Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  “Here they are,” Blake announced, his expansiveness held in check by a shortness of breath. “What do you think?”

  I thought that the series of three small pools with their blue plastic linings were ugly. The nearby ground was discolored from the minerals, the corrugated tubing that carried the water out of the rocks was strictly utilitarian, and the pockets of old snow were pockmarked with debris. Worse yet, the mountain air was tainted with the smell of sulfur. The only saving grace was the view of Windy Mountain and the surrounding foothills.

  “It's … rugged,” I said finally, sitting down on a streaked boulder and panting.

  “It's relatively unspoiled,” Skye remarked, taking in the vista between the western cedars. “I'd like to see it stay that way.”

  At the moment, I didn't care if Blake and Stan put up a Ferris wheel. I was hot, tired, and vaguely disappointed. Somehow, I'd expected rippling waterfalls, sylvan pools, and a shady glen that hinted of primeval romance. The only bit of charm was a birdhouse made of cedar shakes which sat on a sturdy vine maple pole about six feet off the ground. Maybe Stan had put it up to encourage nesting. I was too beat to ask.

  Fists on hips, Skye was studying her surroundings. “Second-growth timber,” she noted. “From when? The Twenties?”

  Stan nodded. “Most of this area was logged in the first quarter of the century.” He looked past Skye to where I was sitting. “Right, Emma?”

  “Right.” Carl Clemans had been ahead of his time, reforesting the land. The timber after the 1929 harvest had been limited to isolated parcels, mainly beyond the summit and to the north of Stevens Pass.

  Skye gestured at the pools. “Who did this? The seller?”

  Blake regarded the plastic-lined holes in the ground.

  “No. The people who use the springs fixed them up. Or so we were told by Mr. Hollenberg.”

  It figured. Leonard wouldn't bother himself. Maybe he wanted to get rid of the property before somebody took a tumble and sued his broad butt off.

  Skye was laughing, somewhat derisively. “I think you two are crazy. Even crazier than usual. Look at this terrain—it'd take a mountain goat to get around here. Why did you pick this place? There are mineral springs all over the Pacific Northwest in more feasible locales.”

  Stan, who had been eyeing the birdhouse, now turned to frown at Skye. “You know the answer to that. Most of the others are already tied in with some kind of resort or are on government-owned property. Scenic was available. We'll have to make the best of it.”

  “How?” Skye snapped. “By bulldozing and blasting?” Now her laugh was scornful. “That's the only way you can create a building site. And CATE won't stand for it. We're prepared to fight you every inch of the way.”

  Though Stan was frowning, Blake appeared unperturbed. “Right, we're as seasoned at litigation as you are. Our Suits versus your Suits. We're prepared to put this on the ballot and let the locals decide. We can offer jobs. What will CATE give these poor out-of-work bastards? Spotted owl crap and a free dip in the springs?”

  Skye was glaring at Blake. “We have the law on our side, Fannucci. The environment is protected.”

  “This is private property, sweetheart,” Blake retorted. “Check your Washington State laws. You're blowing smoke. Go save a whale or some other worthless animal.”

  “Like you?” Skye shot Blake a withering look, then started back toward the trail. I finally got up and began snapping a few pictures. I could get a shot of Skye in the so-called parking lot, unless she decided to walk back to Alpine. I wouldn't have put it past her.

  But she hadn't. By the time we had put the sulfuric stink behind us and arrived at the bottom of the trail, Skye was leaning against the Range Rover, wearing a stern expression. Approaching her gingerly, I asked if I could take a photo.

  She shrugged. “Why not? It's good publicity for CATE.”

  I got her to pose at the trailhead. As a rule, my photographs are never as good as Carla's. Or Vida's, for that matter. But the sun was behind me, the shadows weren't overwhelming, and I was careful about framing and focus. The only distraction was caused by Blake and Stan, who were posting a sign that they had removed from the Range Rover. Signaling to Skye that I had finished, I turned to read the message on what appeared to be professionally printed tagboard:

  HOT SPRINGS CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. PRIVATE PROPERTY—PLEASE DO NOT USE TRAIL. THANK YOU.

  “Great,” Skye muttered. “VineFan not only wants to screw up the environment, it wants to prevent other people from enjoying the natural wonders.”

  Ever the fence-straddler, I tried to keep the peace. “But the intention is to let everybody have access to the springs. There are plenty of people who could never hike that trail.”

