Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  Shirley took the hand mirror from Stella and admired herself from every angle. “What? Oh, Stella, it's wonderful! But will it stay this frizzy?”

  “No, dear,” Stella soothed, “it'll loosen up when you wash it. But don't shampoo for forty-eight hours, okay?”

  “I know,” Shirley said with a small sigh of pleasure. She twirled around in the chair again, then reluctantly handed the mirror back to Stella. “Now what did you say, Emma? About Ed?”

  I repeated my question. Shirley giggled some more. “I never take Ed shopping! He gets so bored. And antsy. Betsy O'Toole and I drove down Monday. We spent the whole day, and had dinner at Benjamin's in Bellevue on the way back.”

  “How fun,” I remarked, diverted by the surfacing of Laurie's client. It was Heather Bardeen. The salon smock had almost completely covered her ski lodge uniform. I waved; she smiled. Stella brushed stray hairs from Shirley's bouncing body.

  “Go get 'em, Tiger Lady,” said Stella, standing backwith her arms crossed over her own voluptuous bosom. Stella also colored her hair and carried extra poundage, but she knew how to use both to her advantage. If Shirley had been willowy, she still would have required work. But Ed didn't deserve better. Indeed, he wouldn't have appreciated it, and, come to think of it, who was I to judge? The Bronskys had been married for almost twenty years, there were five children, and even before they inherited money, the couple had seemed happy together. Or as happy as Ed had ever been in his pre-millionaire days. I tried to join in the general enthusiasm for Shirley's new look.

  But Heather Bardeen held back. At least she wasn't smiling. Her gaze narrowed as it followed Shirley's progress to the dressing room.

  “Way too frizzy,” Heather murmured, her own wet hair plastered against her scalp. “Why do the Bronskys think they run the town just because some old lady left them money?”

  Laurie, who seemed to change her coiffure's color and style every time I saw her, wore a puzzled expression. “Except for spending a lot on her hair and nails, Mrs. Bronsky acts the same. Only happier. Besides, she'll lose the frizzies. Totally.”

  As Laurie toweled off her client, Heather was looking unusually thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said ambiguously, coming to sit at the station on my right. Heather seemed tense as Laurie rummaged through drawers, then finally headed for the supply cabinet out back. “You know the Bronskys,” Heather said in a low voice, one eye on Stella, who was seeing Shirley to the door. “Maybe she's okay, but is he … weird?”

  “Define weird,” I said lightly.

  But Heather was very serious. “I mean it in the real way. Like … obsessed. Is that the word?”

  I frowned at Heather. “Obsessed with what?”

  Heather's exposed forehead also wrinkled. “That's the trouble—I don't know how to put it. It's just that—” She broke off as both Stella and Laurie returned from opposite directions.

  There wasn't another opportunity to speak with Heather alone. I'd wanted to ask her how her father was doing in the wake of his interrogation by Milo Dodge. But Stella had me out of the chair in thirty minutes, while Laurie was still snipping and combing Heather. The new me wasn't much different from the old me, except that my hair was shorter and straighten I wasn't entirely pleased.

  I was almost finished packing by eight o'clock when the phone rang. To my initial delight, it was Tom. But as soon as he got past “Hello, Emma” my spirits sank. There was anguish in his voice, and I knew the news wasn't good.

  “Zorro left Sandra,” he said in a tight, tense voice. “She's a mess. Emma, don't hate me—I have to cancel the weekend. I'll reimburse you for your flight and—”

  “Stick it,” I interrupted. Anger, disappointment, and pain exploded somewhere inside my breast. How typical of Tom to mention financial details first. No, that wasn't fair—he could do something about money. He couldn't do anything with Sandra or Zorro or me. “What's happened?” I asked, trying to steep my voice in sympathy. But the sympathy was mostly for me.

  “It was over the movie deal,” Tom replied, still sounding unlike himself. “Look, Emma, I'm at home, Sandra's lying down, but she could pick the phone up at any minute. I've got to make this quick. Anyway, he'd asked Sandra to put some money into a movie he was writing. I think I told you about it a while back.”

  Vaguely, I recalled Zorro's cinematic ambitions. “So what happened?” Now my sympathy was in full spate, washing over both Tom and me.

