The Alpine Quilt: An Emma Lord Mystery - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mary Richardson Daheim started spinning stories before she could spell. Daheim has been a journalist, an editor, a public relations consultant, and a freelance writer, but fiction was always her medium of choice. In 1982, she launched a career that is now distinguished by more than sixty novels. In 2000, she won the Literary Achievement Award from the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. In October 2008, she was inducted into the University of Washington’s Communication Alumni Hall of Fame. Daheim lives in her hometown of Seattle and is a direct descendant of former residents of the real Alpine, which existed as a logging town from 1910 to 1929, when it was abandoned after the mill was closed. The Alpine/Emma Lord series has created interest in the site, which was named a Washington State ghost town in July 2011. An organization called the Alpine Advocates has been formed to preserve what remains of the town as a historic site.

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USA Today bestselling author Mary Daheim knows how to spin a mystery with a tight plot and captivatingly eccentric characters. And her vivid Pacific Northwest setting-a character in itself-has garnered her a plethora of devoted fans. Now her resourceful and resolute journalist Emma Lord is back with a new mystery to solve-and an even tougher deadline to meet.
Members of the Burl Creek Thimble Club, a quilting circle in small-town Alpine, Washington, are planning a fete to welcome back Genevieve Bayard, who left the group, and Alpine, decades ago. But Gen's homecoming is cut decidedly short when she dies at a dinner party. Emma Lord, owner and publisher of the local newspaper, The Alpine Advocate, immediately arrives on the scene to report the incident and sleuth her way to the truth.
Though it appears that Gen wasn't adored by everyone in the Alpine community, her untimely death still comes as a shock. To help solve the mystery, Emma turns to Vida Runkel, the Advocate's trusty House & Home editor. Such a notorious story would normally have Vida chomping at the bit, but to Emma's surprise Vida is hesitant, even downright unwilling to get involved.
The demise of Genevieve Bayard, however, isn't the only crime in Alpine. There has been a rash of burglaries, including at Emma's own cozy log cabin. Are the break-ins and the murder connected? As Emma digs, she uncovers a shocking scandal that may point the finger of guilt at one of her nearest and dearest . . . while single-handedly changing the history of Alpine itself.

"From the Hardcover edition.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

It was never hard to infuriate The Alpine Advocate readers. Even my mildest editorials could earn me such epithets as pinko, nazi, or psycho slut. But this time I’d gone too far. Without writing a single word, I’d managed to offend one of our business associates.

Buddy Bayard’s photo studio had done our darkroom work for years. Unfortunately, technology had caught up with him. After Buddy cussed me out over the phone and damned progress as well, my ears were still ringing.

Sitting at my desk, I looked up at my reporter, Scott Chamoud. “I warned you,” I said, “he’d be furious.”

Scott’s dark eyes—sable, I called them, the kind a woman could feel caressing her like the richest of furs—looked sad. “Maybe,” he lamented, “I should never have suggested that we update our photography process. But Kip MacDuff thought it was a terrific idea, and said he could handle it. Kip’s a real wizard when it comes to high-tech stuff, and you said there was enough in the budget . . .”

I waved a hand at him. “Stop fussing. It didn’t make sense to keep farming the work out. It slowed us down. In the long run, we’ll save money. And we can run more color. It isn’t as if Buddy can’t make a living without us.”

“Ha!” The shout came from Vida Runkel, my House & Home editor, who had just tromped up beside Scott. “Buddy and Roseanna overcharge anyway. Do you have any idea what it cost for Roger to have his graduation picture taken there last month?”

If I’d been Buddy, I’d have paid Vida’s grandson to go out of town for his photo session. Seattle, New York, London, Bombay—anywhere to put some serious distance between the obnoxious teenager and Alpine.

“Buddy will simmer down,” I declared, though in recent years his once-amiable disposition had soured a bit. “Today’s November first, All Saints’ Day. I’m going to seven o’clock evening Mass. He and Roseanna may be there, too. I’ll see if I can get Ben to soothe them.”

“An able ally, your brother,” Vida murmured. She flashed her toothy smile. “Really, Emma, I’m pleased that he’s taking Father Kelly’s place for six months. You’re much more like your old self since Ben arrived in Alpine on the first of October.”

