The Alpine Fury Read online

  “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.

  “Stop the presses?” Leo murmured.

  I gave a little shake of my head. “I don’t know. He may be passing through from Eastern Washington.”

  Leo waited for the waitress to deliver our salads. “Do people driving the pass usually go a mile off the highway to have dinner this time of year?”

  They didn’t, especially not with snow in the forecast. Cross-state travelers were anxious to get as far below the summit as possible, lest they get caught in a storm.

  When the waitress returned with Leo’s second drink, he handed her a five-dollar bill. She started to protest, no doubt to tell Leo it was on the dinner tab, but he gave her hand a quick squeeze.

  “This is a bribe, honey,” Leo said in a low voice. “You know Ms. Lord here?”

  The waitress, whose name was Dina and who was a recent graduate of Alpine High, nodded. I smiled encourage
ment at Dina. Leo gave her his most conspiratorial look.

  “We want you to do some newspaper sleuthing for us, honey.” He inclined his head in the direction that the unknown man had just gone. “Go roll those big blue eyes at the guy with the briefcase and pretend you’re with the chamber of commerce. Ask where he’s from, why he’s here. You know, all the guff you do so well with the tourist trade.”

  Dina’s big blue eyes got even bigger. I suspected that she was too shy and too new at the job to ask for more than food orders. But she was game. Gulping and nodding, she hurried off to the other side of the dining room.

  Leo complacently savored his fresh drink. “I like giving women a thrill. She probably feels like a spy from World War Two.”

  “She’s probably never heard of World War Two,” I remarked. “My son thinks the War in Nam is a rock group.”

  Leo seemed amused. But then I’m his employer. “What about Pop? Did he fight in Nam?”

  This was the first time that Leo had ever asked about Adam’s father. He knew Tom Cavanaugh; he had worked for one of Tom’s weeklies in California. He also knew that I knew Tom, since that was where the recommendation had originated. But Leo didn’t know how well I knew Tom. Eventually he would have to find out. But not just yet.

  “No,” I answered, trying to sound natural. “Pop was too old.” And married.

  I was spared further disclosures by Dina’s return. Her fair face was flushed and she was tugging nervously at her blonde pigtail. “He’s from Seattle,” she whispered. “He’s on business.” Her breath came in little gasps.

  “Well done.” Leo’s smile didn’t ring quite true. “What kind of business?”

  Dina’s face fell. “I don’t know, sir. He didn’t say.”

  “Where’s he staying?” Leo was clearly making an effort to keep his voice casual.

  Now Dina looked close to tears. “I don’t know that either. And I did ask.”

  Leo patted Dina’s arm. “That’s okay. You got the goods, honey. Thanks. How about that T-bone?”

  Finding comfort either in Leo’s manner or the request for something she knew how to do, Dina scurried off to the kitchen. Leo pushed his empty salad plate aside and lighted yet another cigarette.

  “What do you think?” he asked in a musing tone.

  I considered. “He could be a salesman. But he didn’t look like it.”

  “That’s a six-hundred-dollar overcoat,” Leo said. “The briefcase is real leather.”

  “Somebody from the state? A lobbyist, maybe?”

  “That’s possible,” Leo conceded. “But why not say so?”

  I rubbed my chin. “BOW?” Leo wasn’t familiar with the acronym. “The Bank of Washington,” I explained.

  Leo’s eyes glinted. “Let’s say you could bank on it.” He gave me a quick wink. His T-bone and my trout arrived, courtesy of Dina, who was now all shy smiles.

  I didn’t feel like smiling. If the lanky man in the expensive overcoat really was from the Bank of Washington, it looked to me as if this was the end of the Bank of Alpine.

  Chapter Four

  THE LATEST EDITION of The Advocate had made no more than the usual waves. Clancy Barton of Barton’s Bootery and lone Erdahl of kIds cOrNEr weren’t happy with the City Council’s decision to ban overnight parking at the Alpine Mall. An unidentified woman railed against the Halloween antivandalism editorial, insisting that kids will be kids. I assumed one of hers had been caught vandalizing. Joe Igryskzsty, local tax consultant, called to inform us that we had misspelled his name—for the fifth time. I apologized, refraining from telling him that he was lucky Carla hadn’t misspelled Joe. Only my alert proofreading had prevented the Episcopal rector’s last name of Bartleby from being spelled with an F.

  The snowstorm had never materialized. By Thursday, it had disappeared from the forecast, and temperatures were close to forty with a ninety percent chance of rain. That suited me fine, since I had to attend the monthly county commissioners meeting at seven P.M. Two of Skykomish’s three commissioners had held their elective positions for over twenty years. George Engebretsen owns the local saw shop, and Alfred Cobb is retired from Blackwell Timber. The third member, Leonard Hollenberg, was elected six years ago. He’s also retired, a former railroad man, and lives on the river about four miles west of town.

