The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  I pictured Honoria’s cedar-shake cottage nestled among evergreens and vine maples. She had invested it with charm, and her own personality, which were probably the same thing.

  “What time?” I asked, awkwardly aware of Vida’s splay-footed exit from my office.

  “Six-thirty?” Honoria’s suggestion was made easily, as if time were of no importance. Maybe it isn’t, when wherever you’re going can’t be reached on your own two feet.

  “Fine,” I agreed, mentally scratching my plan to visit the murder site. “I’ll see you then.”

  “Ah…” The familiar husky laugh was self-conscious. “Do you think … would you mind … that is, I was wondering if your … what do you call her? Vida, isn’t it? Do you think she might be coaxed into joining us? I don’t really know her that well, and Milo makes her sound so formidable.”

  Through the doorway, I could see Vida at the window above her desk. She had put on her tweed coat and was holding a black, broad-brimmed pointed rain hat in her hand. Her broad shoulders were oddly hunched as she stared out into the gathering darkness that enveloped Front Street. For just one fleeting moment, there was something touching about her stance.

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised Honoria. Then I whispered into the phone: “Vida’s really a dear. She scares Milo because he’s … a man.”

  The husky laugh grew deeper. “Don’t we all? By the way, don’t mention our little get-together to Milo.” Honoria rang off.

  I was on my feet, hurrying out to tell Vida about the dinner invitation. She brushed me off, racing for the door. “Never mind just now. Milo’s coming out of the bank.” Vida jammed the black rain hat on her head and left the news office.

  Throwing on my jacket, I chased after her. Vaguely I noted that Leo had left. So, apparently, had Carla and Ginny. A quick check of the old-fashioned clock that stood on a tall pedestal by the bank told me it was 5:01. My staff was entitled to be gone.

  Vida had already corralled Milo and was dragging him back to the office. Milo wasn’t exactly kicking and screaming, but he wasn’t pleased.

  “Damn it, Vida, I’ve got work to do,” he protested. “Why don’t you people go home?”

  “Journalists never sleep,” Vida asserted, all but shoving Milo into her visitor’s chair. “What’s going on at the bank?”

  Briefly Milo looked rattled. “The bank? What about the bank? Why are you asking?”

  Vida was slowly pacing the news-office floor, one hand fingering her chin. She looked like an inquisitor working for Torquemada. “There’s trouble over there,” she said. “Emma and I already know that. There’ve been a number of complaints. Grace Grundle. The Dithers sisters. Leo.” She glanced at our ad manager’s empty chair. “One of the Gustavsons. Two Bergstroms. Henry Bardeen from the ski lodge.” Vida whirled, a majestic figure with her coat wrapped around her and the pointed black rain hat atilt. It would have made a great picture for Halloween. If only we’d thought of it at the time.

  “Screw off, Vida.” Milo was at his most phlegmatic. He extracted a toothpick from the pocket of his regulation jacket and began to munch.

  “Now, listen here, young man.” Vida was wagging a finger in Milo’s face. “Don’t speak to me like that! We’re conducting an investigation of our own at The Advocate. We have reason to believe that there have been some serious—possibly criminal—irregularities at the Bank of Alpine. It grieves me to say as much, but there it is. The public has a right to know. Are you going to fly in the face of the United States Constitution?”

  Milo broke his toothpick. But he didn’t lose his nerve. “I’m not going to fly anywhere. I don’t know what the hell is going on yet, and I don’t intend to say one damned word until I find out. Give me a break.” Wistfully he looked in my direction. “You got any coffee left, Emma?”

  I shook my head. Ginny’s last official duty of the day was to make sure that the coffeemaker was unplugged and cleaned. Despite her broken heart, she had lived up to her responsibilities.

  Milo unwound his big frame from Vida’s extra chair. “Then I’m going back to work.” Resolutely he walked past Vida. “When I know something for sure, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, don’t call me. I’ll call you.” The sheriff slammed the door behind him.

  Ten minutes later, I was home, renewing my makeup and changing clothes. It was not quite six when the phone rang. Warily I picked up the receiver, half expecting another hang-up. Instead, I heard the voice of Tom Cavanaugh. My heart turned over and my knees went weak. How silly can a woman of forty-plus be? I had the emotional range of a teenager.

