The Alpine Betrayal Page 7

  Jack’s first words were indecipherable, mainly because nobody had thought to turn Garth Brooks off on the jukebox. Finally, someone had the sense to pull the plug. Jack grinned at the crowd, revealing very white, if uneven, teeth.

  “This is it,” he began, clutching the mike to his chest as if he were about to serenade a honeymoon couple in the Poconos. “You’ve all been waiting for the great moment, the biggest beer bust of them all. Here we go, it’s time for Mugs Ahoy’s Jugs Ahoy!”

  I sighed, Ed chuckled, Ginny grimaced, and Shirley giggled. Milo, thankfully, remained impassive, but to my horror, Carla clapped like crazy. It appeared that her principles had evaporated in a bottle of Yosemite Sam.

  The contestants came out from the ladies’ room, mounted four temporary stairs to the bar, and to the relatively subdued strains of Waylon Jennings’s “Sweet Caroline,” paraded above the crowd, strutting and straining in their remarkable wet T-shirts. Jack, meanwhile, shouted each contestant’s name and occupation. First in line was Chaz Phipps from the ski lodge, wearing neon green with blinking earrings that must have been on batteries. I wished I’d been on drugs. The catcalls were obnoxious. But Chaz and the three young women who followed her didn’t seem to mind in the least.

  Milo squeezed my elbow. “You could do that,” he remarked, more seriously than I would have wished. “You have a nice chest, Emma.”

  It was the first personal observation Milo had ever directed at me in the two years I had known him. I didn’t know whether to slug him or smile in gratitude. Deciding that he meant well, but couldn’t help being an inarticulate boob, I settled for a noncommittal shrug. Then I realized that boob was probably inappropriate. I had to stifle a laugh, lest I encourage Carla to further mayhem.

  There were twelve contestants in all, and either by accident or design, Vida was last—but certainly not least. She stomped up the stairs to Johnny Cash’s classic “Ring of Fire,” her head held high, her glasses almost at the end of her nose. She wore a pair of dark gray slacks I’d seen fifty times at work, but her T-shirt was a sight to behold: Vida’s impressive bust was adorned with the front page of The Advocate’s Loggerama edition, and in each hand she held a small pennant. The left said SUBSCRIBE NOW!; the right said READ BOOKS! Carla jumped onto the table and lead the applause. Naturally, I joined in. Vida sailed off the bar and down the ramp at the far end to join her fellow contestants in the men’s room, which was temporarily off-limits. I noticed that Patti Marsh was no longer seated at the first-row table. Maybe she was having regrets about not having taken part in the competition.

  I was never sure who the official judges were, though when I had gone in, I had assumed them to be Abe’s favorite local drunks. Whoever they were, they deliberated for over five minutes before announcing that the winner was Vida Runkel. Amid a thunderous ovation, marred by only a few boos, Vida reappeared, still waving her little flags and thrusting her bosom in various directions. Jack Blackwell shoved the microphone in her face.

  “Thank you,” Vida said after the crowd had begun to quiet down. “The judges’ decision proves that older is better. Abe Loomis’s idea to hold this contest proves that he’s dumb as a rope, but we all knew that before there ever was a Loggerama.” She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and gave Abe a flinty look. “The fact that you’re all here proves that you’re no smarter than Abe. That doesn’t say much for Alpine. So two weeks from tonight, at this same time and same place, I want to see all of you back here. Your ticket in the door is a book. The drinks will be on me.” Vida pasted the microphone on Jack’s chest and moved majestically toward the ladies’ room.

  The crowd had gone very quiet, but as she made her exit, more applause began to break out. Carla had climbed down from the tabletop, but was now back up on her chair, shrieking and clapping. “I’m going to read War and Peace!” she yelled after Vida. “I cheated and rented the movie for Russian lit at UW! Oh, yeah, Vida! Go, go, go!”

  Vida went. I had hoped she’d exchange her wet T-shirt for one of her more modest—if gaudy—blouses and join us, but she didn’t. Apparently, Vida had had enough of Mugs Ahoy. I had, too, and it didn’t take Milo more than half an hour to realize it, especially after I asked him four times to take me home.

