Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  “Dodge gave good advice,” Blake said to Vida and me. “I think those two good ol' boys are okay.”

  “Solid,” Vida remarked. “In many ways.”

  I leaned forward in the matching plaid armchair that was threatening to swallow me. “What will you do without Stan? Is the project still on?”

  Blake made circular motions with his head. “Jesus—I hope so! As long as Hollenberg doesn't back out and I can secure financing. Yes, I intend to move ahead, though I'll admit, I haven't thought much about business in these last few hours.”

  “Of course not,” Vida said with a show of sympathy. “I take it Mr. Levine's participation wasn't essential to your success?”

  Blake bridled. “You bet it was. Stan had a way with money people. They trusted him. I've always been the concept man. I work better at the other end, selling ideas to the public.” He stared down at an empty highball glass on the coffee table. “I guess I didn't do so well with the locals, though.”

  “No,” Vida agreed candidly. “But they're what you might call … difficult.”

  The expression Blake turned on Vida was rueful, even bitter. “That's an understatement, Mrs. Runkel. My failure may have gotten Stan killed.”

  For once, Vida said nothing.

  Vida held firm to her resolve not to eat dinner. She was sticking to her diet, and that was that. I didn't try to dissuade her, since after my late lunch, I still wasn't hungry. We had each driven our own cars up to the ski lodge, so after concluding the interview with Blake, we went our separate ways.

  After arriving home, I tried to put Stan's death out of my mind. I had to concentrate on my trip to San Francisco. In the excitement over the shooting, I'd forgotten to pick up my airline ticket from Sky Travel. I could hardly believe the oversight. Where were my priorities? Not wanting to get into lengthy explanations with Janet on the phone at hoipe, I called her office and left a message on the machine, saying I'd be in as soon as they opened in the morning. Then I went to my closet and surveyed my wardrobe.

  I wasn't pleased by what I saw. The only new clothes I'd purchased had been for last summer's meeting with Tom at Lake Chelan. A shopping spree was in order, but I had neither time nor money to spare.

  Discouraged, I wandered out into the kitchen and poured a glass of Pepsi. Maybe I shouldn't go to San Francisco, I thought. The plane fare had gobbled up my remaining charge card credit. I'd have to rely on Tom not only for lodging, but food as well. All my years of fierce independence were going down the drain in one weekend. Were two days of grand passion worth it?

  But passion wasn't the point. Tom needed me, and not just in bed. I doubted that he confided in anyone else. The man was too private. And his situation was downright embarrassing. Tom's innate dignity wouldn't allow him to blab about his troubles.

  If Mavis had called in crisis, would I have rushed off to Tigard, Oregon? Of course I would. I could hardly do any less for Tom. Even with a potential murder investigation breaking in The Advocate, I could leave town for two and a half days. Vida would make sure we didn't miss anything.

  Having cleared my conscience, I returned to my closet.

  I still didn't have a thing to wear.

  Francine Wells was sympathetic. “Don't worry about maxing out your credit cards,” said the owner of Francine's Fine Apparel the next morning. “Either we'll get them to raise your limit or I'll do an override.”

  In my career, I have faced down civic leaders, presidential candidates, star-studded celebrities, business tycoons, and unrepentant murderers. On the whole, I've acquitted myself quite well. But put me in the hands of a savvy saleswoman such as Francine Wells, and I become a simpering ninny.

  So it was that one navy linen suit, three cotton blouses, two pairs of tailored slacks, a white pleated skirt, and $685 later I was holding my breath while Francine processed the charge. Naturally, a code came up. Francine dialed the requisite number. After a brief exchange, she handed the receiver to me. I had to stop holding my breath so that I could talk.

  Increasing my credit limit by twenty-five hundred dollars was far too easy. I didn't know whether to berelieved or disturbed. Francine, however, proved reassuring.

  “You got a real deal on the suit and the tan slacks,” she pointed out, winding a thick rubber band around the plastic hangers that held my latest adventure into debt. “Everything works with everything else. Versatility is so important for today's professional woman.”

  “Nnnyah,” I replied. At least that's what it sounded like in my own ears. Trying to recover my aplomb, as well as my credit card, I fumbled with my purse. The airline ticket I'd picked up at Sky Travel peeked out provocatively.

