The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  “Poor Buzzy!” I exclaimed. “How did he take it?”

  Leo shook his head. “You can imagine. Buzzy’s not the strongest blade of grass in the lawn. He went to pieces, and Betsy had to take over. She was upset, of course, but you know her—she’s strong, probably stronger than Jake.”

  “The family anchor,” I murmured. “Laura’s no tower of strength, either.” With Leo blocking my view, I couldn’t see into the newsroom. “Is Mitch here? He was heading for the Grocery Basket.”

  “No. I met him going out as I was coming in. Think he can handle this? I don’t mean the news coverage,” Leo added quickly, “but the personal stuff.”

  “I hope so.” Fleetingly, I recalled my own career as a reporter for The Oregonian. I knew that in a big city, media types could usually afford the luxury of distance from their human subjects. I’d learned in a hurry that there was a huge difference in a small town where everybody knew everybody else. “He’s savvy,” I added. “He’ll catch on.”

  “He’ll have to.” Leo was silent for a moment. “I know I did.”

  “Yes. Did you turn on the radio to see if Spence ever got on the air with the news?”

  “I didn’t check,” Leo said. “If the remote setup flopped, he probably did the broadcast from the station. I’ll check in with him tomorrow about those co-op ads.”

  Vida had suddenly appeared, hovering behind Leo. “I forgot to tell you,” she said, “that I saw the baby at the hospital. Quite homely, but so often newborns are. I tried to call on Ginny, but she was asleep. No stamina, really. The third birth is comparatively easy. Or so I found with my three girls.” She started back into the newsroom, but stopped and turned around. “Speaking of my daughters, I’m having dinner tonight with Amy and Ted. I must ask Roger about Mike O’Toole. They’ve been chums—not close, Mike being a year older. His younger brother, Kenny, is a year or two younger than Roger.”

  As Vida continued on to her desk, Leo’s expression was droll. “That should be … interesting,” he murmured, sharing the same negative opinions I had of Vida’s grandson. “Okay,” he went on more loudly, “do we leave for the ICT from work or later?”

  “Later,” I said. “I’d like to go home first and eat food that doesn’t have paw prints on it.”

  “We could have dinner at the Venison Inn,” Leo suggested. “Only deer-shaped hoof prints, and they’re kind of cute.”

  I smiled. “Okay. How about six-thirty? I’d like to stay around in case there’s any news about Mike.”

  Leo agreed and left. Kip had come out of the back shop and gone into the front office, where he’d promised to fill in for Ginny when he finished his other duties. He’d told me that our classified ads, which were usually taken by Ginny, might increase after we went online. I assumed he was setting out some guidelines for Ginny and her temporary replacement, Amanda Hanson. Mitch, meanwhile, was busy on the phone. His visit to the Grocery Basket hadn’t added anything new because all of the O’Tooles were gone and the rest of the employees were either upset or ignorant about why Mike had taken over the produce run. Shortly after four o’clock, Mitch came into my cubbyhole.

  “I just talked to Dustin Fong,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “The older couple at the local hospital are in critical condition, but might make it. The O’Toole kid’s another matter.” He paused, frowning. “Two leg fractures, a broken arm, ruptured spleen, punctured lung, and severe concussion. Apparently he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, though that may have kept him from drowning. He was able to get out of the cab before it was completely submerged.”

  “Mike may’ve broken one law with his driving, but ignoring the seat-belt requirement saved his life. If he lives.” I sighed. “I should call Father Kelly in case nobody else has notified him.”

  “Your pastor, right?” Mitch grinned. “How’d he manage when he first got here? It couldn’t have been easy in what you described as a white-bread town ten years ago.”

  “It wasn’t,” I replied. “There was very little diversity until the community college was built. Still, it didn’t take Father Den too long to be accepted, at least by his parishioners.”

  Mitch nodded once. “That’s good. Brenda and I wondered what being Jewish in a small town would be like.” His lean face looked sheepish. “Not that we practice our religion much, but …” He shrugged.

  “My first reporter, Carla Steinmetz, was Jewish,” I said, “but she didn’t practice hers, either. Not,” I added, “that there’s a synagogue around here. Leo’s Catholic, but his appearances at Mass are few and far between. I don’t think you’ll find much anti-Semitism in this part of the world, even in Alpine, where it’s basically the Lutherans against the rest of the world.”