  Sheriff or not, Milo had been forced to park his Cherokee Chief two blocks away, in back of the Clemans Building. As we walked along Pine Street with the night air feeling like a tonic, Milo remarked that Vida had certainly been a good sport. I agreed. He said he felt that her challenge about reading books was very appropriate. I said I thought so, too. He allowed that it had been a while since he’d read anything except newspapers. I told him he was missing a lot.

  “I used to read more,” he said, pulling out from the curb. “Of course I have to go over loads of stuff at work. Some days I get sick of words.” Stopping at the Pine Street arterial across from the Alpine Medical and Dental Clinic, Milo suddenly whistled and leaned into the steering-wheel. “Look at that!”

  The pearl gray car cruising past us was unlike any automobile I’d ever seen, except on a visit to Beverly Hills six years earlier. I, too, stared. “What is it?” I asked in a breathless voice.

  “Damned if I know,” said Milo, shaking his head as the sleek two-door coupe disappeared past the hospital. “Custom job. Did you see who was driving it?”

  I’d gotten a glimpse of the profile behind the wheel. “Henry Bardeen said Matt Tabor brought a customized make to Alpine. But that wasn’t Matt driving.”

  Milo grinned at me before making his right-hand turn. “No, it sure wasn’t. That was Dani Marsh, right?”

  I gave a faint nod. “Along with Patti Marsh and somebody else.”

  Milo and I exchanged puzzled looks.

  Saturday should have been a day of rest, but journalists are never assured of having weekends off. Vida was going to cover the Miss Alpine pageant in the evening, Carla was assigned to the kiddy parade in the late morning, and I was taking on the timber sports competition in the afternoon.

  The event was scheduled for the high school football field, which is less than two blocks from my home. Carrying a camera and a notebook, I walked over under the noonday sun to find a large crowd gathered in the stands. At one end zone, ALPINE was spelled out in fresh white letters; at the other was BUCKERS, the team nickname, which referred to millworkers who specialized in the sawhorse. Or something to do with the old mill—I was never quite clear; but the mascot depicted a big lug with a big grin and an even bigger saw. It seemed to fit the town’s image, though there were grumbles that it was sexist. My feeling was that it was traditional, and at least the Bucker wasn’t using the saw to cut a woman in two.

  While Alpine’s annual event is not on the official Timber Sports circuit, a number of the regular professional competitors usually show up.

  Many of the Loggerama contests are not part of the usual circuit, but are steeped in local lore. One of these is Shoot the Duck, in which a decoy is perched high among the branches of a portable Douglas fir and the contestants attempt to hit the target with a catapult. Since I couldn’t figure out what this event had to do with timber, logging, and other woodsy work, I questioned Vida about the connection. She informed me that her father-in-law, Rufus Runkel, was responsible. Back in 1927, his wife had promised visitors from Seattle that they would have roast duck for dinner. Armed with a shotgun, Rufus had headed into the woods, but after hiking for over three miles, he discovered he’d forgotten his buckshot. To ensure his honor as a hunter and his wife’s reputation as a cook, Rufus had used a rope and a rock to fling at the unsuspecting ducks. Somehow, he bagged three of them, proudly carried them home, and earned not only the thanks of his wife, but an epigram as well:

  “I figured Rufus has been shooting blanks for years, but I’m sure glad he still has rocks in his head,” said Mrs. Runkel. The trophy for the event was named in his memory.

  Due to my status as a member of the press, I was allowed on the sidelines. It was probably even warmer on the fiel
d than in the stands, and after the first two hours of sweating, heaving, grunting lumberjacks, I scoured the program in an effort to figure out how much longer I would have to stick around to write an adequate story. I had at least a half-dozen decent photos already and could always get the final results from Harvey Adcock, the hardware store owner who was one of the officials. There were probably close to six hundred people on hand, virtually filling both sides of the stadium. To my surprise, Dani Marsh arrived with Matt Tabor and Reid Hampton shortly after intermission. They were ushered to folding chairs just below the stands and a few yards away from my vantage point. Dani and Reid waved; Matt ignored my existence. Indeed, Matt Tabor seemed to be ignoring the entire occasion. His handsome face looked blotchy, and even at a distance, his eyes seemed unfocused. I thought again about seeing Patti Marsh in the custom-built car. If it belonged to Matt, her presence there seemed very peculiar.

