The Alpine Uproar

by Mary Daheim

  “Maybe they should get married on the fifty-yard line instead of at Marymoor Park,” I said.

  Vida sniffed. “Tricia actually told me that the park isn’t that far from Seahawk headquarters. Tanya works for the team, you know.”

  “I didn’t. Milo never mentioned it.”

  “She handles season ticket applications,” Vida replied. “I must dash. Enjoy your crab.”

  I’d intended to tell her about Ed’s visit, but she was obviously in a hurry. I smiled a bit weakly. “Enjoy your … evening with Buck.”

  Waiting to pull out into traffic, I figured that Vida’s excuse for going to the sheriff’s office was to see Tricia, not her nephew Bill Blatt. Sly boots, I thought. She must’ve guessed that Milo wouldn’t want his ex to meet him at what used to be their home. Tricia probably wouldn’t approve of his random housekeeping habits. And of course Vida would want to see how Tricia looked and acted after so many years away from Alpine.

  Just as I was about to put my foot on the gas pedal, I had another brainstorm. I got the cell phone out of my handbag and dialed Marisa Foxx’s work number. As I expected, she was still at work. Marisa was diligent, and her law practice forced her to keep long hours.

  “Do you like crab?” I asked without preamble. Marisa also didn’t like to waste time on chitchat.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

  I explained. She accepted.

  I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten the rest of the sandwich I hadn’t gotten around to finishing. I turned off the engine, jumped out of the car, and went into the office. Amanda was staring intently at her computer monitor. For a split second, she looked startled to see me. “I was looking at the classifieds and legal notices,” she said, speaking faster than usual. “Kip told me to make sure they were entered properly.”

  “Good,” I said, noticing that Amanda had turned in her chair so that I couldn’t see the monitor. “Do you want me to check, too?”

  “No.” She gave me a thin smile. For a brief moment, I caught the heading at the top of the screen. I saw what looked like “Journeys of the Heart.” My initial reaction was that Amanda was trolling on an online dating site. “Thanks anyway,” she said, and turned away.

  “Okay.” I continued on to my office where I retrieved my half-sandwich from the small cooler I kept by the filing cabinet. As I went back through the newsroom and into the front office, Amanda had turned off the computer.

  “I’m going home now,” she said. “See you Monday.”

  “Have a nice weekend,” I responded.

  Driving along Front Street, I wondered if Amanda was seeking a romantic partner in cyberspace—or a real-life potential lover. It was none of my business, as long as she didn’t let her explorations interfere with the job.

  When I arrived at my little log house, once again there was only junk mail. But I had a call on my answering machine: “You should be home by now,” Rolf Fisher’s voice said. “Imagine a russet-and-golden autumn along the Loire. Imagine enjoying it with me.” I heard him heave a sigh that I assumed was of feigned longing. “Vive la France! Au revoir, ma cherie.”

  “Damn!” I said aloud as I hit the Delete button. The message had come in just a few minutes after I’d talked to Rolf at the office. It was now almost five-thirty, the middle of the night in Paris. I was sorely tempted to call him back and wake him up. But I wasn’t a vengeful teenager. Or was I? With my hand on the receiver, I grappled with an adolescent urge. After a full minute, I left the phone in place and went into the kitchen. Marisa would arrive a little after six. She was always an interesting, intelligent companion. We would talk about many things, but Rolf Fisher wouldn’t be one of them.

  Marisa showed up at six-ten. As ever, she was well groomed in her simple, tailored manner. Every short blond hair was in place, there were no wrinkles in her gray Max Mara suit, and the maroon satin blouse added a perfect accent of color. There was no indication that she’d probably put in a grueling day at the office. I hadn’t changed from my usual sweater and slacks. My brown hair didn’t look at all like Stella’s professional version, and I hadn’t bothered to add a dash of lipstick.

  “I brought beverages,” she said, holding a plastic bag from the state liquor store. “Canadian for you, a Pinot Blanc for me.”

  “Great!” I took the bag from her and started for the kitchen. “You sit, I’ll pour,” I said.

  “Sounds good to me. I had a horrendous brief to put together this afternoon. I’m beat.” Marisa removed her suit jacket and sat down in one of my armchairs.

