Alpine Gamble Read online

  Praise for Mary Dahcim

  and her Emma Lord mysteries

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  “The lively ferment of life in a small Pacific Northwest town, with its convoluted genealogies and loyalties [and] its authentically quirky characters, combines with a baffling murder for an intriguing mystery novel.”

  —M. K. W

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  “Editor-publisher Emma Lord finds out that running a small-town newspaper is worse than nutty—it's downright dangerous. Readers will take great pleasure in Mary Daheim's new mystery.”

  —CAROLYN G. HART

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  “If you like cozy mysteries, you need to try Daheim's Alpine series…. Recommended.”

  —The Snooper

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  “[A] fabulous series … Fine examples of the traditional, domestic mystery.”

  —Mystery Lovers Bookshop News

  By Mary Daheim

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  THE ALPINE ADVOCATE

  THE ALPINE BETRAYAL

  THE ALPINE CHRISTMAS

  THE ALPINE DECOY

  THE ALPINE ESCAPE

  THE ALPINE FURY

  THE ALPINE GAMBLE

  THE ALPINE HERO

  THE ALPINE ICON

  THE ALPINE JOURNEY

  THE ALPINE KINDRED

  THE ALPINE LEGACY

  THE ALPINE MENACE

  THE ALPINE NEMESIS

  THE ALPINE OBITUARY

  THE ALPINE PURSUIT

  THE ALPINE QUILT

  THE ALPINE RECLUSE

  Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1-800-733-3000.

  Chapter One

  MY SON ADAM had started a war. He hadn't meant to, but he's always been a bit rash. Indeed, animosities between the combatants were long-standing. All it took was a careless remark to Lydia Twofeathers about Jacinto de Mayo's spotted dog.

  “It's like this,” Adam said to me over the phone from Tuba City, Arizona. “The Navajos and the Hopis usually hate each other. There's this big argument about who should live where, and the government really screwed up. Has Uncle Ben ever told you what a mess they made of the Native Americans around here? It's better now, I guess, but dumping the Hopi reservation into the middle of Navajo lands was a bummer. That's what really caused the problem when I went into the Tuba City Truck Stop to get a taco.”

  “Uh-huh,” I remarked, somewhat vaguely. My attention had been distracted by Ginny Burmeister, my business manager at The Alpine Advocate. She had just dropped off the first group of classified ads for the newspaper's premiere personals page. “So you mentioned you'd seen Jacinto de Mayo's dog digging in Lydia Twofeathers's garden. Why bother bringing it up?”

  Given my son's penchant for convoluted explanations and harebrained motivations, the question was ill-advised. Naturally, I got what I deserved:

  “It was when I got arrested. My hubcap fell off. Well, Uncle Ben's hubcap, from his truck. After the cop drove away, I had to—”

  “Whoa!” Maternal sharpness cut into my voice. “You got arrested? What for?” Suddenly SWM seeking freewheeling SWF for bed-and-not-bored didn't look like much of a crisis.

  Adam's impatient sigh reverberated in my ear. “I told you, Mom. For speeding. You can only go about ten miles an hour on the reservation. It's really dumb, but they watch everybody like a hawk.”

  “You got picked up for speeding when you visited Ben at Easter. This is Memorial Day weekend. Or was. Why are you still yakking about Jacinto de Mayo's dog?” I tried to ignore SWF wants SWM with big rig. Alpine, Washington, is a logging community. Perhaps the woman wanted a man with a truck. Perhaps not. “And why,” I persisted, “are you still in Tuba City, instead of back at school in Tempe?”

  “I'm going tonight,” Adam replied, sounding as if he were gritting his teeth. “I don't have class on Tuesdays.”

  The sudden silence indicated that my previous question was being dismissed. I refused to let Adam off the hook.

  “Okay, okay,” Adam said in a testy tone, “I got picked up again. Which is why I need a hundred and fifty dollars. They doubled the fine on me this time. These Navajos really know how to stick it to the white man. I don't blame them, of course,” he added in his youthfully broad-minded manner.

  I held my head, closing my eyes to DWF wants Same.

  “The war, Adam—what about Ben's hubcap and the Navajo-Hopi war?”