  Tom emitted a truncated laugh. “For once, Sandra got a grip on herself. She said no. One of her girlfriends used to be married to a Hollywood producer, and she advised Sandra that you never put your own money into a movie. Sandra doesn't listen to me, but sometimes she pays attention to her friends. When Sandra closed her wallet, Zorro took a hike. He left in the middle of the night. Sandra was hysterical when she called me this morning. So here I am, playing nursemaid again.”

  “She's stopped being hysterical, I take it?” I was slumped at my desk, visualizing my crammed suitcase. Maybe I should get hysterical. It seemed to work for Sandra.

  “Sandra wasn't hysterical when I got here,” Tom said, and I could tell from his rapid speech that he was anxious to get off the phone. “That's what really worries me. She's like a zombie. God only knows what kind of pills she's been taking. Or worse. I know Zorro does coke, and he may do other drugs, too. Damnr The sudden fierceness of the word told me more than I needed—or wanted—to know.

  Tom's anxiety was contagious. “Hang up, we'll talk later. Don't worry. I'll be fine.” The outrageous lie fell from my tongue like cold lead.

  “Emma—goodbye.” Tom clicked off.

  It wasn't the first time Tom had canceled on me. He was supposed to come to Alpine after Christmas, but his son Graham had broken a leg skiing at Lake Tahoe. Sandra had refused to leave Zorro, Zorro hated hospitals, and Zorro wouldn't budge from Big Sur. Tom had had to rescue Graham and, as usual, play the dual roles of mother and father.

  None of it was Tom's fault, of course. It was always Sandra. Sandra, Sandra, Sandra … Her name beat on my brain like a mallet. It wasn't all Sandra's fault. Tom allowed her to manipulate him and shackle him andkeep us apart. Maybe that's what Tom wanted. He needed to have Sandra need him, needed her more than he needed me. I wandered from room to room in my little log house, taking no comfort from its snug pine walls.

  But the terrible irony was that if Tom ever abandoned Sandra, I'd lose my respect for him. I might even stop loving him. It was his very selflessness that made him so appealing. If it also made him unattainable, that was my tragedy. Or maybe that's what / really wanted: a handsome, charming, intelligent, wealthy, noble, generous man I could never have. I was like a teenager with an imaginary boyfriend. I could talk about him, think about him, dream about him—and take no risks.

  The thought was often with me, sitting at the back of my mind like the symptom of a dreaded disease. If you ignore it, maybe it'll go away. But it doesn't, and you can't quite face it, and you always fear the worst.

  Almost an hour passed before I unpacked. I thought of calling the airline, but decided to wait until morning. I didn't like the prospect of dealing with Janet Driggers at the travel agency. Maybe it would be her day off. She only worked part-time.

  I thought of calling Ben, but he had troubles of his own. I considered Vida, but somehow I wasn't up to it. She would still be dithering happily over her Sunday date with Mr. Ree. Assuming, of course, that she had decided to go. Maybe she, too, would prefer romancing a phantom.

  Then the phone rang again, and like a fool, I thought it was Tom. It wasn't. Heather Bardeen was on the line, and she still sounded worried.

  “I can't settle down this evening,” she said in a fretful voice. “Things have been so … strange around here lately, especially last night.”

  I spoke into the pause that followed: “You mean with your dad? Is he okay?”

  “He's fine,” Heather said, but she didn't sound convinced. “He understands that the sheriff has a job to do. Still, he's … wel
l, upset. I mean, he was upset. But I don't like to bother him with any more … problems.”

  I sat down on the bed next to my empty suitcase. Heather is fifteen years younger than I am, and we've never been particularly friendly. She's aloof, which may be part of her professional persona, but possibly a shield against further hurt. The loss of her mother must have left deep scars. I had lost both parents at about the same age, and I understood more about Heather Bardeen than she could imagine.

  Or maybe she sensed some sort of bond, which was why she had called. “Remember that blonde woman in the sunglasses I saw Sunday night?”

  I remembered Heather telling me about her. “Did you figure out who she was?”

  “Not exactly,” Heather said. “I just talked to Chaz. She's working the night shift. She said a woman like that came in about half an hour ago, acting strange. She hung around the lobby for quite a while, but when Chaz asked if she could help, the woman said no and disappeared. Chaz thought about seeing where she'd gone, but the fire alarm went off.”

