The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  Lori had also finished her phone conversation. “At least it’s not raining or snowing. I wonder what happened?”

  “Where did it happen?” I asked.

  “Just past the ranger station,” Dustin replied. “In fact, one of the forest service people called it in. The truck was heading west, just beyond the Skykomish deli.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Thanks.”

  As soon as I reached the sidewalk, I called Mitch on my cell.

  “I’m all over it,” he said. “I was just coming back from lunch when I heard the sirens. I’m crossing the bridge right now. Later.”

  I hurried back to the office. It seemed strange to find the reception desk vacant. Only Leo was in the newsroom, and he was about to leave. “Bad accident, I hear,” he said, shrugging into his brown tweed sport coat. “I’m off to see the Wizard of the Airwaves. Assuming Fleetwood hasn’t raced to the wreckage to do a remote broadcast.”

  “Don’t forget to ask him about Jica Weaver,” I said.

  “Can’t forget that name,” Leo responded as he went out the door.

  Before I could reach my office, Kip breezed in from the back shop. “Ta-da!” he exclaimed in an unusual show of exuberance. “We’re online!”

  “We’re what?”

  “You know the last couple of computer expenses I asked for?”

  “Sort of.” Despite the goatee he’d grown in the past year, Kip’s face was still boyishly excited. “And?”

  “The Alpine Advocate is up and running on the Internet.” He beamed at me. “Want a look?”

  “Yes, sure.” I let him lead the way into my cubbyhole. After a couple of seconds he’d brought up our brand-new website. I was flabbergasted. “This is what you were talking about when you asked me to pay for all the high-tech stuff?”

  Kip nodded enthusiastically. “You’d never let me explain what it was for, so I went ahead and did it.” He suddenly looked uneasy. “Are you mad at me?”

  “No!” I laughed and hugged him. “I should’ve let you do this a long time ago. I’m almost as bad as Vida about dragging my feet into the twenty-first century. I know that other dailies and weeklies have sites, including The Monroe Monitor and The Snohomish Tribune. We can get extra advertising, right?”

  “Sure,” Kip said. “I showed it to Leo a few minutes ago. He thinks it’s great. But the best part—well, just as big a deal—is that we can print news when it happens on the site.”

  “We can?” I said, reverting to my usual low-tech, no-tech self.

  “That’s right.” He moved the cursor to a heading that read BREAKING NEWS. “We go to this and write up what’s just happened. Granted, it probably won’t beat KSKY most of the time, but you’ll be able to stop beating yourself up when there’s big news before pub day.”

  I wanted to make sure I knew what Kip meant. “So if this accident is really bad, we can put it on the site now?”

  Kip looked blank. “What accident?”

  “A truck and another vehicle near the ranger station,” I replied. “You didn’t hear the sirens?”

  Kip shook his head. “No. It’s hard to hear stuff in the back shop. That part of the building seems more insulated. Plus I was pretty focused on finishing this by the time you got back from lunch.”

  I understood. When Kip was doing his computer thing, he retreated into a world where other humans could not follow, especially a cyberphobe like me.

  I got back to concepts I understood, namely news reporting. “But can we put the accident on this site?”

  “We could,” Kip replied. “We can, I mean, but until everybody knows we have a website, nobody’s going to check it out. We’ll run the announcement in the next edition, then we can start with the other functions. Besides, there are a couple of bugs I want to work out between now and then.”

  “Okay. That sounds fine. I assume Leo will be telling our advertisers about this in the meantime.”

  Kip nodded. “You bet. He’s going to e-mail them this afternoon.”

  “Good.” I felt stupid. “What would I do without you? Why didn’t you make me listen?”

  “Well …” Kip lowered his eyes. “You’ve been through a lot lately.” He paused. “Those people who wanted to buy the paper and your … fiancé’s kids showing up. Leo getting shot. And that weirdo dude who took Scott Chamoud’s place as a reporter. All that was really rough on you.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “It was rough on all of us.”

