The Alpine Fury (7 page)

Marv nodded his big, balding head. “You bet. But chances are I won’t call. Honestly, Emma. I don’t have a damned thing to tell you.”

I had to be satisfied with that statement. Frustrated, I left the bank. Christie Johnston was on my heels.

“Late coffee break,” the teller explained as we stopped to wait for a US West service van to pass. “I liked your editorial on litter last week.”

The piece hadn’t exactly been my proudest moment. Usually I limit antilitter editorials to once a year in early June, just before the summer visitors start arriving. But the Rotary and Kiwanis Clubs had each voted to adopt a mile of cleanup along Highway 187 when the resurfacing was finished. I had used them as an example of public-spirited organizations, and urged others to join in the cleanup crusade.

I smiled at Christie, who is in her mid-thirties and has worked at the bank for a couple of years. She is about my size, and pretty, if sharp-featured. Her masses
of curly brown hair were now hidden by the hood of her navy ski parka. “Thanks, Christie. Are you encouraging your fellow employees to take on the project?”

Christie grimaced as we crossed the street. “I don’t think so. Mr. Petersen—Marv—is kind of sensitive about the bank’s image. I don’t think he’d go for it.”

I envisioned the Petersens and their employees rooting around the side of the road that led up to the campground and the ranger station. “It might do them good. The Petersens project a folksy family image.”

Christie was poised to turn left; no doubt she was headed down the block to the Upper Crust. “Compared to bigger banks, they do,” she acknowledged. “I’ve worked for some real stuffed shirts in Seattle and Everett. But Marv still likes to keep his dignity.”

Editorial or not, I wasn’t going to knock myself out to get recruits for the litter project. I knew that Christie’s husband, Troy, worked for UPS. He’d been transferred from an Everett route to Highway 2. I made one last stab at putting my words to work.

“What about Troy and his fellow drivers?” It was almost eleven-thirty; I was hungry. If I bought something at the Upper Crust, I could work through my lunch hour. I started along Front Street with Christie at my side.

Christie hunkered down against the wind that had blown the fog away. Her teeth seemed to be chattering, though the temperature had risen into the mid-thirties. “Troy doesn’t like to be bugged in his spare time.” Her voice was almost lost inside the high collar of her parka.

I gave up. We entered the bakery, where a half dozen customers were drinking from steaming paper cups and eating fresh goodies. Christie selected a cinnamon roll
and hot coffee. She paid for her purchase, then said goodbye and left.

I had thought she’d linger. By the time I departed with my maple bar and hot chocolate, Christie was nowhere in sight. Or so I thought until I dropped my handbag while trying to juggle the hot cup and my white bakery sack. When I straightened up, I glimpsed Christie far down Front Street, crossing over by the Clemans Building. Running errands, I thought, and dismissed Christie from my mind.

I shouldn’t have done that.

By five o’clock, I hadn’t heard from Marv Petersen. By five-thirty, the paper was almost ready to go to Monroe in the morning. I’d saved a four-inch hole on page one for the Tuesday night City Council meeting that I would cover and report. Carla had performed adequately on the jack-o’-lantern reshoot, Vida had found a high school head shot of Bob Lambrecht, and we had all contributed to filling up the “Scene” column.

Carla and Ginny had gone home. Vida was sorting through the mail that had piled up while she worked on her section of this week’s paper. Leo was getting a head start on the Thanksgiving special edition to be published November eighteenth. With our Wednesday publication date, we actually have to put out two Thanksgiving papers, with the first carrying all the grocery and other celebration-related ads. The paper that’s delivered the afternoon before the holiday is stuffed with Thanksgiving-related copy and art, but most of the ads are looking ahead to Christmas.

Leo was laying out an ad for Delphine Corson’s Posies Unlimited. “Is that a co-op with FTE?” I inquired, stopping at Leo’s desk.

“Not this time,” Leo replied with the crooked grin
that matched his broken nose. “I talked her into going full-bore for Thanksgiving. A quarter page, with a drawing by one of the kids in the high school art class. Look—it’s not bad, it’s different, and it’s free. The kid just wants his name in print.”

I admired an ikebana arrangement of chrysanthemums in a wooden bowl. The sketch was signed by one of the Olson kids. His mother was half-Japanese, the daughter of a Seattle soldier and his war bride. Nancy Olson didn’t sound Asian, nor did she look particularly Japanese. Still, she was definitely considered different in Alpine, or, at best, exotic. So was her son, Matt, the artist.