  Having suffered through shaving hunks of wood with an axe, log-rolling on a makeshift pond at midfield, and numerous bouts with chain saws, I decided to leave after the Standing Block Chop competition. Kneeling on the dry grass with my camera at the ready, I watched as ten contestants, including Cody Graff, confronted three-foot blocks of wood set in four-legged iron stands on blocks of concrete.

  As Harvey Adcock blew his horn to start the competition, I kept my eye on Cody Graff. Like most of his rivals, he was bare to the waist. The muscles of his back and upper arms rippled as he flailed away at the block of wood. His narrow shoulders prevented him from having a physique as imposing as several of the other young men, but he seemed to wield his axe with great authority. I glanced up into the crowd to see if I could find Marje Blatt. She was probably on hand to watch her fiancé, but I couldn’t pick her out in the stands.

  It was while my back was turned that the axe flew past me. It sailed within two feet of my head and landed with a loud thud at the feet of Dani Marsh. The onlookers uttered a collective gasp. I let out a little cry of my own and whirled around. Cody Graff was standing with his empty hands at his side, while his malevolent expression was fixed on the trio of Hollywood visitors.

  Harvey Adcock, Jack Blackwell, and Henry Bardeen were out on the field. The other contestants were still hacking away, though all eyes in the audience were glued on Cody or his axe. Matt Tabor was yelling obscenities, while Reid Hampton picked up the sharp-edged tool and shot a furious look at Cody Graff. Dani Marsh was on her feet, shifting nervously in front of her folding chair.

  I moved closer to Harvey, who was now talking to Cody. Harvey seemed very earnest, but I couldn’t make out his words without crossing the sideline marker. Cody was shrugging, then nodding. Jack Blackwell retrieved the axe from Reid Hampton, but he didn’t give it back to Cody. Instead, Cody jogged off the field, his head down, his face impassive.

  I grabbed Harvey as he came over to where I was standing. “What happened? My back was turned.”

  Harvey, who is no taller than I am, looked at me with troubled green eyes. “Cody says it was an accident. The axe slipped.” His graying eyebrows lifted slightly.

  “What do you think?” I asked as the crowd began to settle back into the rhythm of the contest.

  Harvey shook his balding head. “I can’t say, Emma. It just seems odd that the axe landed right in front of Dani and her friends.” With one of his typically quicksilver movements, Harvey started down the sidelines. “The heat’s over. I’ve got to go be an official.”

  It seemed to me that there was more news—if you define the concept as public interest—in the flying axe than in any further description of the competition. I headed off the field and under the stands to try to find Cody. But by the time I reached the cramped, dank-smelling area that was used mostly for halftime pep talks during football season, Cody was nowhere to be seen. Having come this far, I kept going, out the back way, and into the dirt parking lot.

  Cody Graff and Marje Blatt were getting into his pickup truck. They drove away without seeing me.

  Two nights in a barroom were two too many for my taste, but Carla and Ginny insisted I join them at the Icicle Creek Tavern to take part in the Celebrity Bartender festivities.

  “Doc Dewey’s on hand for the first two hours,” said Carla as we drove in my Jaguar out Mill Street to the edge of town.

  At least we would avoid Fuzzy Baugh and his civic-minded libations. I pulled into the parking lot which was only half full, probably because most of the local residents were attending the Miss Alpine pageant at the high school. No doubt they would pour in later, griping about the winner’s deficiencies or extolling her virtues, depending on who was related to whom.

  The Icicle Creek Tavern has been controversial in the past few years, not only for its reputation as a site of weekend brawls, but because the area south of the railroad tracks has been built up with new solid middle class homes. In addition, several more expensive residences now sit just across the creek above the river. And the golf course is situated on hilly, tree-shaded grounds a few hundred yards down the road. Naturally, the neighborhood does not approve of the ramshackle old tavern with its boarded-up windows and raucous clientele. They’re not even too fond of the gas station which sits next to the tavern, though they will admit it’s convenient.

