Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  Blake Fannucci was sitting in Milo's office when I returned. He was still shaken, but had gotten himself under control. The Scotch was gratefully accepted.

  “Do you mind?” he said, pushing the pint back at me. “This damned thumb—it's hell to open a bottle.”

  There was no ice, and the only decent receptacle was what seemed to be a clean coffee mug. I poured out a measure of whiskey and added twice as much water. Blake drank deeply, then asked if I cared to join him. I didn't.

  “Tell me about the threats,” I said, sitting in the other visitor's chair and taking a notepad out of my purse. “Bill Blatt told me most of them were made by phone.”

  “Right.” Blake rubbed the back of his head. “We've been getting them ever since we arrived. They call both of us—we have separate but adjoining rooms— and some may be repeats. Offhand, though, I'd guess that maybe a dozen different people have called, including a couple of women. No names, of course, just various crazy warnings about what happens to interlopers.”

  “Warnings—or threats?”

  “Both.” Blake took another sip of his drink and sighed. “Last night I got a real zinger. It was a man, I'm pretty sure of that. The voice was hoarse, as if it were disguised. He said that if we went ahead with the project, we'd be sorry. Alpiners have a way of dealing with our likes. It wouldn't, the caller said, be the first time that somebody mistook a man for a bear.”

  It sounded like something a local would say. I frowned, wondering who would make such calls. And who might actually carry out the threat. “What happened this morning? Did Stan go up alone?”

  Blake held his head. “It was pleasure, not business. He went bird-watching. Frankly, I've made that hike so many times that I'm sick of it. But Stan enjoys every inch of the way. He's a real nature lover.”

  “So I gathered.” It seemed ironic that Stan was also a developer whose calling often resulted in the destruction of the very environment that brought him joy. As I'd said to Henry Bardeen, people are peculiar.

  “When did he leave?” I asked, discreetly checking my watch. It was ten to one, still too early to hear from Milo.

  Blake managed to pour himself another dollop of Scotch. “I came down for breakfast in the coffee shop around nine. He was just finishing. I suppose he left the ski lodge about nine-fifteen, maybe a little later.”

  I thought of Skye Piersall and the ten-thirty appointment she hadn't kept. “You're sure he went alone?”

  “That was the plan.” Blake eyed me curiously. The liquor had calmed him; he seemed to be back on track. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason, really.” It was the truth. Except for my rampant imagination, there was nothing to indicate that Skye had gone with Stan. She probably had a credible excuse for not coming by the office.

  Blake stood up and went to the door. The reception area seemed unnaturally calm, with Bill Blatt and Jack Mullins going about their business. A question popped into my mind. I moved past Blake and joined Bill behind the counter.

  “Where's Leonard Hollenberg? How did he contact Milo?”

  Bill glanced at Blake, apparently to make sure he was recovering. “Leonard's got a CB in his truck. Sheriff Dodge told him to stay put in the parking area by the trail. He might still be there.” The young deputy's face turned slightly pink. “Maybe I shouldn't mention it, but I think Sheriff Dodge said Mr. Hollenberg heard the shot when he was coming up the trail.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You mean that whoever shot at Stan might be hiding in the woods?”

  “Could be.” Bill looked chagrined. “Of course by now whoever it was could have come out by a different route.”

  A vision of the steep climb traversed through my mind. Following unmarked routes in the Cascades isn't easy. An occasional glimpse of some landmark such as Windy Mountain can be deceiving. Even experienced hikers who got off the beaten path often ended up hopelessly lost.

  “I don't suppose Leonard mentioned any cars parked in the lot,” I said doubtfully.

  Jack Mullins looked up from the official log. “Leonard was pretty incoherent. He probably wouldn't have noticed an elephant tied to a tree.”

  Blake, having again freshened his drink, now joined us. “It's one o'clock. How much longer before we hear?”

  Jack shrugged; Bill grimaced. I considered my options: I could stay to get official word, or I could grab a camera and drive up to the parking area. Better yet, I could send Carla. That way, if Milo called in from the hot springs, I'd be able to hear the pronouncement firsthand. Carla could take a picture of Milo and Dustin Fong as they came out at the bottom of the trail.

