Alpine Gamble (6 page)

“But,” I pointed out, “Fannucci and Levine have struck a deal with Hollenberg.”

“It's not a done deal yet,” Ed reminded me. “At best it'll take—what? Thirty days? At worst—which is my prediction—it'll never happen. They won't get the financing, they'll back out, Leonard'11 get cold feet, the whole thing will blow away. Then I'll step in, offer
Leonard say fifty grand, and we're airborne. What do you think?”

To be fair, it wasn't an implausible scenario. If, for some reason, Fannucci and Levine couldn't come up with the money, Leonard Hollenberg probably would be just as happy selling to a local, even at a lesser price. Certainly he wouldn't be as open to criticism from the electorate.

“Okay, Ed, you're making sense. We'll have to see what happens.” I gave my ex-employee a genuine smile. “Just let me be the first to hear about it. I don't want the story broken in
The Everett Herald
or
The Seattle Times.”

I was kidding, but Ed didn't think so. “You got it, Emma,” he said, very seriously. “I wouldn't bother with
The Herald
or
The Times
anyway. I'd go straight to
The Wall Street Journal.
I subscribe now, you know.”

“Good for you,” I said, allowing Ed to shake my hand. He waddled away, leaving me in peace. Or so it seemed, until Vida showed up less than five minutes later. She was wearing her version of a business suit, which was a collarless beige linen jacket over a matching straight skirt. The chartreuse polyester blouse and the brown broad-brimmed felt hat with its garnet roses didn't enhance the illusion. However, I couldn't help but be intrigued when Vida closed the door behind her. My staff members rarely did such a thing unless they were going to talk about sex or money. While
The Advocate's
employees had little of either commodity in their lives, it was usually the latter, rather than the former.

But I was wrong about Vida. She had let the brown hat slip down so that her eyes, as well as her glasses, were all but hidden. I was reminded of a spy from a World War II B-movie.

“That ad,” she began in a hushed voice that did nothing to destroy my little fantasy. “I answered it.”

Maintaining what I hoped was a sober, yet sympathetic expression, I leaned closer. “You did? You mean the one about a mature …” Offhand, I couldn't recall the rest of the lengthy wording. But Vida was nodding, causing the garnet roses to bob. “Have you heard anything?” I inquired.

Pushing the brim of her hat off her forehead, Vida regarded me with her gimlet eye. “Of course not. I only wrote to the P.O. box number today. I shouldn't expect any reply until Saturday, at least. Do you think I'm foolish?”

The anxiety in Vida's voice moved me. “Goodness, no! Whoever wrote that sounds …
sincere.”

“I haven't told my girls,” Vida murmured, referring to her three married daughters, only one of whom lived in Alpine. “I should, though. They've been nagging me for years to … to find a companion.” Before I could comment, Vida gave me a withering stare. “I chose the word carefully. That's precisely what I mean. It would be pleasant to have a man around for social occasions, even trips to Seattle for the ballet or symphony.”

While I knew Vida enjoyed classical music, she had never attended any Big City cultural events since I'd known her. But maybe that was because she felt the need for a male escort. In many ways, Vida was very old-fashioned.

I remained openly sympathetic. “Ginny has set up a special box at die post office,” I noted, though Vida was aware of the fact. “She'll be checking it every day, except Saturdays.”

Vida shrugged. “I can wait until Monday.”

“Why didn't you just give your letter to Ginny?” I asked, and then realized the answer before I could retrieve the question.

Vida had turned very severe. “Do you think I want everybody and his brother to know? Ginny would tell Carla who would tell Leo who would tell the whole town. Really, Emma, this is a very private matter.”

Of course it was. I allowed as much. Vida retaliated by invading my privacy:

“What have you heard from Tommy?”

Nobody but Vida referred to Tom Cavanaugh as
Tommy.
The great love of my life and the father of my son was finally getting a divorce. I had confided only in Vida—and Ben, of course—that Tom's mentally unbalanced wife, Sandra, had left him. Given Sandra's erratic, even criminal, behavior over a quarter of a century, Tom had far more provocation to call it quits. But Tom also had an enormous sense of responsibility, as well as a few tons of guilt. Thus, when Sandra fell for Zorro, a stand-up comedian half her age, she was the one who had decided to end the marriage.

