Alpine Gamble (4 page)

“Will he sell?”

Vida shrugged her broad shoulders. “If the price is
right. He's tight as a drum. These Californians won't get the best of Leonard.” As much as she might criticize a Skykomish County commissioner, Vida would take his part against any outsiders.

“Okay, I've got an
if
story. I hate them. Tf Leonard Hollenberg agrees to sell' … 'If the California developers can raise the financial backing' … 'If architect Scott Melville comes up with a feasible design' …” I lifted both eyebrows at Vida.

“We should have a look,” she said. “I haven't been to the hot springs since 1969.”

I glanced at the stock photo we were going to run on the front page. It showed somebody's bare legs immersed in a small plastic-lined pool. “Who took this picture?”

“Leonard. He's been generous about letting people use the springs. I'll say that for him.”

I gave a faint nod, then turned back to my keyboard. Vida, however, lingered in the doorway. It was rare that I ever exhibited impatience toward my House * Home editor. But the clock was advancing on four P.M. I had to write the article and finish making up the front page.

“What is it?” I asked, hoping I didn't sound annoyed.

Vida frowned, adjusted her glasses again, and glanced over her shoulder to make sure nobody was eavesdropping. Nobody was. Ginny was at her post in the front office, Carla was picking up some photos at Buddy Bayard's studio, and Leo had gone over to the Grocery Basket to make last minute changes in their Break Out the Barbecues ad.

“I proofed those personals,” Vida said, almost in a whisper. “Interesting, aren't they?” She looked not at me, but somewhere in the direction of my filing cabinet.

“I guess,” I said noncommittally. “Some of them are kind of weird.”

“Not all, though,” Vida said. “I wonder how much you can believe?”

I tried to concentrate on Vida instead of letting my brain write the story without my fingers. “That depends. How much advertising in general can anyone believe?”

Vida fingered her chin. “That's the problem. So much of it is blind faith. Oh, well.” She turned and walked back into the news office.

For about ten seconds I considered Vida's conundrum. Obviously, she had read the personals ad that seemed to be directed at her. Or someone like her. She was intrigued. I was surprised. And touched. Vida always seemed so self-sufficient. She'd been a widow for almost twenty years. She'd finished raising three daughters on her own. I'd never been aware of Vida expressing interest in any man, let alone going out with one. She knew everyone in Alpine, including the eligible widowers and bachelors. That was the problem, it seemed to me—she knew them
too
well. And vice versa. Bemused, I turned my attention back to my highly conjectural story.
If
I wrote.
If
…

But part of my brain was still thinking of Vida. “If,” it said. “If Vida answers that ad …”

Then what if … ? I couldn't help but smile.

Sheriff Milo Dodge was plying me with cheap drink. Beer, to be exact, at Mugs Ahoy. His motives weren't nefarious. They never were, a fact that usually pleased me. Milo was celebrating the start of renovations to the Skykomish County Sheriff's office. I had used the information from Scott Melville in a small front-page story, along with a quote from Milo, who had said he was “pleased and gratified that the voters had passed a bond issue that would allow their local agency to update and improve facilities while also adding much-needed personnel.”

A new deputy had joined the force in early May. Dustin Fong was from Seattle, a graduate of Shoreline Community College's law enforcement program, and of Chinese-American descent. He was one of a half-dozen non-Caucasians now living in Alpine, and as such, was considered strange, exotic, and, in extreme cases, a likely candidate to start a Tong War.

“The new software's being installed next week,” Milo said, lifting his beer glass in a semitoast. “Maybe Carla can take a picture of Dustin or Jack Mullins or one of the other deputies using it.”

“Sounds exciting,” I said, hoping I meant it. “How many jail cells will you have when the renovation's done?”

“Six, instead of two.” Milo lighted a cigarette. I did the same. Somehow, I'd gotten through the day without smoking, but I couldn't refrain in the darkened, derelict interior of Mugs Ahoy. It seemed wrong
not
to smoke. “Let's hope we don't need them,” Milo continued, exhaling a blue cloud. “The main thing is the technology, and the space for it. Scott Melville's bill is paid, but if Nyquist Construction comes in over budget, we're screwed.”

I sipped my beer, wishing I liked it better. If Mugs Ahoy or the Icicle Creek Tavern would import a brew that came from beyond the Canadian border or the Idaho state line, I might not have to wince every time I took a drink.

