Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  “I'm staying with a friend,” Skye answered. “I can drive up to Alpine or maybe you could meet me here.”

  I glanced at my bare toes, sticking comfortably out of a pair of worn red mules. Even the most diligent journalist has lapses when it comes to pursuing a story. “Where's here?”

  “It's …” There was a pause. I could hear another voice which sounded oddly familiar. “It's down the highway near Startup. You know the place,” Skye went on, almost eagerly. “My friend's house is just off the main highway. Her name is Honoria Whitman.”

  Chapter Ten

  IT MADE PERFECT sense. Honoria Whitman, Milo Dodge's-girlfriend, was from California, and she had a genuine concern for the environment. Her rustic dwelling place was also her pottery studio, which I had visited on various occasions.

  Having dressed, I called Vida at the last minute. She and Honoria knew each other fairly well. It occurred to me that I should ask my House * Home editor to come along.

  But Vida was out. I recalled that this was the monthly meeting of her so-called Cat Club, a group of women who convened to exchange gossip and invent more. If they couldn't cram enough scandal, along with gooey desserts, into one evening, they spent much of the following day on the telephone telling tales about each other. Ironically, Vida never passed along any of the titillating tidbits for publication in The Advocate.

  It was almost dark by the time I turned onto the dirt road that led to Honoria's converted summer cabin. Warm lights glowed from the windows she'd enlarged, and a big black and white cat greeted me on the porch that spanned the front of the house. The cat was new. Milo had proudly, if somewhat diffidently, told me the animal had been named Dodger in his honor.

  It was a dubious honor, I thought, as Dodger wedged his round furry body in front of me and clawed thescreen door. He then sat on the welcome mat, green eyes hostile, with his long tail swishing back and forth like a pendulum.

  It took a few moments for Honoria to respond. Her lack of haste was caused not by languor, but by the wheelchair to which she'd been confined since her late husband had thrown her down a flight of stairs. Crime had paid for no one, since Honoria's brother had fatally shot Mr. Whitman for mishandling his sister. As I waited it occurred to me that I didn't know if Honoria's spouse had actually been Mr. Whitman, or if she had regained her maiden name. It wasn't the sort of question that tripped readily off the tongue.

  “I feel like a spy,” Honoria declared in her throaty voice as she let me in. “Emma, it's so good to see you. But you must think me Machiavellian. Milo has no idea that Skye is staying here.”

  Skye Piersall was sitting in a wire and wicker chair that must have been an original, perhaps made by one of Honoria's fellow craftsmen. The design reminded me of antique wheelchairs, and I suspected that the irony amused Honoria.

  Skye, however, wasn't looking particularly amused or even at ease. She was holding a frosted glass that was decorated with a slice of lime, a sprig of mint, and a clear straw.

  “Hello, Ms. Lord,” she said, and her tone was dry. “You've got me pegged as a fraud, I imagine.”

  “A fraud?” With a shake of my head, I sat down on the black leather couch. “Not that—just secretive. I thought you were staying at a local motel.”

  “The Tall Timber Inn is across the street from the Texaco station,” Skye said. Her tight little smile indicated that I was a dunce for not figuring it out sooner. “I didn't feel up to telling your reporter about my cartroubles. They seemed trivial after I heard of Stan's death.”

  I accepted Skye's explanation for what it was worth, which I couldn't quite figure at the moment. “Carla said you were very upset,” I temporized.

  Skye put a hand to her forehead. “Violence! It's all tied into our attitude toward our surroundings. That's what makes us so uncivilized. The Japanese have a far greater understanding of humanity's bond with nature.”

  Honoria, always the gracious hostess, offered me a drink. I requested ice water, then watched my hostess glide away to the kitchen. I knew better than to offer my help. Honoria and I shared at least one trait—we cherished our independence.

  I turned to Skye, hoping that my expression was sympathetic. “You said on the phone you had to trust someone. I assume you trust Honoria. So why me?”

  Skye pushed a strand of strawberry-blonde hair over her left ear. “I've dealt with the media on many occasions over the years. As a rule, journalists know when to keep a secret. Certainly they know how to guard their sources.” She gave me an appraising look, as if she wasn't quite sure that a small-town editor-publisher met any of the aforementioned guidelines. “You understand what I'm saying, don't you?”