  “I’ll let you decompress,” I said, heading for the kitchen.

  A few minutes later, I returned to the living room, handed Marisa a glass of wine, and sat down on the sofa. I raised my highball glass. “Here’s to the working girls.”

  “Amen,” Marisa said. “I’ll be working part of tomorrow. When I first arrived in Alpine, I made sure my weekends were sacred. But as the population increases slowly but surely, so does litigation. Not to mention,” she added with a rueful smile, “the crazy kind of cases you find only in small towns. I turned down the last one. Maybe you heard about it.” She inclined her head toward the west side of my lot.

  “The Nelsons?” I laughed. “Is this about Luke and his wife’s new baby?”

  “Yes. I’m not breaking client confidentiality because I’m not representing them and I don’t know what lawyer in his or her right mind would take them on. Anyway, the family wants to sue Cindy and Richie MacAvoy for allegedly stealing their baby’s name.”

  “I heard something about that,” I said. “The Nelsons have never been my favorite neighbors. The kids were always out of control growing up, and the parents never bothered to discipline them. What sort of grounds did they have for even thinking a lawsuit was possible?”

  “Luke’s mother, Laverne, is a cousin of Richie MacAvoy’s mother,” Marisa explained. “The cousins’ grandmother was named Chloe. When Richie and Cindy got married and had a baby last winter, they named her Chloe. But the Nelsons insisted they had dibs on the name because they’d made a deathbed promise to name their first girl Chloe after Grandma. Luke and his fiancée, Sofia, had a girl at the end of July and got married in August. Instead of simply calling her Chloe, too, they wanted to sue the MacAvoys for usurping the name. The Nelsons insisted they had it in writing, but couldn’t find the paper they’d supposedly signed. I told them they had no case.” Marisa shook her head. “I was almost afraid to come here tonight for fear the Nelsons might be hiding in the bushes next door, lying in wait to attack me.”

  “Those bushes are mine,” I said. “I planted rhododendrons, azaleas, viburnums, camellias, weigelas—whatever will grow and block me off from the Nelson brood. Their property is a mess and the house is falling down. Thank goodness the neighbors on the other side are so nice.”

  Marisa’s expression was mischievous. “Do you want to file a lawsuit? I’ve had several involving feuding neighbors.”

  I sipped at my drink and relaxed. “I can’t afford you. Which reminds me—do you know an Everett attorney named Esther Brant?”

  Marisa nodded. “She’s very sharp. I’ve gone up against her twice. I won the first case, she took the second one. Why do you ask?”

  “Clive Berentsen has hired her to defend him,” I said. “I was curious, of course, assuming he’d have to get a public defender.”

  Marisa grew thoughtful. “Esther didn’t handle criminal cases until a couple of years ago. But a close friend of hers—or her family, I forget which—was charged with involuntary manslaughter. Esther felt there had been extreme provocation and agreed to represent the accused. She got him off and in the process, discovered she liked criminal practice, at least every once in a while if the case had merit.”

  “I assume she’s not cheap.”

  “You assume correctly.” Marisa frowned. “Who’s paying?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I wouldn’t think Clive could afford big bucks, though I could
be wrong. He’s divorced, but never had any kids according to Vida, who also mentioned that she thought his ex moved away and remarried. I suppose Clive could have stashed away some money. Truckers make a decent wage, and somehow I wouldn’t think of him as somebody with expensive tastes.”

  “Not if he frequents the Icicle Creek Tavern,” Marisa said. “A simple-pleasures sort of man.”

  I nodded. “He has a girlfriend, Jica Weaver, who owns an antiques shop in Snohomish. I met her the other day. She assured me Clive wasn’t the violent type. Jica’s not the kind of woman I would’ve thought he might attract. A bit otherworldly, possibly a dilettante.”

  “Ah.” Marisa took another sip of wine. “Maybe she’s paying for Esther. How well do you know Clive?”

  I grimaced. “I’m not sure I’d recognize him. It’s wrong to make assumptions about people. For all I know, he writes haiku.”

  Marisa looked thoughtful. In fact, I wondered if she’d heard what I just said. I started to remark that it was hard to read other human beings, but the words never got out of my mouth.

