The Alpine Xanadu Page 3

  This was at least the fifth time Spence had broken a RestHaven item first. “I’ve no idea. Verify it and we’ll put it on the website.”

  “I did,” Mitch replied. “Kip’s putting it up now. But damn, it’s annoying. There’s a leak somewhere. Have you asked Spence about it?”

  “No. He wouldn’t tell me. We share some ad revenue, but not news sources.” Seeing Vida stomping through the newsroom, I gestured at Mitch. “Stand back. Our House & Home editor looks fit to spit.”

  “I cannot believe what ninnies those Eriks people are!” she exclaimed, almost elbowing Mitch out of the way. “Dot Parker told me Tiffany’s moving in with Jack Blackwell! Doesn’t that beat all?”

  “Amanda said—” I began, but Vida hadn’t run out of steam.

  “She’s going to be his housekeeper and is quitting at the Grocery Basket,” Vida continued. “Dot and Durwood are beside themselves.”

  The Parkers were Tiffany’s grandparents. Cookie Eriks was their younger daughter. Her older sister, known as La-La, lived in Bremerton. Scandal had never tainted the Parker name except for Durwood’s record as the worst driver in SkyCo. His reputation as the longtime owner of the local pharmacy was unsullied.

  Mitch looked skeptical. “Isn’t Blackwell older than I am?”

  Vida removed her swing coat as if she were a champion boxer about to take on a contender. “He is. It almost makes me feel sorry for Patti Marsh, but her vices are too numerous.” Her gray eyes turned to me. “You say Amanda knew about this outrage? Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “Because,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “she probably didn’t think it was suitable for your ‘Scene Around Town’ gossip snippets.”

  “It’s not, but Amanda should have mentioned it anyway.”

  “I only found out when I got back from the funeral,” I said.

  “Dot confirms it,” Vida declared. “I wouldn’t blame the Parkers for trying to kill him. Maybe Milo should let Durwood renew his license.”

  Mitch’s phone was ringing. “Excuse me, Vida. I’d better answer that. Detroit was never like this.” His long stride took him to his desk before the call trunked back to Amanda.

  The afternoon passed quickly. I didn’t answer Mavis’s letter, but I had an insight. Vida’s weekly radio program, Vida’s Cupboard, was the jewel in KSKY’s crown. The chatty fifteen-minute show featured Alpiners’ hobbies, travels, and other homely subjects. SkyCo listeners stayed glued to the radio. It was all Alpine, all the time. Thus she was Spence’s star performer, with advertisers begging to buy commercials in her time slot.

  “I’ve got a question,” I said, sitting in Vida’s visitor’s chair. “Have you noticed that Spence is getting the jump on us with RestHaven?”

  She frowned. “Not really. But I rarely handle straight news. Perhaps Spencer’s been keeping closer tabs on what’s happening there.”

  Mitch looked up from his keyboard. “Fleetwood couldn’t ferret out any more items than I do unless he checked himself in to the facility.”

  Vida refused to look chastened. “Spencer only covers major stories for his news broadcasts. Perhaps he’s able to dig deeper than we can.”

  “Whoa,” Leo said, entering the newsroom. “Are we damning the competition? I just got a co-op deal with KSKY for two more businesses.”

  “Hooray for you,” I said. “It’s the news side we’re discussing. Spence seems to get a lot more out of RestHaven than we do.”

  Leo removed his rumpled raincoat and hung it on his chair. “Maybe that’s because he’s doing a live broadcast at Saturday’s open house. He’s hosting the chief of staff after your show, Duchess. You’re the lead-in. Doesn’t that make you feel grand?”

  “Well …” Vida’s effort to look modest failed. “I’m sure Dr. Woo will keep listeners tuned in. My nephew Ross Blatt says he’s very intelligent.”

  Ross was one of Vida’s many relatives, the son of Wingfield Blatt and his wife whose name was May or June or April. Wingy and Pick-Your-Month had died by the time I arrived in Alpine.

  “Say,” I said to Vida, “Ross has been working at RestHaven. How come he hasn’t given you any tips about what’s going on there?”

  Vida scowled. “Ross’s company, Alpine Service & Repair, is a subcontractor. If Ross heard anything, don’t you think I’d know about it?”