  Skye sniffed in derision. “Sure, everybody who can afford their price. You call that magnanimity?” She paused, but didn't wait for my response, which would have been lame at best. “Have you shot those two yet?”

  I explained that I had, up at the hot springs.

  Skye gave me an ironic half smile. “Good. It's a wonder somebody else doesn't shoot that big-mouthed Fannucci. With a gun. He's tempting Fate.”

  As it turned out, both Blake and Stan were tempting much more.

  The Californians dropped Skye off at the Burger Barn, then drove me up to my house on Fir Street. The short ride back to Alpine had been quiet, though the tension in the car was palpable. After Skye got out, Blake had made a remark about her narrow-minded tenacity. Stan had merely shaken his head. I kept my mouth shut.

  It was going on four o'clock when I returned home, too late to start any major weekend projects. I got out the new laptop I'd bought recently and wrote a letter to my old friend from The Oregonian, Mavis Marley Fulkerston. The laptop had maxed out one of my two major credit cards, but I hoped the expense would be tax deductible.

  Except for the anticipated arrival of Adam and Ben, the news from my end was thin. A retired journalist, Mavis always appreciated anecdotes about life on a small-town weekly. Or so she assured me. But Mavis is basically a very kind person.

  I was recounting our first batch of personals when the phone rang. It was Leo, sounding vaguely sheepish.

  “I screwed up, babe,” he said without preface. “Del-phine and I are supposed to go to a cocktail party tonight at the Melvilles'. I guess Scott asked me because I'm a fellow California exile. Plus, he liked the ad I put together for him when he first came to town. Anyway, I got the dates mixed up and told Delphine it was next Saturday. She can't go tonight because she's giving a wedding shower for her niece. Could you fill in?”

  Coming off the bench for Delphine Corson didn't strike me as very appealing. On the other hand, my Saturday night was open. “What's the occasion?” I thought I might as well hedge a bit before succumbing.

  Leo's voice brightened somewhat. “The Melvilles bought a split-level in the Icicle Creek development. Pretty mundane, typical tract housing. Naturally, Scott wants to remodel. This is the kickoff. Once they start tearing the place apart, he and Beverly won't be able to entertain for a while.”

  I knew the house; it was three doors down from Milo Dodge's uninspired but comfortable residence. Maybe Scott would drink a lot of white wine and reveal juicy tidbits about the hot springs project. It was shaping up into the year's biggest news story. I'd be foolish to ignore an opportunity to elicit some usable quotes from the resort's architect.

  Leo sounded more relieved than elated when I agreed to go with him. “It's sort of a buffet,” he explained, “so you'll be able to stuff yourself.”

  My ad manager knew me well enough to recognize that I had a hearty appetite. Luckily, I also had metabolism that kept me relatively slim. I might not be physically fit, but at least I didn't resemble a butter tub.

  Cocktail parties, as opposed to keggers and roll-up-your-shirtsleeves drinking bouts, are rare in Alpine. The occasion sent me scurrying to my closet. I decided on a gauzy wraparound blouse and striped skirt with a side slit, an outfit I'd
carefully chosen for my meeting with Tom Cavanaugh at Lake Chelan the previous June. The ensemble had given me confidence, though I suspected that Tom wouldn't have remembered if I'd been wearing designer sportswear or a Seahawks uniform. Not that Tom couldn't be observant when it came to clothes—but so overcome were we both by our long-awaited reunion that removing garments had been far more important than admiring them.

  A year later the separates looked a bit shopworn. Maybe I did, too. But when Leo picked me up shortly after seven, he actually complimented my appearance.

  “You look sharp, babe. Too sophisticated for the yokels. Won't they be wearing their bowling team shirts and those pants with shiny butts?”

  “Not all of them,” I said lightly. “Not Scott and Beverly Melville. Not you.” My tight little smile was intended to flatter Leo's summer-weight sports coat and neatly pressed slacks. He didn't wear a tie, of course, but his yellow shirt suited his coloring. As I got into his secondhand Toyota, it occurred to me that we made a very presentable couple. At least for Alpine.

  The Icicle Creek development is on the east side of town, between the railroad tracks, the golf course, and the older, grander homes of First Hill. The more expensive residences sit between Icicle Creek and the fairway. The houses closer to the train tracks are more modest. Like Milo Dodge, the Melvilles were somewhere in the middle, on the opposite side of the creek from the golf course, but sufficiently removed from the Burlington Northern route so that their foundation wouldn't wobble when a big freight rumbled through town.