  “Good grief!” I exclaimed. “Was there really a fire?” The Bardeens didn't need any more problems than they already had.

  “No,” Heather replied. “It was a false alarm. It happens every once in a while. By the time Chaz got back to the desk, the woman had gone.”

  “Chaz didn't recognize her?” I asked, not very hopefully.

  “She thought she looked kind of familiar,” Heather answered, still sounding ill at ease. “But let's face it,Chaz doesn't recognize anybody. Sometimes it's a real problem with guests. She's really good with names, though.”

  I wasn't particularly gifted in recalling either one, so I couldn't blame Chaz. “This woman must know one of the current visitors,” I suggested. “She was probably waiting for him—or her.”

  “I don't know. We don't have any holdovers this week, so she couldn't have been meeting whoever was here Sunday night. I just hope she's not some imported … well, you know.” Heather's voice faded. The last thing the ski lodge and the Bardeens needed was a problem with hookers. “But that wasn't my real reason for calling.” Heather was speaking again, though she still sounded anxious. “You must have thought I was pretty weird to criticize the Bronskys today at Stella's,” she said, now speaking with more assurance. “The truth is, he bothers me.”

  Visions of Ed, in his newfound affluence, playing the part of ladykiller romped through my mind. It certainly wasn't impossible. Maybe Ed was going through midlife crisis, just as goofy as anybody else, but with money to give him a false sense of confidence.

  “What's he doing?” I inquired, keeping my question on a safe plane.

  “I'm not sure,” Heather answered. “That's why I'm worried.”

  I became more direct. “Is he … ah … flirting or something?”

  “Flirting?” Now Heather sounded genuinely horrified. “Oh, no! Nothing like that! Oh, good Lord!”

  I sympathized with Heather's reaction. “Well, what then?”

  There was another pause. “You remember asking me about the phone calls to Mr. Fannucci and Mr. Levine?” I said that I did. A sudden cold feeling overcame me.

  “Honestly,” Heather continued, “I couldn't swear to it in court. But I think at least one of those voices belonged to Ed Bronsky.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “RUBBISH,” SAID VIDA. “Ed's a terrible ninny, but he's not dangerous. Heather may be right. Ed was probably trying to horn in on the project even before Stan Levine was killed.”

  I didn't agree. “Ed was against it in the beginning. He only changed his mind later. I doubt that he would have called to talk business. Not then.”

  Vida sighed into the phone. After hanging up with Heather, I'd surrendered and dialed Vida's number. She had taken my news about Tom in stride. Her compassion was primarily for him, which annoyed me. But I was still too shaken about Ed to let indignation get the upper hand.

  “No,” Vida was saying, and I was wondering if she was arguing with herself as well as with me. “Ed isn't capable of such a thing. Really, can you imagine him hiking up that trail to the springs?”

  I actually couldn't. Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't some other way to reach the site. The Chelan County helicopter had gotten there. Was it possible that Milo and Vida and I were all overlooking something?

  “Ed does have a motive,” I pointed out. “Eliminating Stan opened the way for him to become a big wheel with L.A. connections. You've got to admit that he's excited over getting involved in the resort.”

  Vida sniffed with disdain. “Are you ascribing ambition as a motive for Ed? Really, Emma, you can't be serious!”

  But I was. It seemed to me that Ed was genuinely interested in being part of Windy Mountain. Or Bronsky's Baths. Ambition wasn't one of Ed's qualities. But identity—or ego—was. Ed had been a borderline failure in his job as ad manager. Wealth had given him the patina of success. But it had been inherited money, not earned. Ed wasn't stupid; he must know the difference. Cosponsoring the resort project would give him a sense of accomplishment.

  Still, I didn't blame Vida for disparaging my basic theory. Heaven only knew, I didn't want Ed to be a murderer. But I could see him making threatening phone calls to Stan and Blake. It was carrying out the threats that caused me to founder.

  “You're unhinged,” Vida said calmly. “The weekend fiasco has addled your brain, Emma. Don't even think about Ed. Or if you do, consider this—perhaps Heather is trying to create a diversion. If Milo or anybody else begins to suspect Ed, they'll forget about the sheriff's interest in Henry Bardeen.”