  I didn't deign to offer verbal confirmation. Instead I gave Skye what I trusted was an ironic, even mocking little smile. “Go on,” I said, chucking sympathy for brass. “Try me. Or would you like to see pictures of my newswriting awards?”

  Skye had the grace to allow a tinge of color to creep over her freckled face. “I didn't mean to patronize you. But this is serious. And,” she added, deliberately looking away and biting her lip, “it could be dangerous.”

  Honoria had come back into the living room. Shehanded me my ice water and asked if we preferred to be alone. Skye urged her to stay.

  “You know this already,” she said to Honoria. “You're the one who told me to call Ms. Lord instead of the sheriff.”

  Honoria inclined her head with its pale halo of fine hair. “Subtlety isn't Milo's strong suit,” she said in a wry tone. “You understand him very well, Emma.”

  Maybe. But I did understand what Honoria was trying to say. Milo had neither the patience nor the aptitude for sorting through human emotions. Furthermore, he refused to take into consideration anything but hard evidence. If it wouldn't fit into a plastic bag or go onto a timetable, Milo didn't want to know. Circumstantial evidence might be admissible in court, but the sheriff preferred things he could see and feel. Human nature was too ephemeral for Milo Dodge.

  “All right.” Skye had put down the glass and clasped her hands around one knee. “This is by way of hearsay. But somebody should know about it. As I mentioned, I've come up against Stan and Blake several times over the years. That also means that I've run into Scott Melville as well. Scott's been involved in a couple of other projects that Stan and Blake promoted. To my knowledge, he did good work for them. But not every building Scott has designed turned out so well. There may be other reasons why he retreated to the Cascade foothills.” Skye retrieved her glass, took a long sip, and regarded me with a meaningful look.

  The meaning seemed clear. “Scott built junkT I said, for want of a better word.

  “What he did,” Skye explained carefully, “was draw plans for homes that didn't stand up to the last big L.A. quake. I don't know if his designs required expensive materials which weren't actually used or whathappened. I do know that at least four Melville-inspired houses collapsed over in Northridge.”

  As a journalist, I, too, am skeptical of hearsay. “How do you know this?”

  Skye smirked at me. “This isn't just a rumor. My brother lives three doors away from one of the houses that fell down. He doesn't know the owners well, but he heard they sued Melville, the developers, the subcontractors, and the real estate agent.”

  Skye's report was still hearsay. “You're suggesting that Scott and Beverly Melville moved here because his reputation as an architect was ruined?”

  “What would you think?” Skye simpered, though I figured she was trying to be congenial. “It's not exactly a coincidence that Stan and Blake came along in their wake.” Another tight little smile played around Skye's mouth. “Scott's connection isn't just business. Beverly is Blake Fannucci's sister.”

  The relationship helped explain Beverly Melville's tearful reaction to Stan Levine's death. No doubt she was also afraid for her brother's life. But, I asked Skye Piersall, why keep the family connection a secret?

  It was Honoria who offered illumination. “Nepotism. The people o
f Skykomish County were already opposed to Californians moving in with new projects. If they knew Beverly and Blake were related, Scott's low bid would be suspect. All of them wanted to avoid further cause for criticism.”

  As usual, Honoria was making perfect sense. “Does Milo know any of this?” I asked.

  Honoria shook her head. “I don't think so. I didn't know it until Skye showed up this weekend.” My hostess smiled at her other guest. “Several years ago, I worked with CATE in Big Sur. That's how Skye and Imet. She had a friend with a gallery in Sausalito. The friend showed some of my first pottery efforts. And,” she continued, her smile widening, “Skye bought several pieces.”

  I smiled, too, though it seemed to me that the charming Honoria and the pretentious Skye weren't particularly well matched. But then, I'd had close friends who liked me but couldn't stand each other. I had the feeling that I'd yet to meet the real Skye Piersall.

  For a few moments the room was quiet, as each of us presumably entertained our separate thoughts. In this small space, which somehow didn't feel cramped, there was a sense of unreality. Maybe it was the spirit of creativity that was evident in Honoria's jars and vases and pots. Perhaps it was the collection of ethnic art, which ranged from pre-Columbian figures to African tribal masks. Or it could have been the scent of jasmine mingled with cinnamon and a touch of thyme.