  “It’s happened,” Tom said, his voice not so mellow as usual.

  The two words and their delivery forced me to sit down. “What’s happened?” I asked stupidly.

  There was a pause at the other end. Tom was sitting in the handsomely decorated study of an expensive San Francisco mansion, or so I always imagined. Adam had never been to the Cavanaugh house. Tom had not yet had the nerve to introduce his illegitimate son to the two children born in wedlock.

  “Sandra wants a divorce.” Tom’s voice was oddly flat. It stayed that way as he asked what I realized was the inevitable question: “Will you marry me?”

  The words were the ones I’d longed to hear for over twenty years. I’d given away my youth to that proposal, I’d sacrificed a half dozen eligible men at the altar of Tom’s married state. Now I actually heard the question, reverberating off my left ear, while I struggled with a pair of brown slacks that didn’t seem to fit either of my legs.

  “What?” It was all I could think to say. I wondered if I could reach the bottle of bourbon in my so-called liquor cabinet.

  Tom was laughing. Sort of. “Sandra has met somebody else. A stand-up comic, in fact. He’s twenty-six, and she’s nuts about him. Emma, what did Sabatini say?”

  The answer came by rote: “‘Born with the gift of laughter and the sense that the world was mad.’” Tom and I had often mouthed the quote when we were conducting our impassioned affair. There was more, something about that being the only patrimony of Sabatini’s bastard hero. It had fit Adam only too well. But of course, our son had never read Scaramouche. “A stand-up comic?” I began to giggle; my laughter sounded akin to hysteria.

  “That’s right. Sandra saw him in some North Beach club she went to with her equally screwed-up girlfriends. They threw money at him. He joined them after his gig, and the next thing—so Sandra told me—they were holed up in some motel by Fisherman’s Wharf. She’s crazy about him and wants to bankroll a feature film for which he’s written the script. But of course, she’s just plain crazy anyway. You know that. He probably does, too.”

  A weary note had crept into Tom’s voice. I was at a loss for words. “Tom … is it a phase?”

  “Who knows? She’s got an attorney—well, she’s always had an army of them, what with her various legal problems, such as shoplifting sable coats from I. Magnin and punching out hot-dog vendors on Market Street. But she actually filed yesterday. No, it was Wednesday—Thursday was a holiday.” Tom’s voice dropped, and I could picture him holding the phone in one hand and his head in the other. His noble Roman profile was probably nuzzling the receiver.

  “Well.” I was still dazed. “What about your kids?”

  “Sandra called them today. I haven’t spoken with them yet.” He sighed, the long heavy breath traveling the nine hundred miles between San Francisco and Alpine. “It’s a mess, Emma. But she seems to have made up her mind. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “Come up to see me,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. “Adam will be here for Thanksgiving. We’ll try to sort it out. You need to take a break.”

  “I can’t.” Tom sounded pained. “The kids are coming home from college for the holiday. Sandra insists that we spend Thanksgiving together, as a family. Christmas, too. But she’s going to be with Zorro for New Year’s.”

  “Zorro?”

  “That’s his name. At least, his stage name. Zorro Black. Emma—am I cr
azy? All along, has it been me, and not Sandra?”

  Tom sounded so bleak that I was moved to tears. That takes a lot, considering that I haven’t cried since my parents were killed over twenty years ago.

  “Of course not,” I said staunchly. “Sandra is wacked out of her mind, and always has been. You’re just suffering from the fallout.”

  “I’ve got to see you.” Tom seemed to have gained momentum. “New Year’s. I’ll fly up after Christmas. It’s only a little over a month. Or could you come down here for a couple of days? I’ll pay for it.”

  The old, familiar streak of independence reared its head. “No!” It was bad enough that I’d allowed Tom to pay for some of Adam’s transportation. He sure as hell wasn’t going to foot my bills as well. Yet I hadn’t meant to distress him. “It’s a bad time,” I went on hastily. “We’ve got a big story brewing. Two, maybe. Either one may break before the Wednesday pub date, or maybe not until just before Thanksgiving.”

