Alpine Icon

by Mary Daheim

I didn't try to follow the connection. It was sufficient that Vida had nailed the story. “His appointment is no secret if he's speaking at the picnic,” I noted.

  “He's not speaking in his new capacity,” Vida replied. “He's representing the state community-college system. But he's the goods, I assure you.”

  With any luck, we might announce the new dean in The Advocate before the story hit the rest of the media. Feeling slightly mollified, I turned the hot dogs on the grill. When I looked up, Vida was talking to Alicia Wells Lowell.

  “Well,” Vida cried, “you made quite an impression on Craig Rasmussen the other night! He's not used to seeing such sophisticated young women at Icicle Creek Gas 'N Go.”

  Alicia, who was wearing a quilted jacket over tailored navy slacks, gave Vida a modified smile. “Craig Ras-mussen? Who is he?”

  Vida explained. Alicia was nodding in comprehension when Francine joined us. “I hear Ursula was drunk as a skunk when she fell in the river. What a surprise. Ha-ha.”

  Vida tapped her chin. “Now, Francine, how did you know that Ursula drank? I never heard any such thing.” The idea of such a juicy snippet eluding my House & Home editor clearly unsettled her.

  The question clearly unsettled Francine. “What? Well… I hear things, from Seattle. I have contacts there. I know someone in the chancery. Oh, trust me, those rich Catholic families try to keep things like that under wraps. They're very protective. But word leaks out all the same.” Her tone was defensive.

  I was bothered by Francine's assertions. Not that I doubted what she said about wealthy Catholics circling the wagons, but I had to wonder about her omission when she was trashing Ursula the previous Wednesday while I was in her shop. Such an obvious vice as drinking would have been tailor-made for Francine's critical tongue.

  Vida was looking thoughtful. “You wouldn't think Warren would marry a woman who drank. Wasn't that the problem with his second wife?”

  “Alexis?” Francine made a face. “I don't know. I think it was more of a stepson debacle. The kid was incorrigible.”

  Roger leaped to mind. I glanced among the picnickers but couldn't see him or the Fairfax boys. Maybe they'd gone into the Old Mill Museum and were playing with sharp instruments. I waited to see what scent Vida would pick up on next. She hadn't gotten very far with Alicia's stop at Gas 'N Go.

  Naturally it didn't pay to underestimate Vida. She had put a friendly arm around Alicia and was leading her out of hearing range. “You must tell me all about your visit to Snohomish. Now, which Carlson girl is your old chum … ?”

  Francine was eyeing me suspiciously. “What's Vida up to now? She's pumping Alicia. Why?”

  I gave Francine a helpless look. “Do you think I know why Vida does what she does? Maybe she's trying to figure out what really happened to Ursula.” Sometimes the truth serves better than a lie.

  “By asking Alicia?” Francine was scornful. “Alicia wouldn't have known Ursula if she fell in her lap.”

  “Did you know her? Other than from church, I mean.”

  The barbershop quartet had stepped down, and was replaced by a rock group from Sultan. Either they were very loud, or I was getting rather deaf. I had to ask Francine to repeat her reply.

  “Are you nuts?” she shouted, which should have been clear enough to me. “I wouldn't have spit on that bitch if she was on fire!”

  A few yards away the three-legged race was being organized. I noticed that Roger and his companions hadn't yet shown up. “I thought Ursula might have come into the shop,” I said, raising my own voice above the din.

  “Never!” Francine snapped. “I'd have barred the door.” As the bass pounded and the guitars thwanged and a young man made noises that sounded like someone was performing surgery without an anesthetic, Francine edged closer. “Look, the woman's dead. I ought to shut up. If she really was killed—though I don't see how—I don't want to be at the top of Dodge's suspect list. If you want to know what Ursula was really like, ask Warren. He knew her better than anyone, at least in Alpine.”

  “I ought to do that,” I mused as the drums crashed and a great shout went up from the younger set, which had made its own mosh pit below the bandstand. “Do you think he'll stay on in Alpine?”

  Francine opened her mouth to say something, then shrugged. “I don't know.”

  Another shout rent the air, but this time it didn't come from the mosh pit. Francine and I both turned to see Nunzio Lucci facing off with Bill Daley. Onlookers, including Vida, Alicia, Delia Lucci, and Bill's wife, Kathryn, were moving out of the way, watching in frozen silence.

