Picturesque Alpine is no longer the brawling logging town of yesteryear. So when a drunken fight at the Icicle Creek Tavern leaves a loner named Alvin De Muth dead, the residents feel as if they’ve gone back to the Bad Old Days. The inquiry into the incident should be a no-brainer, but since the witnesses were half-tanked at the time, Sheriff Milo Dodge is left with conflicting stories. But soon Emma Lord, editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, has an even bigger story to report: a heartbreaking highway accident that leaves two people dead and one on life support. Rumors are flying: Are the two tragedies linked in some inexplicable way? Assisted by that human bulldozer Vida Runkel, the Advocate ’s House & Home editor, Emma goes for the gold. “Daheim writes . . . with dry wit, a butter-smooth style, and obvious wicked enjoyment.”— The Oregonian   “Daheim’s premise—that random occurrences are connected—keeps the reader turning the pages.”— Publishers Weekly   “Always entertaining . . . [a] slice of wry.”— The Seattle Times 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. Chapter One On Tuesday, October 5, Skykomish County Sheriff Milo Dodge arrested Clive Berentsen, forty-one, in connection with the death of Alvin De Muth, thirty-eight. Dodge and Deputy Sam Heppner took Berentsen into custody at eleven-twenty-five pm. The timing was almost perfect, allowing me to include the story for The Alpine Advocate’s weekly deadline. “I know KSKY has the news,” I said to my production manager, Kip MacDuff, the next morning, “but at least we got it in this week’s edition.” Kip, who was pouring coffee from the urn behind my new reporter’s vacant desk, grinned. “There are some wars you can’t win, Emma.” “I know that, too.” I paused, contemplating our coverage of the homicide down the road. “I suppose Clive Berentsen will plead self- defense. Do you know Clive or Alvin De Muth?” Kip shook his head. “Only by sight. Clive’s been a long-haul trucker for years. De Muth has done some work on our trucks, but I hardly ever talked to him. I guess he was the strong, silent type.” Kip smiled at me. “I don’t hang out at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Never was my style. If I want a beer, I go to Mugs Ahoy or our fridge at home. I’m a respectable married man, remember?” I smiled back at Kip. He’d worked for the Advocate since his high school days, starting out as a carrier and eventually taking over the paper’s production. He was now in his early thirties; I’d designated him as my heir apparent if and when I ever retired. “You deserve a raise,” I said on impulse. “If we crunch some numbers . . .” “Whoa.” Kip held up a hand. “I know the numbers as well as you do. The profit margin is pretty lean. Nobody here expects to get rich.” “True enough.” I glanced over at my House & Home editor’s empty chair. “Where’s Vida? It’s ten after eight.” “She’s got the bakery run,” Kip replied, heading for the door to our back shop. “She traded with Mitch this morning. He had a problem at home and called to say he might not get here until eight-thirty.” Mitch Laskey was my latest hire as the Advocate’s sole reporter. “Nothing serious, I hope?” “Ask Vida.” He chuckled. “She’s the one who knows everything,” he added, then disappeared into his high-tech domain. Kip was right. Vida Runkel was the source of all knowledge in Alpine and the rest of Skykomish County. No secret was safe, no slip of the tongue went unnoticed, no vow of secrecy was sacred to my redoubtable House & Home editor. She could be annoying, contrary, and even infuriating. But I’d be lost without her. I owned the Advocate, but Vida held Alpine in her heart—and the palm of her hand. I’d retreated to my cubbyhole office when she burst into the newsroom five minutes later. “No maple bars!” she cried. “No sugar doughnuts! What’s going on at the Upper Crust?” I rose from my chair and went to my almost-always-open door. “They can’t make everything every day,” I pointed out. Vida, who was wearing a toque plastered with artificial autumn leaves, tromped over to the table where the coffee ur