The Alpine Fury Page 4

  Andy Cederberg was looking at his watch. “Gosh, it’s later than I thought! I’d better clear my desk so we can close out the books for the day. See you, Emma.”

  I was left to stare at the walls. A discreet glance told me that Leo was signing papers, no doubt committing his money to the bank’s clutches. My wandering gaze took in the pilasters, which, upon closer inspection, could have used a fresh coat of paint. The marble floor was worn in a path from the front entrance to the tellers’ cages. There were scars on the mahogany and cracks in the ceiling. Earthquakes, maybe, or merely the ground settling over sixty years.

  My eye sought the medallions with their noble, if possibly enhanced, profiles: Carl Clemans, who was reputed to be kind, intelligent, benevolent—and as it was then called, a lady-killer; John Engstrom, the original mill’s longtime superintendent, who was beloved by all, criticized by none; Rufus Runkel, Vida’s father-in-law, and a man of many parts, who helped salvage Alpine’s future by joining several Norwegians in building a ski lodge; and Frank Petersen, the mill’s treasurer at the time of closure, and thus, by extension, a logical choice as the bank’s original chief financial officer.

  For the first time in the almost four years that I’d visited the Bank of Alpine, I noticed that there was a fifth medallion. It was smooth—and blank. I moved closer, craning my neck, trying to see if, like the others, there was a name carved in the border.

  There was not. Yet the decoration must have been intended to commemorate someone. Perhaps it was dedicated to a group of investors who had pooled their resources to help start the bank. I would ask Vida. She would know.

  Leo was on his foot, leaning against Larry’s desk. I made as if to open the grilled gate, but Larry gestured at me.

  “Thanks for everything, Emma.” He picked up the phone. “Thanks, Leo. This is effective as of right now. Give your mind a rest.” Larry stabbed in a number and became absorbed in his call.

  Resignedly, I helped Leo to the door and into my car. Then I removed the note from my windshield. Something had been added: Hi, Ms. Lord! It was signed by Bill Blatt, one of Milo’s deputies and Vida’s nephew. With a small smile, I slipped behind the wheel and started the car.

  “Was it relatively painless?” I asked Leo.

  He shrugged. “It’ll feel better after a slug of Scotch. Care to join me, babe? Unfortunately, I’m on the second floor and there’s no elevator.”

  I hadn’t been in Leo’s apartment, but I knew the building. It dated from the Forties and was managed by Dolph Terrill, whose wits had long been addled by booze. From the outside, the unimaginative brick exterior looked bleak and neglected. Maybe the inside was better, depending upon the individual renters. I didn’t intend to find out, at least not this evening.

  “Sorry, Leo. I’ve got to get gas, go home, check the mail, my answering machine, and head for church at seven.” Inspiration struck. I’d never seen Leo at St. Mildred’s, but I knew from information he’d leaked over the past three months that he had been raised Catholic. The church and school were across the street from Leo’s apartment. “You want to come?”

  Leo looked at me as if I’d asked him to eat a cyanide sandwich. “Are you kidding? I don’t go to Mass on two good legs, let alone one. I left all that crap behind me thirty years ago.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged. My brother, Ben, is a priest. He’s heard it all. I’ve heard enough. Thus, I didn’t pry into Leo’s reasons.

  I braked at Fourth and Cedar, rounded the corner, and pulled up in front of Leo’s apartment building. “I’ll help you with the stairs,” I offered.

  But Leo declined. “Thanks, but no thanks, babe. If I can’t repay you with a drink, I’ll take a rain check. I’m going to have to get used to the stairs. I’ll go up on my butt.”

  I let him, figuring that Dolph Terrill probably had come down the same way many times. It was almost dark as I watched Leo struggle to get into the apartment house. The Jag was chilly from the burst of cold air.

  It took less than two minutes to reach my log house on Fir Street. The mail was predictably dull; there were no calls on my answering machine. On Sunday, I’d talked to Adam, though he had ruffled what peace of mind I possessed. His transfer from the University of Alaska to Arizona State wasn’t a complete success. He had qualms, and wasn’t sure that he wanted to be an anthropology major after all.

  “You need math and science and that stuff,” Adam had whined into the phone. “What’s the point? I’ve worked on a dig.”