  “So put your mouth where your money is, you SOB!” Luce yelled. “Admit it, you're all talk and no guts!”

  Bill Daley was about the last person I'd expect to see in a fistfight. Nearly sixty, with a full paunch and almost no hair, he was a genial man who was respected as a pillar of the community.

  “Now, Luce, be reasonable,” Bill pleaded as his would-be opponent stomped around on gimpy legs. “I didn't mean any disrespect.”

  “You called me a bigot!” Luce shouted, revving up his fists. “I ain't no bigot! But where's your racial pride? You want some slope marryin' one of your granddaughters?”

  “We don't have any slopes in Alpine,” Bill shot back. “Except ski slopes,” he added with an impish smile.

  If Bill thought to disarm Luce, he was mistaken. “You called me a dago!” Luce cried, moving in on Bill. “Take it back or I'll clean your clock!”

  “I did not! I only said that… oh, to hell with it!” Bill lunged forward and caught Luce with a haymaker to the midsection. Luce retaliated with two quick blows to Bill's head. The home-furnishings-store owner staggered, then collected himself and butted Luce in the chest. The former logger began raining his fists on Bill's head as the women shrieked and the men began to take sides. The loggers seemed to be rooting for Luce; most of the others rooted for Bill. Nobody seemed inclined to stop the fight.

  “Oh, dear!” Vida exclaimed as she and Alicia moved back to where Francine and I were standing transfixed.

  “This is no way to hold a Labor Day picnic!” Ever the professional, she began adjusting her camera to capture the brawl on film.

  The two men were thrashing about at close range, missing more than hitting. Luce had just put a hammer-lock on Bill when Milo entered the fray. “Cut it out!” he ordered, his long face grim. “Now!”

  Neither combatant seemed to hear him, which wasn't entirely Bill's fault, because he was turning a peculiar shade of puce. Milo grabbed Luce by the back of the shirt and attempted to break his hold on Bill. He failed—and had to draw his baton, which made contact with Luce's skull, dropping him to the ground like a load of dirty laundry. Bill also collapsed. Delia and Kathryn rushed to their respective mates' prone figures, both cursing Milo, though for what I wasn't sure.

  And the band played on.

  Chapter Twelve

  IT WASN'T EXACTLY the most successful Labor Day picnic in Alpine's history, but it might have been one of the more memorable. Nunzio Lucci and Bill Daley were both taken to the hospital emergency room, as were two teenagers who had been stomped in the mosh pit. Vida used up four rolls of film before the day was out.

  “Really”—she sighed as we sat at a table situated as far as possible from the bandstand where Fuzzy Baugh was pontificating—”I don't recall a Labor Day quite like this since Dust Bucket Cooper's shorts caught fire and he jumped in the river, forgetting he didn't know how to swim.” Vida sighed again.

  The rain was coming down hard, but it didn't bother the crowd, which seemed to have been energized by the fight between Luce and Bill Daley. While at least half the spectators paid desultory attention to the mayor's speech making, the rest appeared in a frolicsome mood. Around the fringes, there was much laughter, exuberant conversation, and diminishing half racks of domestic beer.

  “I wonder what really set Luce off,” I mused.

  Vida, who was sipping a paper cup filled with plain water, shrugged. “It wo
uldn't take much,” she said. “Luce is touchy.”

  “I hope it didn't have anything to do with St. Mildred's,” I said, stepping aside as a Frisbee sailed past me. “Luce told me that he thinks Bill is something of a fair-weather school-board member. He votes not for what's right, but what's popular.”

  Vida seemed temporarily disinterested in the school-board controversy. “Alicia Wells—Alicia Lowell, I should say—is very much of a clam. It was difficult getting anything out of her—except for one slip on her part.”

  “Which was?” I tried to ignore Fuzzy's honey-and-grits platitudes, even though the loudspeaker seemed beamed in my direction.

  “She's seen her father.” Vida gave me one of her smug little smiles. “I mentioned that Ursula's death seemed to have aged Warren overnight—not that I actually thought so, of course. Or, I suggested—just doing a bit of fishing—was he ill? Alicia acted shocked, then said she thought he looked all right, considering. But she added— far too quickly—that she'd only seen him at a distance, on the street. She was lying, though I don't believe she realized I saw through her.”