  For reasons that elude me, county commissioners meetings usually draw a fair-sized crowd. The meetings are held in the main courtroom, with the three commissioners sitting behind the judge’s bench like a troika. This month’s agenda was mundane, dealing mainly with road improvements, participation in a proposed Highway 2 Greenway, and somebody’s herd of cows that had wandered across the Snohomish-Skykomish County line. The last item might prove to be the most controversial. I scanned the audience of fifty-plus to see if I could spot any unfamiliar faces. The Snohomish County farmer might have shown up with a phalanx of supporters.

  One face did stand out: Big Mike Brockelman was in the fourth row, his burly arms folded on his barrel chest. I leaned across the elderly couple sitting next to Mike at the end of the aisle.

  “Hi—you scouting more jobs?”

  Mike didn’t recognize me at first. Then his rugged, weathered face broke into a grin. “Oh! Ms. Lord. You bet! I like to know what’s coming up, especially this time of year when the weather cuts back so many projects. A lot of county roads around here are maintained in conjunction with the state.”

  I nodded. “Because of the timberlands,” I said, then smiled and moved away. The couple I’d been blocking had started muttering to each other.

  The meeting began, with the commissioners droning on about whether or not an offshoot of the Martin Creek Road should be maintained at county expense. If anyone in journalism school had ever warned me that much of a reporter’s life would be spent sitting on hard chairs listening to tedious talk, I might have gone into veterinary medicine. Or medieval history. Or ceramic engineering … My attention dribbled off until Averill Fairbanks asked for the floor.

  Averill always asks for the floor. He is Alpine’s resident sighter of UFOs and other space aliens. Now he was asking the county commissioners if they were making any progress building a landing pad on Mount Baldy. Figuring this was as good a time as any to take my mediocre pictures, I knelt on the hardwood floor and snapped away.

  The commissioners did their usual stall on Averill, then did the same with somebody’s legitimate query about a county bond issue to fund the sheriff’s department. My brain returned to outer space, along with Averill Fairbanks’s UFOs. Unless the meeting grew more lively, I’d rely on the minutes for the bare bones of my story.

  It was nine thirty-five when we were finally adjourned. The wandering cows had been tabled until December. Some of the audience had already left, including Big Mike Brockelman, who had made his exit after the commissioners finished blundering their way through the back roads of Skykomish County.

  With my handbag slung over one shoulder and my camera on the other, I headed for the door. At the back of the room, I saw Larry Petersen standing under a portrait of George Washington and chatting with Henry Bardeen from the ski lodge.

  Larry looked as if he wanted to avoid me, but he smiled anyway. Since it was getting late, and I was tired, I decided to let him off the hook. Any official questions about the bank could wait. I’d already been talked to death by the county commissioners and their commentators in the crowd. Or maybe I was getting too old for fourteen-hour days. Either way, I was anxious to go home.

  On Friday, the Petersens still weren’t talking. I tried not to press Marv or Larry, but I’d dropped by the bank in the morning to send a money order to Adam, and I couldn’t resist asking if there was any news. Marv had given me a baleful look; Larry had laughingly thrown up his hands. But Rick Erlandson, who had actually waited on me, seemed even more glum than he had on Monday. I tried to banter with him, but found every jolly remark falling flat.

  As usual, I was not sorry to see the workweek end. Vida went home e
arly, to begin her revels with Roger. Ginny and Carla left like a pair of funeral mourners. Except for Carla’s brief spurt of enthusiasm over her new photography assignment, neither had regained her emotional equilibrium. My only hope was that on their announced trip to Seattle over the weekend, they would find happiness and romance. If not, maybe they’d stay there. I was getting sick of their doleful faces.

  Leo, however, was cheerful. He was abandoning his crutches, and felt sufficiently healed to walk to the clinic.

  “I can drive again,” he announced, preparing to leave. “How about those Sonics?”

  Leo and I could bond over sports. I didn’t, however, share his enthusiasm for Seattle’s current NBA team. “Five bucks says they don’t get past round one in the playoffs,” I responded. “They’re too erratic.”

  “You’re on,” said Leo with a grin. “Come April, don’t forget. I hate welshers.”

  I was putting on my duffle coat, wondering about dinner. I had to grocery-shop. The thought turned my mind to restaurants. “Instead of money,” I said on a sudden whim, “let’s make it dinner at King Olav’s. Or do you still want to go there?”

  Leo glanced up from the drawer he was closing. “I’ve been there.” His brown eyes avoided me. “Besides, we’re talking springtime. If you want to make a serious bet, let’s say fifty.”

  Somehow, I felt foolish. “Oh—well, okay.” I did a small jig at the door. “How’d you like King Olav’s?”

  Leo seemed intrigued by something under his desk. “It was okay. Mostly Scandinavian stuff. Kind of heavy.” He’d all but disappeared.

  “That’s because Alpine is mostly Scandinavian.” I paused, waiting for Leo to come up for air. He did, barely.

  “Have a good one, babe,” he said.

  I shrugged. “You, too.” I left.