My brother had finished his missionary assignment in Tuba City, Arizona. He hadn’t quite reached burnout stage, but knew from his previous experience on the Mississippi Delta that he was due for a change. Still, his departure had been wrenching, not only for him, but for the entire community. He’d grown very close to his Navajo and Hopi parishioners. Indeed, Ben had confided that after over thirty years in the southern part of the United States, what he really yearned for was more temperate weather.

Temperate is a relative term, of course. Seattle is temperate. Alpine is more variable. At almost three thousand feet above sea level, the mountain town gets more rain, more wind, more snow. But November was starting off with mild temperatures and hints of sun. I needed only a light jacket when I left my little log house to head for St. Mildred’s.

Father Dennis Kelly’s last contribution before leaving on sabbatical was a paint job for the church’s simple wooden exterior. The building had been white since it was built more than seventy years ago. Father Den had decided that the color wasn’t practical, and after wrangling with the parish council, he had won the argument. Our church’s exterior was now a deep navy with light blue and white trim. I liked it.

My brother was on the front porch, greeting members of his new congregation. Ben is two years older, seven inches taller, fifty pounds heavier, and a whole lot wiser than I am. I smiled as I watched him shake hands with Deputy Jack Mullins and his wife, Nina.

I waited for Clancy and Debra Barton to have a word with Ben before I approached him and Mary Jane Bourgette, who was scheduled to be the lector for the first two Scripture readings.

“Any sign of the Bayards yet?” I asked.

Ben made an adjustment to his white vestments. “They came to eight o’clock, you lazy twit.”

“So the early twit gets to heaven?” I retorted. “You know damned well I had to be at the office by eight. Don’t call me lazy.”

Ben chuckled; so did Mary Jane. “Actually, Buddy and Roseanna had to leave for Seattle around noon to pick up his mother at the airport. She flew in from Spokane and wanted to spend a long weekend with them in the city. I guess she lived in Seattle for several years before she moved across the mountains.”

Mary Jane’s pretty, dark face wore a curious expression. “I didn’t know Buddy had a mother. She must have lived here before Dick and I arrived.”

The Bourgettes and some of their numerous progeny had moved to Alpine several years ago. Dick owned a construction firm, and at least three of their children had made careers for themselves in town. Along with Mary Jane’s involvement in church and civic activities, the family was a welcome addition to the local scene.

“I never met Mrs. Bayard,” I remarked, nodding at pizzeria owner Pete Patricelli. “Or Mr. Bayard, either.”

Mary Jane shrugged and patted Ben on the arm. “Short. Keep the homily short. I have to tape a TV program at eight for Dick. He’s out of town on a job.”

Seeing my former ad manager, Ed Bronsky, and his wife, Shirley, arriving in their Mercedes, I hustled inside. Years ago, Ed had inherited money. Last winter, he had toyed with the idea of running for mayor in the September off-year election against the longtime incumbent, Fuzzy Baugh. Along about June, Ed discovered he’d have to spend money and exert himself to woo voters. “Golly darn,” he’d said to me, “I put in my time making nice with advertisers. I just can’t see myself working hard to win an election.”

Neither could I, especially the part about “working hard,” a concept with which Ed was unfamiliar. He was currently slogging away on a sequel to his self-published life story, and had been nagging me to help with the manuscript. I’d been pestered to pieces by his requests on the first book, eventually feeling as if I’d rewritten the thing. At least I could spell and punctuate. But Ed then had to edit my work, resulting in a mishmash of turgid prose and about five hundred exclamation marks. This time around, I knew my Christian charity would flee at the sight of the word preface.

I sat down next to Jack and Nina Mullins.

Nina leaned across Jack. “Your brother is such a good-looking man. I was so afraid we’d get some crazy old coot to sub for Father Den. You know, with the priest shortage.”

My response was cut short by Annie Jeanne Dupré’s heavy-handed pounding on the organ. Annie Jeanne was a longtime fixture at St. Mildred’s despite her lack of musical talent. She sounded as if she was playing with mittens. But she was a good soul, and had signed on as the parish housekeeper a few years back. The job had enabled her to move out of the old ramshackle family home, which had gotten too difficult for her to maintain. Ben said she cooked better than she played.

However, I invited Ben to dinner whenever he was free, which wasn’t often. Invitation or not, he knew he was always welcome, even if dropping in would get him a hot dog, potato chips, and some store-bought pickles.

Because of the holy day, the rest of Thursday night...