Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  “I'm glad you're not drinking so much,” I said earnestly. “It's great that you're getting your life back on track.”

  Briefly, Leo's brown eyes were serious. Then he laughed. “Nice try. We were talking about your love life.”

  Luckily, our entrees arrived. Leo had selected the house specialty, Meatballs * la Olav; I played it safe with the menu's most unadorned salmon fillet. Before Leo could start needling me again, Ed and Shirley Bronsky passed by our table.

  “Hey, hey!” Ed boomed, hovering over us and causing both Shirley and the hostess to stagger in a quick stop. “Look who's here! My former boss and my replacement! How can that be? Shirley and I couldn't afford to eat here on, my salary at The Advocate. Now we come almost every Friday night.”

  Leo eyed Ed with something akin to distaste. “We saved up all winter. Next year we might be able to afford dinner in Everett.”

  Ed threw his head back and roared with laughter. Shirley simpered and the hostess looked bemused. 'That's a good one!” Ed declared, slapping Leo on the shoulder. “Say,” he said, mercifully lowering his voice as he leaned closer to me, “things are bubbling re theyou-know-what-deal. I've got a call into you-know-who.”

  I didn't know. “Leonard?”

  Ed's good humor faded. He regarded me as if I were the village idiot. “Not Leonard. You know—the L.A. connection.”

  “Oh.” I gave Ed a quirky smile. “You mean B.F.”

  “Right!” He stood up, allowing me to watch his chins wobble. “I imagine he'll call back tonight, unless he took off for the weekend.”

  “Stan's services were today, I think.” I couldn't come up with a more enlightened remark. Maybe I was hampered by Ed's stomach, which was buffeting the table.

  Ed looked appropriately mournful. “Right, poor devil.” He shook his head several times, then turned to Shirley and the hostess. “Got to run—I'm going to try the stuffed sole.”

  “He's already stuffed,” Leo said under his breath as the beleaguered hostess led the Bronskys away. “What a jerk.”

  I was frowning in Ed's wake. “You know, I actually used to like him. In a way.”

  Leo's eyes roamed to the ceiling, with its flags from Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Finland. “Sheesh,” he said, and began to talk of other admen he had known in thirty years of newspaper work. Some of them sounded almost as annoying as Ed, but I was secretly grateful to the bumptious, self-important Mr. Bronsky: His intrusion had diverted Leo from the much touchier topic of my love life. Even Ed was a better conversational gambit than Tom Cavanaugh.

  Especially on a night when I should have been dining with Tom instead of Leo Walsh.

  Leo and I didn't end our evening alone, however. As we perused dessert menus, Beverly and Scott Melvilleapproached. It appeared they hadn't started with cocktails, so had finished their entrees at about the same time we did. They offered to buy us an after-dinner drink in the bar. Since neither Leo nor I particularly wanted dessert, we agreed.

  “You're a sport,” Leo said after we had waited for the presentation of the bill. “I thought you'd turn the Melvilles down for fear of having me run amok in the brandy section.”

  “I trust you,” I said in a nonchalant manner. Oddly enough, I did. But the real reason I'd accepted the invitation had nothing to do with Leo. I still felt a need to sort out Beverly's relationship to Blake Fannucci.

  Admitting as much to Leo, I asked for his cooperation. “You talk to Scott while I go one-on-one with Beverly, okay?”

  Leo gave a faint wag of his head. “Sure, but I don't see why you're so hung up on Fannucci and Beverly. What difference does it make as far as Levine's murder is concerned?”

  We had wound our way among the tables to the bar's arched entrance. “Probably none,” I said candidly. “What intrigues me most is whether or not Skye Piersall lied. And if so, why.”

  We scanned the darkened bar for the Melvilles. The long Scandinavian night was evoked by deep recesses in the granite walls and a high, rugged ceiling. Illumination was provided by a curtain of soft lights representing the aurora borealis, and fat little candles squatting on the tables. Leo spotted our companions on a banquette that lined three of the four walls.

  “So how's the sheriff's project going?” Leo inquired, wearing his ad salesman's best smile.

  Scott tugged at the open collar of his khaki shirt. It looked as if it were U.S. Army issue, but the effect probably had been achieved at considerable cost. “It'scoming along. Dodge has some problems making up his mind.”