“Can Delphine do ikebana?” I asked. “It’s a real art form.”

Leo shrugged and lighted a cigarette. “Who knows? Who cares? How many locals can tell ikebana from a ripe banana? I told Delphine if anybody asked for an arrangement like this one, to charge a hundred and fifty bucks. That ought to get them to switch to a nice potted plant.”

Vida’s voice erupted from the corner desk. “Delphine’s lost weight. I almost put it in ‘Scene,’ but you never know how people will react these days. They might consider it sexist, or else they’re dying of cancer.” Vida’s expression displayed disapproval of both rationales.

Leo, who had his foot propped up on a new box of copy paper, turned to Vida. “Hey, Duchess,” he said, using the nickname he’d coined and which Vida detested, “you ought to live in L.A. if you think people around here are touchy. You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit I got myself into down there.”

“Which,” Vida replied archly, “is no doubt why you
are now here.” With a withering look, she ripped open another envelope.

Leo laughed, blew out a cloud of smoke, and addressed me again. “Hey, babe, guess what? I was going to pay bills today. But I didn’t have to—one of those goddamned little gnomes at the bank is doing it for me. Thanks for hauling my ass over there yesterday.”

I nodded and smiled, albeit thinly. Ed Bronsky was hardly an upper-class kind of guy, but he’d almost never used crude language. I was no prude, certainly not after twenty years of working on a met daily, but in my tenure on
The Advocate
, we’d set a certain tone. Or maybe Vida had. It might be a good idea to ask Leo to watch his mouth. He wouldn’t bother Carla, who probably didn’t notice, but I was certain that he was, as Vida herself would put it, “getting her goat.” And Ginny’s, too.

This wasn’t the proper time, however. Vida was present, Leo was in a good mood, and I still had to face the City Council meeting at seven-thirty.

“I’m glad it’s all worked out for you, Leo,” I remarked, starting toward my office. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his grin fade and an almost wistful look pass across his face. I turned slightly, throwing him a verbal bone: “You’re saving on postage, too. Every little bit helps.” I felt like a colossal nerd.

“Speaking of which,” he called after me, “I’ll buy dinner if you’ll give me a ride home.”

It occurred to me that I hadn’t asked how Leo had gotten to work in the morning. I suppose I’d assumed that he’d managed to drive his Toyota. But I was wrong.

I didn’t want Leo treating me to dinner. When he started working at the paper, I had put on my most reserved manner to show Leo that there would be no fraternization. Reserve isn’t my style, however, and I
wasn’t sure he’d gotten the point. We’d had lunch twice, done drinks a couple of times, too, but I did as much in various ways with the other staffers. I couldn’t completely freeze out Leo just because he was a single man and I was a single woman.

Besides, I’d planned to eat downtown before the City Council meeting anyway. “Dutch,” I insisted. “You’re on.”

“Good.” Leo was grinning again. “In that case, let’s go to King Olav’s at the ski lodge. I’ve only been in the bar.”

I nixed King Olav’s. It’s fairly expensive and dining there is an event, at least by Alpine standards. I didn’t have time to linger. As usual, we were stuck with the Venison Inn.

Somehow, Leo had managed to maneuver the crutches. He griped every inch of the way, which fortunately was not far, since the inn is in the same block as
The Advocate
. We were passing Cascade Dry Cleaners, which is nestled in between, when I recognized the lanky figure of Andy Cederberg walking down the street, briefcase in hand. I was about to call to him when a carload of teenagers passed, radio blaring and bass throbbing. Andy moved much faster than we could, and was now turning up Fifth Street. I seemed to recall that he lived only a few blocks from the bank, by John Engstrom Park.

I wasn’t going to order a drink, but when Leo asked for Scotch, I caved in and requested bourbon. Mayor Baugh and the rest of the City Council would no doubt start a rumor that Emma Lord had shown up for their meeting drunk as a skunk.

Leo lighted another cigarette, and regarded me through a haze of smoke. “So what’s up with the bank? Were you going to grill whazzisname out there?”

“I’ve grilled all of them,” I answered with a sigh. “They either won’t say or they don’t know.”

“Buyout,” Leo declared, leaning back in the booth as our drinks arrived. “I’d bet on it, babe. Larry said as much.”

I stared at Leo. “He did? To you? What did he say?”

