Bitter Alpine

by Mary Daheim

  Bitter Alpine is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Alibi Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2020 by Mary R. Daheim

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  ALIBI is a registered trademark and the Alibi colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399594816

  Cover design and art: Art Parts

  Cover images: Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.4

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  By Mary Daheim

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This story is set in 2007.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve never been called a prima donna, but as editor and publisher of The Alpine Advocate, I, Emma Lord Dodge, am entitled to be annoyed when I enter my office on the second Monday in January and find a chicken clucking on my desk. Never mind that the Bantam Red hen was staring at me with beady-eyed indignation. I stared right back.

  “Whoa!” The masculine voice behind me belonged to Leo Walsh, my ad manager. “How’d that get in here?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” I said. “Where’s Alison? I didn’t see her at the reception desk when I came in.”

  “The back shop, maybe?” Leo leaned down to pick up the hen, but she flapped her wings and skittered away to land on my chair. “Hey!” he shouted as he clapped his hands. “Out! Now!”

  Apparently the chicken didn’t like loud voices. She turned her back on us and pecked at the draft of an editorial I’d started Friday afternoon. It wasn’t one of my better efforts, so maybe that was her way of offering criticism. Before Leo or I could react, our office manager ran toward us.

  “So that’s where the chicken went,” Alison Lindahl muttered. Diving across my desk, she grabbed the hen. But the chicken wasn’t giving up without a fight. She tried to flap her wings, but Alison’s grip was firm as she carried our intruder through the newsroom and to the reception area.

  Leo chuckled. “I’ll bet that hen followed the new county extension agent in here. I think he brought a news release.”

  “And a chicken,” I muttered. “I haven’t yet met the guy, though Alison pointed him out to me on the street. Boyd Lanier.” I smiled at Leo. “He’s fairly young and good-looking. Quite a change from his predecessor.”

  My ad manager nodded. “Single?”

  I nodded. “According to the official Skykomish County news release, Lanier is thirty, from Wenatchee, and a graduate of Washington State University. I suspect Alison would let him lead a herd of goats into the office. She and I must talk.”

  “And I,” Leo said, turning toward the newsroom, “must talk local merchants into buying ads so we Advocate staffers can afford food. My wife is fond of both cooking and eating. I’d gotten used to meager meals during the years we lived separate lives. Liza didn’t. Now we find two Walshes can’t live as cheaply as one.”

  “But you’re both happy about that,” I pointed out.

  “True. Incredible, but true.” Leo’s walk was almost a swagger as he headed through the newsroom.

  I smiled as he put on his trench coat. It was raining, which was good, since Alpine is at the three-thousand-foot level of the Cascade Mountains. Old-timers recalled as much as eight feet of snow on the ground during winters when they were young enough not to be hampered by having to tunnel their way to school on Tonga Ridge. Recent winters had been more benign. Global warming has had its effect during my sixteen-plus years in Alpine.

  I’d arrived with a college-bound son, a used Jaguar, and the ownership of a small-town weekly newspaper. Back then I was more intimidated by failure than hoping for success. The resident ad manager, Ed Bronsky, was a lazy, gloomy dud. I never had the heart to fire him, but after a frustrating three years he’d inherited money and quit. That’s when I hired Leo. Thanks to his hard work, the Advocate was still solvent. While newspapers were in peril all over the country, there was an advantage to living in a small town. The eight thousand residents of Skykomish County knew most of their neighbors. They liked reading about their fellow Alpiners—and themselves.

  I was mulling other topics for this week’s editorial when our former House & Home editor tromped into my cubbyhole of an office. “Well now,” said Vida Runkel, settling her majestic self into one of my two visitor chairs, “Alison tells me you were invaded by a chicken. Don’t argue. I’m putting that in my ‘Scene Around Town’ column.”

  “That’s fine,” I assured her. Not that Vida ever needed my approval. She’d worked for the newspaper long before I arrived in town. But in the fall, she had finally announced her retirement. Vida had been a staple of the Advocate for over ten years before I bought the newspaper. Naturally, there were occasional problems about which of us actually ran the show. Now in her late seventies, she was entitled to take her ease, but I’d had trouble imagining the newspaper without her. As it happened, I didn’t have to. Vida had retained her right to “Scene” with its snippets of Skykomish County residents’ daily lives, along with her advice column and an occasional feature about senior citizens. She’d been replaced—not quite the right word, since nobody really could replace her—by Leo’s wife, Liza, who had once held a similar job on a Los Angeles–area newspaper. In fact, that was how the Walshes had met some thirty years ago.

  “I’d hoped,” Vida went on, “to interview the sheriff’s new deputy, since she’s female, but my nephew Billy told me Mitch Laskey has already gotten the assignment.”