  “I know Jica,” Marisa said suddenly. “A couple of years ago, I bought an oval vegetable bowl for the Lenox china my mother gave me after I got my law degree.” She paused, smiled, and shook her head. “The pattern is ‘Marissa’ and Mom insisted it was me. It’s not, it’s too fancy, it’s not even spelled the same way. But I couldn’t hurt her feelings. Anyway, Jica had the bowl in her shop and it cost a hundred and fifty dollars, which was probably fair enough. I told her the story behind my purchase and she seemed amused. I say ‘seemed’ because she sort of drifted during my recital. Maybe I bored her.” Marisa shrugged. “Jica may be attracted to uncomplicated men. Some very bright, educated women are. Clive might be ordinary and therefore refreshing.” Her gaze wandered around the room, as if she thought she might find such a catch tucked away in a corner. Or maybe she was looking for the one who got away.

  “It sounds like a simple crime,” I said after a brief silence. “Two beer-drinking men get into an argument and fists fly. One of them ends up dead, which was never the other man’s intention.”

  Marisa nodded. “Under state law, intoxication isn’t a factor. Drunk, sober, or in between, the charge is still—in this case—involuntary manslaughter. Unless, of course, Clive claims self-defense.”

  “I suppose he could,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve heard who threw the first punch.”

  “It needn’t be a punch,” Marisa said, frowning slightly. “It could be a threat, and not necessarily to the defendant. Provocation could come in the form of menacing a loved one. Do you know what started the fracas?”

  “The versions so far vary,” I replied, trying to piece together witness statements, firsthand accounts, and what other people had heard about how the fight had started. “A couple of witnesses thought it had something to do with Holly Gross. Holly agreed. Do you know her?”

  Marisa shook her head. “I know of her. A few years ago, she tried to make an appointment concerning child support for one or all of her kids. My secretary, Judi Hinshaw, told Holly that I didn’t usually do pro bono work. Holly apparently thought I’d be delighted to take her on for free. Judi suggested that she get someone from Legal Aid.”

  “I don’t suppose Holly mentioned the names of the dead-beat dads. I understand she’s had children by more than one man.”

  “If Holly mentioned names, I don’t think Judi passed them on to me.” Marisa smiled wryly. “The only way you can get some of those guys to pay up is to let them sit in jail on the weekends and dock their wages.”

  “If that happens, Milo’s going to run out of cells.” I stood up. “How about a refill while I get dinner on the table?”

  “Fine,” Marisa replied. “I’ll help.”

  “You don’t need to. This is an easy dinner.” I led the way into the kitchen. “I bought the crab for the sheriff, but he had to cancel. His ex is in town to discuss their daughter’s upcoming wedding.”

  “Milo’s certainly not a deadbeat dad,” Marisa remarked.

  “No. He paid his dues until the kids were eighteen.” I poured more wine into Marisa’s almost empty glass. “Now he’s supposed to dole out some big bucks for his half of the nuptials.”

  “That’s fair, I suppose.” Marisa gazed around the kitchen. “Let’s hope the wedding is a onetime-only event. I could practically live on divorce money. Marriage is an endangered species.” She watched me while I took one of the crabs out of the fridge. “Maybe it’s just as well I’ve stayed single. My, but that’s a big crab! I see the Grocery Basket has oysters on sale this weekend. I think I’ll get some.”

  “It’s tempting,” I allowed, removing the potato and Caesar salads before closing the fridge. As usual, Marisa had steered the conversation away from her private life. And mine. Our friendship had grown in recent months, but we never discussed our love lives—or lack thereof.

  Shellfish seemed to be a much safer topic—for both of us.

  ELEVEN

  IT HAD BEEN A PLEASANT, LOW-KEY EVENING. MARISA WENT home shortly after nine-thirty. I slept until almost ten the next morning, not realizing that the week’s events had tired me out. There was no further word from Rolf, but Adam had e-mailed me. He’d hoped to come to Alpine for Thanksgiving, but a young couple at one of his mission churches wanted to get married on the Saturday after the holiday.

