Alpine Gamble (29 page)

To my surprise, Leo showed no signs of wanting to follow in my long-ago date's disgusting footsteps. After
two drinks he was ready to order. By the time our salads arrived, some of the teenagers were leaving. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rip and Dixie Ridley checking out the dining room. No doubt they had been assigned to make sure that none of the celebrants caused a scene.

Since the Ridleys appeared to be looking in our direction, I waved. They ignored me. I sighed at Leo.

“I wonder if by the time I retire or move out or die there'll be anybody in this town still speaking to me.”

“Count me in, babe,” Leo said, adding more pepper to his salad. “Don't worry about Ridley. He's your typical jock, still hearing the roar of the crowd on fourth-and-goal. Mrs. R was probably a cheerleader.”

I gave a halfhearted chuckle. If memory served, Dixie had been a cheerleader in Colfax or Walla Walla or wherever Rip had played high school sports. She had put him through college at Washington State University. Or was it Oregon State? After two bourbons, I wasn't sure.

The table next to us had been vacated by one of the Gustavsons and his date. I hadn't recognized her, which meant she was probably an outsider, from Sultan or even Monroe. Somewhat hazily, I reflected on the lack of credentials for those who didn't belong. They changed with age, it seemed. Surely, mature people like myself considered anyone born on the right side of the Cascades as acceptable___

“Pssst, babe!” Leo was hissing at me. “Our gracious hosts from last weekend.” He nodded at the table where young Gustavson and the Sultan princess had so recently dined.

With a little start I glanced discreetly to my left. Sure enough, Beverly and Scott Melville were being seated by the hostess. This time I'd wait to be acknowledged.

Surprisingly, it didn't take long. Beverly hadn't
picked up her menu before leaning halfway out of her chair to call my name. Scott also smiled and nodded; Leo joined in the etiquette frenzy.

“You see, babe,” Leo said after we had finished our mutual greetings, “the Melvilles aren't snubbing you. Now do you want to tell Uncle Leo about the rat who ran away?”

At first I didn't know what Leo was talking about. Then I realized he was referring to my canceled weekend. Somehow, I never thought of Tom Cavanaugh as a rat.

“Leo,” I began, resting my elbows on the table, “if I had another drink, I might tell you the whole long, sad story. But I don't want another drink, and you don't want to hear it.”

“Why?” Leo asked, keeping stone-faced. “Wouldn't I respect you in the morning?”

I lowered my gaze, concentrating on the Danish flatware. “That's not the point.”

“Let me guess.” Leo paused as the waitress removed our salad plates. “You've known this guy fofr a long time. Maybe you met him years ago, when you worked on
The Oregonian.
He quit and moved away. Or you quit to escape him. But you couldn't get him out of your system. And vice versa. So the two of you meet now and then in Seattle or San Francisco or wherever it's convenient for a getaway. It goes without saying that he's married and won't get a divorce. A serious Catholic, like yourself. How am I doing?”

A quick estimate told me that Leo was shooting about eighty percent from the field. If the Sonics had done that well in the playoffs, I'd be picking up the tab instead of Leo.

“How do you figure all that?” I asked, somewhat amused and rather impressed.

“Easy. You don't play around. You're careful, but
you're not cold. I never see you hanging out with anybody around Alpine except that horse-faced sheriff, and I know he's got anther woman. So if you're meeting a guy in San Francisco, it has to be a big deal, and probably long-standing. Loyalty is one of your great virtues, babe. Hell, you'd still be tearing your hair over Ed Bronsky if he hadn't quit. Carla will retire before you get rid of her. And some publishers would have fired my ass the first couple of months when I was still drinking like a shit-faced sot.”

“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 the
you-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 Melville
approached. 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's
coming 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, instead
fixating 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 the
prom, 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, then
grabbed 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.