  Bill Blatt was one of Vida’s numerous relatives on her mother’s side and thus duty bound to tell all to his redoubtable aunt. He was also one of Milo Dodge’s deputy sheriffs.

  I shrugged. “County law enforcement is part of Mitch’s beat. I could hardly not give him the interview.”

  Vida adjusted the single pheasant feather of her broad-brimmed hat. “I suppose that’s so. But I’ve already met her.”

  “So has Mitch. He introduced himself on her first day of work last Monday.”

  “So did I.” Vida’s gray eyes were glittering behind her gold-rimmed glasses. “She’s rather nice-looking.”

  “Is she?”

  “Didn’t your husband say so?”

  “No,” I replied. “Milo mentioned that she was qualified and seemed sharp. There were four other candidates, but he considered her the one best sui
ted for the job. She’d worked for law enforcement in Tacoma but wanted a change. Having only one female deputy until now, the sheriff felt Doe Jamison has been overworked dealing with abused women, especially during the holidays with so much drinking.”

  “Yes. I’m sure she’ll find Alpine a wonderful place to live. And work.” Vida turned thoughtful. “Consuela De Groote. What can she be?”

  “Milo’s new deputy?” I smiled when I said it.

  Vida wasn’t amused. “I meant her nationality. She looks French to me. But the name doesn’t suit her.”

  “She’s probably gotten used to it.”

  “Perhaps.” Vida paused, then shrugged her broad shoulders. “I must get to work on ‘Scene.’ ” She made her splayfooted way out of my cubbyhole.

  I returned to my editorial. After my standard—and dull—hope for everyone in SkyCo to have a healthy, happy, prosperous new year, I needed something fresh. What I really wanted was to demand that County Manager Jack Blackwell put streetlights on Fir Street where the sheriff and I resided in what was now our log cabin since we’d finally gotten married last spring. I could also push for sidewalks, but knew that’d break the budget. If there was one. But whatever I suggested, Blackwell would dismiss. He and Milo had never gotten along since Jack first came to town thirty years ago, when my future husband was still a deputy. I couldn’t stand Jack, either. Yet he ran Blackwell Timber as an efficient, safe operation and treated his employees fairly. He had even survived a public tirade against him by a woman who blamed him for her husband’s death in an Idaho logging operation. Being our second-biggest employer after the community college, I had to tread lightly around Black Jack.

  Alison brought in the mail a little after ten-thirty, which was later than usual. “Marlowe Whipp’s limping,” she said in a cheery voice. “He was hit by a car.”

  Our regular mailman was a chronic complainer, but this news jarred me a bit. “But he’s doing the route? What happened?”

  “The car had started to back up and only bumped him,” she replied. “But you know Marlowe. He likes to gripe. I’m surprised he didn’t ask the post office to relieve him for the rest of the day.”

  I was, too. But before I could say anything, Alison went on. “The new county extension agent is a hottie. He’s not married.”

  “So I understand from the news release. Has he asked you out yet?”

  The cheer faded a bit. “No, but I’ll figure out something. Maybe I’ll ask him if he could teach me to churn butter.” Alison didn’t quite dance out of my office, but she came close.

  By eleven o’clock, I’d finished with the mail. There wasn’t anything of interest except for two cranks who criticized my editorial wishing everyone a happy holiday season. One insisted I was a Communist atheist because I hadn’t mentioned that Jesus was born on December 25. The other informed me I was pandering to the religious right and should have talked about the winter solstice instead. Neither letter was signed, so I didn’t have to run them in the paper.

  Addressing the editorial conundrum, I decided to go for the streetlights. Nobody should be against being able to see better in the dark. I was tempted to include the paving of Fir Street but held off, as readers who knew where I lived might criticize me for being self-serving.

  By eleven forty-five, I noticed that Vida had left. I’d intended to ask her to have lunch with me, but I assumed she had other things to do. Picking up the phone, I called Milo to see if he was free. His receptionist, Lori Cobb, answered.

  “He’s out on the highway,” she replied in her pleasant voice. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  Every so often my husband likes to hit the road to, as he puts it, air himself out. “He’s patrolling?” I asked, not having heard any sirens that might indicate a traffic accident.

  “No,” Lori replied. “We got a call from someone who moved into that cabin at Baring. You know, the one with the hot tub that the crazy guy tried to burn down about a year ago.”

  I remembered the incident all too well. Not only had the “crazy guy” set the cabin on fire, but he’d also murdered a federal marshal who was trying to track him down for other crimes. Shortly before his arrest, he’d gotten into it with the county extension agent, Dean Ramsey, who’d ended up stabbing the perp in self-defense. Dean had taken a leave of absence from his job and was still recuperating. Alison’s latest romantic target might not stick around too long. The perp had recovered much faster and was doing time in the penitentiary at Walla Walla.