  He had, during the summer, with his uncle Ben. My brother’s current parish was in Tuba City, Arizona. Ben likes to dabble in the Anasazi ruins, too. His enthusiasm had rubbed off on Adam, who promptly decided to switch both colleges and majors. If my son’s interest in the academics of anthropology had waned since starting school in Tempe, his fondness for the Southwest had remained. Hawaii had been too tropical; Alaska was too wet. But Adam thought Arizona was just right. He was some two thousand miles from me, but only two hundred from Ben. The thought was reassuring. Both my son and my brother had been in Alpine during August. Adam planned to come home for Thanksgiving. Maybe. It all depended on a girl named Jade.

  By the time I left for Mass, the temperature had dropped below freezing. I drove cautiously, and though we’d had no rain during the day, there was fog drifting among the evergreens. Still, I didn’t feel any hint of snow.

  Neither did Francine Wells, apparel-shop owner and local fashion plate. As we congregated after Mass in the vestibule with Father Kelly, the weather was the big topic of conversation.

  “You can feel snow in the air,” Francine assured our pastor. “I don’t feel it—yet. I don’t care what the weather forecast says.”

  Betsy O’Toole didn’t agree. “Jake said the store was really busy today,” she declared, referring to the Grocery Basket. “People were stocking up in case it’s a real blizzard.”

  Father Kelly’s dark eyes regarded both Francine and Betsy with interest. He had a rare knack of actually listening to what other people had to say. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a blizzard,” he remarked. “The only time I saw snow while I was teaching in the seminary was when I went skiing over at Lake Tahoe.”

  Francine set her perfectly coiffed blonde head at a knowing angle. “You’ll see it here, Father. Lots of it. From about now until the spring thaw.”

  Father Kelly didn’t seem displeased at the prospect. His round face with the high forehead and snub nose broke into an ingratiating grin. “I’d better go wax my skis. Is it true that people ski right through town?”

  “It sure is,” Betsy exclaimed. She and Francine edged closer to the priest. Neither had been enthusiastic when they’d heard our new pastor was African-American. Alpine’s racial mix is overwhelmingly Caucasian. Indeed, anyone without Scandinavian blood is considered a trifle odd. But now that Dennis Kelly had been at St. Mildred’s for almost four months, Francine, Betsy, and several other middle-aged women acted like schoolgirls vying for the teacher’s attention. I figured Father Kelly could handle the situation—he’d had dinner with Ben and Adam and me in August, and while my brother and the new pastor hadn’t met before, it didn’t take long for them to get down and dirty on the topic of serving in small-town parishes. Den, like Ben, had his head screwed on straight.

  I drifted off, remembering to leave my All Souls’ Day offering for the morning Mass. I was exiting the church when I felt a poke in the ribs.

  “Emma! Say, what’s up?”

  The hearty voice belonged to Ed Bronsky. No wonder I was startled. His manner was so changed from the galley-slave days of his employment with The Advocate that I didn’t recognize him at first.

  But upon turning around, it was the same old Ed. Except that he was better dressed, as was his chubby wife, Shirley. She was pirouetting on the small front porch of the church, showing off her new mink coat.

  “I know, fur’s politically something-or-other, but I don’t care. This is Alpine, and it gets cold.” She patted the lush da
rk fur collar. “Besides, I always wanted a mink coat more than anything.”

  I was trying not to think how many minks had given their lives to cover Shirley Bronsky when Ed poked me again. “Say, we’ve got to talk. Now that I’m a member of the chamber of commerce, I want to go over some of my ideas with you for zapping up business around here.” He lowered his voice and grew very serious. “You know, it’s up to the local newspaper to set the tone for the economy. Advertising is the voice of commerce. You really ought to consider more promotional opportunities, Emma.”

  Since in his previous life Ed had rebelled at the concept of any ad bigger than a bedbug, I all but reeled. “Sure, that’s fine. We’ll talk. Call me.” I nodded rapidly, aware that at least two of the five Bronsky offspring were sitting on the hood of my car. I wasn’t sure why, since the much-used Jag must be old hat to them now that the family had acquired a Range Rover as well as a Mercedes-Benz 300E.