  “So maybe they've patched up their long-standing quarrel?” I suggested, noting the approach of Greer and Grant Fairfax.

  “Estrangement is more like it,” Vida said, wincing as Fuzzy went into one of his tried-and-true anecdotes about arriving in Alpine forty years ago, fresh out of Baton Rouge. “I really couldn't say. Alicia doesn't strike me as the type who takes things lightly. Certainly her mother doesn't. The question is not only why she saw him, but where. Was it an accidental meeting? Or was it—”

  The Fairfaxes looked upset as they descended on Vida. “Where are our boys?” Greer demanded. “Have you seen them in the last two hours?”

  Vida's eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell frames of her glasses. “Why, no. They were with Roger…. Oh, dear!” Now she, too, looked alarmed as her head swiveled in every direction. “Where did they go?”

  “We checked the riverbank,” Grant said, tightlipped. “Greer even walked over to the mall. Is Roger responsible?”

  Vida drew back as if struck. “Of course! He's the soul of maturity!”

  I felt like snickering, but didn't. In my opinion, Roger was as responsible as a rabbit in heat. And about as bright. But neither Vida nor the Fairfaxes were amused. As a mother, I didn't blame them. The fear of misplacing a child is always with parents. I still vividly recalled the occasion on which I'd lost Adam at Lloyd Center in Portland. He was six at the time, and I'd been caught up in Nordstrom's annual sale. After I'd notified security and contemplated a nervous collapse, we'd finally found him hiding under a table display for the Trail Blazers. My son had thought it was a big joke. I thought he was awful, but was too relieved to say so.

  “Then,” Greer said in the grimmest of tones, “where would your mature grandson have taken Byron and Lionel?”

  Shoving her yellow rain hat higher on her forehead, Vida considered. “Youngsters love to fool adults. Perhaps they're sneaking about, hoping to dupe us.” It was a viable theory, but my House & Home editor sounded uncertain.

  Greer, however, shook her head. “We've looked everywhere. We separated, just to trick them if that's what they had in mind.” Noting Vida's uncharacteristically helpless look, Greer turned to her husband. “We're going to notify the sheriff. Has anyone seen that big lummox?”

  I bristled. “Milo has had his hands full this afternoon. He doesn't need to be bothered by parents who can't keep track of their own children.”

  The Fairfaxes and Vida all turned on me. “And grandparents, I assume?” Vida snapped.

  “Now, hold on….” I protested.

  Greer waved a finger in my face. “I'm going to bother that moron! If he doesn't find our boys in the next thirty minutes, I'll have his badge! The next time Dodge runs for election, I'll see he's run out of office!”

  Vida was already moving off in her splayfooted manner, apparently in search of Milo. Checking my watch, I noted that it was going on five. The speeches were winding down, with only our state representative, Bob Gunderson, and high-school football coach Rip Ridley left on the program.

  Greer was still denouncing Milo, but I chose to ignore her. Grant, however, attempted to soothe his wife. She brushed him off as if he were a gnat. I let my eyes roam around the park and, in my imagination, cover a much larger area. There were dozens of places that might intrigue a trio of young boys. Alpine's woods were seductive, as was the river, the creeks, even the old buildings that lined the railroad tracks.

  Five minutes later Vida reappeared with her nephew Bill Blatt. Bill was already looking harassed, and his aunt was chewing his ear off. Greer and Grant Fairfax eyed the young deputy as if he were some subhuman species.

  “Where's Dodge?” Greer demanded, fists on hips. Despite her diminutive size, she almost seemed a match for Vida.

  Bill looked apologetic. “There's been a bad accident just below the summit, possible fatalities. Sheriff Dodge went to check it out. My—Ms. Runkel has brought me up to speed about the boys.”

  Sure enough, the sound of sirens could be heard coming from the vicinity of the hospital. A moment later an ambulance raced down Alpine Way. Greer frowned as her eyes followed the emergency vehicle. I knew what she was thinking: will that be needed for the boys?

  Bill—or Vida—seemed to have matters in hand, however. “My nephew is contacting the county Search and Rescue unit,” she announced. “Several of the volunteers are already here.”

