Alpine Gamble (3 page)

I nodded, wondering if Blake was right or merely tactful. It was true that the Bank of Alpine was small. It was also true that the Petersen family, which had run the local financial institution for years, wasn't inclined to take on risky ventures.

“What projects have you been involved in recently?” I asked, after sipping my wine and wondering if I could have distinguished this particular year from any other, or, say, from a glass of 7UP.

Blake responded with a list, featuring names such as Leisure Palace, Indoorsport, and Innertainment. They all seemed to be in places such as Long Beach, Newport, and Rancho Mirage.

My next question had to wait until after Melissa had returned to take our orders. This exercise lasted several minutes, with Blake going over the menu item by item, and Stan asking about various substitutions.

“Very odd menu,” Blake said when Melissa finally trudged off. “So many beets and potatoes and fish. Haven't you people learned how to graze?”

I was beginning to feel as if my hosts and I weren't merely from different states, but different cultures. “Graze?” I echoed a bit numbly.

“Right,” Blake said. “It's not a new concept in southern California. Not at all. It refers to small portions of food that can be eaten on the move, as at a party or a gallery showing or even in a restaurant.”

“But the selections have cohesion,” Stan put in. “That's essential.”

“Right,” Blake agreed. “Interactive cuisine, that's the concept.”

I tried to envision the Burl Creek Thimble Club grazing its way through a monthly meeting or Vida's fellow Presbyterians devising a mobile John Knox menu. Somehow, the concept didn't work for me. Or for Alpine, either.

“What brought you up here?” I inquired, refocusing on my story.

“New worlds to conquer,” Blake answered easily. “People in California are backing off from big construction projects right now. Too many earthquakes, fires, floods—all the rest of it. We thought about Alaska, but that's too remote. British Columbia gets complicated, though the exchange rate is very favorable with Canada at present. Oregon's environmental laws are tougher than just about any other state. Washington seemed promising. It offers natural irony—the wilderness is still close to the cities. You know, Nature Meets Microsoft.” He turned to Stan. “By the way, did you call Bill?”

Stan inclined his head. “He's out of town. He'll get back to us next week. I'll send an E-mail reminder.”

My pen was poised over the notepad. “Bill? Bill Gates of Microsoft?”

Blake nodded. “Right. It's always smart to touch base with the local movers and shakers. Who knows? Bill might want to get involved. We'd consider it—wouldn't we, Stan?”

Stan's high forehead creased. “Probably. But these self-made software billionaires can be a pain. I've always felt it's better to keep the decision making in our hands.”

The mention of
hands
recalled Blake's accident. “What happened?” I pointed to Blake's right arm. “Did you break something?”

“Chipped, actually,” he answered as a glum Melissa brought our salads. “Right at the base of the thumb where the ligament's attached. I just got out of the cast last week. There's some permanent damage to the ligament, which causes lax or gamekeeper's thumb. It's named after a condition gamekeepers in England used to get from strangling rabbits.” Blake grinned at me. “You know—D. H. Lawrence Does Hollywood.”

I tried to appear amused and sympathetic at the same time. The attempt felt as awkward as it must have looked. “Will it go away?”

Blake shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Oh, it's annoying. I can't write. That's the obvious loss. But you'd be amazed at how many things you do with your thumb that you take for granted.”

Steering the conversation back to the proposed project, we spent the next hour talking about the development's possible directions. While many of the Pacific Northwest's mineral springs had been left in their natural state, others already had been converted into modest spas, retreat centers, or destination-style resorts.

'This is where Scott Melville comes in,” Blake declared, critically eyeing his veal cutlet. “There's not much level ground. Form will determine function, in this case. We're open.”

It had occurred to me that I should talk to Scott Melville before I wrote the story. My watch indicated it was after one o'clock. A call to Leonard Hollenberg was also in order. I was beginning to feel the pressure of deadline.

Consequently, when Melissa asked us if we wanted dessert—though her hostile tone dared us to do so—I declined, saying I had to get back to work. I thanked Blake and Stan for their generous hospitality and prepared to leave.

“Let me walk you to your car,” Stan offered as Blake scanned the bill that Melissa had slapped down in front of him. “We appreciate the coverage you're giving us.”

