The Alpine Yeoman (3 page)

I grimaced. “Your exact words?”

“Of course not.” Vida removed the bowler and fluffed up her unruly gray curls. “But that was the gist of it. If I could’ve
told her what I really think—which is that the Presbyterians could run a much better facility and in a more thrifty manner. Of course the Lutherans are in the majority, so it can’t be helped. At least we finally have a new permanent minister at our church. I do wish he hadn’t come from Castle Rock. It’ll take him some time to get to know everybody.”

What Vida meant was that it would take him some time to get to know
everything
about everybody. According to her, the longtime minster, James Purebeck, had not been reluctant to preach about sins that members of his congregation had recently committed. Naturally, Vida knew enough about her fellow Presbyterians to identify who had committed them. But Pastor Purebeck had disgraced himself six months ago by running off to Mukilteo with Daisy McFee, who, according to Vida, had loose morals and had lived in Alpine for only a short time. In my House & Home editor’s eyes, it was hard to tell which was the more serious transgression.

“Pastor McClelland is fairly young, isn’t he?” I said.

“Late thirties,” Vida replied. “Or course Pastor Purebeck wasn’t much older when he came here.” She couldn’t hide her disgust. “Maturity apparently only aged his exterior, rather than improving his character.”

“I believe you wrote that Kenneth McClelland has a wife and two children,” I said to allay further criticism of Purebeck.

“Yes. They’ve moved into the house next to the church where the Purebecks lived. Of course, it’s owned by the Presbyterians.” She heaved a sigh, her imposing bust straining at the orange-and-blue striped blouse she wore under a black vest. “I noticed Janie Engelman dropped off her latest wedding picture. I wonder where Mickey Borg has gone.”

“I don’t,” I said. “He’s a jerk.” The words were out of my mouth before I remembered that Mickey had fathered the first two of Holly Gross’s three children. Or so Vida had told me
when she’d revealed that the third and youngest one belonged to Roger. “By the way,” I said hastily, to change the subject, “Father Kelly announced at Mass yesterday that he’ll be gone this week to visit family in Houston. We’ll have a sub from Monroe. You might want to use that on your page or in ‘Scene.’ ”

“Houston!” Vida shook her head. “Can you imagine living in a huge place like that? So many hurricanes and Enron and heat!”

“Ben’s in El Paso,” I said. “He’s working with the immigrants.”

“El Paso.” Vida spoke the city’s name as if it were a new disease she’d just discovered. “Really, now. I can’t imagine it’s a very nice place. But I realize that priests must go where they’re sent. Has your brother any news of it?”

“He’s only been there since the start of Holy Week,” I said. “Not yet a full month.”

Vida got up from her chair. “He’s served in other peculiar areas. I suppose he’s used to it.” She exited my office in her splay-footed manner.

I decided I’d given Milo enough time to find out what was going on at the hatchery. I dialed his number, but Deputy Sam Heppner answered.

“Dodge isn’t here. Call back after lunch.” He hung up.

Sam is even more churlish than Dwight Gould when it comes to dealing with women. At least Dwight had finally shown his human side by having a brief encounter with his ex-wife, back in February. I assumed it was brief, though for all I knew, Dwight and Kay Whitman Burns, RestHaven’s PR person, were whiling away their off-hours in each other’s arms. Dwight wasn’t inclined to discuss his personal life, even when he didn’t have one, so I doubted he’d talk about it now.

It was after eleven-thirty when Mitch returned from his interview
with Fuzzy Baugh. “I can’t quite figure that guy out,” my reporter said, refilling his coffee mug. “Most of the time he puts on that Louisiana accent and talks drivel, but then he comes up with something kind of shrewd. I think I got a couple of good quotes from him.”

“That’s more than I’ve had on some occasions over the years,” I admitted. “But the reorganization idea is good. I’ve wondered if his wife, Irene, came up with it. She always seems savvier than her husband. Still, when Fuzzy and I’ve discussed it, he makes perfect sense.”

“It’s a sound proposal,” Mitch said. “Why wasn’t Alpine incorporated way back when?”

“It was started as a company town by the original mill owner, Carl Clemans, in 1910. Over time, telegraph and railroad employees, along with other related types of workers, moved here. When Mr. Clemans closed the mill in 1929, it appeared the town might wither away. There was no year-round access except by train. But Vida’s future father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, and another man, whose name I recall only as Olav the Obese, decided to start a ski operation. The sport was just coming into its own. They saved Alpine from extinction.”

