Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  Vida threw Leo a haughty look. “You're a humbug. Don't talk to me anymore this morning. I might have to do something I'd regret.”

  Puzzled, Leo turned away, sipping his coffee and studying a mock-up for Barton's Bootery. I sidled over to his desk.

  “Did those preachers really speak out against the spa project?” I asked, knowing that lowering my voice wouldn't prevent Vida from hearing.

  Leo nodded. “That's what Norm Carlson at Blue Sky Dairy told me. He's Lutheran, and his pastor—Nielsen, right?—wasn't one of them, but it seems that the fundamentalist guys got pretty worked up. Satan in our midst and all that.”

  The last thing we needed in Alpine was for church leaders to incite their congregations. I wondered if there was another story brewing. Maybe it would be better to editorialize. Emma Lord, the Voice of Reason. I could already hear the cliches bouncing off the back of my brain.

  I could also hear the phone ringing in my office. I ran in to catch it before it trunked back to Ginny. Skye Piersall's faintly reedy voice was on the other end.

  “I'd like to come in this morning to give you CATE's official point of view,” she said. “I understand you have a Tuesday deadline.”

  I told her that was so. We agreed on ten-thirty. Noting that it was now exactly nine-thirty, I took a chance that Sky Travel was open. Before I placed the call, I closed my office door. There was no need for my staff to hear about my weekend plans. Not yet.

  Janet Driggers answered on the second ring. “Hey, sweetie, how about that Scott Melville? Wouldn't you like to take a two-week tour of his anatomy?”

  I had to confess that Scott's body wasn't on my agenda. Trying not to sound like a prude, I told Janet what I wanted. The cost of the round-trip fare made me wish I'd taken Tom up on his offer to pay for it. My second bank card would just barely accommodate the total.

  “Do you need lodging?” Janet asked. I could almost see the leer on her face.

  “I'm staying with friends,” I replied a bit stiffly. “Newspaper types,” I added, feeling a need to amplify.

  “Business, huh?” Janet sounded disappointed. “Too bad. San Francisco is made for sin. You can feel it the minute you cross the Oakland Bay Bridge.”

  “I'll be coming up from the airport,” I reminded her. “No bridges.”

  “It's better with bridges,” she insisted. “But what the hey, maybe you'll have time to sneak off with some visiting foreign hunk. The only problem with San Francisco is that so many of the local guys are gay. What a waste! Don't they ever think about what we're missing?”

  “They know what we're missing,” I noted dryly. “That's why they prefer each other.”

  Janet erupted into laughter. 'Too true, Emma! Oh, well, to each his—or her—own. Your tickets will be ready this afternoon.”

  Thanking Janet, I rang off and quickly dialed Tom's number at his club. He wasn't in, but I left a message giving the arrival time of my Friday flight. Damping down my renewed giddiness, I put myself to work.

  The front page was shaping up, with Windy Mountain again the lead story. I planned to give almost as much space to the latest news from the timber wars. The two items were linked, of course. There were also shorter articles on the sheriff's renovations, the inspirational speaker for the high school graduation ceremonies, and a traffic fatality on Highway 2 near Index. The victim was from eastern Washington, which earned him only two and a half inches of copy.

  Since my door was still closed, Vida had to knock. She entered almost defiantly. “I thought you were in conference,” she said, knowing that I wasn't. “What's wrong?”

  It was pointless to keep secrets from Vida. I indicated that she should close the door again. Then I leveled with her about Tom's dilemma and my proposed trip to San Francisco. No one in Alpine except Vida and Carla knew about my relationship with Tom. As far as I knew, both had kept the secret. Milo had an inkling, but he never pried. And despite Tom's visit a couple of years earlier, he and I had not given cause for gossip. But if Tom—and Adam—were to spend more time in Alpine, somebody would notice the strong resemblance and put the pieces together. Maybe it would be Leo Walsh who'd first jump to conclusions. He'd worked for Tom in California, but he didn't know how well we knew each other.

  Vida's reaction was magnanimous. “How very grand,” she declared after I'd revealed my plans. “You and Tommy deserve a getaway. It's quite remarkable how you've maintained such closeness after all these years apart.”