  If there was one excuse Tom could accept without an argument, it was breaking news. “Alpine sounds like a hotbed,” he remarked. I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

  Now that his situation was becoming real to me, I tried to think logically. “New Year’s is fine. Adam and Ben will both be here.”

  “Do you need backup?” The irony had returned to Tom’s voice.

  “Maybe I do.” I chewed on my lower lip. “You’ve got to admit, this is a shock. I can’t help but wonder if Sandra will change her mind. Or that Zorro will.”

  “It’s been going on since September. I didn’t find out until about two weeks ago. Having Sandra disappear isn’t exactly unusual.” Tom’s tone had again turned flat.

  “I know.” I was well versed in Sandra Cavanaugh’s escapades. Not too long ago, she had flown to Bombay without any notice. Tom had only found out where she was when the local police had notified him that his wife had threatened a sacred cow with a meat fork.

  “He won’t stay with her,” Tom said. “Zorro, I mean. But that doesn’t guarantee she’ll come back to me.”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you want her back?”

  The laugh I loved so much sounded shaky. “I don’t know. For twenty-five years, I’ve considered Sandra my responsibility in life. I made a commitment, not just when we were married, but later.” His voice lowered. “You know about that. I had a choice to make when you got pregnant. By then, I knew Sandra wasn’t well. I had to give you up, which was penance enough, but I never was one to do things by half—I also vowed to take care of her for as long as she needed me. Marrying Zorro doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t need me again.”

  Naturally, Tom was making perfect sense. Naturally, that didn’t matter. “Then why the hell are you asking me to marry you?”

  Tom made an exasperated noise. “Because I want to. And because even if Zorro dumps Sandra, I could still take care of her. I could be appointed her legal guardian or something. She wouldn’t be left on her own.”

  I bit back the words that rose to my lips: How wonderful to be married to Tom, and have Sandra living out in the carport, stabbing sacred cows and scurrying off to shoplift at Harvey’s Hardware.

  “We need some time,” I said gently. “Let’s see what happens with Sandra and Zorro over the next few weeks. Plan on coming to Alpine after Christmas. Don’t try to push things. We’ve waited all these years—will a month or two make much difference?”

  “I wish I knew.” Tom’s voice actually broke. I might not have cried in twenty years, but maybe he had. Often. “If only I could see what was going to happen between now and … Emma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Of course I do! Why do you ask?”

  There was a pause. “Well … if you were as bright as I think you are, you wouldn’t. Not after all this time. People are supposed to fall out of love.”

  People are supposed to do a lot of things, smart things, wise things, things that make life easier. But they don’t. Instead, they act foolishly, sometimes self-destructively. Nobody knew that better than I did.

  “Don’t be a jackass,” I said, wishing away the catch in my own voice. “Call me, if you need to. Any time. Let Sandra run with whatever it is she thinks she wants. You couldn’t stop her if you tried.”

  “I never could.” Tom’s sigh was heavy with hopelessness. I could all but feel his warm breath on my ear. Five months ago, we’d stood at the edge of Lake Chelan, pretending we belonged together. Maybe we really did. Maybe. “I’ll look forward to seeing you,” Tom said briskly. “My calendar’s clear for the end of December.”

  The sudden formality in his voice indicated that someone had entered the room. Sandra, perhaps. Tom said goodbye in a detached manner. I held on to the phone for almost a full minute after we were disconnected.

  I hadn’t heard Vida honk her horn. After only the most halfhearted of demurs, she had agreed to join Honoria and me for dinner. Again she had insisted on driving her big Buick.

  The loud knock at my door snapped me out of my love-struck daze. Finally managing to get one each of my own legs into one each of the brown slacks’, I let Vida in.

  “Well! I thought you must be in the shower. Are you ready?” Vida was wearing a winter-white turban with her brown tweed coat. Before I could respond, she leaned forward and stared into my face. “Mercy, what’s wrong? You look like a sheet! Are you sick?”

  “Let’s save it for the ride to Startup.” Grabbing my jacket and handbag, I turned off all the lights except for the desk lamp and the ship’s lantern on the front porch. Three minutes later, we had crossed the bridge over the Skykomish River and were heading for Highway 2.