  Mitch chuckled. “Is that good or bad?”

  “I’m not criticizing. This town was founded by an Episcopalian, but the majority of the timber workers were Scandinavian. German, too, which accounts for the Lutheran dominance. It’s changing, though. The college brought in people of various races and religions. Alpine’s content to rely on family feuds for hostility and excitement.”

  “Old-fashioned hatred,” Mitch noted. “Easier to understand, I suppose.”

  Mitch ambled back to his desk. I called the rectory at St. Mildred’s, but the secretary, Mimi Barton, said Father Den had already gone to Monroe with Jake and Betsy. After hanging up, I succumbed to the moment and reread my file on Highway 2. Maybe I’d take a new angle, urging the state patrol to add more troopers to the stretch from Snohomish to Stevens Pass. Cedar trees didn’t march onto the road and unless there was an avalanche, boulders didn’t roll in front of cars. Drivers had to use better judgment, and if paying hefty fines was one way to save lives, we needed more law enforcement. Milo and his gang were responsible only for SkyCo’s relatively short stretch of Highway 2. The rest of the dangerous roadway was up to King and Snohomish counties—and the state. I finished my first draft just before five. It needed work. I’d tiptoed a bit around driver responsibility. With Mike O’Toole fighting for his life in a Monroe hospital, I didn’t want to rub any salt into already deep wounds.

  Vida had left a few minutes early. Kip showed me some detailed directions for the online classifieds before leaving for the night. Mitch made a last-minute call to Monroe, but Mike’s condition was unchanged.

  “I didn’t reach Fred Engelman today,” he added. “Jack Blackwell told me Fred was tied up for most of the afternoon. Did you know there’s money to be made in sawdust?”

  “Ah … how do you mean?”

  Mitch grinned. “I may be new to small-town living, but we do have a timber industry in Michigan. More to the point, an old college pal of mine teaches at Bowdoin in Maine. He told me a couple of weeks ago that the mills back there are starting to sell sawdust to dairy farmers and particleboard makers. The big market is wood pellet manufacturers. With the rising cost of energy, tons of people have stopped buying oil and are heating their homes with wood pellets instead. You say Blackwell’s a pain in the ass, but he’s shrewd. He couldn’t stay in business if he wasn’t. Even though the big demand is mainly in the Northeast now, Jack’s looking down the road to increase his own profits.”

  “I never said Blackwell was stupid. You’ll do a story on it?”

  “Sure.” Mitch straightened up. “I’ll get back to him tomorrow and have another go at Fred Engelman.”

  “Great,” I said as my phone rang.

  Mitch snapped a salute before going back to his desk. Edna Mae Dalrymple’s twittering voice was on the line. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you! I thought you might’ve left for home. Seven-thirty, at Janet Driggers’s house. This is a reminder, Emma. Charlene’s still ailing.”

  I’d forgotten about the bridge date. “I thought Char might be able to play tonight,” I said, stalling for time. “I have something to do this evening. Business,” I added.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear, dear!” Edna Mae sounded flustered. “I’ve no idea who to ask now. What shall I do?”

 
; I glanced at my watch. It was five after five. “I might be able to make it,” I said, “though I could be a bit late. Is that okay?”

  “I …” Edna Mae faltered, probably considering which of the other six players would be most pissed off. “It should be a congenial group. Darlene Adcock, Dixie Ridley, Mary Jane Bourgette and her daughter, Rosemary, Molly Freeman, Janet, of course, and … oh, my, who else?”

  “You,” I said. “And me. That makes eight.”

  “Oh! So it does!” Edna Mae’s giggle was more like a bird’s trill. “Yes, yes, then we’ll see you … when?”

  “Before eight,” I promised and rang off.

  I hurried out to Leo’s desk. “Let’s eat,” I said. “I forgot I had a bridge date. I’ll have to leave the ICT by seven-thirty.”

  “Reeking of cheap beer?” Leo’s crooked smile was ironic. “Don’t you ladies pull the drapes so the high school faculty wives aren’t seen glugging down wine like a bunch of homeless derelicts in a dark alley?”