  “Yes.” I stood up. “I guess we’re stuck with Spence beating us.”

  “It’s galling to get scooped,” Mitch said.

  “I do hate not knowing things,” Vida declared.

  Leo chuckled. “It’s not as if RestHaven will make big headlines.”

  “True,” I admitted.

  Before our next deadline, we’d discover I was wrong—dead wrong.

  TWO

  I SPENT THE EVENING ALONE, WITHOUT EVEN A PHONE CALL FROM Milo. I was only vaguely miffed, knowing that he was coping with both Tanya and Tricia. But I missed him. We’d had less than three weeks living together in my little log cabin, and half the time we’d been so worn out from our own ordeal that by evening we were dead tired.

  Milo hadn’t had time to assemble the new king-sized bed I’d bought during the January sale from Lloyd Campbell’s store. It had been delivered the day before Tanya arrived at his house in the Icicle Creek development. The standard-sized bed I’d bought thirty years ago in Portland wasn’t big enough to accommodate the sheriff. Even when we were a couple almost ten years ago, Milo didn’t stay over that often and neither of us ever complained. But now it was different. He’d be living here all of the time—if he could ever lose his ex and their daughter.

  What was almost as frustrating for the sheriff was that he hadn’t been able to go fishing. Unlike Tricia, who’d balked at his need for solitude to slough off the rigors of his job, I understood. Fishing is part sport and part spiritual experience. Milo had recently told me he often used the time for introspection—something I thought he rarely did. But there were depths to him that I’d never plumbed. The truth was I’d never wanted to, for fear that maybe there weren’t any. Or that if there were, I’d realize how much I’d always loved him and give up the dream that had been Tom Cavanaugh and the enigma that had been Rolf Fisher. Emma Lord, Love Dunce—I’d spent thirty years perfecting the role.

  It was still raining Thursday morning. The dark clouds hung over Alpine almost to the tree line at the rear of my house. As a native Pacific Northwesterner, I didn’t mind. Gray, not green, should be Washington’s official color, at least in the western half of the state.

  As I drove down the hill to Front Street, I glanced toward the sheriff’s office. There was no sign of Milo’s Yukon. Maybe he’d stopped at the hospital to see Tanya.

  Amanda had the bakery run that morning. When I arrived she was setting out sugar doughnuts, maple bars, and cinnamon twists. After greeting her, I poured a mug of coffee and grabbed a doughnut. Vida and Leo were both on the phone, Kip apparently was in the back shop, and Mitch arrived just as I started to head for my office.

  “Hey, boss,” Mitch called to me, almost on my heels by the time I reached my desk, “you free for lunch today?”

  “Yes,” I said, wishing I sounded more enthusiastic. I hadn’t given up hope that Milo might be free during the noon hour.

  My reporter tapped his fingers on the door frame. “I’ve got some things I’d like to discuss with you. Not related to work.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Unless things get hectic, that’s fine.”

  Mitch nodded and went to his desk.

  What to do with Brenda? I thought, sitting down. So many people had mental problems. Was the atmosphere full of emotional-disturbance germs? I’d spent thirty years waiting for Tom’s wife, Sandra, to drive him to divorce or run off with somebody else. She’d once done the latter, but her affair with a much younger man had ended abruptly. Eventually she had died from an overdose of her funny-bunny meds. Tom was finally free to make me his wife, but instead of marrying him, I ended up burying him. Now it was Tanya, and in between, R
oy Everson with his Mama fixation and Mitch’s wife, Brenda. I’d never really gotten to know her. Though I blamed myself for lack of trying, she hadn’t seemed very social. Given her recent breakdown, I wondered if she’d brought her mental problems with her from Royal Oak.

  Mitch left at eight-thirty to check the sheriff’s log. I had a ten-thirty interview with Rosalie Reed, so I went over my notes. Dr. Reed was forty-nine, a native of San Rafael, and had gotten her doctorate of psychology from UCLA. Married, one son. She’d moved to the Seattle area in 1997 and set up practice on the Eastside with offices in Bellevue. The glossy photo showed a serious, patrician woman who exuded strength and purpose. She was no beauty, but she had a kind of mystique that I figured men would find attractive. Maybe if I could get her to smile, she’d turn radiant. I resolved not to resort to a pratfall—being basically clumsy, I might do that without trying.