  Vida was the only person in Alpine in whom I would confide my sorry love life. She listened to my recital without comment. We were zipping past the turnoff to the town of Skykomish when I finally finished.

  “Typical,” Vida said, tromping on the accelerator to pass a swaying RV. “Sandra isn’t merely unstable, she’s ungrateful. Poor Tommy.”

  Nobody but Vida called Tom Tommy. She got away with it. Indeed, when Tom had visited Alpine two years earlier, he and Vida had formed the basis for a friendship. The relationship pleased me, almost as much as if my own mother had approved.

  “It’s too soon to tell what will happen,” I said, my voice sounding forlorn in my ears.

  “Definitely. Sandra’s unpredictability is so predictable.” With that cryptic comment, Vida said no more and concentrated on her driving. The farther west we drove, the harder the rain seemed to fall. It was very dark, and if Vida hadn’t known the road by heart, I would have worried. Despite the weather, traffic on Highway 2 was heavy. It usually was on a Friday night, with cross-state travelers going between Seattle and Spokane, along with various smaller cities along the route, including some college towns.

  Honoria had been right about the mud and the potholes. Vida’s left front tire hit a big one right after we left the main road. She negotiated the rest of the short drive very carefully.

  “Milo should fix those for Honoria,” she said as we pulled up outside of the cottage. “If nothing else, he’s handy.”

  Obviously Honoria had been watching for our arrival. We exchanged hugs, and I formally introduced her to Vida. Then we began the task of getting Honoria and her wheelchair into the backseat of the Buick.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother,” she said after we were heading back to Highway 2.

  “Nonsense,” Vida replied crisply. “If you have to have a handicap, it’s better to be physically crippled than mentally deranged.” Vida shot me a knowing look.

  Honoria laughed at Vida’s candor. “It would be better to be neither.”

  “That’s rare,” Vida said, pointing the Buick toward Sultan. “Most people have some sort of handicap. The difficulty for others is when it doesn’t show.”

  The drive to the Dutch Cup was brief, covering less than five miles. It was six-forty when we sat down in a comfortable booth and were presented
with big threefold plastic menus. The waitress announced the specials, which included prime rib and prawns Madeira. When she asked if we’d like something first from the bar, Vida said no; Honoria and I chorused in the affirmative.

  “It’s my treat, remember.” Honoria widened her gray eyes at Vida.

  But Vida seemed resolute. “Not tonight. I rarely imbibe.” She gave the waitress a guileless smile. “Unless, of course, your bartender can make a sidecar.”

  The bartender could. Vida feigned surprise. “My, my, so often these days restaurant employees don’t know the old-fashioned drinks. I’m quite flabbergasted.”

  Honoria appeared to be stifling a smile. “Sultan is sort of an old-fashioned place. I believe the present owners have been here for years.”

  “Seventeen,” Vida answered promptly. “The Eslicks. Or something like that. I take it you’re adjusting to rural life?”

  Honoria’s oval face registered uncertainty. “I get homesick for Carmel. It isn’t exactly a metropolis, but it does possess a great deal of sophistication. Startup is … different. I enjoy the tranquillity. But I miss California, especially going into the Bay Area.”

  Vida’s nose wrinkled. “I haven’t been to Frisco in years,” she admitted. “But the last time I visited, it was so noisy. And crowded. However do people put up with all that bustle?”

  “Well …” Honoria gave me a quick, bemused glance. If she thought it was lost on Vida, she was wrong. Next to me, I could feel Vida bristle. “It’s a matter of adjusting to tempo. And of personal interests. I miss the opera and the ballet and the theatre. I try to get into Seattle once in a while, but I’m hampered.” Lest we mistake her meaning for a reference to her handicap, she waved a strong, yet graceful hand at us. “It’s not because of the wheelchair. It’s that Milo isn’t much interested in culture.”

  “Surprise.” Vida let the word fall like lead. “If it doesn’t swim, Milo is oblivious. Now tell us if you’re worried about Milo and this murder investigation or if you’re worried about him, period. Perhaps Emma and I can help.”