  I escaped, fleeing up Third Street. I had reached the intersection at Spruce when I realized I’d forgotten to get gas. It was after eight o’clock, but Cal’s Texaco might still be open. Like many Alpine businesses, his hours tended to be erratic. Local merchants have an independent, damn-all attitude, even in hard times.

  Apparently Cal was in one of those moods. The station was closed, despite the fact that the adjacent Alpine Mall was open on Monday nights. Admittedly, Cal and his employees had put in a long, hard day. I debated whether to go home or drive all the way across town to the only other local gas dispenser since Buzzy’s BP closed in September. I might as well. I was already out and about, and morning could bring more ice.

  Front Street was virtually deserted. While the mall was open, the downtown stores were not. A month from now, they would extend their hours for Christmas shoppers. Meanwhile, the few lighted display windows still featured a mixture of Halloween and Thanksgiving decor. The chamber of commerce has a long-standing moratorium on Christmas decoration until the last weekend of November.

  As I waited for one of Alpine’s five traffic lights, I glanced at the bank. Somewhat to my surprise, Marvin Petersen was walking toward his not-so-new Cadillac. It was parked in the bank’s loading zone that I’d used earlier. Marv was no more than four feet from my Jag. I lifted a hand in greeting, but he got into his car so quickly—and, it seemed, furtively—that I was ignored. The light changed to green and I moved slowly down the street. Marv revved his engine and took the corner on two wheels. He didn’t drive like a banker, I thought. Indeed, he drove like a man in a panic.

  I couldn’t imagine why.

  Unfortunately, I’d find out.

  Chapter Three

  THE ICICLE CREEK Tavern is definitely not a tourist attraction. It’s old, it’s rundown, it has traditionally catered to brawling loggers. In better days—depending upon your point of view—the tavern went for years without replacing its broken windows. On Saturday nights, customers would pitch each other through the glass with such regularity that the owner couldn’t keep up with the repairs. Apparently plywood wasn’t as tempting as glass. But if layoffs in the woods hadn’t improved dispositions, they had curbed the clientele’s belligerence. Maybe they were bonding together in their common misery. In any event, the tavern’s windows were now intact. And the customers were in place, judging from the number of pickup trucks and beaters in the parking lot.

  Across the dirt track stands Icicle Gas ’n Go, which is also a minimart. The enterprise isn’t as old as the tavern, but the blight seems contagious. The gas pumps are outmoded, the stock could use dusting, and the whole place smells stale. A high school kid with braces on his teeth took my money after I pumped my own gas. They don’t believe in credit cards at Icicle Creek.

  My hands were numb with cold when I got back in the Jag. I rarely wear gloves because I can seldom find a pair that match. I was about to drive away when I saw Linda Lindahl get out of a metallic blue compact. In the Big City, I would have thought it odd to run into two people from the same family within ten minutes; in Alpine, such coincidences are commonplace.

  Still, I was curious. Opening the car door, I called to Linda. “Did you try Cal’s Texaco first, too?”

  Linda jumped. “What?” She peered at me, then at the Jag. I was used to being recognized second to my car. “Oh, hello, Emma. No. I figured Cal would be closed.” She turned her back and tended to the pump in her methodical manner.

  I waited. But apparently Linda had dismissed me from her mind. I wasn’t surprised. Linda Petersen Lindahl has none of her father’s affability nor her brother’s eagerness to please. Indeed, Vida had described Linda as prickly. The description was apt.

  My perverse streak surfaced. Linda was a Petersen, and the bank’s bookkeeper. She had fobbed me off on the phone, but I couldn’t believe she didn’t know why Bob Lambrecht had dropped in at the bank. Despite the cold, I got out of the car and waited patiently for Linda to look up. She was watching the nozzle, occasionally checking the rolling numbers on the pump. Ever the bookkeeper, I thought, ever precise, ever watchful. I always felt I was lucky if I got the nozzle into my car on the first try. I’d been known to miss and end up with inflammable shoes.

  My breath was visible on the night air. Fog drifted close to the roof of the Icicle Creek Tavern, and dipped above the faded metal sign in the parking lot. I could barely make out the lights of the newer homes across the creek. Most of their inhabitants didn’t approve of the ramshackle tavern. An exception was Milo Dodge, who lived in one of the more modest houses and didn’t give a damn unless he or his deputies got called in to stop a fight.