  Off the top of my head, I counted Coach Ridley, Clancy Barton, Verb Vancich, and Garth Wesley, the resident pharmacist. Even as Bill Blatt got on his cell phone, Rip Ridley climbed to the bandstand and started talking about the high school's upcoming football season. Apparently his beeper went off before he finished assessing the linebacker situation: With a call to “Cut 'em up, you Buckers!” he signaled for the band to play the Alpine fight song.

  Keeping one eye on Bill and the assembling members of the Search and Rescue team, Vida now steered me away from the Fairfaxes. “This is probably very silly,” she murmured, “but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. I'm sure those Fairfax boys have led Roger into some harmless mischief.”

  I held my tongue. Before Vida could speak again, Monica Vancich approached with her two^ children trailing behind her. “Did I hear that Greer's boys are missing?” she inquired in an anxious voice.

  “Not missing,” Vida retorted. “Disappeared. With my grandson.” Her steely glare reproached Monica for omitting Roger.

  “I don't think I know your grandson,” Monica said, looking vaguely apologetic. “Is he … um … a sturdy boy?”

  Vida started to bristle, then regarded Monica with her full attention. “Roger is a husky lad, yes. Why do you ask?”

  As ever, Monica seemed nervous. “Well… I saw the Fairfax boys and someone who might have been your grandson get into a car about an hour ago. It was after Verb and I had left the picnic table, so I didn't know anything about Byron and Lionel being missing until just now. I thought that they were getting a ride home with somebody they knew.”

  Vida looked as if she could pounce on Monica and swallow her whole. “A car? What kind of car? Who was driving? Which way were they headed?”

  Monica gulped. “I told Verb, so he and the other Search and Rescue members will know what to look for. It was an older car, maroon—I don't know what kind. I didn't see who was driving, but I think it was a young person. A boy, maybe, with long hair.” Monica was speaking faster now, obviously intimidated by Vida.

  “Maroon,” Vida said. “Old. Young driver. Hmm.” She squinted through the rain and tapped one foot.

  “You mustn't worry,” Monica interjected. “The Good Lord will take care of them. We must learn to trust, not only Him, but each other.”

  “Oh, bilge!” Vida exclaimed, now stamping her foot. “Don't talk nonsense! Try to think instead what kind of car it was!”

  Monica looked as if she didn't know whether to cower or be affronted. “But I tol
d you I don't—”

  “Laura O'Toole,” I said suddenly. “Laura has a maroon Plymouth Fury.”

  Vida's head whipped around as if it were on a string. “Where's Laura? Is she here?”

  I shook my head. “I haven't seen her since she was at my house.”

  “Ah!” Vida spun away, apparently searching for her nephew.

  The conclusion of the Alpine fight song had signaled the official end of the picnic. Though the rain had let up a bit, the banners sagged and the bunting drooped. The high-school band was loading instruments onto the tired yellow team bus. About half the remaining crowd began to gather up their picnic items and head home. The rest lingered in small groups, some talking and laughing, some still eating, and those who apparently had heard about the missing boys were looking concerned.

  My inclination was to join the departing picnickers. It had been a long, tiring afternoon. I was wet, if not cold. With only one day to get ready for Wednesday publication, tomorrow promised to be hectic.

  But I didn't feel right abandoning Vida. I could see her hat bobbing above a knot of people near the tennis courts. Collecting my basket, I started for the little group. Before I could reach them, Vida marched off in the direction of the parking lot. My guess was that she was going in search of Roger on her own. Maybe it was just as well. I didn't think I could stand listening to her ascribe any more undeserved virtues to the little creep.

  On the other hand, I was being mean. It was possible that something terrible had happened to Roger and the Fairfax boys. That was the trouble with contemporary life: the worst-case scenario was always feasible. I got into the Jag and tried to spot Vida's Buick. It was just pulling out of the lot, turning left on Park Street.

  It seemed likely that Vida was headed for Laura O'Toole's. Now we were on Alpine Way, and I could see Bill Blatt's county car in front of the Buick. He turned on the siren just before making a right onto River Road. My hunch appeared to be correct. But to my surprise, he stopped short of the dilapidated old houses beyond Icicle Creek. We'd arrived at the holding pond by the only working mill in Alpine.