  It was also quite remarkable that Vida, who could be so critical of more trivial trespasses, made no moral judgments when it came to Tom and me. She had that rare ability to cut through the excuses and deceptions that star-crossed lovers use to justify their actions. Under that prickly exterior, Vida had romance in her soul.

  “Enduring love,” she had once said, “especially in the face of obstacles and separations, is very unusual. You can't make it happen and you can't make it go away. It simply is.”

  Now, perhaps, it was Vida's turn. Ginny knocked timorously on the door. When I told her to come in, her shoulders were bowed with the weight of the morning mail. A quick glance at her left hand showed that the ring finger was still bare. Either Rick Erlandson hadn't yet popped the question, or Ginny had turned him down. The latter seemed unlikely.

  “Here, Vida,” Ginny said in a breathless voice, “your stack is under Emma's. You might as well grab it now.”

  Vida did. Without expression she sorted through the wedding announcements, bridal showers, end-of-school activities, and Father's Day items. Now unburdened, Ginny scooted back toward the front office. Vida reached the bottom of the pile, cradling a business-size envelope in her hands. “It's got the P.O. box for the return address. Who do you suppose it is?”

  Naturally, I couldn't guess. But Vida was having trouble hiding her eagerness. “Open it and find out,” I urged.

  She closed the door again. The rest of the staff must have been wondering what was going on. Vida took the single sheet of white stationery out of the envelope and scanned it with her practiced eye.

  “This is typed, with no mistakes. He's keeping his anonymity,” she said in a voice that was both disappointed and intrigued. “Maybe that's wise. I admire caution.”

  I leaned forward in my chair, which had developed an annoying creak. “What does he say?”

  Vida cleared her throat. “'Dear Madame X.' I like that. It lends an air of mystery. He has imagination.” She paused, then continued reading. “'Your enthusiasm for books, culture, travel, and people shows that we have much in common. It also sounds as if you are relatively unencumbered by family responsibilities. For the most part, so am I. I, too, believe that grown children should stand on their own and lead independent lives. If you could tell me more about your background, I'd be grateful. Common life experiences are often the best foundation for lasting friendships. I'm a Puget Sound native, and I truly believe that we live in God's country. Let me know if you share my philosophy. If so, perhaps we can meet soon for coffee or whatever beverage of your choice. Sincerely yours, Mr. Ree.'” Vida tried not to smile too widely. “Mr. Ree! I think that's rather clever, don't you?”

  I didn't, but I merely smiled back. “It's a well-composed letter. You know everybody in the area, Vida. Surely you must have some idea who he is. Especially if he's in your peer group.”

  But for once Vida appeared stumped. “He's originally from the Puget Sound vicinity,” she said, pushing the envelope across my desk. “That takes in a great deal of territory. The ads are available to anyone in Skykomish, Snohomish, and parts of King and Chelan counties. But the postmark is Everett. I certainly don't know everybody who lives there. It's grown so much in recent years. Of course he might have been passing through and mailed it from there.”

  Everett is fifty miles away in Snohomish County, but as the nearest city of any size, it's a common destination for Alpine residents. Personally, I prefer to drive the extra thirty miles into my hometown of Seattle.

  “You're going t
o reply?” I asked.

  Vida ruffled her tangled curls. “I'm curious. It can't hurt to correspond, can it? Or have coffee. Though I'd prefer tea.”

  Vida's effort at nonchalance didn't fool me, but I pretended otherwise. Briefly, we speculated on Ginny's lack of an engagement ring. Vida figured that Rick's Saturday birthday celebration might not have allowed him the appropriate moment to ask for Ginny's hand. I wondered if he'd been able to get the ring out of lay-away. Vida didn't know, but assured me she'd check with her niece, Lynette, at Tonga Gems.

  After my House * Home editor left, I concentrated on the timber story. A great many numbers were involved, including board feet, cutback percentages, truckloads, and actual jobs. I've always been weak when it comes to figures, so I had to cudgel my brain to make sense of the accumulated statistics. It was after eleven o'clock when I finished the rough draft. I realized that Skye Piersall was late for her appointment.

  Taking a break from writing, I checked the mail. A dozen letters criticized the Windy Mountain project, while two progressive thinkers endorsed the idea. We'd need extra space on the editorial page to fit in the written responses.