  “You had the worst of it, though,” Kip said in one of his rare moments of candor. “Anyway,” he went on, apparently embarrassed by being so open, “I’ve been thinking about the website for the last year or two, but I’m not good with the design part. I had to talk to some of the other people who’d set up newspapers online and pick their brains. That helped, but it was Chili who actually pulled it all together. My wife’s got some artistic talent. In fact, since we had our baby, she’s thinking of writing and illustrating a children’s book. I think she did a pretty good job on the Advocate, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes! I especially like the photo of the trees and Mount Baldy at the top above our logo. Who took that?”

  “Buddy Bayard,” Kip replied. “I paid him out of the production budget. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely.” Buddy and his wife, Roseanna, owned a photography studio. Until we were able to update our equipment, we’d had Buddy do all of the Advocate’s photo work. He and Roseanna hadn’t been happy when we pulled our business, but in recent months we’d used some of his stock photos and also asked him to provide pictures for a couple of special sections. He’d even done some news photography during the interim after I fired our previous reporter and before I hired Mitch.

  “We can use more of his scenic stuff online,” Kip suggested. “If you look at some of the other newspaper sites, many of them are cluttered and not just with advertising.” He stopped and looked out into the newsroom. “Hey, Mrs. Runkel, want to see our new gig?”

  Our House & Home editor had just returned from lunch and was looking vexed. “New gig?” she inquired, coming into my office. “What on earth do you mean?”

  Kip stepped aside. “Take a look.”

  Vida leaned down to study the screen. “Well now. That’s quite nice. We can change this all the time?”

  “Yep,” Kip said. “Post news, change ads, art, whatever. We’ve gone modern, Mrs. Runkel.” Having known Vida since childhood, somehow Kip could never call her by her first name, a habit that she never discouraged.

  “My, yes.” Vida’s voice was musing. “I wonder now … is this where I should start my advice column?”

  “You’re going to do an advice column?” Kip asked in surprise.

  Vida glanced at me. “We’ve discussed it, haven’t we, Emma? Is the timing right?”

  I had to think about it. “Maybe,” I hedged. “If you do, it might be better to run it in the paper.”

  “If I have room,” Vida countered. “That’s often a problem. I wouldn’t want to shortchange my responses to …” She stopped and her ears seemed to prick up like a cat’s. “The sirens again. Dear me, that sounds like something very bad.” Turning swiftly, she headed into the newsroom and out to the front office.

  I thanked Kip again and followed Vida, who was standing in the open doorway looking out onto Front Street. “A big wreck,” I explained, giving her a quick rundown of what I knew.

  “I heard the sirens as I was finishing lunch with Maud Dodd,” Vida said. “That was the ambulance, wasn’t it? It didn’t turn at the main intersection so it must be headed for the hospital on Pine Street.”

  We waited a few seconds. The siren stopped, indicating that Vida was probably right. I was about to speak when I heard a second siren. “The medic van,” I murmured. “More than one injury, and maybe a fatality.”

  Vida shook her head in dismay. “That short stretch between Index and Alpine has so many narrow shoulders and sharp curves. Something must be done by the state highway department.�
�

  “You know I’ve written several editorials urging the state to widen the road,” I said. “It’s not just speeding or drivers trying to pass other vehicles when the visibility is poor, but they crash into trees and rocks and whatever else is too close to the highway.”

  “So treacherous,” Vida murmured. “Not to mention 522 on the other side of Monroe. There’s a reason it’s called ‘the Highway of Death.’” She shuddered. “The medic van sounds as if it’s going to the hospital, too. Goodness, I hope no one we know is involved.”

  Once again, the siren stopped nearby. Several pedestrians had gathered along Front Street and a few others had come out of the various businesses, including the Venison Inn. One of them was Bunky Smythe, a recent addition to the USDA Forest Service. He was neither gawking nor speculating, but rushing to his official van.

  I ran after him. By the time I’d covered the half-block between our office and the Venison Inn, Bunky was behind the wheel.

  “What’s happening?” I yelled at him.

  He swiveled to look at me and hesitated. We’d only met twice since he’d been assigned to the area in the early summer. “Ms. Lord?” he called and saw me nod. “A couple of people got killed right by the ranger station. Got to go.” He pulled out into traffic as I stepped back.

