Free Alpine Hero by Mary Daheim Page A

Ed?”
    Ed’s round face frowned at me. “What do you mean,
why?
It’s a Horatio Alger rags-to-riches story. Small Town Boy Makes Good. People love that stuff. It inspires them.” He and his cashmere overcoat turned to Roseanna. “Where’s Buddy? He was supposed to have those prints ready by five.”
    “He’s working on them now. I’ll go check.” It was to Roseanna’s credit that she kept a straight face and a businesslike demeanor.
    “You see,” Ed explained even as I edged toward the door, “I’ve had Buddy blow up several photos from my early days. Baby pictures, first tricycle, altar boy, high-school football, the prom, graduation, wedding—you know, a retrospective. That would go in the middle of the book.”
    I was still trying to envision Ed in a football uniform. He was shaped more like the football. Perhaps he’d been slimmer then.
    “That sounds … swell,” I said, trying to smile. “Listen, I’ve got to scoot. As you know,” I continued, appealing to Ed’s ego, “Tuesday is always such a wild day at work. And this week, with that homicide at Stella’s …”
    “Yes.” Ed grew confidential, moving closer and pinning me with my back to the door. “I don’t like saying this, Emma, and I wouldn’t, except that … well, you and I go way back. But people around here are beginning to
talk.”
    My eyes grew wide. “About what?” Surely no one wasgossiping about Milo and me. We hadn’t done anything yet, except eat.
    “It’s like this,” Ed said, lowering his voice another notch. “You see, I’m in a position now where I hear things. That happens when you hang out with the top dogs. No offense, but this was a quiet, peaceful little town until you came along. There were maybe two, three murders in the ten years before you bought
The Advocate
from Marius Vandeventer. Since you moved to Alpine, we’ve had—what?—eight, nine killings in six years? And this time I hear you even found the body! How do you expect people to react to those kind of statistics?”
    While I didn’t quite understand Ed’s insinuation, his words were still appalling. “Ed, you aren’t seriously blaming
me
for the increase in homicides, are you? Violence is growing all over America; everywhere, for that matter. All I do is report it. You know that.”
    Ed gave me a helpless look. “All I know is what I hear. People—important people—are beginning to wonder.” Clumsily, he patted my arm. “Just a word to the wise, Emma.” He turned as Roseanna and Buddy entered the reception area.
    Fuming, I left. I was still irritated when Milo picked me up more than an hour later. He wasn’t in a much better mood, so I let him gripe first.
    “This case is a pain in the ass,” he announced before we got as far as the turn onto Alpine Way. “Honoria and her brother and mother insist Kay didn’t have an enemy in the world. The woman was a saint, if you believe her husband.”
    “Do you?” I asked, turning just enough to observe Milo’s profile. It was long, particularly the chin, but otherwise undistinguished. The sandy eyebrows grew almost together, and the nose was rather blunt. Still, it was an agreeable face, especially when Milo smiled. Hehad good teeth, even great teeth, big and strong and white. I checked myself, wondering why I felt like Leo Walsh, trying to sell a double-truck ad to the Grocery Basket.
    “I never believe anybody, let alone the spouse of a murder victim,” Milo said in answer to my question, which I had actually forgotten in my perusal of his features. “Trevor Whitman seems like a stand-up guy, but he’s an ex-con, and never mind how he got that way. Oh, sure, I’m sympathetic as hell, on a personal level. If I had a sister, instead of that stuck-up biologist brother of mine in Dallas, I might have whacked her lout of a husband, too. But I can’t let emotions run my job. I’m trying to keep with the facts.”
    Milo always did. It was his greatest strength—and sometimes his