  Half an hour later I wondered if Skye Piersall had forgotten our meeting. She didn't seem like the careless type. It occurred to me that there was no way to check, because I didn't know where she was staying.

  Shortly after noon I wandered out into the news office. Carla and Ginny had already left for lunch, Leo was attending the monthly Kiwanis meeting, and Vida was munching carrot sticks. Usually she could be persuaded to abandon her diet for a vat of grease at the Venison Inn or the Burger Barn. But not today: Vida regarded me as if I'd suggested a roll in the hay with the high school football team.

  “Heavens! Don't even try to tempt me! I'm determined to lose ten pounds before & Independence Day.”

  I turned away so that Vida couldn't see my smile. The goal, I guessed, was before she met Mr. Ree. “Okay,” I said, heading for the door. “I'll shanghai Milo.”

  Stepping out under overcast skies, I started down Front Street for the sheriff's office. I got as far as the corner when one of the green and white Skykomish County vehicles whipped into traffic. The flashing lights went on and the siren screamed.

  I couldn't see who was in the car, but it was headed out of town. Naturally, I kept walking. Emergency runs were always news, even if they involved only minor traffic accidents or a suspected prowler. In Alpine, that was often the case. But not this time.

  Chapter Six

  DEPUTY BILL BLATT, who was also Vida's nephew, was on duty behind the counter in the sheriff's reception area. So far, the preliminary remodeling work was taking place in the rear of the building. I made a mental note for Carla to get a picture for our current edition.

  Bill was on the phone, anxiously trying to rid himself of a long-winded caller. At last he hung up and turned his boyish face in my direction. His blue eyes registered shock or excitement or both. “Ms. Lord! Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Behind the door that led to Milo's office, the evidence room, and the interrogation area, I could hear men shouting. “What's happened?”

  “Mr. Levine—the tall, bald one—he's been shot!” Bill Blatt's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. After four years on the job, he still wasn't used to violence.

  Neither was I. Clutching the counter, I reeled a bit. “Is he … dead?” I asked, vaguely aware that my tongue had grown thick.

  In agitation, Bill waved his hands. “I don't know. Sheriff Dodge and Dustin Fong have gone up there to see what's going on.”

  “Up where?”

  “To the hot springs.” Nervously, Bill fidgeted with some paperwork. “That's where it happened. Leonard Hollenberg found him. I think.”

  I stared at Bill. “Leonard hiked up to the hot springs? He's too old!”

  “He's tough, though,” Bill said, getting himself under control. The phone rang, but Bill made no move to answer it this time. “Toni can pick it up,” he explained. “Toni Andreas. She's been hired part-time.”

  I recalled Toni Andreas, a pretty but dim young woman my son had dated once or twice. Still leaning against the counter, I tried to piece Bill's report together. Stan Levine had been shot up at the hot springs. He may or may not be dead. Leonard Hollenberg had found him and apparently called the sheriff. It would take Milo and his new deputy at least forty minutes to hike up the trail. There probably would be no confirmation until one o'clock, assuming Milo could use his new cellular phone at such an altitude.

  “It's really awful,” Bill Blatt was saying as the phone rang again. “If only Mr. Levine and Mr. Fannucci had come to us sooner. We might have been able to prevent this.”

  “What?” I felt as if I'd missed a beat.

  “The threats. They've been getting threats, mostly on the phone. Mr. Fannucci came in this morning to tell Sheriff Dodge about them. He was here when the call came from Mr. Hollenberg about the shooting.”

  I blinked several times at Bill. “Where is he now?”

  Bill Blatt didn't have to answer. Blake Fannucci, accompanied by Jack Mullins, came through the rear door. He looked as if he were about to collapse. Indeed, he got as far as the swinging door in the counter and passed out cold.

  I was tempted to join him.

  * * *

  Bill Blatt convinced Jack Mullins that they should follow standard first aid procedure in reviving Blake Fannucci. But before they could decide who'd do what, Blake began to moan. Jack, who was the burlier of the two deputies, held Blake in place while Bill searched for a blanket.

  “Shock,” Jack said, his curly red head bent over the distraught Blake Fannucci. “He wanted to ride up with Sheriff Dodge.”

