Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  Carla shook her head, the long black hair brushing her shoulders. “I didn’t see him, and I would have known—I checked the library for mug shots in the Seattle papers. He’s not as geeky as I thought he’d be.”

  “Good work, Carla.” I felt it necessary to praise my reporter’s initiative. “Did the workmen chase you away?”

  “Sure,” Carla replied cheerfully. “But they were sort of funny about it. I don’t think they expected me.”

  Suddenly I felt old and ugly. Carla’s implication was that the construction crew expected Vida or me to return, not a nubile twenty-five-year-old girl with raven hair. But at least Carla had her story and pictures. I quizzed her about Toby Popp’s current residence, the price tag of the new house, and if there was a completion date set.

  “He lives in a condo in Edmonds,” Carla replied, still looking pleased with herself. “He used to live east of Lake Washington, near Issaquah, but he sold that place when he retired and moved north of Seattle so that he could be closer to Index. His estimated worth is right around one billion. I couldn’t get an exact figure out of Nyquist Construction on the new house, so I sort of guessed high and low, and when they stopped saying anything, I figured it must be about three million. The property itself came pretty cheap. The house is supposed to be finished by the end of the year. They started in late January, which is when Nyquist estimated they wouldn’t get much more snow at that level.”

  Located only about five hundred feet above sea level, Index’s climate wasn’t as cold as Alpine’s. Still, the January date was chancy. Even Seattle could get snow in March.

  “Did you dig out any personal background?” I inquired as Leo returned from the advertising wars.

  Carla wrinkled her nose. “Toby never talks to the media. According to the newspaper articles, on a scale of one to ten, his social skills are about zero. The only time he’s ever seen in public is at baseball games. He was married once, way back before he dropped out of Stanford. It didn’t last long, and if he’s had any girlfriends since, nobody knows about them. Maybe he’s gay.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “He sounds more like a lone wolf, though.”

  “He is.” Leo had chimed in as he removed layouts from his big fake-leather briefcase. “I remember him from when I was working for a paper in Santa Clara. He was a rising software star, except they didn’t call it that then.”

  “Did he avoid the media in those days?” I asked, admiring Leo’s handiwork on a mock-up for Francine’s Fine Apparel.

  Leo shrugged. “All I remember is that he was supposed to be some kind of future-shock genius. Guys like that don’t buy ads to self-promote.”

  Back in my office, I worked on my timberlands-sale editorial. Usually, I try to assign myself a couple of news stories for each issue. Ed’s remark about the proposed bridge over the Sky by the golf course goaded me into checking progress on the project. It had been rumored, discussed, and postponed for a couple of years. I also decided to look into the latest developments, assuming there were any, of the new community college.

  The phone calls for both stories involved state agencies in Olympia. As usual, I was routed from one office to another. An hour and twenty minutes later I had collected material that would fill a maximum of ten inches—if I did a bit of padding. The bridge project was mired; the two-year-college site was being debated in the legislature. Our state representative, Bob Gunderson, a retired car salesman living in a mobile home by the fish hatchery where he allegedly paid a dollar a year rent, thought the best location would be west of Cass Pond, or maybe east of the ski lodge, or across Highway 2 north of the Overholt farm. In other words, he hadn’t the foggiest notion where the campus should be built. Or maybe he didn’t want to give The Advocate any news. During his last campaign swing through Alpine in October, Carla had described him as “a big, hearty man, wearing a brown shortcake.” She’d meant sport coat. I had proofed the story, and my only excuse for not catching the mistake was that Adam had called to tell me his dorm was on fire. It wasn’t, but the distraction had flawed my usually accurate eye.

  Vida returned just before five. Her hair looked tidy, but otherwise unremarkable. “I must rush,” she declared, hurriedly sorting through her phone messages. “Buck’s coming at seven, so I’ll have to grocery-shop on my way home. Pork chops sound nice, don’t you think?”

  As a concept, pork chops sounded fine. What Vida would do to them was another matter. “Did you learn anything new about the murder case?” I asked, avoiding the subject of dinner.

  “Scads,” Vida replied. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Good night, Emma.”

