The Alpine Legacy by Mary Daheim

angry about her allusion to our affair. That made sense, and it was easy to believe.
    From my side of the counter, it sounded as if Ron was taking information about a fender bender on Highway 187 near the Icicle Creek Bridge. Two men, one of whom I recognized as Ellsworth Overholt, presented Dustin with a noisy dispute about a cow that couldn't read a NO TRESPASSING sign. I scribbled some notes on both incidents. Scott Chamoud would get the details when he checked the log Monday morning.
    At last, Milo and Father Den appeared. They both looked so grave that my heart skipped a beat.
    “Emma!” Milo said in surprise. “You got my message?”
    I stood up. “No. What's happened?”
    “Come on in.” The sheriff gestured toward his open door, then shook hands with Dennis Kelly. “Thanks, Father. We'll be in touch.”
    My pastor and I exchanged anxious smiles as we passed through the swinging door of the counter, going our separate ways. Then I was in Milo's office, which smelled of cigarettes and bad coffee.
    “I left three messages this morning,” Milo said, easing his lanky form into a swivel armchair. “You must've taken off early.”
    “Before ten,” I said in a taut voice. “Spare me the conversation. What's going on?”
    He picked up a pack of Marlboro Lights and shook one out onto the desk. “Where were you last night?”
    I didn't like the sharp edge in his usually laconic voice. “I was … You know where I was. I answered the phone when you called Crystal Bird.”
    “That was a few minutes before eight,” he said, still in that same official tone. “What did you do after you handed the phone to Crystal?”
    “I left. Immediately. I was back home by eight-twenty.” Little warning bells were going off in my head. “Has something happened to Crystal?” Given the questions and Milo's attitude, it seemed a logical assumption.
    “What happened while you were there?” The sheriff's hazel eyes were very steady as he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.
    “We talked,” I replied, feeling the tension build inside me. “Paula Rubens had arranged a meeting between us. It was set for seven-thirty. I might have been five minutes late. The road into Crystal's cabin is tricky, especially in snow.”
    “What did you talk about?” Milo appeared to have forgotten how to blink.
    “Her attitude toward me,” I replied. “Why she was so vicious. What we could do to make things better.”
    “Did you quarrel?”
    “No. We argued, but only briefly.”
    “Then what?”
    “We compromised.”
    “What kind of a mood was she in?”
    “Acerbic, which I assume is standard.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Look, Milo, you tell me what this is all about or I won't answer another damned question.” For emphasis, I slammed my hand down on the desk.
    Leaning back in his chair, Milo kept his eyes on my face. “Dennis Kelly called on Crystal this morning. He felt that one of the religious leaders should explain the local churches' position on the shelter and what wasbeing done. Father Den knocked, but no one came to the door, though her sport utility vehicle was parked outside. He went around to what he assumed was the back door. As you know, it leads off the deck.” Milo, who is not given to lengthy speeches, paused for breath. “He found Crystal in the hot tub. Her wrists had been slashed and she was dead.”

U NTIL AN AUTOPSY had been performed, Doc Dewey, who also serves as the country coroner, was ruling Crystal's death a suicide. “You're sure Crystal didn't seem upset?” Milo persisted after I'd recovered from the shock of his news.
    I summoned up the nerve to glare at him. “You should know. You talked to her after I left. How come, Milo?”
    Milo gave a sharp shake of his head. “That doesn't matter.”
    “The hell it doesn't,” I shouted, then lowered my voice. “You had a conversation. How did she sound to you?”
    Grimacing, Milo finally looked off toward the opposite wall and his array of NRA posters.