  Vida had followed me. Her expression was grim. “Two dead?”

  “That’s what Bunky said.”

  “They don’t take dead people to hospitals.” She hurried to her Buick, which was parked next to my Honda. “I’m going to find out who’s being admitted.”

  I started to say that Mitch would know, but stopped. There was no way short of physical force to keep Vida from her quest. Mitch—like the rest of us—would have to get used to our House & Home editor occasionally treading on toes.

  I finished my turkey sandwich and tried to figure out the topic of my next editorial. Another Highway 2 improvement piece was timely, but none of the other rational arguments I’d used so far had done much to wring money out of the state’s budget. I culled through my file of possible subjects, but remained uninspired. After over a half-hour of futility, Mitch finally returned. He came straight into my cubbyhole, somber, but in control. “That was ugly,” he said, slumping into one of my visitors’ chairs. “The panel truck lost control when the driver tried to pass a motorcyclist, crossed into the other lane and wiped out a sedan with four passengers. The truck went over the bank and into the river. Two dead, four injured.”

  “Damn,” I said softly. “Anybody local involved?”

  Mitch was holding his cell phone, a high-tech device that he could use as a computer, a DVD player, a camera, and possibly a uranium detector for all I knew. “Passengers in the sedan were four older people from Wenatchee apparently heading home. Driver Eugene Ferguson and passenger Helena Ferguson, husband and wife. Helena died immediately on impact, Eugene was pronounced dead before they could get him into the ambulance. The other couple, James and Erna Willis, have been taken to the hospital here. Their condition is critical. The motorcyclist, Nathan Barfield, twenty-six, from Monroe, was treated and released.”

  I held up a hand. “How did he get off so easily?”

  A faint smile played on Mitch’s lips. “He wasn’t directly involved, but when he heard the crash, he turned around and went off the road. He was wearing a helmet and landed in the dirt.”

  “What about the truck driver?”

  Mitch grew solemn again. “This one you might know. Michael O’Toole of Alpine, twenty-four, multiple injuries, also critical condition, taken to the hospital in Monroe. He was driving an older panel truck. It was empty, so apparently he was going someplace to pick up an order.”

  It took a few seconds for the name to register. “Mike O’Toole!” I finally exclaimed. “He’s one of Buzzy and Laura O’Toole’s sons. You may know Buzzy—he’s the produce manager at Jake and Betsy O’Toole’s Grocery Basket. Buzzy and Jake are brothers.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Don’t think so. Brenda usually does our grocery shopping. You must know the whole family.”

  “Yes.” The news was unsettling. Buzzy and Laura had gone through some rough patches before Jake finally brought his brother into the business. I didn’t remember much about their children but vaguely recalled that Mike had failed his first driver’s test. “Has the sheriff informed Mike’s parents?”

  Mitch shook his head. “I don’t know. I did what I needed to do and got the hell out of there. Traffic backed up in both directions. I wasn’t sure I could get back to town, but I finally made it.”

  “Good.” I said. “Vida’s at the hospital. She may not hear about Mike O’Toole if he was taken to Monroe.”

  Mitch’s smile was more genuine this time. “Wild horses couldn’t keep her away, I suppose.”

  I didn’t argue. Standing by Leo’s vacant desk, I reflected on the conflict between professional obligations and personal relationships. Jake and Betsy O’Toole were fellow parishioners and longtime acquaintances, if not close friends. I didn’t know Buzzy and Laura nearly as well. In any event, they were Mike’s parents and would probably rush to their son’s side at Valley General Hospital in Monroe. Jake and Betsy might remain in Alpine, holding down the fort at the store. I didn’t want to intrude, but it occurred to me that with the Advocate going online, I had to change my way of thinking about news gathering. I was about to operate in a new mode, without the luxury or the burden of waiting until deadline approached.

  Mitch had poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at his desk. “You look worried.” He paused. “Sorry, none of my business.”