  Vida left, practically running out the door before I could voice my objections. I was annoyed. Had our roles been reversed, she would have pinned me to the wall until I coughed up the latest information.

  It was one minute after five, and the long distance rates were down. I called Adam in Tempe, but there was no answer. Carla had already left, planning to drop off the day’s film at Buddy Bayard’s. Leo had been in the front office, checking through the accumulation of classified ads. He was still there when I started for home.

  “You get your car back?” he asked, looking up from a note Carla had made.

  I nodded. “It was the battery.” Relief had washed over me when Cal called just before lunch to say I’d be out a mere hundred bucks.

  “I was going to offer you a lift home,” Leo said. “You need a ride to Cal’s?”

  I’d planned to walk the seven blocks to the Texaco station on Alpine Way, but it was raining and I was tired. Downhearted, too, still not restored to my buoyant mood of Monday. As Leo and I drove along Front Street in his secondhand Toyota, I considered inviting him to dinner. But before I could issue the invitation, he voiced his intention of meeting Delphine Corson at Posies Unlimited. Delphine was Alpine’s resident florist, and Leo’s local squeeze. They were going out for drinks. Or something. I didn’t pry.

  Leo griped about the driving conditions. It had gotten colder in the last hour as evening settled in over the mountains. The rain had turned to sleet, and the black ice that remained was hard to see in the winter twilight.

  “I’ll never get used to this freaking weather,” Leo complained, easing the Toyota into Cal’s. “It’s not the gloom that bothers me so much as the sudden changes.”

  I commiserated briefly, then thanked Leo and got out of the car. Cal waved at me from the garage area, where he was working on a minivan.

  “Hang on just a sec,” he called. “I’m all alone tonight, and I promised Jake O’Toole he’d get this baby back by six.”

  Most of Cal disappeared under the hood of the Grocery Basket owner’s van. I wandered over to the office door, seeking shelter beneath the canopy that covered the gas pumps. A boy in his late teens was filling the tank of his rusted-out truck. He finished just as Cal came out of the garage.

  “Go ahead,” I said to Cal, nodding at the boy who was counting money from his wallet. “I’ll wait.” After all, I was in no hurry. I had nowhere to go except home, and no one was waiting for me there. The damp chill in the air made me shiver. If I ducked out from under the canopy, I could also get wet as well as cold. Obviously, I was feeling sorry for myself on this Thursday evening in February.

  While Cal and his customer conducted their business inside, I spotted my Jag across the tarmac, between a Ford Taurus and Cal’s tow truck. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a blur of headlights as a car careened around the corner from Cedar Street, skidded, and crashed into a Jeep Wrangler on Alpine Way. The crunch of metal and the shattering of glass made me cringe. Two other vehicles stopped short, and a third swerved to avoid the collision but kept going. Cal and his customer came running out of the office.

  “Jeez!” Cal cried. “What happened?”

  I didn’t reply. I was too anxious to see if the drivers were all right. To my relief, a young man got out of the Jeep and a woman in a very short skirt emerged from the sedan. They immediately began screaming at each other.


  After Front Street, Alpine Way is the busiest thoroughfare in town. Both byways are regularly plowed during the winter, but the side streets aren’t cleared as often. Compact snow and ice become a hazard, especially when they’re interspersed with bare spots. After sunset the black ice is practically invisible. Despite the sleet and the cold and the encroaching darkness, the accident was drawing a crowd. At least three people had hurried out from Itsa Bitsa Pizza next door to Cal’s, and across the street a man and a woman were gawking on the corner by Mountain View Gardens, the local nursery.

  Although I didn’t have my camera with me, I got out my notepad so I could take down names and damages. Approaching with caution, I recognized both drivers: the young man with the buzz cut was Tim Rafferty, part-time college student and some-time bartender at the Icicle Creek Tavern; the woman in the short skirt, knee-high boots, and fuzzy red jacket was Amanda Hanson, who worked at the post office.

  “It’s not my fault I skidded on that stupid black ice!” Amanda was screaming. “You had time to get out of the way, you idiot!”