  “Oh, that.” Adam now sounded breezy. “The hubcap rolled into Lydia Twofeathers's yard where the dog was digging up her flowers. She came out and yelled at both of us. I ran back to the truck and drove off. Then I saw her later when I was getting my taco. I felt sort of bad, you know. I didn't want her to think I'd ruined her garden. So I mentioned this spotted dog, and she knew he belonged to Jacinto de Mayo. He's a Hopi and she's a Navajo, and that's how it all started. Now everybody's mad because they say there's been a lot of trespassing and stuff. Uncle Ben's trying to keep the peace, but he won't have time because he'll be coming with me to Alpine in a couple of weeks.”

  “Three weeks,” I clarified. “Nobody's shot anybody, I hope?”

  “Not yet, but they're threatening to.” Adam's voice was alarmingly cheerful. “Hey, got to go. Uncle Ben just came in with somebody from the Navajo council. See you. Oh, send that money to—”

  I hung up. Adam could cope with his own stupid speeding tickets. But of course he wouldn't. If I didn't send the money, he'd borrow it from Ben, who, as a mission priest, was in even more straitened financial circumstances than I was as a small-town weekly editor and publisher. Immediately, I was filled with remorse. I'd call my brother and tell him to refuse my son's request. Adam was twenty-two. He should learn some responsibility.

  I was still mulling over my family problems when Vida Runkel, The Advocate's House * Home editor, stomped into my tiny office. With disgust, Vida indicated the cigarette I'd just picked up.

  “You said you'd quit.” Vida's gray eyes were hard behind the big glasses with their tortoiseshell rims. “I'm very disappointed in you, Emma Lord.”

  “This is only my second cigarette today,” I protested, guiltily putting it back in the pack.

  “It's not yet ten o'clock.” Vida's majestic figure radiated virtue, indignation, and disapproval all at once. “You didn't smoke for a week after New Year's. You stopped for eighteen days during Lent. Where's your willpower?”

  I scanned my cluttered desk as if I could find my willpower somewhere under the personal ads or the first draft of my editorial on the Iron Goat Trail. It was pointless to defend myself: Vida was right. I'd gone for years without a cigarette, weakening only when our new ad manager, the nicotine-stained Leo Walsh, came aboard in September; I'd succumbed completely when Sheriff Milo Dodge lighted up during an ugly murder investigation the previous November. I gave Vida a sheepish smile.

  With a sigh, she lowered herself into one of my visitor's chairs. “Remember the Californians?”

  I frowned. “Which ones?” Alpine gets its share of out-of-state tourists, at least during the summer. Winter visitors are usually skiers who come from within Washington.

  Vida was adjusting the many ties that were intended to form a bow on her bright pink blouse. It was a complicated task, and while Vida has a multitude of skills, artistic coordination isn't one of them. The result looked like a wad of bubble gum.

  “Last November,” Vida said, impatient as usual when I was slow to recall specific names, places, and events. “They stayed at the ski lodge. They're developers from Los Angeles, and they're back. Henry Bardeen called this morning.”

&nbs
p; Henry manages the ski lodge. Humorless and efficient, he usually isn't prone to disclose his visitors' names unless there's a self-serving reason involved. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued.

  Naturally, Vida was pleased to show off her knowledge. “You know the mineral springs by Scenic—these developers want to buy up the property and build a hotel. A spa, as it were.”

  I regarded Vida with interest. During my five years in Alpine, I'd never visited the so-called hot springs, which I understood to be a series of muddy holes where hardy health-seekers wallowed for various reasons. They were located near the whistle-stop of Scenic, a couple of miles east of Alpine. Many years ago there had been a hotel, but it wasn't directly connected to the hot springs and had long since been abandoned.

  “Aren't the springs on state timberland?” I inquired, discovering that my fingers were straying to the cigarette pack.

  Vida shot me a warning glance. “No. That particular parcel is owned by Leonard Hollenberg, one of the county commissioners. I've heard he intended to build a chalet so his children could come up from Seattle to ski. Henry Bardeen figures that Leonard would prefer to sell it to the Califomians for a big price and build the chalet at his other property east of town. Naturally, Henry's wild.”

  The image of the sober-sided Henry Bardeen going wild and flipping his toupee provoked a giggle. “You mean he's afraid of competition with the ski lodge?”

