's not what you like to hear," Graham said matter-of-factly, "but Tom was all about business and profit margins. That was his life. He enjoyed the action."

"Maybe."

Graham leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. "Look, I understand you may have a different take on my father, but we all have our own perceptions. How many years did you hold on to the dream?"

"Too d.a.m.ned long," I snapped. "It was no dream. We finally had definite plans. Adam-your half brother-and my own brother were going to concelebrate our nuptial Ma.s.s."

"That sounds wonderful," Graham remarked, "and I'm sure that's what you wanted. It's quite touching-romantic, too. But that wasn't going to happen." He slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, it's tough to demolish someone's illusions, but the real world is often harsh."

"Why have you come to see me?" I asked, trying to control my distress and at the same time searching for something-anything-about Graham that reminded me of Tom.

Graham sat back in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other and giving his designer slacks a little tug to keep the crease straight. "To settle this business with the Advocate. We've reworked our offer and want you to stay on as long as you wish as the editor."

I started to protest, but Graham held up a hand. "Please, hear me out. We're making a generous offer, and we'll also give you a salary that will be considerably more than you take home now. We can do that because we own over three dozen newspapers west of the Rockies, up by fourteen percent in the three years since Tom died. Almost all of them are in the black. We manage to make a profit because our specialty is advertising on a very broad basis, not just local or even regional, but including national and even international advertisers. In some instances, we can give the newspapers away because of the lucrative ad revenue. You can see for yourself not only that this setup would provide you with a comfortable income until you're ready to retire but that the buyout money will give you a fat nest egg."

The offer made some sense. Some, I thought, yet not enough to make me jump at the prospect.

My hesitation was Graham's signal to chuckle softly. "Don't give me an answer now. Think about it, sleep on it. You know from your own experience that our little empire is solid and has a fine reputation. We're staying for another day while Dylan and Kelsey make up their minds about that house they're considering." He got to his feet and smiled benignly. "I'll go away now and let you cogitate. Thanks for hearing me out. We're not villains, we're businesspeople, trying to make a successful enterprise prosper even more." He reached out to shake my hand.

I couldn't refuse the seemingly polite gesture. "I should do some research," I said, realizing that Graham had yet to name his buyout price. I decided not to press him. I was afraid that, if it was large enough, I might be tempted. Instead, I informed him that I couldn't promise an answer overnight.

"That's fine," he said, letting go of my hand. "Take your time."

The phone was ringing. "Yes. Okay. I must get that call," I said.

Still smiling, Graham left.

I'd already grabbed the receiver and answered as I closed the door behind him. It was, as I'd expected, Vida. She explained that she'd stopped off on the way home from KSKY to visit with her daughter and her husband.

"I'd hoped Roger would be home," Vida went on, "but he was working out at his friend Davin's bas.e.m.e.nt gym. Davin just returned from Western Washington University in Bellingham. Naturally, Roger is glad his chum is home again. He's so keen on keeping fit but doesn't want to impose on the family when Davin's away at college."

Davin was the son of Oren and Sunny Rhodes, Curtis's temporary landlords. The only bas.e.m.e.nt apparatus I knew the family owned was an old pinball machine that had been taken out of the Venison Inn's bar when the restaurant had been renovated. As far I could tell, keeping fit meant that Roger could still ease his large rear end into an even larger chair.

I went straight to the point. "What did Sophia have to say?"

"She was very vague about the Bronsky house," Vida replied, "emphasizing that the decision quite naturally was up to Dylan and Kelsey. She and Graham came to give moral support after Dylan was supposed to have been murdered."

"That sounds odd," I said.

"Oh-I don't know," Vida responded thoughtfully. "They are family."

"I suppose so."

"Anyway," Vida continued after a pause, "I found out about Kelsey's little boy. He's staying with Sandra's sister in San Rafael."

"I didn't know Sandra had a sister," I said. "Or if I did, I forgot."

"Understandable," Vida remarked. "I gathered," she went on, lowering her voice, "they still want to buy the Advocate."

"That's right," I informed her. "Graham stopped by to make an offer only an idiot like me could refuse."

"What was that?" Vida's voice sharpened.

I recounted the proposal. "Frankly," I said, "it makes sense-right up until I realized that I wouldn't have control of the paper anymore. Judging from how he described their operations elsewhere, they publish gigantic shoppers instead of newspapers. I've seen some of those. Local news is a low priority."

"I know. What's the point?" Vida's words shook with indignation. "Making money is a very unfulfilling way to live. I can't imagine that Tommy would approve. From what Leo says, Tommy's papers were filled with local information."

"That was then, this is now," I said, hearing a siren in the distance and hoping that, if it were a fire engine, n.o.body's house was burning down after our deadline. "Let's face it, the media has changed drastically in the short time since Tom...died." Short time? It seemed like forever. "I'll tell them no, of course."

"Of course. I can't imagine Alpine without a hometown newspaper."

I couldn't imagine Alpine without Vida's contributions. "Their revised offer is a bribe. If they want a foothold in Washington, there are some other weeklies around that are still independent."

"Not as many as there used to be, though," Vida pointed out. "Oh-before I forget, I saw Leo arriving as I was driving away from the ski lodge. Was he calling on those Cavanaughs?"

"Not that I know of," I said. "Maybe he was meeting one of our advertisers there for a drink or dinner."

"He must've missed my program," Vida murmured. "Oh, well. I suppose business comes first with Leo."

Vida and I wound up our conversation just as I heard the westbound Burlington Northern freight whistle as it rumbled through town. I left my House & Home editor to reflect on how our advertising manager would explain his dereliction of duty to her cupboard. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was eight-fifteen. I could e-mail Ben. Or write a couple of real letters, a habit I'd fallen away from in recent years.

Standing by the sofa, I gazed at Craig Laurentis's Sky Autumn and wondered if he'd be permitted to adopt the bear cubs. I hadn't seen Craig since I'd gotten the painting, almost a year ago. Darlene Adc.o.c.k had reported a sighting of him by her husband's hardware store in February. Most of the locals still called Craig by his nickname, Old Nick. His long gray beard had made him seem much older than he really was. According to Donna Wickstrom, who ran the local art gallery, he was in his mid-or late fifties and had dropped out early on, when even a hippie's alternative lifestyle had proved too burdensome.

The phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I took my time picking up the receiver, sensing that it might be Graham Cavanaugh adding more plums to the pie he'd offered.

Milo's voice was at the other end, sounding odd.

"Emma?" he repeated hoa.r.s.ely.

"Yes, it's me. You don't sound like yourself. What's wrong?"