“It's news,” I said, nodding to Henry Bardeen, who was standing behind the front desk, looking grim. “If you go ahead with this, it'll be the biggest thing to hit Skykomish County since the railroad.”

As usual, Stan was wearing a serious expression. “It's reassuring to have you on our side. I sense that not everybody around here welcomes Californians. But we're not all greedy opportunists.”

We had stepped outside, into the parking lot. On the last day of May, there were only about two dozen occupied spaces. The ski season was over, and the summer tourists hadn't yet started to arrive.

“Alpine's been going through a recession,” I admitted. “The timber industry, you know. The downturn in jobs started in the late Seventies, with the technological revolution. Then came the spotted owl ruling in Ninety-one. Sometimes it feels as if the town's at war with the environmentalists.”

Stan's dark eyes studied the patches of snow on Mount Baldy. “Oh, yes. I know all about those environmentalists. But they have a point. Personally, we'll do everything we can to avoid causing problems. It's essential.
If we harm the environment, we could ruin the hot springs. We'd certainly harm the natural setting.”

Somewhat to my surprise, Stan seemed awestruck by his surroundings. When he finally stopped staring at the second-growth timber that marched up the mountainsides, he broke into a smile and pointed.

“See the chipmunk? The only wildlife we have in L.A. carries handguns.”

I smiled back. Stan Levine might not be quite as relaxed as Blake Fannucci, but his company was more relaxing. The ninety-minute concept lunch had worn me out.

“It's quiet up here,” I remarked. “And it usually smells good. Damp earth. Evergreens. Wood smoke, from the cedar mills.”

Stan took a deep breath, appreciating my litany. “And just plain fresh air.” Abruptly, he turned to me, exhibiting almost boyish excitement. “Do you know I saw a MacGillivray's warbler this morning?”

I must have looked blank. “You did?”

Again he nodded, this time with enthusiasm. “They breed in all the western mountains, from Vancouver Island to Arizona. Townsend's, the hermit, and the black-throated gray warbler all nest around here, too. 1 haven't seen them yet. I hear the cedar waxwing winters here. Now there's a handsome bird! I'd love to sight one of those.”

I wouldn't know one warbler from another, but I recognized the cedar waxwing. In fact, a pair of them were frequent visitors to my backyard. A bit shyly, I asked Stan if he'd like to drop by on Saturday.

“If you and Blake are still in town,” I added.

Stan considered the invitation. “We may be. It'll depend on how things go with HoUenberg. Have you got fruit trees in your yard?”

I didn't. My cozy log house was virtually built into
the forest. The waxwings perched among the Douglas firs and western hemlock.

“Waxwings usually nest in orchards,” Stan said, once again very serious.

“The neighbors have a couple of apple trees,” I said, edging toward my aging Jaguar XJE. “Stop by, if you can. I've got binoculars.”

“So do I,” Stan replied, his smile returning. “I take them everywhere. You never know when you're going to find something startling.”

How true. How prophetic. How sad.

I WAS
FORCED to hang up on Leonard Hollenberg. Not that the old windbag was telling me anything, but Ginny Burmeister had shoved a note onto my desk saying that my brother Ben was on the phone from Tuba City, Arizona. I interrupted Leonard's coy evasions about the proposed hot springs sale and pressed line two.

“Hey, Sluggly,” said Ben in his crackling voice, “you owe me two hundred bucks.”

“Like hell,” I retorted. “Listen, Stench, if you were dumb enough to fork over Adam's speeding fine, that's your problem. Besides, it was only one fifty. And stop calling me Sluggly. We're not ten years old anymore.”

“Then stop calling me Stench,” Ben ordered, though I knew neither of us was inclined to surrender our childhood nicknames. Maybe, in our forties, it was a way to hold on to our youth. “Has Adam left for Tempe?”

“About two hours ago,” Ben replied, now sounding slightly disgruntled. “I know the ticket wasn't two hundred. I took the extra fifty out of the poor box so he could buy beer.”

I ran a hand through my shaggy brown hair. “Great. You shouldn't have given him anything. The boy—the
man
—has got to grow up.”

“Why?” Ben shot back. “So we can feel
really
old? Hell, Emma, I was forty-six on my last birthday. Besides,
I wanted to get him out of here. Things are a bit ticklish in Tuba City just now.”

“The war?” I wasn't sure whether to take it seriously. “What's happening?”