  The reference was to Molly Freeman, the principal’s wife, and Dixie Ridley, the football and basketball coach’s other half. “At least Linda Carlson won’t be there,” I said, mentioning the PE teacher’s name. She was one of the members who’d blackballed me a few years ago when the rumor mill was feasting on my so-called affair with Milo. Dixie and Molly had gone along with Linda at first—faculty families sticking together—but they’d apologized later. Even such social occasions as playing cards could become not only judgmental, but downright nasty. “The Dithers sisters aren’t playing tonight, either,” I went on. “They’re probably watching TV with their horses.”

  “In their living room?”

  “Of course.”

  Leo turned off his computer and stood up. “Let’s go. We have plenty of time. The Venison Inn shouldn’t be busy yet. Kip left five minutes ago.”

  “I’ll turn off the lights and lock up,” I said, returning to my cubbyhole to get my purse and the brown leather jacket I’d splurged on at a Nordstrom end-of-winter clearance.

  Five minutes later, we were ensconced in a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Sunny Rhodes, the sometime hostess and full-time wife of bartender Oren Rhodes, had seated us. “I can take your drink orders,” she said, flashing the bright smile that had earned her nickname. “One of our waitresses is running a little late.”

  I looked at Leo. “Drink?” I said in a doubtful voice.

  Leo shrugged. “I’ll have a Coors Light.”

  I wasn’t fond of beer, but told Sunny I’d have the same.

  She looked surprised. “I thought you always ordered bourbon or Canadian, Emma.”

  “I do,” I said. “But not tonight.”

  Sunny didn’t bother to write down our requests. “It’s going to be slow,” she said, gazing around the dining room. “There’s a candlelight vigil for Mike O’Toole.”

  I was surprised. “Who told you that?”

  “Clancy Barton,” Sunny replied. “He’s in the bar, having a drink with a shoe wholesaler. His sister, Mimi, called from St. Mildred’s just before you got here. It’ll be held in Old Mill Park.”

  “That must have been a last-minute decision,” I said. “I talked to Mimi not quite an hour ago.”

  “Could be,” Sunny said. “I don’t know much about Catholics.” She took in a short breath and looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I mean, I know you people have a lot of rituals and all that, but I’m glad Father Kelly is holding the vigil in the park so everyone can come. If you know what I mean.”

  I wasn’t sure, unless Sunny thought Catholics practiced some sort of secret ceremonies. Leo, however, intervened. “You mean like the Masons?”

  Sunny blushed. “Oren says the Masons just do those things to keep the traditions. I’ve been in Eastern Star for years and it’s not very mysterious. It’s just … nice. A pleasant way for women to get together.”

  “So’s bingo,” Leo responded, his green eyes twinkling. “That’s about as secret as we Catholics get. Nobody knows what numbers will pop out of the big glass ball. Very suspenseful.”

  “Really?” Sunny sounded skeptical. “I’d better put in your drink orders. Dr. Starr and his wife just came in, but they have a favorite table so I don’t need to seat them.”

  I could see the tall figure of Alpine’s dentist and his petite wife, Carrie, heading for the second window booth. As usual, Dr. Bob was wearing one of his colorful ikat sweaters that I recalled came from Peru. Mrs. Starr was more conservatively dressed in forest-green slacks and an ecru suede jacket I’d ogled in the window display at Francine’s Fine Apparel.

  “If we drink beer now,” Leo said, “we won’t have to mix our grains at the ICT. One beer ought to do it after we get there. You should be able to take in the layout pretty fast so you can get to your bridge club.” He cocked his head to one side. “You aren’t worrying about me staying and getting hammered, are you?”

  I shook my head. “I stopped fussing about that a long time ago. Your record’s unblemished. In fact, I was thinking about Sunny. She seems kind of odd.”

  Leo, who had a partial view of the area leading into the bar, motioned for me to be quiet. A moment later, Sunny appeared with our beers, which she placed very carefully in front of us.

  “Mandy Gustavson will be waiting on you,” Sunny informed us, “unless you know what you’d like to order now.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “By the way, did your son Davin know Mike O’Toole very well?”

  Sunny grimaced. “Not exactly. Mike’s a bit older.”

  I knew that. Davin and Roger were the same age and had always been pals—for better or for worse. Davin had been one of our carriers for several years, and was about to finish getting his AA degree from the community college. Roger was still trying to decide on a major, but the curriculum didn’t offer any classes in “Loafing” or “Sloth.”

  I smiled at Sunny. “Kenny’s the younger one, right?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “He was in the same high school class with Davin. I don’t know Mike very well. I think he liked to tinker with cars, but I didn’t realize he was a truck driver.”

