Free The Alpine Advocate by Mary Daheim

Inn.
    “Eeeny was having a fit,” Dodge continued in a quiet voice. “He’d found Mark with his head bashed in. He was lying near the old mineshaft. He was still warm. I doubt if he’d been dead for more than a few minutes.”
    I cringed a bit and allowed for an appropriate moment of silence. Dodge was now fidgeting with a small figure of a spotted owl around whose neck hung a sign: EAT ME—I’M YOURS . Logging humor often eludes me; any kind of humor was hard to come by at the moment. The significance of Dodge’s words struck me: “His head was bashed in? How?”
    Milo’s gaze shifted to the opposite wall that was covered with maps of the county. “We aren’t sure yet.”
    “But he was … uh, clobbered, right?”
    “Right.” Dodge stood up; he seemed to loom over me. “Emma, I’ve got to see Doc Dewey. I’ll give you more later, okay? Meanwhile, you help us locate Chris. Deal?” He extended his hand.
    I kept mine in my lap. I also remained seated. “Not until I know why you want to speak to him.”
    The pained expression returned. Milo Dodge knew I could be stubborn. On at least two occasions, he had compared me to his ex-wife, Tricia, whose nickname was Old Mulehide. In a perverse way, I was flattered. Generally, however, we got along, engaging in the symbiotic relationship that is inherent between the press and law enforcement. “You can keep your mouth shut,” Milo conceded, more to himself than to me.
    “It’s part of the job description.”
    He nodded. “Right.” He sighed, leaning one hand against the wall next to the steelhead’s snout. “Chris Ramirez was going around town yesterday trying to buy a gun. He couldn’t, of course, having just arrived in this state. But he didn’t ask about a hunting license. So what should we make of that, Emma?”
    “Not much,” I answered. “Mark wasn’t shot, was he?”
    He eyed me with a smirk. “And if Chris wanted to whack somebody, he didn’t have a gun. Mark and Chris had a big argument at dinner last night, according to Kent MacDuff.” Suddenly, Dodge swung around the desk and stood next to my chair. He was definitely looming now. “Why did you keep asking me if I meant it was Neeny who’d gotten killed?”
    The sheriff had caught me off-guard. Fleetingly, I wondered if this was a ploy he reserved for interrogation. “Because he’s old,” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed more than one beat. I stared up at him with my best brown-eyed look of innocence. “I thought there might have been a mistake. Maybe Neeny had simply had a heart attack and somebody had jumped to conclusions.”
    Dodge cocked his head to one side. “Not bad,” he remarked with a wry smile.
    “Well?” I stood up rather awkwardly. “Are you absolutely certain Mark didn’t fall?”
    The wry expression intensified. “Oh, yes, we’re sure of that.”
    “I still think you’re nuts trying to direct suspicion at Chris. He didn’t even know Mark.”
    Dodge ignored the comment. “What time did Chris get home last night?”
    Damn
, I thought. I was in the dark about so much when it came to Chris Ramirez. To make matters worse, I wasn’t entirely certain why I was so eager to defend him. Except that he was Adam’s friend, and a mother hates to admit her kid has lousy judgment when it comes to people. “Midnight,” I answered weakly.
    Dodge nodded. “He left Simon and Cece’s a little beforeeight-thirty. I don’t suppose he told you where he was for the rest of the evening?”
    “I didn’t ask.”
    For a long moment, Dodge was silent. At last, he loped toward the door and opened it. “Get him back here, Emma. Otherwise, I’ll have to send out an APB.”
    I hoisted my handbag over my shoulder. “Then do it PDQ. I don’t expect to see him again. He’s going to California.”
    The hazel eyes bore down on me. “Like hell he is,” Dodge said.
    I brushed past him. “Don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
    “That’s fine,” the sheriff said to my back. “But