  I smiled faintly. “This isn’t Detroit, it’s Alpine. I may be the editor and publisher, but there’s not much difference in rank on this staff.”

  Mitch nodded, tugging at one of his long earlobes, a habit I’d begun to notice when he appeared to be pondering something. “Then I’ll ask the obvious. This Mike must be in a bad way or they wouldn’t have taken him to a bigger hospital, right?”

  “That’s probably true,” I agreed. “Or, because of the other two injured parties, the decision might’ve been made because Doc Dewey and Dr. Sung couldn’t handle more than two emergency cases.”

  “Maybe.” He gazed at the screen of his cell phone, poked something on it and turned to his computer monitor. “I asked one of the medics—Amundson?” He saw me nod. “I asked him if this O’Toole kid was an experienced driver. Amundson didn’t know.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what the O’Toole boys do for a living other than working as courtesy clerks at the Grocery Basket. Maybe he was making a produce run for his dad at the store.”

  “Want me to check it out?” Mitch asked.

  I paused. “Yes.” My reporter’s inquiry would be strictly business, more discreet than if I pried into the O’Tooles’ private life.

  “I’ll go in person,” Mitch said, getting up and grabbing his jacket.

  Before he could reach the door, Vida tromped into the newsroom. “Well now!” she exclaimed, fists on hips and black patent-leather handbag dangling from one wrist. “I ran into my nephew Billy at the hospital. He’d gone there to check on the Wenatchee couple who were involved in the accident.” She took a deep breath. “It seems that Mike O’Toole was driving that produce truck because any pre-weekend run was usually made by Clive Berentsen. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  SEVEN

  “MIKE O’TOOLE’S A TRUCK DRIVER?” I EXCLAIMED AFTER taking in Vida’s announcement. “What do you mean by ‘pre-weekend run’? I thought most of the Grocery Basket’s deliveries were made by truckers outside the area.”

  “They are,” Vida said, taking off her coat and sitting down at her desk. “But surely you know that the O’Tooles have a truck they use when they run out of certain items and have to restock, especially in the winter when Stevens Pass is closed to drivers from the eastern side of the mountains. In this case, the store had run out of pumpkins and other gourds. Apparently, half the town is getting ready early for Hall
oween.”

  In my mind’s eye, I pictured a white truck with an overflowing wicker grocery basket painted on the cab’s doors. “Of course,” I said. “I’ve seen it parked behind the store a zillion times. It’s old. I suppose I thought it was a bit of nostalgia, or maybe for local customer deliveries.”

  “It is old,” Vida replied. “It belonged to Jake and Buzzy’s father, Millard, who started the store years ago. But the truck’s still used and well maintained. I believe it’s some kind of Dodge.”

  Mitch nodded. “It was a 1968 Dodge Fargo A100. As a guy from the Motor City, I can tell you that if the truck’s been kept up, it’s worth at least five grand. Or was, until it went in the river.”

  Vida leaned forward, her gray eyes suddenly cold as she stared at Mitch. “Trucks can be replaced. Children cannot. Consider how the O’Tooles must feel right now.”

  Mitch’s own gaze didn’t waver. “I’d rather not.” He turned away and studied his computer monitor.

  Vida shot me a questioning look. I shrugged and went into my cubbyhole. Five minutes later, Leo returned.

  “Fleetwood had taken off for the accident site before I could get to the station,” Leo said, standing in the doorway to my office. “I waited around for him and when he didn’t show after fifteen minutes, his engineer-of-the-month from the college told me his boss was trying to do a remote, but was having problems. I left, but not before I asked the kid if a Ms. Weaver had visited KSKY in the last couple of days. He—his name is Cole Something—said she’d come by last night but Fleetwood was gone so she ‘floated,’ as the kid described it, out the door.”

  “Not a bad description of Jica Weaver,” I remarked. “Maybe Cole has a future in journalism. If there is a future these days.”

  “Sad but true,” Leo said, coming closer and leaning on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs. “By chance, I decided to stop by the Grocery Basket to check on their plans for the autumn harvest ads.” His leathery face turned grim. “I was there when Buzzy got the news about Mike.”