  Getting permission to use the phone, I called The Advocate. Ginny put me through to Carla. I began by asking her to take a picture, but before I could tell her of what, she interrupted:

  “I'm tied up right now, Emma. Where are you? Skye Piersall is here and I'm interviewing her because you're not. Here, I mean.”

  I winced. Sometimes Carla talked the way she wrote. Or vice versa. I wondered if the University of Washington offered a course in Contemporary Colloquialism. “Where's Vida?” I asked, cutting to the crux. Hopefully, Skye Piersall could convey her organization's philosophy in simple, lucid terms.

  “What's wrong?” Carla demanded, then dropped her voice to a hissing whisper. “Don't you trust me to fill in for you with an interview? You're poking big holes in my self-esteem. Why do you have to talk to Vida instead of me?”

  “Because you're busy,” I retorted, losing patience. “If I didn't trust you, why do I keep you employed?”

  “You trust me with little stuff,” Carla shot back. “I never get the big stuff. Hold on, I'll transfer you to Vida.” Carla made my House * Home editor's name sound like a disease.

  After several annoying clicks I heard Vida's voice. As succinctly as possible I explained what had happened— as far as I knew—and asked her to drive up to the hot springs parking lot.

  Vida was aghast. “Well! Doesn't that beat all! Do you think that old fool Leonard shot Stan Levine?”

  The idea hadn't occurred to me. Yet. “Why would he report it?”

  “Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe Leonard's smarter than he looks. That's unlikely, though not impossible.” Vida paused. “Very well. I'll head out in a few minutes. It's going to take Milo and that new fellow some time to get down the mountain. Has an ambulance been sent?”

  I'd neglected to ask. As usual, Vida was taking a broader view. I posed the question to Jack Mullins.

  “We've got a helicopter from Chelan County stand ing by. Even with the bond issue passage, we can't afford anything fancy like that,” Jack explained.

  Having relayed the information to Vida, I hung up. Blake Fannucci was now pacing the area behind the reception counter. It was obvious that he was getting in the way. Jack Mullins started to say something just as Grace Grundle tottered into the office.

  Grace is a retired schoolteacher of seventy-odd with a chronic inner ear problem that makes her look as if she's half juiced. Since she was carrying an open umbrella, she also resembled a tipsy Mary Poppins.

  “I wish to report a crime,” she announced, teetering in front of the counter. “It's raining.”

  “That's not a crime, Ms. Grundle,” said Jack Mullins, who, along with Bill Blatt and most Alpine residents over sixteen years of age, probably had been taught by Grace.

  “I know that,” she snapped, closing her umbrella. “But it just started a few minutes ago and I didn't think you'd noticed. You've never been very good at noticing things, Jackie. You stargaze, especially out of windows.”

  “I've tried to overcome that since fifth grade,” Jack replied, keeping a straight face.

  Grace's sparse eyebrows shot up. “I should think so. Paying attention to your surroundings is very important. That's why I was so worried about Toofy.”

  “Toofy?” Jack leaned on the counter. “Who's Toofy?”

  Grace Grundle scowled at the deputy. “My cat. He has an extra tooth, so I call him To
ofy, for Toofum-Pegs. This morning, he went berserk. Fortunately, he's all right now. But just as I was finishing my lunch, I saw Crazy Eights Neffel in my backyard. I want him arrested.”

  Jack sighed. “Crazy Eights is always wandering around people's yards, Ms. Grundle. You know that. He's nuts. He's also—usually—harmless.”

  Grace pursed her thin lips. “Not this time. His intentions were, at best, suspect. At worst, criminal.” She took a deep breath, blushed, and focused her faded blue eyes on the smooth countertop. “When I saw him just fifteen minutes ago, he was … in the altogether.”

  Jack had to turn away to keep Grace Grundle from seeing his grin. Bill Blatt ducked under the counter. Even Blake Fannucci looked amused.

  “Well now,” Jack finally said in a semigulp. “That sounds … serious. Do you have any idea where Mr. Neffel went?”

  Grace lifted her head. “I do not. Do you think I'd stand there at my kitchen window and watch him parade around in such a state? I waited until I thought he was gone and then drove straight down here. I hardly wanted to discuss such a thing over the phone.”