“I spoke with Tom Saturday morning,” I answered carefully. “It's getting complicated. Sandra's been living with Zorro in a cabin near Big Sur, but suddenly she's decided she wants the house in San Francisco. She says it's impracticable for Zorro to be so far away from the city, because of his comedy gigs. He's also, I gather, too far from his drug supplier.”

“Oh, dear.” Vida took off her hat and fanned herself, despite the cool, rainy weather. “Sandra wants the house as well as half of Tom's newspaper holdings? My my—that doesn't seem fair, given the circumstances.”

Maybe not, though it was Sandra's inherited money that had given Tom the stake in building his empire of weeklies throughout the West. For the first time in my life I grudgingly allowed a point scored for Sandra Cavanaugh. As for the house, it didn't seem to me that either would want it. Sandra and Tom's two children were in college, and while I'd never seen the place, I'd
gathered it was of mansion proportions. Perhaps Zorro wanted some room for his horse. The double entendre made me smile.

“What is it?” Vida demanded. “How on earth can you find Tommy's problems funny?”

“I don't,” I readily admitted. “I was thinking about Zorro.”

“Well, don't. He's not worth the mental effort. Nor is Sandra.” Vida radiated disapproval, though she had never met Sandra and knew Tom only from his brief visit to Alpine three years earlier. “When are you going to tell Adam?”

Nervously, I ruffled my shaggy hair with both hands. “When he gets here,” I said, without much confidence. “It will be better to have Ben with us.”

“Oh, good grief!” Vida rolled her eyes. “Since when did you require moral support? Hasn't your whole life been lived as though you didn't need Tommy or anyone else?”

Vida's comment stung. It was true. Having discovered that the man I loved had gotten both his wife and me pregnant at about the same time, I'd spurned Tom's offers of help. I'd kept him out of my life—and Adam's—for the first twenty years. Then, with reluctance, I'd permitted Tom to meet his illegitimate son. The two had gotten along quite well. Better late than never for Adam to realize that being a bastard didn't mean he was also fatherless.

“Ben and Adam have become very close,” I explained. “Besides, one of the things I've learned in the last few years is that you can't always do everything by yourself.”

In a painstaking manner that was uncharacteristic, Vida rose from her chair. “Yes,” she said in an odd voice. “That's so, isn't it?”

* * * 

Friday was relatively uneventful, if busy. I'd called Adam in Tempe around eight o'clock and managed to catch him just as he was going out. To study, he said, but being a Friday night, I suspected otherwise. I inquired into his most recent speeding ticket. He mumbled a bit, something about Uncle Ben advancing him the money and how he planned to pay it back by doing something or other.

“Have you talked to Ben since you got back to Tempe?” I asked.

Adam hadn't, which didn't surprise me. “I've been in deep stuff here, Mom. I've got a term paper due and finals are coming up. You've forgotten how hard college is. And it's a lot tougher these days, with all the competition. You wouldn't believe the kind of stress I'm under.”

If Adam thought I would swallow that line of tripe, the only thing he was under was a delusion. But it cost money to argue long distance. “Just make sure you pay Ben back,” I warned my son.

Adam's tone became indignant. “Oh, yeah, sure, as if … you think I'd pull some dumb stunt on Uncle Ben? I'm not a kid anymore, Mom.”

Well, he wasn't. Maybe I should start treating him like a man, I thought. My glance fell on a framed photograph of Adam and Ben at the Anasazi dig the previous summer. In their sweaty exuberance, both son and brother looked happy and fit. I'd liked the picture so much that I'd had it enlarged. Hie play of sunshine and shadow emphasized Adam's increasingly chiseled features, and heightened his likeness to Tom. Ben, on the other hand, looked playful, like the big brother I'd always known. If I tried very hard, I could imagine they were here with me, all the time. “I'm not sending you any of the things you asked for,” I said, fighting off maternal guilt. “You can wait until you get to Alpine.”

“Mom!” The outraged whine indicated that Adam was feeling about twelve. But to my surprise, he regrouped. “Okay, fine.” The pout in his voice was minimal. “It's only a couple of weeks. But I'm almost out of socks.”

“It's hot in Tempe. You can go barefoot.” I laughed evilly.

“Sure, and get my toes chewed off by scorpions.”

“I thought they were iguanas.”