Ben sighed. “Some Navajo sheep got their throats cut. There was a fire at a Hopi cornfield early this morning. I'm trying to get everybody to talk it through, but let's face it, I'm an outsider. You know what that's like.”

I certainly did. After five years in Alpine I still hadn't been completely accepted into the community. Probably I never would be, unless I died. Non-natives can only expiate the sin of being born elsewhere by getting buried in Alpine's cemetery. The locals will embrace a headstone before they take another human being to their collective bosom.

“Are you going to be able to get away for a couple of weeks?” I asked, beginning to sense that Ben wasn't talking about a tempest in a teapot.

“I hope so,” my brother answered. “Most of my flock is Navajo or Hispanic or both. The Hopi are more inclined to keep to the old ways. But some of them are willing to listen to the Christian concept of God and can reconcile it with Maasaw, their deity of life. I try to offer a rallying point for mutual understanding, but the more rigid Hopi view me as a Navajo dupe.”

Had I never lived in Alpine, I might have wondered why people with so much in common couldn't get along. But small-town life had taught me about feuds. I knew members of the same families who not only wouldn't speak to each other, but who spelled their last names differently just for the sake of spite.

“I still wish you hadn't given Adam that two hundred dollars,” I said, for lack of any cogent advice on intertribal warfare. “It'd serve him right if he got his driver's
license revoked. He's been nagging me about buying him a car.”

“Don't worry, Emma,” Ben reassured me. “I'll make him work it off on the dig this summer.”

The previous year, Adam had been a novice at the Kayenta Anasazi archaeological excavation. He had performed menial tasks for his room and board at the parish rectory. But because my son had shown an aptitude as well as an interest in the dig, Ben had promised to pay him this coming summer. I congratulated my brother on his solution, but issued a warning:

“I know you weren't going to pay him much,” I said, aware that line one had lighted up again. “Adam will try to finagle money out of you after the first week. If there were any spare jobs in Alpine, I'd insist he spend the summer here.”

“We'll work it out,” Ben said. “Our flight gets in around noon on the eighteenth. I'll probably talk to you before then, unless I end up as cannon fodder.”

On that disturbing note, Ben rang off. I picked up line one and heard an unfamiliar male voice.

“… called while I was with Sheriff Dodge,” said the voice, even as my mind tried to cope with recognition. “Construction should start June tenth. Is that what you were calling about, Ms. Lord?”

“Oh!” It dawned on me that I had Scott Melville, architect, on the line. “Yes—and no. Milo Dodge hadn't confirmed the start-up date. What I really wanted was to know how far you've come with the Windy Mountain plans.”

Scott chuckled, a pleasant yet reserved sound. “Not far. Have you hiked up to the pools?”

I confessed that I hadn't. Scott's tone became businesslike. “That's really rugged terrain. If Fannucci and Levine buy that property, I'm envisioning terraces,
maybe built right into the mountainside. It's going to jack up the price by another two mil.”

“May I quote you?”

“No,” Scott replied. “Not the numbers. This is for publication? Let's just say that if it's done right—if it can be done at all—it's going to be more than the earlier estimates.”

“I suppose,” I said in a ruminative voice, “I ought to see the site for myself.”

“Wear boots. There's still snow around the pools. Hollenberg says it doesn't melt until mid-June. We're talking serious elevation here, like maybe four thousand feet.”

'Then what's the point?” I asked. “Can they keep a road open more than four months of the year?”

Scott's laugh sounded forced. “They're talking helipad, maybe a tram. It's their money. I'm just the talent.”

Vaguely, I recalled articles I'd read over the years in
Variety.
Hollywood people could talk a great line. The Second Coming was not only imminent, it would be shot in Panavision with Dolby sound. Or so the reader would believe by the end of the story. I thanked Scott for his call and hung up.

With a sigh, I turned back to my word processor. Vida stood in the doorway, her nose wrinkled, as if she could smell a story. In this case, she wasn't quite on target.

“Damn,” I said, looking up from my screen, “without Hollenberg's okay, all I've got is speculation.”

“Leonard's an old fool,” Vida declared, removing her glasses, breathing on the lenses, and then wiping them on her pink sleeve. “He worked as an engineer for the railroad, you know. His trains always ran late.”