  “What’s with the Baring cabin now?” I asked, having more distant memories of Crystal Bird, the onetime wife of Dean Ramsey, who had been found murdered in the cabin’s hot tub not long after she and I had exchanged harsh words over her newsletter’s criticism of me as a tool of Alpine’s anti-feminists.

  “You know that the cabin finally got repaired,” Lori reminded me. “An elderly couple moved in and they thought they heard a prowler. The boss man decided he’d have a look for himself. I think he was getting bored reading up on the latest fishing and hunting regulations. Do you want to leave a message for him?”

  “No.” I didn’t want to admit I was only calling about lunch. “I’ll find out when he gets home tonight. Thanks, Lori.” I rang off.

  Liza Walsh appeared in the doorway, apparently having come from the back shop. “Leo had to take my Nissan to the Chevron station. There’s something wrong with the automatic door opener. I wonder if we need two cars here in Alpine. I can walk everywhere I need to go. Leo usually does. If I have to drive, I can use his Toyota. Besides,” she went on with a smile that revealed her dimples, “I can use the exercise, especially with all these hills here in town.”

  I smiled back. Liza was pretty, with silvered black hair and eyes so dark that they looked like jet. She’s a couple of inches taller than my five-four, but she also carries at least fifteen more pounds. Like her husband, she obviously enjoys her cooking. The best thing about the Walshes was that they had reconciled after many years apart. Working as an ad salesman in the L.A. area had involved long liquor-fueled lunches and dinners. Leo had finally been fired and Liza threatened to divorce him. I’d been along on that ride to reconciliation after I hired Leo when the feckless Ed Bronsky inherited money and quit without notice to start spending his newly acquired wealth on expensive family trips and the mansion once known as Casa de Bronska. Within a few short years, the Bronskys were broke. Ed wanted his job back, but Leo was an aggressive ad manager who kept us on the positive side of the ledger. He had also acquired something that was better than money—sobriety.

  I posed a question for his wife. “How’s the house-hunting coming?”

  “We may finally have found one that isn’t either about to fall down or overrun with vermin,” Liza replied, no longer smiling. “Do you know the Swensons?”

  “I know the name. They’re an elderly couple who live in the Icicle Creek Development, where Milo’s former home is located. In fact, Mrs. Swenson died not long ago. Vida wrote up her obituary.”

  “I saw that,” Liza said. “In fact, Vida told me that their daughter was moving Mr. Swenson to wherever she and her husband live. Monroe, I think it was. Alison just got a listing for the house from Doukas Realty to run in the classified ads.”

  I sat up straighter in my chair. “Have you seen the house? I only gave it a passing glance when I was in the neighborhood.”

  “No, I think Leo and I should take a look at it. I suspect it needs some serious updating. But the price might be right, especially when compared to homes in the L.A. area.”

  “Or Seattle,” I said. “One of the advantages of living in Alpine is that housing is so much cheaper. By the way, if you need a lawyer when you do buy a house, I can introduce you to Marisa Foxx.”

  “I know Marisa from seeing her at church.” Liza’s dark eyes sparkled. “As you may have noticed, I’m trying to get Leo to go to Mass
more often than Christmas and Easter. He actually likes Father Kelly. I was surprised to find a black priest up here.”

  I laughed. “So were a lot of Alpiners when Father Den showed up here over ten years ago.”

  Liza laughed, too. “I can imagine. I’ve seen a few other minorities, but mostly college students. It’s really a culture shock to be in such a small town that’s so predominately…white.”

  I agreed. “It was even less…dare I say the word ‘integrated’? When Leo arrived here, the college hadn’t yet opened. Believe it or not, Martin Luther King Jr. Day is honored only by the state and federal agencies in SkyCo. That stunned me when I moved here. It was a shock to Leo, too.”

  “Maybe the small-town atmosphere and the slower pace helped Leo stop drinking so much.” Liza’s expression turned serious. “I owe you.”

  I shook my head. “No. He did it on his own. Really. It took him a few months, but he succeeded.”

  “But you took a chance on him,” Liza pointed out. “That made an impression on Leo.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed. “I think just my hiring him made Leo realize he had to get sober. I was his last chance, but he did it by himself.”

  Liza smiled. “The main thing was that Leo did it.”

  I agreed.

  * * *

  —

  The newsroom was now empty. On the job, Liza and Leo made a point of going their separate ways to avoid too much togetherness. Mitch always had lunch at home with his wife, Brenda, who had emotional problems. Whether this state had occurred before or after their son, Troy, had been imprisoned for drug dealing, I’ve never been quite sure. But despite escaping twice and both times getting caught, Troy was scheduled to be released in September. The Laskeys’ move to Alpine had been motivated by their desire to be close to Troy while he served out his sentence at the Monroe Correctional Complex some thirty-five miles west on Highway 2.