  That idea hadn't occurred to me. Henry seemed to have been cleared of suspicion. I knew that, so did Milo. But did the rest of Alpine? Rumors ran like rats.

  “Okay, I'll take my broken heart to bed. Good night, Vida.”

  “Good night, Emma. Don't be too upset. Next weekend you'll have Adam and Ben here.”

  Vida's attempt to cheer me was somewhat out of character. I sensed that it came from her own optimistic outlook. Thus, I guessed that she had confirmed her date with Mr. Ree. Silently, I wished that her luck would be better than mine.

  I woke up early Friday morning with thatoverwhelming feeling of emptiness usually reserved for IRS audits or the loss of a loved one. Chastising myself, I showered, dressed, and tried to arrange my hair the way Stella had fixed it. The result was disheartening. I needed a body perm. Maybe it was just as well that I wasn't going to San Francisco after all. I looked terrible. I felt worse.

  When I reached Front Street, it wasn't quite seven-thirty. The day was going to seem long enough without getting an early start at the office. I kept driving, right past The Advocate, and put on my right-turn signal for Alpine Way. Five minutes later I was slowing down on Highway 2, searching for Leonard Hollenberg's mailbox.

  I found it standing next to the metal newspaper cylinders for The Advocate and The Everett Herald, Leonard's sprawling house was almost across the road from the U.S. Forest Service headquarters east of Sky-komish. It appeared as if the one-story dwelling had started as a cabin and been added onto by whim rather than design. Each jutting addition showed the Hollen-bergs' increasing affluence over the years. The place looked a bit like a rabbit warren.

  But the surroundings intrigued me. Very little of the land had been actually cleared. Leonard—and presumably Mrs. Hollenberg—genuinely liked nature. There were some separate, slightly dilapidated outbuildings scattered between the road and the river. The narrow paths that led to them were well trod but lined with ferns, vine maples, berry bushes, and even a few stands of devil's club. There was no lawn as such, but clumps of grass interspersed with clover, dandelions, buttercups, and a network of wild strawberries. As I approached the house along a series of moss-dappled bricks, I could hear the river and smell the evergreens. At the door, the sound of a woodpecker caught my ear.

  With my finger on the buzzer, I turned, gawking up into the trees. I couldn't see the bird who was seeking his breakfast, but I notic
ed several birdhouses, not only among the hemlock and fir branches, but on poles near one of the outbuildings. Whatever other interests Leonard had shared with Stan Levine, birds must have offered a common bond.

  Violet Hollenberg, small and spare as a bird herself, answered the door. I couldn't tell if she was more amazed or frightened to see a stranger. Identifying myself seemed to reassure her. She hopped away through the kitchen, cheeping softly to her husband.

  Leonard was wearing his reading glasses, khaki pants, and plaid suspenders over a white T-shirt. He seemed slightly disconcerted by my early morning visit.

  “I've got an unusual query for you, Leonard,” I said, feeling somewhat foolish. “Tell me how spotted owls nest.”

  “What's unusual about that, Emmy?” Leonard replied, pulling out two chairs from the kitchen table. “You want some coffee?” He didn't wait for my reply. “Violet—get this lady and your poor old husband some coffee. My mug's on the TV table.”

  Violet had disappeared after calling to Leonard. She resurfaced like a wraith, a coffee mug in one hand, an empty plate in the other. Leonard ignored her and turned back to me. “People need to know about wildlife. Guess what I've always wanted around here. A bird sanctuary, that's what. But we're a little too high up. It'd be better farther down the river, maybe close to Grotto. Think about it. Grotto. Perfect for birds, Emmy.”

  If the county commissioner was getting closer to my real name, he had strayed from the question. “Spotted owls?” I offered. “Nests?” I smiled at Violet as she placed a steaming mug in front of me.

  “Oh, right, right,” Leonard said, rocking back in his chair. “The western barred owl—that's the real name. They're a funny breed, when you think about it. They almost never build their own nests. Starting in March or April, they find some other bird's nest—one that's big enough, of course, like a crow or a hawk. If they can't do that, they look for a hollow in a tree. Now the problem with logging is that when the trees are cut, the owls have no place to nest. They like to go high up, way off the ground. That may be why they have to use other nests. You know, like renters, during a housing shortage.”