Mary Daheim - The Alpine Menace

Praise for Mary Daheim and her
Emma Lord mysteries

THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

An intriguing mystery novel.

M. K. W REN

THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

Editor-publisher Emma Lord finds out that running a small-town newspaper is worse than nuttyit's downright dangerous. Readers will take great pleasure in Mary Daheim's new mystery.

C AROLYN G. H ART

THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

If you like cozy mysteries, you need to try Daheim's Alpine series Recommended.

The Snooper

THE ALPINE DECOY

[A] fabulous series Fine examples of the traditional, domestic mystery.

Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

THE ALPINE FURY

An excellent small-town background, a smoothly readable style, a sufficiently complex plot involving a local family bank, and some well-realized characters.

Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine

THE ALPINE GAMBLE

Scintillating. If you haven't visited Alpine yet, it would be a good gamble to give this one a try.

The Armchair Detective

THE ALPINE ICON

Very funny.

The Seattle Times

THE ALPINE JOURNEY

Seattle super mystery writer Mary Daheim is back again in The Alpine Journey, a very compelling tenth entry in the wonderful Emma Lord series Adark and complicated plot is a great addition to this winning series.

Mystery Scene

THE ALPINE KINDRED

Witty one-liners and amusing characterizations.

Publishers Weekly

THE ALPINE LEGACY

Daheim writes with dry wit, a butter-smooth style and obvious wicked enjoyment Kick off your shoes by the fire and get cozy with the latest by Mary Daheim.

Portland Oregonian

By Mary Daheim
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group

THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

THE ALPINE DECOY

THE ALPINE ESCAPE

THE ALPINE FURY

THE ALPINE GAMBLE

THE ALPINE HERO

THE ALPINE ICON

THE ALPINE JOURNEY

THE ALPINE KINDRED

THE ALPINE LEGACY

THE ALPINE MENACE

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are availble at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, pleces call 1-800-733-3000.

T HE LAST TIME I saw my cousin Ronnie, he was half of a sack race at a family picnic. He was a clumsy kid, and the leg that was tied to my brother, Ben, managed to trip them both, so that they finished dead last. I never imagined that the next time I saw Ronnie he'd be in the King County Jail on a homicide charge.

The Ronnie Mallett I remembered from the gathering at Seattle's Woodland Park was nine or ten, an undersized, unremarkable boy except for his cheerful disposition. I'd been entering my junior year at the University of Washington and felt the natural superiority that comes from age and the use of good grammar. Maybe that's the thing I remembered best about Ronnie: He said ain't a lot.

I ain't guilty, Emma, Ronnie said now, his thin face wearing an earnest expression that didn't quite suit him. Hey, why would I kill Carol? I was nuts about her.

Carol Stokes was his girlfriend, a thirty-four-year-old woman who had been found strangled in the living room of her one-bedroom apartment in Seattle's Greenwood district. Obviously, I was supposed to say something reassuring, such as, Of course you didn't, Ronnie.

But I couldn't and didn't. I hadn't seen my cousin in over twenty-five years. For all I knew, he could be a serial killer.

I'm not sure I can be of much help, I said, substituting candor for comfort. I'm not exactly sure why you asked me to come down from Alpine to see you here.

Ronnie's knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table that separated us. We weren't more than three feet away from each other, yet I felt the distance might as well have been the eighty-plus miles between Alpine and Seattle. The visitors area was painted a pale blue, about the color of Ronnie's eyes, and just about as lifeless. My chair was hard and uncomfortable; so was Ronnie's, I supposed. The difference was that after I stood up, I could leave the building.

Like I said, Ronnie explained, a coupla months ago Carol told me you were some kind of detective. See, she was raised in Alpine, but moved out when she was just a kid.

The original message I'd received from Ronnie's court-appointed lawyer two days earlier had asked me to visit my cousin in jail because I was an investigator. I was puzzled, since my job as editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate didn't seem to qualify.

I'm not a detective, I said firmly. I do some investigative reporting for the weekly newspaper I own in Alpine.

Carol said you caught a couple of killers, Ronnie said in an accusing tone.

Not exactly. An editor, a publisher, a reporter in a small town can get caught up in a case when local law enforcement is hampered by size and budget. Certainly in the ten years since I'd bought the paper, I'd helped out with some homicide investigations. Digging for information was an occupational necessity. But I was no sleuth. Carol must have misunderstood. My main job is to report the stories after they happen.

Ronnie's lean face fell. I knew he was in his mid-thirties, but he looked younger, if pinched and hollow-eyed. His dull blond hair fell over his high forehead, his upper lip disappeared when he smiled, and his eyebrows didn't quite match. Ronnie's overall appearance was that of a very old little boy.

I could see no family resemblance. Ronnie was fair, while I was dark-haired and dark-eyed. His narrow face with its ferretlike features was the flip side of my softer, more rounded contours. Maybe one of us had been a changeling.

What'll I do? Ronnie asked in a helpless voice.

You've got a lawyer, I pointed out.

Ronnie shook his head. He can't do me much good. Alvin's kinda young and real busy.

On the phone, Alvin Sternoff had sounded as if he was straight out of law school and maybe had finished in the bottom 10 percent of his class. He hadn't offered much advice on how I could help Ronnie.

What do you want me to do? I asked my cousin, and immediately cursed the soft heart that matched my even softer brain.

Ronnie leaned back in the plastic chair and gave me his guileless smile. Find out who really killed Carol, he said, cause I ain't guilty.

Do you believe him? Vida Runkel asked the following Monday morning as I stood in The Advocate's newsroom drinking coffee.

I don't know, I said with a shake of my head. The problem is, I don't know Ronnie. The last time I saw him, he was just a kid, and I don't think our families had gotten together more than four or five times before that. My parents thought that his parents wereas my mother put it party people. I translated that as too dumb to be hippies.

My, my, Vida said, setting down her mug of hot water and adjusting the pinwheel straw hat that sat at a peculiar angle atop her unruly gray curls. And you say his girlfriendthe victimcame from Alpine?

The local angle intrigued Vida more than Ronnie or the murder. My House and Home editor is so thoroughly centered in the town of her birth that occasionally she has trouble accepting events that happen elsewhere as important or even real. Indeed, even World War II had been reduced in Vida's mind to how she had traipsed along with her father on his air-raid-warden duties and looked into the windows of those foolish enough to leave the lights on and their shades pulled up. Snooping into other people's homes was a habit that she had never outgrown.