Free The Alpine Legacy by Mary Daheim Page A

didn't, so she had to go to the Texaco station anyway.”
    “Tightwad bitch,” Mel muttered, still staring out the window and picking his teeth.
    “Now, Mel,” April admonished, “don't be so hard on Crystal. Especially now that she's dead.”
    Mel grunted again.
    “Her spirits?” Vida coaxed, the smile tightening on her face.
    “Oh—yes.” April nodded. “She was worried, of course. About the snow.”
    “But she didn't seem otherwise upset?” Vida asked.
    April shook her head. “No, not that I could tell. Of course April was always up in arms about something. She was mad at Mr. Cardenas. You know, the college president.”
    “Was that about the day-care center?” I inquired, trying to emerge from Vida's shadow.
    “I think so,” April said slowly. “Although she mentioned something else. Women's studies? Does that make sense?”
    “Not to me,” Vida retorted. “But I understand what she meant.”
    “Had you spoken with her since then?” I asked.
    “Oh, yes.” April nodded several times. “Thanksgiving was the last time. We wanted her to come for dinner.”
    “You
wanted her to come, you mean,” Mel put in.
    “Of course I did,” April responded on a defensive note. “She was my sister. Holidays are for family.”
    “But she turned you down?” I asked.
    “She had company of her own coming,” April said, giving her husband's back a defiant look.
    “That Russian, I bet,” Mel said. “Good thing she didn't try to bring him here. If you ask me, that's why she killed herself.” He finally turned around. “Don't quote me.”
    Mel bent the pipe cleaner a half-dozen times and threw it at the open fireplace.
    He missed.

I SENSED THAT Vida was imploding with curiosity after Mel's remark about the Russian. I was more than a little interested myself, remembering Janet Driggers's conversation with a stranded traveler named Victor.
    It wasn't a coincidence. Victor Dimitroff was a naturalized American, born in Paris, according to April Bird Eriks. He was a former symphony player and a composer who had taken up with Crystal in Portland. According to April, he had visited Crystal at least twice since she'd moved back to Skykomish County.
    “Really,” Vida huffed as we walked back to our cars, “April insisted she didn't know if they were romantically involved. Obviously, Mel thought otherwise.”
    “If you can decipher the grunts,” I noted. “Darn, we've missed a good feature by not knowing about Victor.”
    “How could we?” Vida retorted, taking umbrage at the merest suggestion that she'd missed a juicy news item. “He'd go straight to her place in Baring without ever coming all the way into Alpine.”
    “Not necessarily,” I said, reaching the Jag. “He booked his trips through Sky Travel.”
    “What?” Vida almost slipped in the snow. “How do you know?”
    I told her about the call Janet Driggers had received Friday from Victor, who apparently had been stranded inChicago. “Follow me home,” I suggested. “We have quite a bit to discuss.”
    Among other things, I hadn't confided in Vida about my ouster from the bridge club. Nor had we really talked about the break-in. The item had been culled from the sheriff's log by Scott Chamoud on Friday morning, but we had been busy, with little opportunity for chitchat. And now that Crystal was dead, I could confess my visit to Marisa Foxx.
    It was after three when we finally got caught up. Vida wasn't much interested in the legal consultation, but she was wrought up over the snub by my fellow cardplayers.
    “Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt,” she said, referring to her sister-in-law with whom she was not on speaking terms. “A veritable worm. You can figure her for one of them. The Dithers sisters. So abnormal, speaking only to their horses. And Edna Mae Dalrymple. Repressed, of course, hiding from the world behind all those books at the library. The others, I expect, would be somewhat more broad-minded.”
    I didn't quibble with Vida's