  “I’m not sure that was his regular job,” I admitted. “It sounds as if he was doing his dad a favor for the produce section.”

  Sunny’s face tightened. “I’m not sure Mike had a regular job. I mean … I don’t know.” She ducked her head and looked down the aisle between the booths. “I should check on Dr. and Mrs. Starr. Excuse me.”

  “You’re right,” Leo said. “Sunny’s not so sunny. I wonder why.”

  I shook my head. “The only thing I can think of is that Mike O’Toole may have more problems than bad driving. Vida intended to ask Roger about him this evening. I don’t think her grandson’s reliable.”

  Leo laughed. “That kid’s a train wreck. I can’t believe he’s kept out of serious trouble over the years.”

  “Lucky,” I murmured. “Too lazy to get into real trouble.”

  “Maybe.” Leo picked up the menu. “London broil. And you?”

  “The same,” I said. “We’re going Dutch. We can split the bill.”

  “Let me treat you,” he offered. “I still feel guilty about taking off so much time this summer to recover from getting shot. I don’t know how you got through it without killing Ed Bronsky.”

  “You were gone only a couple of weeks,” I said. “I know that when you came back, you were still hurting.”

  Leo looked rueful. “True. But work is all I have.”

  I started to contradict him, but realized I’d be uttering clichés. Instead, I was candid. “Me, too. Maybe it’s enough.”

  Leo’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe.”

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK BY THE TIME WE LEFT FOR THE ICICLE Creek Tavern a little after six-thirty. Fog was settling in over the mountains, creeping its way through the evergreens on the slopes of Baldy and Tonga Ridge. We’d taken our own cars. I followed Leo across the railroad tracks and turned left by Icicle Creek Gas ’n Go. An ol
der man was pumping gas into his Volkswagen Bug. Glancing inside, I could see Mickey Borg in the minimart, waiting on a couple of teenagers.

  There were a half-dozen vehicles parked in the tavern’s gravel lot—one van, one pickup, a couple of beaters, an old Lincoln Continental, a dented SUV, and a Jeep. None of them looked as if they’d fetch a decent price on a used-car lot. I recognized only two—Bert Anderson’s rusty van and the Canbys’ aging Hyundai.

  “Feeling out of place?” Leo asked as I met him by the front door.

  “Well … I’m not a snob. I hope not, anyway,” I said, “but I do feel like I’m slumming. I haven’t been here in ages.”

  “Unfortunately,” Leo said, opening the door for me, “I have. Once in a while I need to chat up Spike and Mickey, not to mention an occasional patron who might or might not buy an ad in the paper.”

  The interior was dim, dreary, and relatively quiet. Two couples I didn’t recognize sat at tables. Four men, including Bert Anderson from the chop shop, were seated at the bar. So was Holly Gross, attempting to make conversation with a chunky bald man whose name I couldn’t recall but who I knew worked for Blue Sky Dairy. Spike Canby was behind the bar, pouring a mug of beer from a tap.

  “Look who’s here!” he called. “It’s the press!”

  Everybody at the bar except the bald man turned to stare. The two couples at the tables glanced up but quickly turned away, apparently unimpressed. Norene Anderson came into view, carrying two plates of burgers and fries. “Hi,” she said without enthusiasm before delivering the food to the nearest of the two couples.

  “I figure the only way Bert can get a meal is to have his wife serve him here at the tavern,” Leo murmured with a sidelong glance at Norene’s husband.

  My eyes wandered to the bar. Bert’s burly body was dressed in grimy overalls. He was staring up at the ceiling, where faded banners from various beer companies dangled from the rafters. We sat close to the bar where we could see part of the pool table area and one of the pull-tab machines on the wall by the restrooms. Each of the ten tables could seat four comfortably, or maybe not so comfortably, considering that some of the chairs looked rickety. None of the furniture matched. I suspected that it had been acquired on the cheap from thrift stores and garage sales. Whatever the source, the chairs were an improvement. A previous owner had provided wooden crates after he got tired of replacing chairs that had been demolished in the wake of earlier brawls. Spike had also put new glass in the mirror behind the bar. The last time I’d seen the original, it was cracked in several places, giving a spidery effect that was, in a bizarre way, an interesting focal point. The dozen bar stools needed reupholstering, the bare wood floor was badly marred, but the place looked relatively clean.