  The house itself had a temporary look, no doubt due to its imminent renovation. The Melvilles also seemed transitory. Maybe it was Beverly's cliche Malibu blonde appearance or Scott's practiced charm. They struck me as people who were passing through, checking out the ambience, poised to move on to the next sensation. It was possible that I was being unfair. First impressions are often inaccurate.

  The assembled guests, most of whom I already knew, were gathered in the dining and living rooms. They were a curious crew, seemingly chosen to represent segments of Alpine life: Mayor Fuzzy Baugh and his wife Irene; high school coach Rip Ridley and his spouse Dixie; Cal and Charlene Vickers; Harvey and Darlene Adcock, who owned the hardware and sporting goods store; the Episcopal vicar, Regis Bartleby, and Mrs. Bartleby, whose first name eluded me; and the local undertaker, Al Driggers, with his ribald wife, Janet. Last but not least were Ed and Shirley Bronsky. Ed wore a cummerbund, and given his girth, all he needed was a fez to look like Sydney Greenstreet in Casablanca, Shirley, in blue and green chiffon edged with matching feathers, resembled Greenstreet's parrot.

  “Great spread,” Leo remarked, forking up seafood beignets, tartar sauce, and an onion tart.

  “The food? Or Shirley Bronsky's behind? Now that she's rich, why doesn't she join a health club and work out?” Feeling mean-minded, I shoved a chunk of mozzarella-covered bruschetta into my mouth.

  Leo, however, ignored my snide comment. “I wonder,” he said, trying to juggle his wine in one hand and his appetizer plate in the other, “if Windy Mountain will offer exercise equipment? Have you asked?”

  “No,” I retorted, vaguely irked that Leo should remind me how to do my job, “but I'm going to right now.”

  I had caught Scott Melville's eye over Charlene Vick-ers's padded periwinkle-blue shoulder. My host met me halfway, by a pair of armless damask chairs that probably would cost me a month's take-home wages. Scott smiled, revealing dimples in both cheeks and chin, more dimples than the law allowed, even in southern California.

  He answered my question directly, but with what I assumed was professional detachment. “That's the tentative plan,” he said, pushing an unruly lock of dark blond hair off his forehead. “Full services for mind and body. Herbal wraps, aromatherapy, massage, mud soaks, waxing, swimming pool, full gym—the works. There'll be diet and exercise consultants, dermatologists, hair restoration, maybe even physical and behavioral therapists. Blake and Stan are going first-class.” Scott's tone remained matter-of-fact.

  Judging from my host's own muscular build, he was already keeping fit, at least in body. Still, I couldn't help but be impressed by the plans for Windy Mountain. I also couldn't help but wonder where all the money was coming from. 'They're flying to L.A. Tuesday to arrange the financing,” I noted. “Suddenly that fifteen-million-dollar price tag doesn't sound so high after all. Do you think they can swing it?”

  Scott shrugged. “They've put together big projects in the past. They're major players.”

  They were also absent. I asked Scott if he expected them to drop by.

  “Not tonight,” he answered in what I was getting to know as his studied detachment. Scott's manner didn't gibe with his boyish good looks. “They're doing dinner with somebody.”

  I made a guess. “Leonard Hollenberg?”

  Scott shrugged again. “Could be. I'm the architect, not the social secretary.”

  The response seemed to dismiss me, but the awkward moment was broken by Scott's wife, Beverly, who held out her hand. “I don't believe we've met officially. I'm Bev Melville.”

  I shook her hand, vaguely in awe of her long, straight blonde hair, tall, trim figure, and astonishing big blue eyes. If the hair was bleached, it was recently done, and while the cut was simple, I knew it was deceptively expensive. Somehow, I didn't think she'd gotten it locally at Stella's Styling Salon.

  “I hear you have a log house,” Beverly began as her husband drifted away to join Ed Bronsky and Harvey Adcock. “I'm envious. But logs wouldn't work in this setting. Scott says we're going to have to blend in.”

  “Blending in is required in a small town,” I said, putting my empty hors d'oeuvres plate down on a small drum table. “At least it is if you want to get along with the locals.”