Mitch looked grim. “I can understand how a small town could disappear without jobs. The news I hear out of Detroit is damned gloomy with all the problems in the auto industry. Maybe Brenda and I got out just in time. God knows newspapers everywhere are shrinking or going out of business.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said. “The
Oregon Journal
—Portland’s afternoon daily—went out of business nine years before I quit
The Oregonian
to move to Alpine. I wonder how long we can hold out, but our relative isolation helps.”

Mitch nodded. “It’s weird after Detroit. People here don’t seem to care much about what happens in the wider world. I
suppose it’s being surrounded by all the mountains and so far from a big city. I’ll work through the lunch hour on Baugh’s article. I’ve still got a couple of features to finish, and I have to cover the county commissioners tonight. I’m glad they switched their meetings from Tuesday to Monday. When they nattered on, as they often do, it made things tight for deadline.”

“I agree,” I said. “It’s just as well they won’t see my editorial and the mayor’s comments before they meet. Take a look at what I wrote about Fuzzy’s plan, to see if it works with your interview. Oh—by the way, Jack Blackwell dropped charges against Jennifer Hood. The news came in after you’d been at the sheriff’s headquarters.”

Mitch made a face. “She tries to kill the guy four times and he lets her get away with it?”

“Jack’s holed up, licking his wounds. Besides, he probably doesn’t want Jennifer telling everybody how badly he treats the women in his life. Patti Marsh has taken him back—again.”

My reporter shook his head in apparent dismay over the folly of females who stood by their men no matter how many times they’d ended up in the ER. I, too, had wondered about that phenomenon over the years. Doc Dewey had told me recently that he felt such abusers and the abused needed each other. He claimed both had low self-esteem. I still wasn’t sure if I bought into his theory, but Young Doc, as he was known, often channeled the wisdom of his late father, Old Doc Dewey.

It was going on noon. I wondered if Milo was free for lunch. Vida had already left, and Leo was out making his rounds. I planned on heading for the Burger Barn, which was catty-corner from the sheriff’s office, so I decided to see if he could join me.

The rain had almost stopped by the time I started the block-and-a-half walk to headquarters. I sniffed the fresh mountain air and looked up at Alpine Baldy, where the clouds still lingered
below the five-thousand-foot level. The noon whistle blew at Blackwell Timber just as I entered Milo’s lair.

The receptionist, Lori Cobb, greeted me with a friendly smile. Deputy Sam Heppner looked as if I’d been ringing a bell to announce that I had plague. I didn’t see any sign of Tanya—or her father.

“Did your boss take his daughter to lunch?” I asked Lori.

She shook her head. “Tanya went to the mall. Dodge is still at the hatchery with Dwight and Doe. Mr. Fleetwood was just here, and I think he went out there to see what was going on. It’s close to his radio station, but he didn’t know anything about it.”

I decided to ignore my growling stomach. If my archrival had gone to the hatchery, I’d go there, too. I had no intention of letting Spencer Fleetwood force my husband to help his wife get scooped.

“Thanks, Lori,” I said. “Maybe it’s worth a trip for me, too. I don’t suppose the sheriff or his deputies have let the rest of you know what’s going on?”

Sam moved closer to me from behind the reception area’s curving counter. “If they did, it’s not for publication,” he snarled.

“That’s not for you to decide,
Deputy
.” I swiveled around, narrowly missing a cardboard box in front of the counter. Flouncing out the door, I almost collided with a man whose first name I recalled as Gus. I all but ran back down the street to my aging Honda, impervious to the wind that had suddenly picked up and the rumbling of a freight train going through town on the other side of the
Advocate
office. At least I didn’t have to cross the tracks to get to the hatchery.

It took me less than ten minutes to drive along Front Street, take a jog onto the Burl Creek Road, go by the modest homes sprinkled along the route, then pass KSKY’s cinder-block studio
and Skykomish Community College’s campus. Entering a dense stand of third-growth forest, I crossed Burl Creek—and finally reached the hatchery, just east of the fork in the Tye and Foss Rivers.