  “That’s an arterial,” Tim shouted back, gesturing at the intersection of Alpine Way and Cedar. “I had the right-of-way! You damned well better be insured all the way up to your … butt!” Despite his anger, he couldn’t resist a glance at Amanda’s exposed thighs. Idly, I wondered why she wasn’t shivering from the cold.

  “I wouldn’t even be here,” Amanda railed, “if I didn’t have to wait on stupid customers who come into the post office at four fifty-nine! Why don’t those morons realize that if they don’t want a package they can just write ‘Refused’ on it and hand it back to their carrier? Look at my car!” she raged on, jabbing a finger at her Subaru Legacy. “The front end’s a mess, and all because of that dopey woman who thinks she’s a poet!” She began to cry.

  “Hey,” Tim Rafferty yelled, “I just came off my shift, too! How would you like to put up with a bunch of half-tanked losers who spend all their time bitching about the spotted owl instead of trying to find another job? You sell food stamps at the post office—why don’t you tell those dumb bastards they can’t use them to buy beer?”

  Tim’s tirade made no dent on Amanda, who was now leaning against her Subaru and sobbing. Cal had brought out some flares and was placing them around the accident scene. Traffic was now backed up in both directions from Front to Fir.

  I was recording the Subaru’s crumpled grill and fender when a vehicle with an amber flasher barged up Alpine Way. Milo’s Cherokee Chief was easily recognizable. Apparently, he was off duty, because he was using his portable emergency light.

  The sheriff took note of Cal first. Then he stalked over to the wreck, eyeing the drivers with an annoyed expression.

  “I’ve got a deputy on the way,” he announced. “Okay, what have we got here?”

  Amanda stopped crying and began yelling again. Tim’s rage resurfaced as he made a variety of accusations, stopping just short of asserting that the culpable Ms. Hanson had crash-landed atop his Jeep on her broom.

  Milo, who was still wearing his regulation uniform and hat, glared at the combatants. “Shut up, both of you! Have we got an eyewitness around here?” He glowered at the bystanders, including me.

  There was some muttering, but nobody volunteered. Finally, I stepped forward. “I saw it—sort of. This sleet makes things a little murky.”

  It appeared that Milo hadn’t taken in my presence until I spoke. “Emma? Okay, come with me and I’ll have you make a statement.”

  I protested, however. “Can’t I do it tomorrow? I’m collecting my car.”

  The hazel eyes under the broad-brimmed hat were hard as marbles. I knew the sheriff well enough to recognize that he was in a bad mood that probably had nothing to do with the two-car collision.

  “Witnesses forget,” he snapped. “I want your information while it’s fresh. Come on, let’s go.” Milo jerked a thumb in the direction of the Cherokee Chief just as Sam Heppner pulled up in his county car.

  Cal called for me to wait. While Milo swore under his breath Sam took over at the accident scene. A moment later Cal reappeared with my car keys.

  “We’ll finish the paperwork tomorrow,” Cal said, then turned to the sheriff. “Will either of these two need a tow? Or can I lock up and go home?”

  “They’re fine,” Milo responded tersely. “Sam’ll get them out of the way in the next few minutes. G’night, Cal.” The sheriff loped back to his vehicle.

  “Damn it, Milo,” I grumbled, getting into the passenger seat, “you’re going to have to bring me back over here after we’re done.”

  Milo didn’t say anything. He’d forgotten to remove the amber light, so traffic deferred to him as he headed up Alpine Way. When we reached Tonga Road, I realized he had no intention of going to headquarters.

  “Okay, what’s up?” I asked with an impatient sigh. “You don’t give a rat’s ass about Tim and Amanda.”

  The sheriff still didn’t speak. A sideways glance told me that his long jaw was set and his eyes were focused on the road into the ski lodge. It was only when we arrived in the parking lot that Milo explained himself.

  “I need a drink,” he declared. “It’s more private in the bar here than the Venison Inn.”

  “It’d be more private in my living room, you dunce,” I chided. “The only reason I keep Scotch on hand is because of you and Ben.”

  “What about Leo?”

  “What about Leo?” I didn’t care for Milo’s insinuating tone.

  “You tell me,” Milo shot back. He banged the car door open and awkwardly got out. He paused just long enough to remove the amber light and put it back inside the car.