  At the door behind the counter, Toni Andreas peeked out. I remembered her from various places she'd worked around town, including Videos-to-Go and Itsa Bitsa Pizza. Her dark eyes were wide and her spiky hair stood on end.

  “Is he dead, too?” she asked in a tiny voice.

  Jack barely glanced up. “Nobody's dead for sure, Toni. Stick with the phones, okay?”

  Toni disappeared just as Bill brought a striped Pendleton blanket to toss over Blake. The stricken man seemed fully conscious, though still overwrought. “Not Stan!” he cried. “Stan wouldn't hurt a fly! What's wrong with these backwoods bastards? Guns! They should be outlawed!” Thrashing under the blanket, Blake seemed on the verge of tears.

  I turned to Jack Mullins, who was now standing up again. “Should we get Doc Dewey or Dr. Flake over here?” I asked.

  Before Jack could answer, Blake broke in: “I don't need a doctor! I need a drink! Have you yokels got any decent Scotch?”

  As much as Milo Dodge enjoyed his whiskey, I'd never known him to keep a bottle at work. Bill Blatt volunteered to go to the liquor store, then realized he shouldn't leave his post. I said I'd go instead.

  The state-owned liquor store is at the far end of Railroad Avenue, tucked behind Buddy Bayard's Photography Studio and across from the Burlington Northern tracks. According to Vida, the store is removed from the main commercial area because Alpiners don't want to be seen coming out with their brown paper bags, or in some cases, entire cartons of booze. Consequently, I had to hurry back to the newspaper, jump in my car, and drive down Front Street until I turned left on Seventh. I was so rattled that I could hardly maneuver the lag into a diagonal parking place.

  As usual, the liquor store had its share of customers. Among them were Henry Bardeen and Charlene Vickers. I was grabbing a pint of Dewar's White Label when Charlene sidled up to me. She had a shopping cart loaded with vodka, bourbon, vermouth, and cognac.

  “We're having out-of-town company this weekend,” she explained, avoiding my gaze. “I like getting a head start on my shopping.”

  “How's Cal?” I inquired, ignoring what I assumed was a fib.

  “Cal?” Charlene seemed startled, as if she hadn't heard of her husband lately. “Oh, he's fine! So's Rip. They had a good laugh about the dustup at the Melvilles'. Rip kn
ew Cal would never intentionally punch him.”

  “Good,” I said, wanting to be on my way. “See you Wednesday at bridge club.”

  Henry Bardeen was already getting checked out at the register. He glanced over his shoulder and seemed to shrink into himself. “Ah—Emma,” Henry said out of the side of his mouth. “I'm always amazed at the special requests from some of our guests at the ski lodge.” He gestured diffidently at the four bottles of white wine and the half gallon of Old Grand-Dad.

  “You'd think our bar would have an adequate supply, wouldn't you?”

  I was sure they did. “People are peculiar,” I murmured, and meant it. At the rear of the store I could just make out Charlene shuffling around in the rum section.

  “Say,” Henry said, patting his toupee as the clerk rang up his total, “did you hear those sirens a few minutes ago? I thought I saw a sheriff's car hightailing it toward the bridge. Has there been another accident on the highway?”

  The only rumors I'm responsible for go into print. It was too soon to say anything about Stan Levine. “I'm checking on it,” I replied.

  Henry's tab came to almost sixty dollars, which necessitated the writing of a check. Suppressing a smirk, I noticed it was on his personal account at the Bank of Alpine. Scribbling furiously in a virtually illegible hand, Henry gave the clerk a thin smile.

  “Back to work,” he said in what passed for his most jocular tone. “By the way, Emma, will you be at the Chamber meeting tomorrow? We're going to take a vote on the hot springs project.”

  I stared at Henry. “Whatever for?”

  Henry's expression turned dour. “Why, to get a sense of how the local merchants feel about the plan. These California fellows ought to know what kind of support they might get—or not get—from Alpine's businessmen. And women,” he added, in his customary style which always made the female sex an afterthought.

  I kept my lips clamped shut. I would attend the Chamber meeting, along with Ginny. But a vote on the resort construction was useless. It seemed to me that somebody had already cast a ballot. With a gun.