  Mitch returned just as Amanda was delivering the mail. “Not much in the log today,” he said, poking his head into my office. “Nobody’s taken a shot or tried to run down Blackwell in the last twenty-four hours, but Cal Vickers thought the brakes in Jack’s car were iffy.”

  I didn’t give a hoot about Blackwell’s brakes. “Was the sheriff in?”

  “He got there just as I was leaving,” Mitch said. “He looked grim. Given that he ignored me, I didn’t ask about his daughter.”

  My watch said it was nine-thirty, giving me time enough to visit the sheriff’s office for a firsthand report. “The deputies didn’t say anything?”

  “Nothing. You know how they close ranks, especially if it’s anything about their boss.”

  “Right.” I smiled faintly at Mitch before he returned to his desk. Milo’s attitude about the job had not changed after we became engaged. In fact, we’d agreed that neither of us could bend, even after we got married. The often adversarial but necessary conflict between law enforcement and the press remained in place.

  Five minutes later, I greeted Lori Cobb at the reception desk. My first question was a personal one for Lori. “How’s your grandma doing now that Grandpa Cobb’s been dead for almost two months?”

  Lori’s plain face drooped. “She’s dating.”

  I gaped. Mrs. Cobb was almost ninety. “Ah … who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Chester Treadwell from Gold Bar. They met at senior bingo night in Sultan. He’s not much older than my dad.”

  “My,” I said. “May-December romances are in vogue around here.”

  Lori’s eyes widened. “You mean Jack Blackwell and Tiffany Eriks? I mean, Tiffany Rafferty. I only heard about that last night. He escorted her at Mrs. Rafferty’s funeral. Yuck!” She sighed. “I think Chester is after Grandma’s money. Grandpa had a nice little nest egg.”

  “Well,” I began, not sure what to say, “if it’s a comfort to her, maybe it’s nice for them to … play bingo.”

  “Maybe.” Lori didn’t look convinced. “It’s good that you and Sheriff Dodge are close in age. You seem like a normal couple.”

  The other half of the normal couple stormed out of his office. “Got to go to the courthouse, Lori. It may take a while.” He practically knocked me out of the way coming through the swinging gate in the curving reception counter. “Later, Emma,” he muttered, and went out through the double doors.

  “Now what?” I said under my breath. “Is it about Tanya?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Lori said. “He’s not in a very good mood today.”

  “No kidding,” I said as Jack Mullins strolled out from the jail area.

  “Hey,” Jack said, his impish expression in place, “I hear your love nest’s empty lately. When do you expect the big bird to land?”

  “Shut up,” I snapped. “Do you want Dodge to deck you again?”

  Jack involuntarily rubbed his chin. “I only stepped over the line with the boss that one time. I thought I was being funny. Don’t worry, I’ve never said anything else about you two that was remotely—what did old Father Fitz call it when he was pastor at Saint Mildred’s—‘suggestive’?”

  Lori, who wasn’t Catholic, looked puzzled. “Suggestive of what?”

  “Good question,” Jack said. “It’s an old-fashioned RC word for anything to do with sex. You know—like saying ‘underpants’ or ‘bosom.’ ”

  Lori shook her head. “And I thought Grandpa and Grandma’s Baptist church was strange.”

  Dwight Gould came through the door, looking like Dwight always did—sour. “It’s only ten o’clock and I’ve already cited five people for speeding. One of ’em right on Front Street. Those other idiots out on Highway 2 don’t know how to drive in the rain, especially Californians. Why do those people come up here to cause trouble?”

  “Zip it,” Jack said cheerfully. “It’s money for SkyCo. God knows we need it. It’s a wonder we’ve got streets for people to drive on.”

  “Damned budget,” Dwight muttered, moving behind the counter on his way to the coffee urn. “I haven’t had a raise in three years.”

  On that glum note, I decided to leave before Dwight turned his ire on me. He seemed to have trouble deciding if I was the best thing that had ever happened to Milo or the worst. Maybe I should ask him to write a letter to Mavis explaining how herculean the sheriff appeared to his staff.

  Out on the sidewalk, I was tempted to walk to the courthouse to see if I could find Milo. But that was a bad idea. Would I have done that if we weren’t engaged? Maybe. I was never good about boundaries. Breaking them is part of a journalist’s job. But I refrained.

