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

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! I haven’t seen you in years. I just moved back over the Thanksgiving weekend. My mother can’t live alone anymore and there was a job opening at the hospital.”
    “How wonderful to see you,” Vida enthused. “I’m glad I found out. I’ll put it in this week’s paper. We must have a chat. But business before pleasure, Astrid. I don’t think you’ve met Emma Lord, the
Advocate
’s editor and publisher.”
    “I haven’t,” Astrid said, shaking my hand. “I’ll bet you two are here about that poor soul who got shot. Is he homeless?”
    “No,” I said, making sure Astrid knew I could talk. “He lives out of town. Is he going to be okay?”
    “I don’t know,” Astrid replied, a frown creasing her high forehead. “The wound didn’t strike anything vital, but apparently he lost a great deal of blood. I understand he was found in the woods by—” She stopped as Milo and Spence came into the hallway.
    “… not a damned freak show,” Milo was saying angrily to Spence. “There you are,” he went on, approaching the three of us. “Any news?” The query was for Astrid.
    “Not yet,” she replied. “Dr. Sung is with him. I believe his main concern is blood loss before he removes the bullet.”
    “Right,” Milo said, taking off his tall regulation hat. “I think Laurentis had been lying where the park rangers found him since last night. He was lucky anybody got to him before it was too late. Damned poachers. Hacking down trees is bad enough, but shooting people is worse. Make sure Sung gives me that bullet.”
    Astrid nodded. Spence, who had pinned a microphone on what looked like a top-of-the-line ski parka, moved closer to Milo. “Are you saying, Sheriff, that Mr. Laurentis was shot by someone who was poaching trees on forest service land?”
    The sheriff scowled at Mr. Radio. “What did you think I said? They weren’t kidnapping mountain goats on Mount Sawyer.”
    Spence retained his usual broadcasting aplomb, mellow voice and all. “This is for our KSKY listeners in the greater Highway 2 corridor.”
    “I don’t care if it’s for the Congress in Washington, D.C.,”Milo retorted. “And it better not be live. I’ve got an attempted-murder case on my hands, Fleetwood. Hold your damned water and shut off that mike.”
    I’d managed to edge closer to the sheriff. “Will Craig make it?”
    Milo turned his scowl on me. “How the hell do I know? Do I look like Dr. Kildare? Go back to the waiting room—all of you. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
    At least the sheriff wasn’t playing favorites. Vida, however, balked. “I need just a few minutes to talk to Astrid. She’s a news item, too.”
    Milo regarded the two women warily. “Then do it at the nurses’ station,” he said, nodding toward the area by the ER entrance. “But don’t get the nurse distracted if she’s needed.”
    “I won’t,” Vida promised in a firm voice. “Come, Astrid, I must get caught up with you for my page.”
    Spence opened the door for me. “What do you know that I don’t about the tree poachers?” he asked.
    “Not much more than you do,” I replied, noticing a teenaged boy in a wheelchair with a woman I assumed was his mother. “You’ve reported the earlier thefts. Wes Amundson phoned to tell me about two more just before he was apparently called away by whoever found Craig.”
    We sat down by the waiting room’s aquarium, out of Bree’s line of sight. “I was coming from Monroe when I got word about the shooting,” Spence said, keeping his voice down. “I’ve got some co-op Christmas ads from the local merchants there. That should cheer you up.”
    “It does,” I said, pleased that Spence was keeping his word about sharing some of the ad revenue in east Snohomish County after KSKY’s signal had been upgraded to reach beyond the county line. “And no,” I went on, “we haven’t had a chance topost anything about the shooting or the poachers on our