  Francine lifted her carefully plucked eyebrows. “Emma! You didn't tell me you were going away! Where? When?”

  She hadn't asked why, so I hedged. “This weekend, to San Francisco. I'm meeting with a weekly newspaper consultant.” It was true, in a way.

  Francine paused in the act of covering my extravagance with a plastic bag. “You aren't thinking of selling out, are you?”

  “Heavens, no!” I laughed shrilly. “But I am thinking about restoring the back shop. We could do our own presswork, plus job printing. You know, the way it was in the old days, when Marius Vandeventer owned the paper.”

  Francine rolled her eyes. “Marius! He was quite a character. I wonder how he would have reacted to this hot springs project.” She finished her task and handed over my purchase. “Are you coming to the Chamber meeting today?”

  I nodded. “I'm bringing Ginny. We want to talk about the Summer Solstice idea.”

  “I like it,” Francine said, now thoughtful. “But you won't get it on the agenda. The rest of them will be allagog about that Levine getting shot and what to do next. I hear Ed Bronsky's talking about sanctions.”

  “Sanctions?” I wrinkled my nose. “What do you mean?”

  Francine shrugged her designer-covered shoulders. “Who knows with that bunch? I'll be frank, I wasn't for the project originally, but now that one of the Californi-ans is dead, I feel sorry for them. I mean, they're human, too.”

  I tried not to look dismayed. “Yes, they are,” I said carefully.

  “Besides,” Francine went on as Doc Dewey's wife, Nancy, strolled into the store, “a spa would be good for business.” Francine lowered her voice while Nancy Dewey inspected a rack of new arrivals near the door. “Guests are bound to come into town, and what else is there for women to do except shop? Where else but here? If they're losing weight or toning up, they'll feel good about themselves. And they'll want to buy. Why should I vote to cut off my nose to spite my face?” Stepping out from behind the counter, Francine spoke in her normal tone: “Hi, Nancy. Don't tell me it's time for the annual AMA convention. Where is it this year?”

  In something of a daze, I left Francine's Fine Apparel. It was almost eleven, and I'd used up over an hour between the clothing store and the travel agency. Feeling guilty, I raced past Harvey's Hardware, Videos-to-Go, and the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, then crossed Front Street and stashed my purchases in the Jaguar. I didn't want to answer any awkward questions from my staff.

  My staff, however, wasn't there. The phone was ringing as I entered the news office. It was Milo, trying to reach me.

  “Jeez,” he said in an exasperated voice, “where were you? This is the third time I've called in the last tenminutes. I thought you had a deadline today. Don't you want the M.E.'s report or are you going to let Carla make it up?”

  I had snatched up Vida's phone. Clumsily, I sat down in her chair, which had the same kind of beaded backrest that she used in her car. “Go ahead, Milo. We've all been out, running around.” Hopefully, I was the only real truant.

  “Okay. We said Levine was shot at close range, but it was more like intermediate—four to six inches. There was very little soot, but some tattooing from the gunpowder particles embedded in the skin. Remember, this is a little trickier to figure because the bullet entered his right eye and exited through his
skull.”

  Writing furiously, I blanched. “Ugh. Okay, go on.”

  “We think this was a .357 caliber bullet, full-metal jacket. No, we don't have the damned slug, but the M.E. can tell certain things by comparing the small entrance wound with the much larger one exiting the skull.”

  I gulped. My appetite for the Chamber luncheon was evaporating. Why did I envision creamed something on toast?

  “The bullet must be at the hot springs,” I said, trying instead to picture rocks, trees, and gentle waters. “Are you going back up there?”

  “Bill and Dustin headed out first thing,” Milo replied. “It's cloudy, but we haven't had any more rain.”

  “Did the M.E. rule this a homicide?”

  Milo's chuckle lacked mirth. “What else would you call it? There was no gun, so it sure as hell wasn't suicide. If it was an accident, nobody's coming forward to admit they got close enough to Stan Levine to shoot him in the head from four inches away.”

  I tried to think of other pertinent questions. “No sign of a struggle?”

  “No. It looked to me as if Levine got shot and fell backward. The M.E. confirms there were no other bruises or evidence of a fight.”

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Like, I wanted to say, why the scenario didn't sound quite right?