  Briefly, Beverly's expression was rueful. But when she spoke, her voice was enthusiastic. “We do, definitely. Why else move to a remote area? Except to avoid all the Big City problems, of course.”

  “Small towns have problems of their own,” I pointed out. “Blending in is just one of them. But you're right, there are advantages.”

  Again there was a brief pause before Beverly responded. “Ironic, isn't it? People like us move to get away from urban ills, then try to make over our new backwater into what forced us to leave in the first place. Is that progress, Ms. Lord?”

  Since I was probably no more than eight or ten years older than Beverly, I insisted that she call me Emma. Otherwise, I was starting to feel like Grandma Moses. “Don't ask me what progress is,” I said, noting Janet Driggers zeroing in on us. “What's important for Alpine is putting food on the table. Given the timber industry crisis, the town's in danger of dying.”

  “Dying?” Janet's voice was perky. “Anybody doing it here? Tell Al—we could use the money. There hasn't been a funeral in Alpine since the first week of May.”

  I smiled at Janet's comment, but Beverly didn't. “This party may be dying. I feel a lot of negative energy. What about you?”

  Janet blinked her false eyelashes at Beverly. “I tried to feel your husband, but he backed into the garlic dip. I thought Californians were more adventurous.”

  Obviously, Beverly didn't know Janet well enough to realize that she was teasing. Maybe. After almost five years, I wasn't sure I knew Janet that well, either.

  “I mean,” Beverly said, clearing her throat and looking vaguely uncomfortable, “that some of our guestsm don't seem very pleased to be here. I have the distinct impression that we may have invited some foxes into the henhouse.”

  “No foxes here, except your old man,” Janet declared. “Fuzzy Baugh's a jackal, Ed Bronsky is a hog, and the vicar's some kind of rare but homely bird. As for—”

  “I think,” I interrupted in what I hoped was a polite voice, “Beverly means that some of the guests are sort of … at odds with the spa project.” Noting my hostess's grateful look, I continued. “Ed's pissed because he didn't think of it first. Cal Vickers is anti-outside intervention. So is Harvey
Adcock, I imagine, though he's too well-mannered to say so out loud. Fuzzy Baugh has to straddle the fence, but he's very good at that or he wouldn't keep getting reelected mayor. I don't know about Coach Ridley and Dixie. The vicar always keeps an open mind. How does Al feel?”

  Janet lifted one almost-bare shoulder. “Al doesn't give a rat's ass. What he'd really like to see is a new nursing home, with some residents from outside of Alpine. These Lutherans here in Alpine come from hardy Scandinavian stock that lives forever. No wonder business is bad. If I didn't work part-time at the travel agency, we'd be close to broke.”

  Given that Driggers' Mortuary was the only game in town when it came to death, I tended to be skeptical. But I wasn't going to argue with Janet. There was never any point—I knew that from playing bridge with her. Instead of continuing the discussion, I sunk to uncharted depths by grabbing Ed Bronksy and cutting loose.

  “Nice party,” I said noncommittally, wincing as Ed popped a puff pastry square into his mouth and let a dribble of mushroom cream sauce trickle down his chin. Or chins, in Ed's case.

  “Inferior wine,” Ed remarked, still chewing, still dribbling. “I've read up lately. Not that I like wine all that much, but I feel it's my place to know what to buy when Shirley and I entertain.”

  Never having been to a Bronsky party that didn't feature wienies on a stick and beer out of a can, I let Ed's pompous statement pass. “I have no palate,” I admitted, my gaze wandering away from Ed, who was finally using a wrinkled napkin to cleanse himself. Across the room, near the closed flowered drapes that I guessed had come with the house, Scott Melville appeared to be arguing with Cal Vickers and Rip Ridley. The Texaco owner and the football coach both seemed heated; the architect retained his cool demeanor.

  “You have to acquire a taste, as well as knowledge,” Ed said in a confidential tone. “I'm thinking of buying by the case. Not that I need to worry about saving money, but practicing economy is a habit that dies hard.”

  The practice had been a necessity before Ed inherited his fortune. One of his saving ways had been to send the Bronsky Christmas cards through the office mail. He'd also stocked up on home office supplies at my expense. I'd finally called him on the carpet for charging six gallons of paint to The Advocate. Ed had insisted that his residential work space should be a business expenditure. For me. But since Ed didn't work very hard when he was on the job, I doubted that he ever put in much extra time at home.