  At one time, probably just after Prohibition ended and before the loggers started pitching each other through unmarked exits, perhaps the tavern had its share of charm. The paint has faded from its shake exterior; the cedar shingles on the roof have weathered to a dull gray; and the corroded metal sign that stands in the parking lot is virtually unreadable.

  The interior is even worse. So many of the chairs have been used to bash heads that in recent years the management has simply brought in apple boxes and other relatively sturdy crates as replacements. The tables are splintering, the floor is uneven, and the long mirror behind the bar has cracked in the form of a spider. Yet on this muggy Saturday night of Loggerama, there was the suggestion of a festive air. Bunting hung from the ceiling along with the cobwebs; a montage of old logging pictures had been mounted over the bar to cover up the shattered mirror; and the pool table had been turned into a display of logging tools from the early part of the century. Most of them were rusty and broken, but it was still a nice idea.

  Carla insisted on sitting at the bar. Checking the stool for slivers, I sat down and greeted Doc Dewey who, surprisingly, looked as at home in his white bartender’s apron as he did in his white medical coat.

  “What will you girlies have?” he inquired, giving the bar a professional swipe with a wet cloth. He looked over his half glasses at Carla. “How’s that sting? Any reaction?”

  “Not to the antihistamine,” replied Carla, crossing her legs and swinging her feet like some barfly out of a Forties second feature. “Only to the stupid bee. Or wasp.”

  “Good, good,” said Doc. “You’re over the danger now. It can have a lot of different symptoms, though. Everything from drowsiness to heart palpitations.” He patted his apron-covered chest, causing something to click in his shirt pocket. An extra set of dentures, I mused, just in case some of the patrons weren’t on their best Loggerama behavior and tried to knock out his teeth.

  Ginny and I both ordered beer, but Carla again opted for white wine. I shuddered, hoping it wouldn’t have the same effect on her tonight as it had during the wet T-shirt contest. Taking the schooner from Doc, I swiveled on the stool to check out the rest of the customers. There were a few regulars, mostly loggers, but there was also a sprinkling of people I figured didn’t usually hang out at the Icicle Creek Tavern: Cal Vickers, who owned the Texaco station on the other side of town, had come with his wife, Charlene; Heather Bardeen and her buddy, Chaz Phipps from the ski lodge; Jack Blackwell and Patti Marsh; Marje Blatt and Cody Graff.

  I considered going over to Cody and asking him about the incident with the axe, but Marje seemed to be deep into a one-sided lecture and Cody was well into his cups. I decided this wasn’t the time or place. Just as I was about to turn back to the bar,
the door opened. Milo Dodge came in with Honoria Whitman. At least I assumed that the woman in the pale yellow painter’s smock shirt and the black tights was Honoria. Her face was a perfect oval, with short ash blond hair and wide-set gray eyes. She had an air of serenity about her, as if nothing could go wrong in her world as long as she was on hand to prevent it.

  Except that something obviously had: To my dismay, Honoria Whitman was in a wheelchair. I tried not to let my jaw drop.

  Milo nodded in my direction. A bit awkwardly, I descended from the bar stool and went over to greet him and his companion. Milo made the introductions. Honoria extended her hand. It was long, slim, and milk white. She did not fit my preconceived notions of a transplanted California in the least.

  “Milo speaks so well of you,” she said in a cultured, husky voice. “He says you’re every inch the professional, a real addition to this community.”

  “Oh—that’s kind of him.” I glanced up at Milo, who was flushing. So was I.

  More people were coming into the tavern, including Al Driggers, the undertaker, and his spunky wife, Janet. Right behind them, a contingent from the high school faculty trooped in. I recognized Steve Wickstrom, who taught math, and his wife, Donna, along with Coach Rip Ridley and Mrs. Ridley, whose first name I seemed to remember was Dixie. Schoolteachers who drank in public were frowned upon in Alpine, but Loggerama was obviously an exception. The faculty could get as drunk and stupid as the rest of the residents without being hauled up before the school board.

  Milo pushed Honoria’s chair over to an empty table near the rest room doors. I returned to the bar, where Carla and Ginny were head-to-head, obviously speculating about Milo and Honoria.