  The phone, in fact, had just rung. Apparently, Toni Andreas had picked it up. Before Jack could respond to Grace Grundle, it rang again, a different, buzzing sound. Apparently, this was the signal for the deputies to answer. Bill grabbed the receiver, Ustened, and turned pale.

  “Oh, shoot!” he exclaimed after a long pause. “That's … awful!” He listened some more. “Sure, okay, right. Thanks, Sheriff.” Bill hung up, then turned to Blake Fannucci. “Sir, I'm very sorry. That was Sheriff Dodge. Stan Levine is dead. The bullet wound was fatal. He was shot through the head and died instantly.”

  Blake Fannucci didn't collapse this time. Instead he stared blankly at Bill for a long moment, then slowly, painfully, turned around and walked back into Milo Dodge's office. He quietly closed the door behind him. I guessed that he was searching for the Scotch.

  I didn't blame him.

  Chapter Seven

  GRACE GRUNDLE HAD never heard of Stan Levine. She was shocked that a man had been killed, but pointed out that at least he wasn't a local. Did the sheriff's deputies intend to investigate Crazy Eights Neffel's lewd behavior or not?

  Jack Mullins hastily assured Grace that they would act as soon as they could. For now, perhaps she'd like to fill out a complaint form? Grace would, as long as she didn't have to write anything that might be, as she quaintly put it, suggestive. Before setting pen to paper, she reminded Bill Blatt to stand up straight.

  “How many times must I chide you about your posture, Billy?” Grace huffed.

  Dutifully, Bill Blatt squared his shoulders as he checked with the Chelan County sheriff's office. He was informed that the helicopter had been requested by Sheriff Dodge to pick up the body, Milo, and Dustin Fong. They would land in Old Mill Park, which was about the only place in Alpine that could accommodate a helicopter.

  I called Vida at once. Luckily, she hadn't left the office yet. After expressing appropriate, if objective, surprise, she agreed to meet me at the park.

  Five minutes later I pulled the Jag into a slot next to Vida's big Buick. She was standing by her car, trying to tame a blue vinyl sou'wester.

  “Goodness!” she exclaimed, keeping her camera tucked under one arm. “Who do you suppose was idiotic enough to shoot that poor man?”

  “Your call,” I replied dryly. “You know the local population better than I do.”

  Vida gazed at me from behind rain-spattered glasses. “I'm beginning to wish I didn't. Killing a man over a resort project is utterly wanton. Why can't people use senseV

  I had no answer for Vida. We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the empty playground gear, the forlorn picnic tables, and the life-sized statue of Carl Clemans. Alpine's founder had been a handsome man, and the Everett sculptor who had been commissioned to cast the work had also captured his subject's innate dignity and kindness. At the moment, Clemans seemed a little melancholy.

  While we waited, I told Vida about Blake Fannucci's reaction and that Leonard HoUenberg—maybe—had heard the shot on the trail. I also mentioned Grace Grundle's complaint.

  Vida scoffed. “Grace's eyes are going. Macular, nothing to be done, according to my niece, Marje.” Marje Blatt, who worked as Doctors Dewey and Flake's receptionist, was a primary source for Vida. If Marje knew anything about patient confidentiality, she also knew that informing her aunt didn't count as an ethical violation. Nobody could keep a secret from Vida. It was a good thing the CIA wasn't headquartered in Alpine. Or maybe it wasn't so good. Vida might be able to give them some sensible advice.

  “Crazy Eights was probably wearing long underwear,” Vida said, making a face into the rain. “He often does after the weather warms up in mid-May.”

  Again we stopped talking. I didn't want to ask Vida any more questions about Crazy Eights Neffel's underwear. We were both scanning the gray skies for the helicopter when the honk of a horn caught our attention.

  Cal Vickers had stopped his tow truck next to the Jag and the Buick. The older model car that dangled from a heavy hook seemed familiar. No doubt I'd seen it around town. I put it out of my mind as Cal rolled down his window.

  “What's this? A press conference?” Cal's usual jocular manner was back in place.

  “In a way,” Vida replied evasively.

  At that moment I heard the noisy whirr of approaching rotors. Then the copter itself appeared, easing in over the treetops.

  “Holy Oley,” Cal cried. “What's going on?”

