The Alpine Vengeance: An Emma Lord Mystery by Mary Daheim Page A

We had a rocky history, going back to her former job with the local orthodontist, Carter Nystrom. For once, I was more than willing to let Vida take the lead.
    She marched up to Bree’s post and placed both gloved hands on the counter. “Sheriff Dodge told us to meet him here,” Vida said. “Where might he be?”
    Bree shot me a baleful glance before responding. “Dodge might be anywhere. He’s not here.”
    Vida was unfazed. “Then tell us what’s going on with Mr. Laurentis. The sheriff informed us he’d been shot and was being admitted. Has he already been taken into surgery?”
    Bree folded her hands in her lap. She would’ve been pretty if disdain hadn’t puckered her face like a prune. “I’m sorry. That information is confidential. You’re not family, are you?”
    I almost expected Vida to claim that she was. Half of Alpineseemed related to her by blood or by marriage. Bree wasn’t a native, so she might have believed the lie. But my House & Home editor kept to the truth. “No,” she said after a long pause, and began to peel off her gloves with the tantalizing finesse of a seasoned stripper. “I understand Mr. Laurentis has no family around here. But you probably know that.” Vida paused to look at Bree—and drop one glove on the counter. “However, it appears that a crime may’ve been committed, which is why we were summoned here by the sheriff.” She paused again and turned in my direction. “We, as you know perfectly well,” Vida announced rather grandly as she dropped the other glove, “are The Press.”
    “Oh, crap!” I said under my breath as Spencer Fleetwood crossed the ER threshold from the street entrance.
    Bree beamed at the sight of Mr. Radio. “Spence!” she cried. “I’m so glad you could come in person.”
    Spence flashed his big smile at all of us. “I’ll break a leg for breaking news,” he said. “Thanks, Bree, for giving me a heads-up.”
    Bree had the grace to look askance and blush—or maybe she was overcome by the attention from Spence. “Are you going to do a live broadcast from here?” she asked.
    “That depends,” he said, finally gazing at me before looking back at Bree. “What’s happening with our recluse?”
    “Well …” Bree cleared her throat. I sensed she would’ve loved to take Spence aside and share her knowledge only with him. “The ambulance brought him in just a few minutes ago. I can’t leave my desk, so that’s all I can tell you. Now.” She gave him a meaningful look. “The hermit’s condition is probably being evaluated before they decide to proceed with medical treatment.”
    I couldn’t stand it. Shoving Spence aside, I stomped up to thecounter, where Vida had moved off to one side. “What else would they be doing with someone who arrives in the ER by ambulance? And don’t give me any of that ‘triage’ bunk. It’s a battlefield or disaster term, and one patient doesn’t require sorting through priorities. That’s bullshit.”
    “Emma …,” Vida said softly.
    I ignored her. “Furthermore, the victim has a name—Craig Laurentis. Give him some dignity as a human being. He’s a brilliant artist, and how or where he lives is his business, you little twerp.”
    Bree’s blue eyes widened in shock; Vida sucked in her breath; Spence let out a strangled sound between a laugh and a groan. I turned on my heel and practically ran to the door that led to the ER area.
    Vida was right behind me. “Your language, Emma! Really. Quite shocking.”
    “Sorry,” I mumbled. “You know what a pain Bree is.”
    “That’s no excuse for—” Vida didn’t finish her lecture. We were accosted by a tall, raw-boned nurse wearing the traditional white uniform both Old Doc and Young Doc Dewey insisted upon. “Excuse me,” she said in a tight voice, “but you can’t come in here.”
    Vida glanced at the nurse’s nametag. “Astrid Overholt. I thought you lived in Everett.”
    Astrid peered at Vida through rimless bifocals.