  Vida nodded, causing her jumble of gray curls to bob up and down. Her hair might be unruly, but at least it was her own. “It's no laughing matter, Emma. These Los Angeles people have no respect for the environment. Henry is entitled to be upset. My father-in-law, Rufiis Runkel, helped build the lodge in 1930, after the original mill was shut down. It saved Alpine.”

  I knew all about the town's rickety history. It had started out before the turn of the century as Nippon, with Japanese immigrants working on the railroad and mining the mountain cliffs. Circa 1911, Carl Clemanshad come from Snohomish to build a lumber mill. He renamed the town, hired logging crews, and created a fledgling community. But in 1929 a variety of factors led to the mill's closure;. The town itself was to be abandoned unless residents found a new economic source. Rufiis Runkel and Olav the Obese—as local lore fondly called the big Norwegian—sunk money into the rocky slopes of Alpine, thus becoming pioneers in the ski business. Over sixty years later the lodge still flourished, though other mills had come and gone.

  I pointed out this well-known fact to Vida. “The only ongoing industry that isn't endangered by the spotted owl is tourism,” I said, keeping my hands folded in my lap. “Skiers, hikers, campers, fishermen—they're Alpine's mainstay. Logging is increasingly unstable. Look at all the out-of-work people around town.”

  Vida harrumphed. “It would be different if somebody local was interested in creating a resort spa. Or even someone from Seattle. But these developers are Califor-nians” Vida made their state origin sound obscene.

  Cigarette smoke wafted into my office. It was followed by Leo Walsh, who was a California native. “Hey,” Leo said with a grin, “do I hear my homeland's name being taken in vain?” He poked Vida's shoulder as he sat down in the other visitor's chair. “What's wrong, Duchess? You afraid that Alpine is attracting Californicators?”

  Having recoiled from Leo's poke, Vida curled her Up at the nickname she despised. “There's no need to be crude, Leo. I'm merely offering my opinion on out-of-state developers who have an eye on easy money and no moral or ethical responsibility. You carpetbaggers have brought a great deal of trouble in your wake.”

  Leo waved his cigarette in a dismissive gesture. “Hell, I've seen the bumper stickers. 'Don't Californi-cate Washington' or whatever. I saw one at the Venison Inn the other day that said 'Keep Montana Clean—Put Californians Back on the Bus.' Oregon and Idaho are just as bad. Is that any way to treat people just because they want a fresh start?”

  Though his voice was serious, the twinkle in Leo's brown eyes indicated he was teasing. Vida, however, had temporarily lost her sense of humor. She often did when she was in Leo's company. She also often coped by ignoring him, which she did on this occasion.

  “Here, Emma,” she said in her primmest tone as she handed me a piece of paper. “These are the names Henry gave me. Blake Fannucci and Stan Levine. Obviously, there's a story in it. You may want to handle it, rather than turning it over to Carla.”

  I acknowledged the unspoken criticism of my youthful, if dizzy, reporter with a slight nod. “I'll call the lodge and try to arrange an interview for today. This is a short week, so we're up against deadline.”

  Wordlessly, Vida left my office. Leo leaned across the desk and handed me his cigarette. I took the last puff, then hastily extinguished the butt in a Trader Vic's ashtray I'd swiped from the Benson Hotel in Portland during my tenure as a reporter for The Oregonian.

  “How was your three-day weekend?” Leo asked, putting his feet on the chair Vida had vacated. “Full of adventure and romance?”

  I wanted to pretend that it was, but instead I made a face. “I got out the lawn furniture and put in bedding plants. What about you?”

  Leo shrugged. At just over fifty, he occasionally exhibited a boyish air that didn't quite go with his usual world-weary attitude. His wavy auburn hair was flecked with gray and there were deep lines in his pleasant face. Obviously, Leo had laughed and worried and drunk a lot. But most of all, he exuded an aura of frustration.

  “I drove down to Seattle with Delphine Corson,” Leo replied, referring to the buxom local florist. “We stayed at the Edgewater and screwed most of the time.” He stretched and yawned, though whether from exhaustion or boredom, I couldn't tell.

  “How nice,” I said, aware that I sounded like a waspish vestal virgin. “I think we'd better go over this first set of personals. Fm not sure we want to run some of them as is. In fact, Fm not sure this was a good idea in the first place.” I shoved the proof sheet at Leo. “We're only going to do this once a month. That way, if it gets to be a real nightmare, we can drop it without too much flak.”