  Leo nodded in sympathy. “He's a slow mover.” The brown eyes flickered in my direction. “Then again, he's had some diversions this last week.”

  “That's law enforcement,” Scott said. “The sheriff has to expect crises, even in a place like Alpine. I tell Bev, we can't expect Paradise.”

  “Heck no,” Leo agreed with a smile for the waitress who brought our cognacs and Kahluas. “Personally, I'm glad to be out of southern California. It wasn't the crime so much as the quakes. Not that they don't have them here in the Pacific Northwest, but like everything else, it's relative …”

  Leo and Scott appeared to be safely launched. I leaned across the rough-hewn table, offering Beverly a long-suffering expression. “Men don't understand, do they? If there were a Nordstrom or a Saks in Alpine, it would be Paradise.”

  Beverly laughed, a rather nervous sound. “That would be terrific, but I'd still have to go to Seattle to see the interior design wholesalers.”

  I nodded. “Of course. Maybe you'll be able to order via computer one of these days.”

  Beverly made a face. “Some things. But not fabric, which includes carpet, upholstery, wall coverings—so much of what I do. You have to touch it, watch the light play on the surface, get the feel of what's right. I'll adjust to the drive eventually.”

  “So you've decided to stay?” I tried to keep my manner casual.

  Beverly's forehead wrinkled under the smooth fall of blonde hair. “Scott was the one who wanted to move from California. He hasn't changed his mind. Maybe it's just as well.” She avoided looking at me, insteadfixating on the flickering flame of the candle in the wrought-iron holder.

  Beneath what I hoped was my amiable exterior, my brain was jumping through hoops, trying to find an opening that would lead to Blake Fannucci. “There's the spa, of course,” I remarked. “Naturally, Scott would have to stay here to work on that.”

  “He wouldn't, really.” Beverly sipped at her Kahlua, the frown still in place. “Scott has often designed buildings that weren't anywhere near our previous home in Manhattan Beach.”

  “But,” I pressed on, “this is different. I mean, with Scott wanting to live in Alpine, and the … um … kinship with—”

  The clumsy words were cut short by the entrance of Ed and Shirley Bronsky. Annoyingly, Ed was talking on his cellular phone. Shirley saw us first and raised her hands in exaggerated surprise.

  “Oh! We seem to be following you! How hilarious!” She leaned into our table, the small candle's light barely making a dent on her black and gold tapestry jacket. “And the Melvilles! Isn't Alpine getting to be a regular party place?”

  My mind swiftly took in the rest of the town, where I knew most public revelry centered around Mugs Ahoy and the Icicle Creek Tavern. The rest occurred behind closed doors in small bungalows and mobile homes and aging apartments. The element of liquor might be basic to all, but the atmosphere was far different. Friday night in Alpine courted depression, with lack of jobs, broken homes, unruly children, and all manner of abuse hovering among the evergreens.

  “This is a very nice restaurant,” Beverly Melville allowed. “But aren't most of the people who eat here visitors?”

  “We're not,” Shirley replied promptly. 'Tonight's theprom, so quite a few kids are eating here, I gather. Next year our Cathy graduates. We're thinking of giving her a Ford Explorer if she keeps her grades above a C.”

  I felt like asking if the Bronskys would present a Rolls-Royce to any of their
offspring who could manage to bring home an A. But even if I'd been so inclined to rudeness, the opportunity was gone: Ed had shut off his phone and was beaming at Scott Melville.

  “I just saved your backside, buddy boy. That was Leonard Hollenberg. Since I'm probably Blake's new partner, our esteemed county commissioner has agreed to move ahead with the sale. Let me buy everybody a round.”

  Ed started to squeeze his way onto the banquette next to Scott, but the architect held up a hand which swiftly turned into a fist. “Butt out, fatso,” Scott snarled. “Blake may be desperate, but he wouldn't take you on! He and Stan were used to dealing with Fortune 500 types!”

  Even in the bar's dim light I could tell that Ed's face had turned crimson. He fairly jiggled with anger. “Why, you crummy little … Californianl” With amazing dexterity, Ed whipped his rear off the banquette and two-stepped away from the table. Shirley was at his side, pressing her brocade-covered bosom against her husband's arm.