  I refused to budge. With my arms crossed and my mouth pursed like a prune, I stared fiercely through the windshield. There was snow coming down now, and its big, wet flakes accumulated swiftly. Milo was halfway to the ski-lodge entrance before he realized I wasn’t with him.

  He stopped and turned around, a tall, blurry figure in his drab brown sheriff’s uniform. His shoulders were slightly hunched and he had lowered his head. But he didn’t come toward me.

  Angrily, I reached over and punched the horn. It let out a loud, blaring noise that made Milo jump. I didn’t stop until he reached the Cherokee Chief.

  “Goddamn it, Emma,” he shouted, “what’s the matter with you?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” I retorted. “Either stop acting like a prize jackass or take me back to Cal’s!”

  Milo’s jaw still jutted, but he opened the passenger door. Then, instead of offering his hand, he started to get inside. “Move over,” he mumbled. “Maybe we should talk here.”

  Clumsily, I got into the driver’s seat. “Well?” My temper was still on a rampage, but Milo was suddenly looking so downcast that I felt a trace of sympathy. Or, given my own dark mood, maybe it was empathy.

  “It’s over,” he said in a flat voice, staring straight ahead into the snow-covered windshield. “Honoria’s not coming back.”

  My initial reaction was confusion. Milo and Honoria’s relationship had been strained for months. The impression I’d gotten from the sheriff was that he was more upset by a change in the status quo than by any genuine sense of loss. Now, however, seeing the melancholy look on his face, I realized that I’d misjudged Milo’s emotions. Maybe he had, too.

  “Did Honoria tell you that?” I asked, rarely capable of finding the proper words of commiseration unless I could get them down on paper first.

  Milo shook his head. “No, but I figure she came to say goodbye. The fact is—” He broke off, rubbing at his upper lip. “Honoria never felt at home around here. My guess is that the move was all a big mistake.” Milo kept his index finger pressed against his lip, with the thumb propping up his chin. I was afraid that he might actually cry.

  “Honoria’s in shock,” I declared. “Give her some time. Once they all settle down, she’ll be back.”

  Removing his hat, Milo chucked it into the backseat. “I don’t
think so. You don’t know how she operates, Emma. Once Honoria gets something in her head, it sticks.”

  I knew that was true, yet it could work to Milo’s advantage—if that’s what he really wanted. “Honoria made a big decision to move to Startup in the first place,” I pointed out. “She must have had very good reasons to go through with such a drastic change. If this is how she wanted to spend the rest of her life, what makes you think that—in time—she won’t return?”

  “Because it felt like goodbye.”

  Between the snow outside and the vapor inside, the interior of the Cherokee Chief seemed cut off from the rest of the world. I felt isolated, not just from my surroundings, but from Milo. Sitting next to me, he seemed to have withdrawn into a place where I couldn’t follow.

  “So why did she move here?” I finally asked in an attempt to break down the barrier between us.

  “Honoria wanted to start a new life.” Milo spoke as if he’d memorized the reason. When I didn’t say anything, he continued in a more normal tone. “She’d been married to a bum, she’d ended up a cripple, and it took her a while to put her life back together. When she got to the point where she could cope on her own, she decided to put the past behind her. That was four, five years ago. You know all that.”

  I did, and yet it wasn’t enough. “She must have left Carmel while Trevor was still in jail.”

  Milo kept staring at the windshield. “Right. The disaster with Honoria’s ex happened back in the early Eighties. Trevor was sentenced to twenty years on a second-degree homicide charge. He got paroled just before Memorial Day. I guess he actually served about ten years. The first trial ended in a hung jury.” At last, Milo turned his head. My close scrutiny seemed to annoy him. “What’s the matter—do I have crud on my chin?”

  There are times when I marvel that I have ever even remotely considered Milo Dodge as a romantic possibility. It’s not that Milo is ugly or even unattractive. Indeed, I have noticed that his receptionist, the young and pretty, if somewhat dull-witted, Toni Andreas, has a crush on him. But somehow he has a knack for spoiling any kind of potentially sensuous moment.