  I was growing whimsical. What was really bothering me was Skye Piersall. “Why are you dumping this stuff now?” I asked, breaking the dreamy silence.

  Skye's eyes widened. “Background, of course. This is a big story for your paper, isn't it?”

  “Do you expect me to expose Beverly and Blake as brother and sister?” I asked. “It's not exactly a crime.”

  Skye's lips tightened “I said it was background. Stan's killer should be caught and punished. Honoria told me that sometimes you help Milo in his investigations.”

  The modesty I exhibited wasn't completely feigned. “It's not uncommon for journalists to conduct their own inquiries. Milo and I've been known to … dovetail.” I winced at the phrase and avoided Honoria's gaze.

  Skye lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “That's all there is. But I felt it needed to be told.”

  Honoria favored me with a warm smile. “Skyebelieves in candor. She comes across so much deception in her crusade.”

  “Right.” I smiled back, but felt it wasn't a worthy effort. “Okay, I'll file this away for future reference.” Getting to my feet, I rummaged for my car keys. “By the way,” I asked of Skye, “what happened to your car the other day? Did Cal Vickers get it fixed?”

  I might have imagined the change in Skye's placid expression. I was, after all, feeling somewhat fanciful. “Yes,” she answered evenly. “It was some silly thing. I know nothing about cars, which is why mine breaks down every now and then. I ignore the warning signs, I suppose. The Honda's parked behind Honoria's car. One of the young men who works at the station brought it down here this afternoon.”

  “Good.” I was still smiling, still feeling artificial. “I imagine you heard that Blake Fannucci flew back to L.A. today with Stan's body?”

  This time I did not imagine the change that came over Skye's face. She paled, and the hand that had been toying with the strawberry-blonde hair suddenly trailed down her neck and fell into her lap like a dead bird.

  “Oh J” she cried, then tried to look natural. “I hadn't heard. How could I?” Skye glanced briefly at Honoria, almost in reproach.

  “You couldn't,” Honoria said easily. She propelled her wheelchair alongside me. “You have to read everything in The Advocate. Isn't that so, Emma?”

  I allowed that it was. Most of the time.

  When I returned home a few minutes after ten, Leo Walsh was sitting on my front porch. As soon as I pulled the Jag into the carport, he jumped up and hurried over to meet me.

  “What's wrong?” I asked in alarm as I struggled to get out of the car.

  “You are,” Leo replied. “Where the hell have you been?”

  Not being in the habit of answering to anyone about my comings and goings, I bristled at Leo. “What difference does it make? Maybe I was at the Icicle Creek Tavern, picking up loggers.”

  “No, you weren't,” Leo said, waiting for me to unlock the front door. “I was there with Delphine until after nine-thirty. I stopped by to ask you what was going on with the Duchess and her pen pal. There's not much chance to find out at the office without raising suspicion. I got here five minutes ago to find you weren't home, so I figured you'd been kidnapped.”

  Under the porch light, I tried to see if Leo was kidding. He looked serious. With a sigh, I let us both in.

  “Gosh, Leo, since when did you get appointed my guardian angel?” Somewhat clumsily, I pulled off my linen jacket and tossed it on the sofa. “Do you want a drink or have you already had a couple of dozen beers with Delphine?”

  “I had two,” Leo replied defensively. “You know I've cut way down on my drinking.”

  To Leo's credit, he had. Or so it appeared. At least he hadn't shown up drunk at work since before the holidays. To prove his temperance, Leo asked for a diet soda.

  “Well?” he inquired, making himself comfortable on my sofa. “Did the Duchess go for it?”

  The question made me suddenly suspicious. “Leo— did you set Vida up?”

  But Leo's weathered face showed genuine surprise. “What? Hell, no! I wouldn't pull a stunt like that!”

  “I guess it just seems too good to be true,” I allowed. “And yes, she's … intrigued.” If Vida could keep my secrets, I could guard hers as well.