I spotted a SkyCo cruiser, Milo’s black Yukon SUV, and Spence’s Beamer in the parking lot. I couldn’t see any activity around the main building, the wetlands area, or the ponds, which were partially visible behind some steel sheds. I parked my car and headed for the entrance. The small lobby was empty. I hadn’t been inside the hatchery in years. I wasn’t sure which way to go.

I wandered off to the corridor on the left, where I sighted Derek Norman, who I knew only vaguely from a crisis ten years ago with the parish school board. I hadn’t seen much of him since. The Normans weren’t Catholics, but they believed in private education.

“Ms. Lord,” Derek said, looking older and heavier than I recalled from the last time I’d run into him, “can I help you? It’s lunch hour here, so we’re a bit shorthanded.”

“I’m looking for the sheriff. And Spencer Fleetwood,” I added, lest Derek think I was a snoopy wife.

Derek’s high forehead—which hadn’t been that high a few years ago—furrowed in a frown. “I think they’re still in the woods beyond the holding ponds with Val Marsden and the deputies.”

I didn’t want to admit that I had no idea why any of them would be wandering around in the forest, so I nodded. “I’ll see if I can track them down. Is there a back way out?”

Derek pointed over his shoulder. “Straight down the hall you’ll see a door that goes to the stairs leading outside.”

I thanked him and continued on my way. When I opened the outer door, the wind coming from the south had picked up enough to blow my not-so-tidy brown hair straight back. A
few yards ahead of me, small waves ruffled the holding ponds. The tall fir and cedar trees’ branches swayed, sending a flock of noisy crows skyward. I’d gotten as far as just beyond the first pond when I saw Milo, Spence, Val, and Walt coming up the trail that led out of the forest. The sheriff had taken off his hat and Mr. Radio was smoothing his usually impeccably groomed hair.

“What now?” Milo called out. “Did the Bourgettes strike gold in our backyard?”

“I’m here on business, Sheriff,” I replied in my most formal voice. “Given that the other half of the local media is already on the spot, I sensed news.” I shot Spence a dark glance.

Milo and Val had come to where I was standing. Doe Jamison and Dwight Gould moved toward the wetlands, while Spence stopped at the edge of the nearest holding pond. The wind had died down a bit, dampening my hope that he’d be blown away to swim with the fishes.

“No news here,” the sheriff asserted. “Why don’t you and Fleetwood go eat lunch someplace? The ski lodge, maybe. It’s not that far away.”

I glanced again at Spence, who lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. I wondered if Milo was talking in some kind of code, but the hazel eyes looked stern.

“Why not?” I retorted. At least Mr. Radio might have a glimmer of what was going on. I motioned to him. “Shall we?”

Spence shrugged. “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”

We both walked around the building to the parking lot. “You can’t know any less than I do,” I said when we were out of earshot. “And don’t you dare suggest that Dodge plays favorites when it comes to news. You just saw how it still works between us when he’s on the job.”

“Amazing,” Spence remarked in his mellifluous voice. “I fail to understand how he resists your obvious charms.”

“Ha! In all the years we’ve been together—off and on as it’s been until now—Milo has kept investigations to himself until he’s damned good and ready to go public. You know that.”

We’d reached our cars. “Admirable of him,” Spence allowed. “I’ll meet you in the bar.”

I led the way, turning off onto Tonga Road and crossing the small bridge over Burl Creek. The rest of the short drive was all uphill. Pulling into the parking lot, I noticed that the clouds had been blown away, so that I could see the top of the now moribund ski lifts.

Spence joined me just before I reached the entrance. His expression was quizzical. “You become the sheriff’s wife and he sends you off to rendezvous with another man? Is this what’s known as an open marriage or some ploy to get rid of us both?”

“The latter,” I replied as Spence opened the door. I looked up at his hawklike profile, which reminded me not so much of a buzzard as some other, less ugly bird of prey. “If you think I’m here to seduce you, guess again. You must know more about what’s happening at the hatchery than I do. You got there first.”

We walked through the lobby, with its high-beamed ceiling, and continued on into the bar. The lodge itself was an architectural homage to the Native American tribes of the region, but the restaurant and bar theme was pure Nordic. Odin and Frigg ruled there, along with other mythical figures out of Europe’s northern reaches.

The usual blond waitress—this one’s name tag identified her as Belinda—seated us at a corner table and wasted no time taking our drink orders.