  Keeping one eye on the descending copter, I moved closer to Cal's truck. There was no point in secrecy now. The copter's arrival would bring half of Alpine scurrying to Old Mill Park.

  “Stan Levine's been shot to death,” I said in a hushed voice.

  Cal's broad face grew stunned. Then, to my horror, he broke into a grin. “You don't say? Who gets the medal?”

  There was no suitable reply for Cal. I gave a little shake of my head before turning away to watch the helicopter land neatly on the tennis courts. As I rejoined Vida I heard Cal drive off.

  “Cal's gloating,” I muttered.

  “As will much of Alpine,” Vida retorted. She sounded glum.

  Milo got out of the copter first. He was wet, weary, and, judging from the look on his face, angry. “Where's the goddamned ambulance?” he shouted, as if I ought to know.

  His manner irked me. “Go get Cal. Maybe you can use his tow truck to haul the body.”

  “Don't be a smartass, Emma,” Milo warned. He was now standing in front of me, pulling off his gloves. “I told Bill to have the ambulance meet us. Are he and Jack asleep on their feet?”

  The rhetorical question still hung on the air as the ambulance came down Alpine Way. There was no siren and the lights were off. Milo might be in a hurry, but Stan Levine wasn't.

  Predictably, the helicopter's arrival was beginning to draw a crowd. Vida resettled her sou'wester and started taking pictures. When the ambulance backed into a parking place next to the tennis courts, she came in closer. A moment later a covered gurney was lowered from the copter.

  “Ugh,” I groaned. Involuntarily, I turned to Milo, but he had moved off to oversee the transport of Stan Lev-ine's body. Mustering my composure, I collared Dustin Fong. Judging from his stricken expression, this was his first encounter with violent death.

  “Can you give me some details?” I asked, pulling out my notepad.

  Dustin, who was about the same age as Bill Blatt, was close to six feet tall, very slim, with sharp cheekbones and straight black hair that came to a widow's peak. His dark eyes were touchingly sad, especially when he tried to be businesslike.

  “The victim, Mr. Levine, was shot at close range through the head. The right eye, to be exact.” Dustin paused, swallowing hard. I tried to hide my own dismay. “He's been dead somewhere between two and four hours. He probably died instantly, but the autopsy will tell us more.”

  It was now 1:35. If Stan hadn't left the ski lodge
until close to nine-thirty, he couldn't have arrived at the hot springs much before ten-thirty. That meant he could have been killed as soon as he got there. Was his killer waiting for him? Had Stan hiked up the trail with his assailant? Or had he been followed?

  “Where's Leonard Hollenberg?” I asked.

  Dustin's gaze was fixed on the ambulance, whose rear doors were being closed. Milo was nowhere in sight. I assumed he'd gotten into the ambulance.

  “Mr. Hollenberg?” Dustin echoed, wrenching himself back to my question. “We think he's still at the parking area. I'm going to get a car and drive back up there with one of the other deputies. We had to leave our other vehicle because Sheriff Dodge and I came out in the helicopter.”

  “I can save the county some mileage,” I said. “I'll drive you and the other deputy. I'd like to talk to Leonard.”

  The new hire obviously didn't know the protocol with the local press. Having been raised in the city, he was another outsider who must have found small-town ways very different.

  “I guess so,” Dustin finally said in a diffident manner. “Does Sheriff Dodge usually let you … participate?” He winced at his own choice of words.

  “We call it news-gathering.” I gave Dustin a friendly smile. “I won't interfere. But I should talk to Leonard Hollenberg while his recollections are still fresh.”

  Fifteen minutes later I was driving Dustin Fong and Bill Blatt up Highway 2. They were only a few years older than Adam, and I felt as if I were carpooling. We would have gotten away sooner, but Vida had corralled her nephew, apparently to remind him where his duty lay when it came to revealing information.

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle by the time we parked under the power lines off the main highway. Leonard Hollenberg was sitting inside his aged pickup, half asleep. It took him a few moments to orient himself. Indeed, he stared at Dustin Fong in puzzlement.

  “What … ? Oh! You're the Chinaman! I forgot, we keep getting integrated around here. Hell's bells, what time is it?” He fumbled inside his plaid jacket and pulled out a big railroad watch on a long chain. “Jesus! Two o'clock! I been here since before noon!”