  “I'm not sure.” Milo's voice dropped a notch. “We got a call this morning from Henry Bardeen. Somebody tried to break into Blake Fannucci's room last night.”

  As ever, I was amazed at what other people didn't think was news. “Good grief, Milo, what happened? Is Blake all right? Where were the Peabody brothers?”

  “They were sacked out in the Tonga Suite, next door. Myron—or was it Purvis?—I forget—was supposed to stay on the couch in the Tyee Suite, but Fannucci told them both to get a good sleep because he figured nobody'd try to come after him at the ski lodge during the night.”

  I was running out of room on Vida's memo pad. Frantically, I dug in my purse for my notebook. “So how did they get in? Who was on duty at the desk?”

  I had to wait for the answer. Milo was distracted by somebody, probably Toni Andreas, since I heard a woman's voice. The respite gave me time to find a blank page in my notebook.

  “What? Oh,” Milo said into the phone, apparently regaining his narrative, “whoever it was didn't come in through the lobby. Henry said the bedroom window had been tampered with. It's just off the fire escape.”

  I pictured the lodge's exterior, with its dormer windows on the top story. This was the section with the more modest rooms. Before the remodeling some two years earlier, the fourth floor accommodations werestrictly dormitory-style. The Tonga and Tyee suites were below them, and featured double small-paned windows that swung outward. I hadn't noticed, but apparently the fire escape from the roof passed by Fannucci's rooms.

  “Can you reach the fire escape from the ground or does it have to be lowered?” I asked Milo.

  “Usually it has to be let down,” he answered, “but Henry said they were painting it before the big rush of tourists after school gets out. You know how everything rusts in this climate.”

  “What about Blake? Did he see anybody?”

  “I guess not. He thought he heard a noise around three A.M., so he got up and looked around. Nothing. He decided he was dreaming.”

  No wonder. I expected Blake Fannucci would have nightmares for a long time. “Nobody else noticed anything?”

  “Not according to Henry. They keep a skeleton staff after the bar closes at two. One custodian, somebody in the kitchen, the shoeshine boy who acts as security if needed, a waiter who usually spends most of his shift cleaning up after the late diners and drinkers. One of the Gustavson kids was working the desk. Hey, Emma, are you going to print this?”

  “Did Henry officially report it?” If he did, it would be in the sheriff's log, and therefore public knowledge.

  “Yeah.” Milo sounded glum.

  I didn't blame him. The hot springs story was becoming more depressing by the minute. “I'll check with Henry. He'll be at the Chamber meeting. Where's Blake now?”

  “He and the Peabodys went over to Everett. The M.E.'s done, so Fannucci can take the body to L.A. today if he can make arrangements with the airlines.”

  I couldn't resist the question: “Is he taking the Pea-body brothers with him?”

  “God, I hope not. Can you imagine them in L.A.?” I could. That was the problem.

  Chapter Nine

  “THIS,” GINNY BURMEISTER declared with a toss of her red hair, “is totally stupid.”

  The three dozen faces at the five cloth-covered tables stared in bewilderment. Though Ginny's cheeks turned pink, she stuck to her guns. “Why would anybody care who brings new business to Alpine, as long as people have jobs? Can't we stop talking about the hot springs and discuss something more important? Important, I mean, to this group. What's the point of Loggerama anyway? It's totally old.”

  After twenty-five minutes, Ginny had grown sick and tired of listening to harangues about the California-sponsored resort project. When Ed Bronsky finally shut up and sat down, Ginny had sprung to her feet and demanded the floor. Luckily, Harvey Adcock was chairing the meeting. Harvey had prejudices of his own, but he was basically kind and fair-minded. He had recognized Ginny and allowed her to speak her piece.

  “What's wrong with oldV inquired Mayor Fuzzy Baugh. “I'm kind of old myself.” The self-deprecating remark evoked laughter as well as denials, both of which Fuzzy had expected.

  Francine was the first to make a cohesive statement. “Ginny's right. It's time to deep-six Loggerama.” She waved away a burst of protests. “No, not this year—it's too late, the plans are made. But next summer we canmove into the modern world. Admit it—change is everywhere. Why should Alpine cling to the past?”

  Ginny gave Francine a grateful, if diffident, smile. I secretly applauded her, too, though I wondered if she'd have been less eloquent if I hadn't just dropped over six hundred bucks in her shop.

