For many mystery readers, Alpine, Washington–Mary Daheim’s fictional small town in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains–has become a beloved second home, a delicious retreat from the stresses of life. Yet the editor of The Alpine Advocate, Emma Lord, knows all too well that the picturesque old logging town is loaded with scandal: family feuds, illicit romance, chicanery, and sometimes deadly violence. THE ALPINE RECLUSE In the middle of a hot midsummer night, Emma is awakened by fire trucks rushing to a blaze at the nearby home of newlyweds Tim and Tiffany Rafferty. At daybreak, Tiffany and her unborn child are safe, but Tim, never blessed with good luck in all his thirty-plus years, has perished in the fierce conflagration. Sheriff Milo Dodge suspects murder and arson, and rumors fly from the Burger Barn and Mugs Ahoy to the Grocery Basket and the Venison Inn. Some swear the Rafferty marriage was crumbling. Others hint at stock fraud. A few mention momentary sightings of a possibly mad recluse known as Old Nick. Sacrificing the heady enticements of a budding romance to nail down a great story, Emma shifts into high investigative gear while her fearless House & Home editor, Vida Runkel, rushes in where angels fear to tread: straight into the private lives of some of Alpine’s most respectable–and now terminally edgy–citizens. But neither Emma nor Vida suspects the unbelievable truth. Praise for Mary Daheim and her Emma Lord mysteries “If you like the Cat Who mysteries by Lilian Jackson Braun, you’ll find similar fun here.” –San Antonio Express-News “Mary Daheim writes with wit, wisdom, and a big heart. I love her books.” –Carolyn Hart “Recommended . . . If you like cozy mysteries, you need to try Daheim’s Alpine series.” –The Snooper “Daheim writes . . . with dry wit, a butter-smooth style, and obvious wicked enjoyment.” –The Oregonian “The characters are great, and the plots always attention-getting.” –King Features Syndicate “Witty one-liners and amusing characterizations.” –Publishers Weekly 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. One If I wanted to be hot,” I said to Leo Walsh, “I’d go to hell in a handcart. There’s no reason why it should be ninety-four degrees in Alpine, even in August.” Leo gave me his off-center grin. “You could always take a couple of weeks off and visit Adam in Alaska. I’ll bet it’s not ninety-four at St. Mary’s Igloo.” “I’ll bet it isn’t, either,” I grumbled from across the desk in the cubbyhole that was my office but felt more like a pizza oven even at eleven in the morning. To think I was sorry for my son, Adam, when his first assignment as a priest sent him up to the Frozen North. Now I envy him. “When will it ever rain? Everything is tinder-dry, Leo. It’s a wonder the woods don’t explode.” “They did,” my ad manager said in his usual wry manner. “Or haven’t you been checking the AP wire this morning?” “I have,” I retorted. “I mean all the woods, not the ones burning up in eastern Washington and other parts of the West. Grass fires, too. Not to mention that water and power rates are going to skyrocket because we haven’t had enough rain, let alone snow.” “Why don’t you write an editorial taking a tough stand against hot weather?” Leo inquired reasonably. “Maybe you can change it.” I glared at him. “That’s not funny. Nothing’s funny in this heat.” “Come on, Emma,” Leo said, no longer smiling. “At least western Washington’s not humid like the Midwest or the eastern seaboard. Dry heat’s not as bad. I worked on a newspaper in Palm Desert where it was over a hundred and twenty degrees for a week.” “No wonder you drank,” I snarled. “Besides, people from southern California deserve to be hot. Native Pacific Northwesterners like me don’t.” Leo took no offense at my remark. We’d known each other too long and too well not to be able to speak candidly. He merely sighed. His well-worn face showed the ravages of his former bouts with the bottle. In my heat-crazed state, I decided that he’d also spent too much time in the sun. “Mad dogs and Californians . . . ,” I muttered.