  Scott's face had also colored. “Don't talk to me again,” he mumbled, aware that other customers in the bar were staring. “Leave it lay. Buzz off. Please.” He snatched up his cognac and downed it like soda pop.

  I didn't know where to look, so I fixed my gaze on Leo. My ad manager was fingering his chin and frowning. “Thanks for the drink offer,” he finally said to his predecessor. “We'll take a rain check.” The light note in his voice didn't exactly ease tensions, but it helped save face. At least for Ed, who nodded abruptly, thengrabbed Shirley by the arm and steered her out of the bar.

  Beverly was thoroughly shaken. There were tears in her eyes as she gazed at Scott, then leaned across the table toward Leo and me. “Scott was very fond of Stan,” she declared in an unsteady voice. “He doesn't like the idea of anybody being his stand-in.”

  “Bull,” Scott interjected, though he put an arm around his wife's shoulders. “Blake can get a new partner from the neo-Nazis or a bunch of East L.A. drug lords, for all I care. I just don't want to work with that buffoon of a Bronsky.”

  Chicken that I am, I lamented aloud my lack of warning for Blake Fannucci. “I didn't want to bad-mouth a former employee,” I said, to excuse my omission. “Then again, I figured Blake would spend most of his time in L.A. and Ed would be … here.” One hand fell aimlessly to my side.

  “That's true enough,” Scott agreed, his ire fading. He signaled for another round, but to my surprise, Leo shook his head. I followed suit; Beverly shrugged in apparent agreement with her spouse. “But Vd have to be here, working shoulder-to-jowl with Bronsky. Forget it.”

  Having wiped her eyes with a cocktail napkin, Beverly was now looking pensive. “It's really up to Blake,” she said, sounding uncommonly meek.

  “I'm calling Blake tomorrow,” Scott asserted. “If he insists on a local partner, there must be somebody else. What about Hollenberg?” Scott rested his gaze on me, then Leo.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe. It could be Leonard's legacy as a county commissioner. He hasn't done much else. None of the three commissioners has, when it comes to helping the local economy.”

  The waitress brought the Melvilles another cognac and Kahlua. I sensed that Leo was growing fidgety. Sowas I, since the original purpose of this meeting seemed to have gone by the wayside.

  Beverly surrendered her first glass, then turned an anxious face to her husband. “Let Blake make his own decisions. Don't get mixed up in the partnership angle. You don't want to get on Blake's bad side.”

  I detected a warning note in Beverly's voice. But Scott dismissed his wife's words with an impatient gesture. “Stop fussing. You're overly protective when it comes to Blake. He's a big boy, he can take care of himself.”

  I took a deep breath, then offered Beverly my most sympathetic look. “It's hard to let go, isn't it?”

  Beverly's expression grew puzzled. “Let go? How do you let go of family? I wish I knew,” she added, sounding bitter. “Big brothers are forever.”

  It was the awkward moment I'd dreaded for the past two and a half hours. We had turned off Alpine Way in Leo's secondhand Toyota and were rolling along Fir Street toward my house. Should I ask Leo in? Would he presume upon my hospitality and make a pass? How would I fend him off? Did I really want to?

  But even as I glanced surreptitiously at Leo's profile, another vehicle came to a stop approximately by my mailbox. “It's the sheriff,” I murmured in surprise. “I thought he was in Startup.”

  Leo applied his own brakes, then turned into the driveway. “A late date? You should have warned me, babe.”

  I assumed Leo was kidding. “Milo has already been here,” I said, somewhat distracted.

  “Really.” Motionless, Leo sat behind the wheel. “Did you ask him to come back?”

  I fumbled with the car door and finally managed toget it open. “Don't be an idiot, Leo. Come in if you want to. Just remember, we didn't want dessert.”

  I thought I heard Leo sigh, presumably with regret, but maybe with impatience. Milo was already in the middle of my walkway, pacing.

  “You still got that Scotch?” he asked as Leo and I approached from the drive. “I feel like celebrating. Blake Fannucci's disappeared.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  LEO INSISTED THAT I give him only a finger of whiskey. Milo poured his own. “That Mexican stuff all tastes alike,” he grumbled. “What the hell is a fujeeta anyway? It sounds like a Japanese camera.”