“Whatever. Hey, got to go. My buddies are here with the … study guides. See you.”

Funny, I could have sworn the word he'd intended to say rhymed with “here.” Maybe I was mistaken. After all, Adam was trying to be a man.

By Saturday the rain had stopped, though the clouds still hung low over the mountains. About ten o'clock I called Vida to ask if she really wanted to hike up to the hot springs site. She did, but her grandson Roger was staying with her. The steep trail might tucker out the poor little tyke.

Since the ten-year-old terror couldn't be stopped by a SCUD missile, I was surprised. On the other hand, I certainly didn't want Roger tagging along. After hanging up, I debated the wisdom of making the trek on my own. I was still mulling when Stan Levine called at ten-fifteen. He wanted to come over and bird-watch.

I'd forgotten my casual invitation. Caught off guard, I told Stan that would be fine, though the sooner the better. I didn't want to spend my entire Saturday sitting around waiting for a boy and his binoculars.

Fortunately, Stan showed up in the next ten minutes. I watched him park the black Range Rover in my driveway and then pause to admire the contours of my log house. Or so I assumed.

“Very nice,” Stan said, stepping back on the small
front porch. “This style is hot in L.A. these days. Several stars have built log houses.”

Inviting Stan to come into the living room, I accepted the compliment. “I didn't build it, I just bought it,” I said. “They require quite a bit of upkeep. Mine needs to be stained again. The exterior wood gets very gray with all the rain and snow. It's probably time to rechink, too.”

Stan was now studying my inner walls. The kitchen, hall, and bath had been finished with gypsum board, but the logs in the living room, dining nook, and bedrooms had been left exposed.

“Lodgepole pine?” Stan ventured.

“No. Douglas fir. Speaking of which,” I continued, “would you like to come outside? The birds usually congregate in the evergreens behind the house.”

With his binoculars slung around his neck and a small three-ring binder clutched in one hand, Stan followed me out the back door. I offered him a cup of coffee, but he declined. “Yesterday I saw a varied thrush by the ski lodge. You probably call them Alaskan robins. We don't usually get them in southern California.”

“They look like a robin,” I remarked, glancing up at the tall trees that stood at the edge of my backyard. Only a couple of crows were hopping among the branches at present. “Last year I had a pair of goldfinches hanging out for almost a week. I've never understood why they're the state bird. You hardly ever see them, at least in western Washington.”

“Ah!” Stan's thin features became animated. “Otherwise known as the wild canary. They're great birds, wonderful birds.” He whipped through the pages of his small binder. “See—I've made a note about them. They nest later than any other bird, any time from the last week of June to Labor Day. Very compact nests, usually lined with dandelion or some other kind of down.”

I gazed at the cramped, yet artistic handwriting. Stan had noted that the goldfinch often built in saplings or blackberry bushes. “Darn,” I murmured. “My backyard was overgrown with blackberries when I moved in. I got rid of them.”

Stan took the binder back, then tore out the page I'd just been perusing. “I didn't realize the goldfinch was Washington's state bird. Take this, I've made notes about what a special character it is. Their song is absolutely delightful. It's not just their yellow color that makes people call them canaries.”

Thanking Stan for the notes, I slipped the sheet of lined paper into my slacks. “By the way, congratulations on the pending sale,” I said, hoping to sound enthused. “I'll be checking in with you and Blake before we go to press.”

Stan pocketed the binder. “Oh—yes, by all means. We intend to stay here until Tuesday afternoon. Then we fly back to L.A. to firm up the financing.” He was moving slowly around on the grass, peering through his binoculars. His own manner was rather birdlike.

While Stan Levine might have the leisure to wait for the arrival of a rara avis, I didn't. Insisting that he make himself at home, I started back inside.

“Say,” Stan called after me, “have you been up to the hot springs yet?”

I confessed that I hadn't. Stan ankled closer. “Blake and I are going up this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

The suggestion sounded good. Somebody from
The Advocate
should get a firsthand look at the site. It didn't seem likely that Carla could be coerced into making the climb.

“That's fine,” I said, smiling in what I hoped was a gracious manner. “I'll drive down to the office to get my camera first.” With that as my exit line, I went into
the house. Stan didn't seem to mind; he had his binoculars in place and was following the flight of what appeared to be an ordinary English sparrow. He seemed content.