  The idea to run personals had come from Ginny Burmeister last fall. I often felt that Ginny had little imagination, but sometimes she surprised me. She was also pressing for a Summer Solstice Festival to replace the outmoded Loggerama.

  Leo's smile was quirky as he read through the ads. “Some of these are a little raw,” he allowed. “If you take them that way.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “But these people are prepaying by the word. That's what I've got against so-called obscenity. One word is the same as another when you count them up for an invoice. What difference does it make if you say fuck or intercourse? Either way, it's fifty cents.”

  “If you can get a fuck for fifty cents, you've got a real bargain,” I said, refusing to be drawn into a moralistic debate with Leo. Then I fluttered my lashes, just to annoy him. “Of course, maybe Delphine works for free.”

  Leo reddened, bristled, and started to get up. “Emma, that's a bitchy thing to say!” With effort, he got his temper under control. “Delphine's a decent woman. She's just lonesome. Like the rest of us.” The last few words were muttered into his chest.

  I had the grace to be embarrassed. “Sorry. I like Del-phine. Really. She does wonderful arrangements.”

  The comment made Leo grin, if wryly. “She leaves her artistry in the shop. Trust me. If Delphine's an exotic orchid at work, she's a shrinking violet in the bedroom. Now let's see what we can do about these ads. What I like is the deception. Take this one—'DWM, cuddly, fun loving, big spender seeks sympathetic DWF homeowner with no strings attached.' The guy's probably been married three times, he's fat as a hog, can't pay his bills, and is looking for some sappy female who'll put a roof over his head and give him three squares a day. Plus boudoir benefits, if he's still awake. He doesn't want anybody with kids, either. Personals are like real estate ads—you know, fixer-upper translates as 'falling down, complete with stalker from former residents.' Let the big rig and the Lesbian DWF go. Change the
'bed-and-not-bored' to 'no boredom.' You'll preserve the tone of the paper and save the guy a buck. The rest of them look okay to me, babe.” He ignored my cringing at his breezy term of endearment, then chuckled. “You see this one? 'SWM, mature, financially secure, gourmet cook, varied interests from baseball to Beethoven; desires companionable relationship with sixty-plus woman; prefers intelligence, adventuresome spirit, ample figure, roots in community, yen for travel.' “ Leo arched his eyebrows again, but this time in inquiry. “Jesus, who does the ideal woman sound like, Emma?”

  Involuntarily, my glance darted to the outer office. I could see half of Vida, typing away on her battered upright. “Wild,” I breathed. “Who is this guy? At fifty cents a word, he spent a small bundle on the ad. Maybe he really is financially secure.”

  Leo tapped the page proof. “Has Vida seen this?”

  I shook my head. “Ginny brought the ads in while I was on the phone.”

  Leo grinned again. “After you edit these, let the Duchess read proof. Maybe she'll find her duke.”

  I started to demur. Then I, too, grinned. “Okay, Leo. Why not?” After all, everybody needed romance in their life. Except me. I had a phantom, and his name was Tom Cavanaugh.

  Blake Fannucci sounded very agreeable on the telephone. It took a four-call game of telephone tag to reach him at the ski lodge, but by eleven-thirty we had set a lunch date. He and his partner, Stan Levine, would treat me at King Olav's. Since almost nobody in Alpine is ever willing to pick up the tab in exchange for an interview, I leaped at the opportunity.

  The Iron Goat Trail editorial was in the pipeline. It was one of those noncontroversial pieces, praising the innovative and adventuresome souls who had spent more than two years re-creating the former passage of the Great Northern Railroad through the Cascade Mountains. The accolade was overdue, well earned, and therefore easy to write. The editorial of the previous week had also featured goats, but they'd been the real thing. National Park officials had proposed reducing the burgeoning mountain goat population by using helicopters, spotters, and marksmen. The situation was an environmentalist's nightmare: The animals gulped down various delicate plants and caused serious erosion. Attempts to capture the goats and sterilize them had not proved practical. I had urged park personnel to come up with a third alternative. My suggestion had provoked anger from several factions. The goats were probably on my side, but they didn't write letters.