  “I know you’ll be pissed,” he wrote, “but the couple chose the twenty-seventh because it’s the groom’s parents’ anniversary. I’m not allowed to be pissed, given my priestly vocation, but if it were possible, I would be, too. Maybe I can make it for Christmas, but I’m not promising anything this year. Meanwhile, feel free to send presents and money.”

  Some things about my son never changed. I e-mailed him back that I was indeed pissed and if he couldn’t come for Christmas maybe I should go to St. Mary’s Igloo and celebrate it with him. I’d never been to Alaska, but I’d toyed with the idea of making the journey. Apparently Adam was still online because he responded almost immediately.

  “Don’t. If you ever do come up here, make sure it’s during the summer before the mosquitoes get to be the size of pterodactyls. I don’t want to spend my time trying to keep you attached to a frozen rope or having a nervous breakdown when you see my modes of land, water, and air transportation during the winter. Meanwhile, send thermal underwear and heavy boots with serious traction. I could use a new pair of snow-shoes, too. Check out the MSR Denali Evo model. When you see the price, note that they’re not as expensive as a car. Thanks, MOM.”

  The capital letters were deliberate. I’d told Adam long ago that they were short for “Made Of Money,” which apparently was how he regarded his mother. I thought that once he was ordained, he might stop seeking my financial aid. That had never happened. Sometimes I felt as if I had taken the vow of poverty. Even though he had finally received a decent sum from his late father’s estate, he’d insisted on putting the money into a fund to be used only for his parishioners. It was a noble concept, but my tenuous dream of my son’s financial independence had disappeared into the long Alaskan nights.

  A half-hour later, I went outside. The autumn weather had changed overnight, with almost clear skies, sunshine, and that brisk, crisp feeling that comes with nature’s decay and yet is invigorating. I decided I’d do some more garden cleanup before the first snowfall.

  My nice neighbors, Val and Viv Marsden, were already busy raking leaves and filling a composter. I greeted them from across the fence.

  “If,” Viv said, using the back of her hand to brush a bit of dirt from her forehead, “you want anything hauled away, the Peabody brothers are coming by around one. We’re taking out that old holly bush. It’s gotten out of control.”

  I gazed across the yard at the massive holly. “It’s never produced berries, has it?”

  Viv shook her head. “No. We kept hoping, but maybe it needs a mate. Now it’s getting so big that it obscures our view of the street.”


  Val had wandered over to join us. “Hey, what’s going on around this town?” he asked, leaning what looked like a brand-new shovel against the split-rail fence. “Is another tavern brawl—excuse the expression—on tap for tonight?”

  I laughed. “I hope not. We don’t need any more bad news.”

  Viv nudged Val with her elbow and winked at me. “You see, Emma? Now you know why I’ve nagged Val about hanging out in taverns after work. We couldn’t have raised our kids if he’d kept spending his paycheck from the state fisheries on beer.”

  We all chuckled. Val was allergic to alcohol and hadn’t taken a drink since his freshman year at the University of Washington. “I could get in trouble at work just talking about taverns,” he said, turning serious. “Like a moron, I asked Walt Hanson about what happened at the ICT. He gave me a dirty look and turned away so fast that he almost fell into one of the hatchery ponds.”

  “Touchy subject,” I said. “His wife, Amanda, is filling in for Ginny Erlandson, who had her baby this week.”

  Viv smiled. “We heard. Another boy. Is Ginny disappointed?”

  “She’ll be fine,” I said. “That reminds me, I should buy a gift.”

  “Ginny and Rick have a nice little family,” Viv said. “I always wonder about couples who don’t have children. Maybe Walt and Amanda would’ve been better off if they’d had kids.”

  Val shook his head. “Some people shouldn’t be parents. Look at the Nelson bunch next to Emma. They weren’t cut out to raise kids. The Hansons would have problems with or without adding children into the mix. I don’t know how they’ve stayed together this long.”

  I asked the obvious. “They’re in trouble?”

  Val grimaced. “I don’t think Amanda’s been happy since they moved here. And that makes Walt grouchy. It’s no picnic working with him. You never know what’s going to set Walt off.”

  “I suppose,” I said, “she blamed him for being transferred here.”