  All was well at the office. I went back to my Honda and drove toward River Road, site of the former Casa de Bronska. Turning off Front Street, I had to stop at Railroad Avenue for an eastbound Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight lumbering through town. After the barrier lifted, I was across the tracks on River Road, past Milo’s house in the Icicle Creek development, over the Icicle Creek bridge, beyond the golf course, and finally turning onto the drive leading to RestHaven. Gone were Ed’s gilded lions, which had always looked more like Bert Lahr in The Wizard of Oz than the kings of an African jungle. Gone, too, was much of the so-called Italian rose garden, which had succumbed to lack of care. The only recognizable thing about the Bronskys’ ill-advised attempt at grandeur was the building’s basic exterior. And even that was mercifully changed, the pink stucco having been replaced with a dull but less garish pale green.

  Despite the wait for the BNSF train, I was three minutes early. The young woman at the desk in what Ed had called “the Atican” informed me there’d be a short wait, as Dr. Reed was still with a patient. I took a seat in a comfortable armchair, admiring the changes that local architect Scott Melville had made in converting the ostentatious home into a usable yet attractive facility. The atrium had never lived up to its name, only going up a single floor, but the open area that had been the living and dining rooms along with a den was now a functional reception area with offices leading at angles from the front desk. Nor was there a single Burger Barn wrapper, empty Fritos bag, or Twinkies box in sight.

  At 10:35, I was ushered into Rosalie Reed’s office.

  “So sorry about the late start,” Dr. Reed said, holding out her hand. “We’re still rushing to get ready for the grand opening. Please sit down. I’m afraid I can only give you about twenty minutes. Dr. Woo has called a staff meeting for eleven.”

  “That should be fine,” I said, seating myself in an armchair covered in serviceable but handsome blue fabric. Pen poised, I opened my notebook. Unlike Vida, I couldn’t rely on a prodigious memory, nor did I trust tape recorders. “You had a practice for many years in Bellevue,” I began. “Why did you take a job here, in a more remote part of the region?”

  Dr. Reed smiled, though her sharp dark eyes didn’t seem to get the message. “I wanted a new challenge, I’d known Dr. Woo as a colleague in the Los Angeles area, and I’m a firm believer in change. It helps us grow.”

  “Very sound,” I murmured, scribbling as fast as I could. “I understand you have a son.
Did he move to Alpine, too?”

  “No,” she replied. “He started his first year this fall at UCLA. He wants to specialize in genetics. And,” she went on, “my husband is retired. He had his own practice for many years.” She patted her smooth, dark hair in what struck me as a congratulatory gesture.

  My next queries focused on what I knew would produce psychobabble responses about services, philosophies, and patient protocol. But I had to ask, if only to show I’d done my homework. Most of the Advocate’s subscribers would have been more interested in personal information, such as favorite TV shows, eccentric hobbies, or what kind of toothpaste Rosalie Reed preferred.

  She cut me off at precisely 10:54. “I do hope to see you Saturday,” she said, walking me to the door. “We understand there will be a large turnout. Oh!” She suddenly looked chagrined, though for some peculiar reason, I didn’t find the expression genuine. “We’ve been remiss in finalizing the program. Will first thing tomorrow work?”

  “Is the advance copy incorrect?” I asked. “That’s what we ran in Wednesday’s paper.”

  “Just a tweak or two. You have the proper stock to print it on?”

  “Kip—my back-shop genius—said it arrived Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Excellent.” She proffered her hand again. “I hope this is the first of many pleasant meetings between us.”

  I concurred. But walking back through the open reception area, I had my doubts. Maybe my unease was partially caused by the sight of Wayne Eriks emerging from a PUD truck near the entrance.

  “Well, well,” he said with his gap-toothed grin, “if it isn’t the sheriff’s lady. Guess I was slow figuring out why Dodge tried to nail me for Tim’s murder. I didn’t know until lately that you two were a hot item.”

  Had it been just about anybody else, I would’ve said that I hadn’t known it, either. But Wayne’s remark annoyed me. “We’re engaged.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. “From all I hear, it’s about time he made an honest woman of you. But you weren’t that from the start, were you?”