  Linda had filled the tank and was finishing her task in a maddeningly orderly fashion. At forty-plus, she was a bit shopworn despite the short highlighted blonde coiffure, the artful cosmetics, and the effort at keeping her weight within ten pounds of what it should be. Briefly I made a mental comparison: I was a year or so older, but my brown hair was my own, round faces don’t seem to wrinkle as quickly, and I’d never had to worry about dieting. I felt smug, though the truth is, I’m shamefully neglectful of keeping in shape. Luck and good genes get all the credit.

  Linda managed to avoid looking at me until she’d gone inside and paid the bill. When she came back to her car, she deigned to give me a tight smile.

  “You’re still here,” she said, one hand poised on the fleecy white muffler she wore with her double-breasted gray wool coat. In a town that considers Eddie Bauer a designer label, Linda seemed overdressed. “Are you having car trouble?”

  I shook my head. “I still haven’t talked to your father and your brother about Bob Lambrecht.” I kept my smile fixed in place as I pulled the hood of my duffle coat over my bangs. “I hate to be a pest, but why was Bob Lambrecht at the bank this morning?”

  For a moment, I thought Linda looked frightened. Or wary. But when she spoke, she was her usual composed self. “He felt obligated to call on Dad.”

  I waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. Linda Lindahl wasn’t one to elaborate. My dealings with her had been limited to an occasional question about The Advocate’s account.

  “I suppose,” I said in a musing and, I hoped, confidential tone, “Bob was curious about how the bank gets along in times of economic duress.”

  Linda was opening the door of her car. “Maybe.” Her smile was arch. “Good night, Emma.” She ducked her head and disappeared inside the compact.

  Earlier, Larry had cut me off by hiding behind his telephone; now Linda was making a getaway in her car. I was beginning to feel as if the Petersen family was avoiding me. Defeated, I got into the Jag and drove onto Railroad Avenue.

  Linda had just pulled away from the arterial at Highway 187. I knew she lived in a relatively new condo at Parc Pines. The dozen dwellings look nice from the outside, but Carla says they’re cramped. She also says she has no problem with spelling Parc with a C. She is wrong—Carla has problems with spelling in general.

  Parc Pines is on Alpine Way, just off my own street. I didn’t want Linda to think I was
following her, so I turned off at Front Street. Linda continued up Highway 187, the in-town stretch already having been paved and widened. I cut up Eighth Street, past the 7-Eleven and Alpine Appliance, then turned onto Pine, zigzagging my way up the mountainside. It hadn’t iced up yet, but the route was safer, if slower. I was in no hurry; no one waited for me at home. The thought made me feel a trifle bleak.

  My recovery was quick: Linda Lindahl was right in front of me again, if not for long. Her car turned off at the Lumberjack Motel. I put my foot on the brake and crawled along past the twenty units that took up a half block.

  All the rooms faced the parking lot in the two-story structure. I felt like a voyeur as the Jag crept to the corner of Pine and Seventh Streets. But snooping is my job. And I wanted to know why Linda was wearing her good wool coat to get gas at Icicle Creek.

  She had parked at the far end of the lot, under cover of a tall Douglas fir. There were only five or six other vehicles in front of the Lumberjack. In early November before ski season starts, tourists are scarce in Alpine.

  There was no arterial at the corner. I couldn’t come to a dead halt. My last sighting in the rearview mirror caught Linda walking purposefully toward a unit on the bottom level. She disappeared as the Jag drifted across the intersection.

  Somewhat guiltily, I headed home. Except for leaving her car in the shadow of the tree, Linda hadn’t seemed to fear discovery at the Lumberjack Motel. I knew she was divorced, with an ex-husband living in Everett. I recalled a child, a daughter maybe. I realized I knew very little about her.

  Vida would know, of course. On a whim, I rounded the corner of Sixth and Tyee. The lights from Vida’s small, neat bungalow glowed through the gathering fog like a beacon.

  “Well!” My House & Home editor expressed surprise, curiosity, and pleasure all at once. So did I, since Vida had her gray curls covered with a ragged bandana tied in the middle of her forehead and was wearing a tattered flannel bathrobe and rubber gloves. “Whatever are you doing out at nine o’clock?” she inquired. “There are no meetings tonight.”