Leo took a big gulp of Scotch. “He didn’t intend to say anything, of course. But when he was telling me about how this proxy deal works, I asked if the fee was guaranteed to stay at what I signed up for. Larry hedged, and said as far as he could tell.” Leo lifted his thick eyebrows.

“Hmmm.” I rested my chin on my hands. “In other words, there may be changes made.”

Leo made no comment. He was very involved with drinking and smoking. When he finally spoke again, it was of Linda Lindahl: “What’s with the blonde? Is she single?”

Recalling Vida’s recital of Linda’s ill-starred love life, I wrinkled my nose. “Yes, but she’s not your type. Prickly. Difficult.”

“Hey,” Leo said, stubbing out his cigarette in a small glass ashtray, “don’t be too sure! You’re kind of prickly, and you could put your fuzzy slippers under my bed any time!”

I tried to look prim. “I’m not prickly. And I don’t have fuzzy slippers. Get over it, Leo.”

I expected him to come back with some half-assed compliment, but he didn’t. “Bookkeepers usually look like they should be sitting around in a jar of formaldehyde. But Linda seems kind of hot. She was giving me the eye when I was in the bank last week covering one of my overdrafts.”

I feigned indifference. “Go for it. Maybe she knows
what’s going on with the bank. You can wheedle it out of her during pillow talk.”

The ensuing silence wasn’t awkward, which I found reassuring. Having finished his drink, Leo was drumming his fingers on the table and studying the menu. I already knew what I was going to order. Our waitress returned, and we put in our requests. Leo asked for another Scotch. I tried not to notice.

“She’s backed off,” he said suddenly.

Puzzled, I took a sip of bourbon. “Who? Linda? The waitress?”

Leo shook his head. “Liza, my ex. I think she’s going to marry that guidance counselor SOB. His divorce is final about now.”

“Oh.” I made an effort not to know too much about Leo’s California past. He and I had met the previous summer while I was vacationing in Port Angeles. His car had broken down while he was there. He had broken down, too, passing out drunk in the local library. Somehow, I had been sufficiently foolish—and good-hearted—to give him a lift into Seattle. I’d never expected to see him again. Then I had received the letter from Tom Cavanaugh, recommending Leo for Ed Bronsky’s vacant job. I hadn’t told Leo much about my private life and nothing about my profession. He had returned the favor, but had expanded somewhat on his immediate background, which included the defection of his wife and getting fired from his job. It shouldn’t have surprised me that he had ordered a second Scotch.

“How do your kids feel about Liza remarrying?” I asked, feeling obligated to show a minimum of interest.

“Damned if I know,” Leo answered, lighting up again. “They don’t call or write. They still hate me for causing their mother to walk out after twenty-seven years. Demolition Dad, they call me. Or something like
that.” Leo’s brown eyes had a faraway look, and he held his head with the hand that didn’t hold the cigarette.

“You and Liza should have tried a marriage counselor,” I said, and immediately wished I’d kept my mouth shut. “I mean, if she felt you didn’t pay enough attention to her, she shouldn’t have let it get to a point where her only option was to leave.” Inwardly I berated myself. I sounded as if I were sticking up for Leo. I’d never intended to get that involved in his private life.

Leo’s eyes had narrowed and he was giving me a knowing smile. Ed Bronsky not only couldn’t read a rate schedule, he definitely wasn’t capable of reading my mind. “Bingo!” Leo exclaimed, though he kept his voice down. “That occurred to me, too, but unfortunately it was six months later. Liza was already cozied up with Pete the Greek Geek Guidance Counselor.”

Desperately I wanted to change the subject. We were sitting by the window that faced Front Street, because it had been the closest vacant booth to the door. Ordinarily I preferred a more private table, but I hadn’t wanted Leo hobbling to the rear of the restaurant. Now I was grateful for our proximity to the street: Through the window, I saw Andy Cederberg, still carrying his briefcase, and heading for the Venison Inn.

I leaned across the table and hissed at Leo. “Hey, let’s collar Andy. Trip him with your crutch.”

The door swung open, but the lanky man with the briefcase was not Andy Cederberg. Indeed, I had never seen the new arrival before in my life. He was built like Andy, he had a long dark overcoat like Andy’s, and his snap-brim cap was the same style as Andy wore. But up close, he was ten years older, much swarthier, and smacked of the Big City.

Leo and I gawked as the hostess showed the man to a table on the other side of the room.