  Leo, however, was still looking affronted. “I may give the Duchess a bad time now and then, but I wouldn't sucker her. I ought to be offended that you'd think I might.” He got up from the sofa and began to roam around the room. This wasn't the first time that Leo had been inside my house, though I didn't recall him taking much interest in the decor until now. He paused by the desk where I kept my telephone. “What's with your male relatives working on a chain gang?”

  I leaned forward in the armchair. Leo was studying the photograph of Adam and Ben. “They were on a dig,” I said, almost mumbling. “You met them over the holidays.”

  “So I did. Ben's an okay guy—for a priest.” Leo turned, eyeing me curiously. “Was I blitzed the whole time they were here?”

  “Pretty much.” It was an exaggeration. I'd hosted Leo for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. Liquor had flowed freely on both occasions. Leo might have been sober when he arrived, but he was definitely feeling no pain by the time he left. “Why?” I girded myself for what was coming next.

  Once again he was scrutinizing the photograph. “Your kid—he reminds me of someone.” Leo straightened up, then wandered back to the sofa. “He looks kind of like my son. Maybe it's a peer group thing. These kids all run to type.”

  I sucked in my sigh of relief. “Have you heard from your children lately?” Leo's offspring were a sore spot; rightly or wrongly, they tended to blame their father for the breakup with their mother.

  Sitting back down on the sofa, Leo lighted a cigarette. “As a matter of fact, I did. Now that Liza's remarried, all three of them are running up white flags. I don't know if it's because they think she's better offwithout me, or that they finally figured out she was screwing the guy while we were still married. Kids are weird. They won't concede that their parents have feelings, especially amorous ones. Egocentric little bastards. I expect they don't grow up until they've got children of their own.”

  “Could be.” But I was glad for Leo. I wondered if the tenuous reconciliation with his son and daughters had helped curb his drinking. “Have you thought about inviting them up to visit?”

  Leo made a face. “They'd hate it here. No beach, for one thing. And who wants more Californians in Alpine, even as tourists?”

  'Tourists are fine,” I said, giving in and lighting myself a cigarette. “The locals only grumble if they think the tourists want to return on a permanent bas
is.”

  “Yeah, right.” Leo drank his soda and puffed away. “Speaking of which, what's with Hollenberg?”

  I wasn't making the transition from tourism to the county commissioner. “Leonard? What do you mean? Are you talking about the vandalism up at the hot springs?”

  But Leo didn't know about the trashing of the murder site. He'd left the office before I returned with the story. “I went to the commissioners' office Monday morning to get whichever one of the old boys was around to okay their 'Congratulations, Alpine High Grads' ad. George Engebretsen and Whatshisname—Alfred? Al?—Cobb were there, but not Hollenberg. I kidded around with George and Al, which is not an easy thing to do since George hasn't laughed for about forty years, and A's deaf as a doorknob. Then one of them mentioned Leonard—Len, they call him. They said he'd changed his mind about selling out to the Californians.”

  I stared at Leo. “Why didn't you tell me this sooner? This puts a different spin on everything!”

  “Because,” Leo replied in a reasonable voice, “I saw Hollenberg later at the Texaco station. He must have just come from the hot springs after finding Levine. He was all shook up, but I asked if he was going back on the deal, especially now that Stan was dead. He looked at me as if I were crazy.”

  Briefly, I reflected on what Leo had just said. Engebretsen and Cobb weren't the sharpest saws in the mill, as the locals were wont to say. The two commissioners may have been confused. Or else Leonard was being coy with them. Of course there was always the possibility that Leonard had lied. But which statement was the truth?

  “Why,” I mused out loud, “did Leonard go up to the hot springs Monday morning? I never thought to ask him that. I wonder if Milo did.”

  Leo had put out his cigarette and finished his soda. He stood up, yawning. “There's a better question,” he said, giving me a tired, quizzical look. “Besides Blake Fannucci, who else knew Levine was going up there?”

  I admitted I didn't know. Leo bade me good night, and it was only after he had pulled away in his secondhand Toyota that I remembered what Heather Bardeen had said about the woman with the sunglasses. She had come to the ski lodge Sunday night. Maybe she had called on Stan. Or Blake. My initial reaction was that she was Skye Piersall. But after talking to Skye, I realized that the mystery guest could have been Beverly Melville.