Alpine Gamble (26 page)

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.”

“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 that
overwhelming 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 noticed 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.”

“Is that why you built the birdhouse at the springs?” I asked, finding Leonard's explanation interesting, if typically long-winded.

“You bet. I've put up a bunch of houses for birds here at my place on the river. You see them?” He paused fractionally for my nod. “Every spring, I get some pretty fascinating characters. But not all birds build nests, you know. And not all of them want to use a birdhouse.”

“Did you get a spotted owl this year?”

“No.” Leonard's voice dropped in disappointment. “I even put an old nest inside, a big one I'd taken from a tree. But the damned owls didn't show up. You know how it is—they're getting scarce.”

“Leonard,” I began, unsure of my reason for asking the question, “do you know why anyone would pull down your birdhouse at the springs?”

Leonard looked disgusted. “Sure, I do. It's happened here, right outside my door. Violet and me went to Hawaii about the time of the first spotted owl legislation. Some damned fools came through here and shot the crap out of my birdhouses. Then, one Halloween, a bunch of kids knocked over two of them. Violet and me were in Alpine that night, at somebody's party. I had an
idea who a couple of the kids were, so I gave their folks a good talking to. It didn't happen again.” Leonard's full face turned hard. It was obvious that he savored his clout as a county commissioner.

He sipped his coffee; so did I. Leonard hadn't told me anything that helped indicate who killed Stan Levine. My eyes roamed around the kitchen, with its crocheted dish towels, salt and pepper shaker collection, and airy yellow curtains. I had come to the Hollenberg house on a fool's errand. I doubted very much if irate loggers or spaced-out teens had dumped Leonard's bird-house into the campfire at the springs. Unless, it occurred to me, the act had been symbolic. Maybe I shouldn't dismiss the loggers so hastily.

But Leonard had moved on. Like nature, he couldn't tolerate a vacuum. “… environmentalists and such. It's not all bad, that's what folks have to understand. Outside money, fresh ideas, new blood—that's the future of Skykomish County.”

I tried to pick up the conversational thread. “True, stagnation is a real threat to—”

But Leonard was still wound up: “Look at Sultan. They've got plans for new businesses, new stores, new housing. People want to live away from the hustle and bustle of the city. They'd rather drive further to work every day and come home to clean air and a low crime rate. This is God's country, Emmy. Heck, even the girls get better looking. Like you.” He winked, then took another slurp of coffee.

“That's very kind, though I—”

“No, I mean it.” Leonard was nodding emphatically. “Monday morning, before I headed up to the springs—” He stopped, frowned, and rubbed his bald head. “God Almighty, what a day! That's why I almost forgot about those two blondes at the Dutch Cup. Now in the old days, how often did you spot a couple of real honeys
letting down their hair along Highway 2?” He wagged a finger at me. “You bet—about once a year, when some coeds going over to Central Washington or Washington State would stop for a break. But these two weren't still wet behind the ears. The next thing you know, you girls will be wearing high heels at the Grocery Basket.”

Inwardly, I shuddered at the thought. Outwardly, I gave Leonard a curious look. “Two blondes? Did you recognize them?”

“Just the one, that architect's wife. Melville, that's the name. She's from California, she's pretty as a picture, and she's living in Alpine. Now who can fault that?” He sat back again, stubby thumbs entwined in his suspenders.

Amazingly, Leonard had remembered Beverly's last name. But that wasn't what most intrigued me: “When was that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“When?” Leonard started to scowl. “Monday, like I … oh, you mean what time? Just before eight-thirty. Once in a while I like to eat breakfast out. No hard feelings with Violet, mind, but it gives me a chance to shoot the breeze and hear what the voters have to say. Just for the heck of it, I had breakfast Monday at the Dutch Cup. Sultan may be in Snohomish County, but I've got some cronies there all the same.”