  I didn't bother to correct Milo. It didn't matter if he couldn't tell a fajita from a footstool. Honoria's efforts to broaden her lover's experience rarely got beyond the end of his nose.

  “Cut to the missing link,” I said, sitting next to the sheriff on the sofa. “What's this about Blake?”

  Milo let out a sort of moan. “Sam Heppner phoned me in Startup, just as Honoria and I were … settling in.” He looked askance at Leo, who was lounging in one of the armchairs on the other side of the coffee table. “Toni, our receptionist, had gotten a call from Fannucci this afternoon. She forgot to give me the message.” Milo shook his head in disgust. “Sam found the number after she went home, so he tried to reach Blake in L.A. A woman answered and said she was the manager of the condo where Fannucci lives. Mrs. Simon— the manager—hadn't seen him since this morning when he went out—apparently to Levine's memorial service—but that some suspicious-looking guy in a raincoat and a slouch hat had been hanging around the building. Mrs. Simon had a key so she began checking the units where nobody was home. She'd just gotteninto Fannucci's place, and it looked to her as if there'd been a robbery. Sam told her to call the cops. Then he called me at Honoria's.”

  I was bewildered. “Have you talked to Mrs. Simon?”

  Milo shook his head. “We're waiting for a call from Santa Monica. That's where Fannucci lives. I'm officially off duty, so Sam can handle it God knows I've earned a break. It's a damned shame if anything's happened to Blake, but I wanted to let you know that I was on the right track after all.” The sheriff wiggled his shaggy eyebrows at me. “You were pretty skeptical when I stopped by earlier.”

  For some reason, I remained skeptical. “Blake could be anywhere. He might have taken off for the weekend. How do you know this isn't just your average L.A. break-in? They do have quite a bit of crime, even in Santa Monica.”

  Milo savored his Scotch, all but smacking his lips. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Leo regarding the sheriff with a sardonic expression. 'That's what we're waiting for—confirmation,” Milo said complacently. “It's not hard to tell if a burglary is faked. We also have to find out how the perp got in. According to Mrs. Simon, the building's security isn't any great shakes. That's why she's so careful about checking things out.”

  “A snoop.” Leo stuck a cigarette in his mouth, then talked around it. “The raincoat and the slouch hat sound like they walked off her TV set. Make sure she's not a publicity freak.”

  Milo shot Leo a look of disbelief. “That's crazy. Sam says Mrs. Simon is in her seventies. What does she care about publicity?”

 
; Leo snorted. “You're talking L.A., Sheriff. Everybody wants to be a star.”

  I didn't bother to hide my yawn. “It's going on ten,” I said, not discriminating between either of my guests.“Come up with some credible theories or go home. I'm beat.”

  Milo took umbrage. “You've heard my theory. Somebody got screwed over by Fannucci and Levine. They wanted revenge. They got it. End of case, as far as SkyCo is concerned. Now it's all up to the folks in L.A. County.”

  It was useless to argue with Milo. I knew it, but Leo didn't. “Levine got whacked here, Sheriff. That still makes it your case. If the killer scurried back to California, so what? You let him—or her—get away.”

  Milo lifted one shoulder. “So we sent out an APB. Bond issue or not, we don't have the money or the jurisdiction to do anything else. Besides,” he added smugly, “Sam and Dwight came up with some other good stuff today. Five years ago, VineFan put up a housing development on the edge of Northridge. Several of those houses collapsed in the last big quake. Luckily, nobody got killed, but you can bet your butt those owners got pretty mad.”

  I fairly jumped in my chair. “Wait—Scott Melville designed houses in Northridge that fell down. Skye Piersall told me about them. I wasn't sure she was telling the truth.”

  Leo and Milo both stared at me, with varying degrees of interest. My ad manager looked intrigued; the sheriff's long face was dubious. As usual.

  “Look,” I said, enthusiasm banishing weariness. “Skye may be kind of a drip, but she's been telling the truth. Blake is Beverly Melville's brother. Don't ask why he lied—maybe it's just part of his L.A. con artist persona. I'll bet she's right about Scott, too. He designed those houses for VineFan.”