Free The Alpine Pursuit by Mary Daheim

workshop.”
    Milo nodded once. “Okay, let’s move. We’ll wait there for Dr. Sung.”
    Slowly, warily, the group began to shuffle from the stage. Even Thyra, plying her canes, went with them. Vida, Roger, and I remained.
    “Get the kid out of here,” Milo ordered.
    Vida bridled. “He’s staying with me!”
    “Yeah!” Roger chimed in. “Fuck you!”
    “Roger!” Vida slapped a hand over her grandson’s mouth. “See here, young man,” she admonished, “don’t ever let me hear you talk like that again!”
    Roger pushed her hand away. “Hey, Grams, chill. I’m still in character.”
    Vida looked as if she wanted to believe him. Milo ignored Roger’s rude response and turned his back on us. “Go get his parents,” he called over his shoulder. “They can all go backstage, too.”
    To my surprise, Vida gave in. Maybe she’d had too many shocks for one evening. Now I was alone with Milo, Dustin, and the late Hans Berenger. “So what do you think happened?” I inquired.
    Milo gave me an ironic look. “Somebody put real bullets in the gun. That’s what happened. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not.”
    “But not Nat’s fault?”
    “Not necessarily.” Milo looked away into the wings as Elvis Sung hurried toward us.
    “Thanks, Doc, for getting here so fast,” the sheriff said. “Here’s the victim. He’s been shot at least once.”
    Dr. Sung was still in his thirties, a native Hawaiian of Korean descent who hated hot weather. The more it rained, the better he liked it. I figured he must be ecstatic when it snowed.
    But I was wrong. “I almost didn’t make it,” Dr. Sung said, putting on a pair of white latex gloves. “It’s bad out there, even with four-wheel drive.”
    “How bad?” the sheriff asked.
    “We’ve gotten a good four inches in the last couple of hours,” Dr. Sung answered, kneeling next to Hans. “More up at the summit.” The doctor paused for a moment as he began examining the corpse. “I hope Doc Dewey can make it back from Seattle tonight. I need him in the ER.” Elvis Sung had peeled away Hans’s bloody apron and T-shirt to study the wound. “They closed Stevens Pass from Index to Leavenworth about an hour ago. Christ.” Sung moved enough to let Milo and Dustin have a look. I hung back. “I can only see one bullet hole,” Sung said, “entering under the left armpit and probably puncturing the lung and maybe the heart. We’ll know more when Doc Dewey does the official autopsy.” He gazed up into the flies. “Maybe I should try Doc’s cell phone again. He was out of range the last time I called.”
    Milo grimaced. “So where’s the other slug?”
    Dustin pointed toward the kitchen area of the set. “Maybe back there, sir. Nat Cardenas fired twice, in rapid succession. The other bullet must have gone that way. I bagged the gun as soon as I realized Mr. Berenger had really been shot.”
    “Good,” Milo said absently, looking to the rear of the stage. “What kind of gun is it?”
    “A Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver,” Dustin replied. “It’s old, but well maintained. It may be a service pistol from the Second World War. The gun belongs to Dr. Medved.”
    Sam, Dwight, and the medics arrived all at once, griping about the weather.
    “Why does somebody have to get killed during a freaking blizzard?” Sam demanded, wielding a camera to take photos of the crime scene. “And how does some college prof get himself shot during a play?” He stared at Dustin as if it were the young deputy’s fault for taking part in the fatal theatrics.
    “You’re lucky we came at all,” declared Vic Thorstensen, one of the medics. “We’ve been on the run all night, what with so many morons not knowing how to drive in a snowstorm. Why can’t they stay home? Then we could, too.”
    Dr. Sung, who was of medium height but built like a weight lifter, cocked his head to one side. “Guess what, Vic? We don’t need you. We need an ambulance. Unless,” he added in a