“Nyquist is dependable,” I said, hoping to soothe the sheriff's fears.

Milo lifted one shoulder. “True. I wonder if they'll get the contract for the spa thing.”

“Hey,” I cautioned, “you're jumping the gun. Leonard Hollenberg is still sitting tight. Wait until tomorrow—you'll read all about it in
The Advocate”

But Milo shook his head. “Leonard is seventy-six years old. His big thing in life is walking out his back door and trying to coax a steelhead out of the Skyko-mish River. Not that I blame him. I intend to do the same when I retire. If his kids want him to build a chalet—and bear in mind that those
kids
are in their thirties and forties—then they can let him put it on the same property where he's got his house. Hell, he owns two acres, and it's only eight more miles to the summit. Big deal.”

“Why did he buy up all that land with the hot springs in the first place?” I asked, waving politely to a couple I recognized from St. Mildred's Church.

“Damned if I know,” Milo replied. “Some out-of-town doctors used to own it. I guess they lost interest. Maybe Leonard thought he could sell it off piece by piece to the loggers. But that idea went down the drain with the spotted owl. They've been sighted up there, along with a lot of other birds. Those guys from L.A. better watch it, or they'll have all the tree-huggers on their necks.”

I mentioned that Stan Levine seemed concerned about the environment. And that he was a bird lover. Milo wasn't impressed.

“California bullshit,” he remarked, giving Cal Vick-ers a high sign. “Hey, Cal—you got time to check out my Cherokee Chief tomorrow?”

Cal Vickers, owner of Cal's Texaco Station and Auto Repair, paused on his way out of the tavern. Apparently, he and a couple of his employees had stopped for a beer after work. Cal tugged at the bill of his stained Texaco cap and grinned.

“Sure, Sheriff. Bring it in, first thing. What's the problem?”

There ensued a discussion of things mechanical in
which I had neither interest nor understanding. My mind wandered, leaping from the spa project to Vida's single status to why Mugs Ahoy's decor still featured Easter bunnies almost two months after the fact. My attention returned only when I caught a fragment of Cal's conversation with Milo:

“They must have rented it in Seattle,” Cal was saying, his weathered face registering disapproval. “You won't find any of those Range Rovers around here. That's what kills me about Californians—they have to show off.”

Milo was nodding. “They're spoiled. Nuts about cars, too. I went to L.A. once, when Mulehide and I took the kids to Disneyland. In Beverly Hills we counted ten Rolls-Royces in ten minutes.”

Cal looked suitably disgusted. “Charlene and the boys and I went to Disneyland twice, but we skipped L.A. All those freeways and all that smog—bah! They can have it. The Rolls-Royces, too. What's wrong with a good old Ford?”

Milo poked me. “You interviewed these guys, Emma. Tell Cal what you thought of them.”

I gave Cal a semihelpless look. “They're hustlers, especially Fannucci. Levine seems more serious. But hustling doesn't make them crooks.” I turned back to Milo. “Why don't you run them through your data base? If nothing else, we could squelch any rumors that they're wanted in several states.”

But Milo shook his head. “I can't. The old software was pulled this afternoon. I'd have to go through Snohomish County, and I don't like bothering them unless it's important.”

My inclination wasn't to push, but Cal Vickers felt otherwise: “Hey, Milo, this
is
important! Even if they're not con artists, do you want these L.A. types
running Skykomish County? Let the first two in the door, and the next thing you know, we'll have newcomers behind every tree, condos up our butts, traffic jammed on Front Street, and gangs shooting it out at the high school!”

Though Milo laughed, he gave Cal a reassuring slap on the shoulder. “Come on, Cal, relax. Alpine and the rest of the county need a boost. I'm hoping these guys move ahead with the project. Think of all the jobs it'll create, right from the get-go.”

Cal, however, wasn't assuaged. He yanked at the rumpled collar of his grimy coverall and glowered at the sheriff. “You're nuts, Milo. These L.A. guys are nuts, too. Think about it—two miles up, a switchback to accommodate all those fancy cars, a great big old
building
stuck on the side of Spark Plug—and the environmentalist bozos talk about clear-cutting being an eyesore! Shit!” Cal glanced at me. “Sorry, Emma. This deal's got me riled up. You can bet that most folks here in Alpine aren't for it, either.” He tipped his battered cap and left.