  To my surprise, Cal Vickers also spoke up on Ginny's behalf. “Maybe we should be more realistic, folks. It wouldn't hurt to look at new ideas. What if we had a Scandinavian theme for this solstice thing? Isn't it some kind of old-world deal anyway?”

  Norm Carlson might not remember when his family's dairy was founded, but he knew his traditions. “That's right, Cal,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “I think it has something to do with the Vikings.”

  “Gods and goddesses,” cried Janet Driggers. “Fertility rites! Think what we could do on those floats!”

  The next ten minutes were spent in a lively discussion of the possibilities. I sat back, toying with my raspberry sherbet and marveling at the herd mentality. The tables were being cleared when Harvey Adcock asked for a formal motion to consider the Summer Solstice Festival and vote on it at the next meeting. Ginny, urged on by Francine and Janet, nervously stated her case. I seconded, and it was passed, twenty-nine to four, with three abstentions. The meeting was adjourned.

  Ginny was jubilant, or as close to it as she ever gets. Placing a hand on my arm, she beamed and sparkled. “I can't believe it! Why did they do such a turnaround?”

  “People aren't unreasonable,” I began, then saw Ed Bronsky plant himself next to Ginny and wondered if I should amend the statement.

  But Ed also surprised me. “No room for fuddy-duddy ideas, eh, ladies?” He put an arm around each of us. Ed smelled like a cross between Drakkar Noir and tuna fish. “This solstice festival could be a class act. Janet'sright about those gods and goddesses. We could have a grand marshal, like the Rose Bowl parade, only he'd be dressed up like … what's his name?”

  “Odin,” I supplied.

  “Right, Odin. He'd have to be a civic leader, active, well-off, imposing. You know, to exemplify the forward-looking theme of the new celebration.” Ed smiled coyly.

  My perverse nature wouldn't let me play up to Ed. “It sounds like a natural for Fuzzy Baugh.”

  Ed's smiled faded.
“Not Fuzzy! As mayor, he ought to disqualify himself. He'll have plenty of other things to do.” Somehow, Ed had disengaged himself from Ginny, which was fine with her since Francine, Harvey, and Cal had drawn her off to one side. “Listen, Emma,” Ed went on, edging me up against a long banquet table at the end of the room, “what's happening with the resort? Is it on hold or what?”

  I was trying to listen to Ed while keeping track of Henry Bardeen. I hadn't yet had an opportunity to ask him about the break-in at the ski lodge.

  “I gather Blake Fannucci intends to move ahead.” My tone was vague as I saw Henry in a little knot of people that included Clancy Barton, lone Erdahl, and Buddy Bayard.

  Ed nodded eagerly. “Good, good. But he's used to working with a partner, right? And what's been his big problem? No local involvement. Maybe that's why Stan Levine got shot. Now Fannucci has his big chance—he can bring in an Alpiner. That ought to assure him of smooth sailing, huh?”

  I let Henry out of my sight long enough to stare at Ed. “What? You're suggesting that Blake pair up with somebody from here?” Enlightenment dawned. Ed was referring to himself.

  Apparently, a busboy had left a basket with twouneaten rolls on the banquet table. Ed grabbed one and began gobbling it up. “You got it,” he said, sputtering crumbs in my direction. “I could give Fannucci credibility. How about it, Emma? You know him. Can you make the introductions?”

  Surely I'd heard of worse ideas; I just couldn't remember when. “Gosh, Ed, the poor guy is on his way to L.A. with his partner's body. I don't know when he's coming back. By the time he does, everything may be in place. Or it may be scrapped.”

  Ed snatched up the last roll. “That's why Fannucci should know he's got local support. He can use that in L.A. when he goes after the financing.”

  Henry was drifting away with Buddy Bayard. I tried to get around Ed, which was difficult in more ways than one. “Skip it for now, Ed. Besides, I thought you and most of the Chamber were dead set against the project. Or did I hear wrong about a half hour ago in this very room?”

  “Letting off steam,” Ed said, dogging my footsteps. “That was my plan, to go along with the criticism so that I could refute it after I got involved. These folks know I'm one of them, Alpine through and through. Come on, Emma—can't you get hold of Fannucci before he leaves for L.A.?”