Milo's long face was mildly perturbed. “Cal doesn't rile that easy,” he remarked, signaling for Abe Loomis to bring another round. “As a rule, he's pretty easygoing.”

I agreed. Cal was a bit of a redneck, in his way, as are so many Alpiners. His wife Charlene had always struck me as reasonable. She and I played bridge together; Charlene almost never tried to kill her partner over egregious mistakes. That fact spoke well for Charlene Vickers's equanimity.

Mugs Ahoy's owner and resident bartender, Abe Loomis, skulked to our table with more beer. Because of his funereal mien, I secretly referred to him as Abe Gloomis. Indeed, his attitude was more sepulchral than ever.

“Cal's upset,” Abe said, setting the schooners before us. “I don't blame him. Have you heard that these Cal-ifornians are going to allow
nude
bathing?”

I tried to look ingenuous. “You mean in the resort's bathrooms? My! I've been taking nude baths for years.”

In the dim, smoky atmosphere, I could have sworn that Abe's sallow face blushed. “Of course not. I mean in the spa, or whatever they call it. Skinny-dipping, plain and simple. God only knows what else will go on.

Milo ran his fingers through his sandy hair. “Don't worry about it,” he said. “It's supposed to be a classy operation. Ignore the rumors, Abe, and give these guys a chance.”

“A chance!” Abe was aghast. “Do you realize what's going to happen? All these rich people will come up here from Seattle and Bellevue, and they'll want those fancy imported beers and little appetizer things instead of peanuts, and the next thing you know, I'll have to hire a gay waiter! And wine—what's wrong with Gallo and Yosemite Sam? They may even want to eat something besides my frozen sandwiches! I'll have to take delivery more than once a month!”

“Perish the thought,” I murmured. “Just think, Abe,” I went on more loudly, “you might actually make money.”

Abe was regarding me with a dark, almost sinister expression. “Very funny, Emma. You don't know diddly about running a tavern. The money is in the
beer.
The rest is just a headache.” Abe put a long, awkward hand to his temple, as if he were already suffering from migraine. “Don't try to cheer me up. This resort idea is too much. Everybody says so. Mark my words, it'll never happen. Those two Angelenos will be lucky to get out of Alpine alive.”

Milo and I both laughed. Our host did not.

Later, it would be hard to admit that Abe Loomis was right.

“WHAT
HAS
THREE legs and no hair?” asked Vida, blowing a stray curl off her forehead.

I glanced up from the current edition of
The Advocate
, which had just arrived from the printer in Monroe. “Durwood Parker on a cane?” I suggested in a joking manner.

“That's right.” Vida eyed me crossly. “How did you know?”

“I didn't.” Relieved not to find any glaring typos or factual errors, I set my copy of the paper down on Leo's messy desk. “What happened to Durwood?”

Vida sighed. “He got his driver's license back, heaven help us. He parked up on the curb by Itsa Bitsa Pizza and fell into one of the civic beautification planters. He pulled something or other in his leg and smashed the sweet alyssum that had just been set out the day before. He also hurt the ageratum. Not only can't Durwood drive properly, it appears he can't even walk.”

Durwood Parker, retired pharmacist, was the worst driver in Alpine. I made appropriate noises, then inquired if Vida was getting a head start on “Scene Around Town,”
The Advocate's
version of a gossip column.

“Yes,” she answered on a long-suffering note. “This week's is deadly dull. Have you read it yet?”

I had. Along with my presence at King Olav's—
“Advocate
editor-publisher Emma Lord making the ski lodge lunch scene with L.A. developers Blake Fannucci and Stan Levine”—were such other nonstartling items as “Donna Wickstrom hauling a wagonload of her day care clients to Old Mill Park for a romp on the jungle gym,” “Stella Magruder featuring breezy summer cuts at her styling salon,” and “Doc Dewey bragging about his new grandson at Fuzzy and Irene Baugh's Memorial Day picnic.” The only unusual bit was “Crazy Eights Neffel leading a Jersey cow into the public library.” But even that wasn't unusual by Alpine standards. Crazy Eights was our resident loony, and his peculiar antics were the norm.

“We could use more titillating items,” I said as Ginny Burmeister and Carta Steinmetz came into the news office. It was the first of June, and therefore payday. Ginny and Carta had obviously taken some time off to shop. Both were carrying bags from the sportswear store at the Alpine Mall.

“I got new sweats,” Carta announced, pulling out matching green pants and top.