Alpine Hero

by Mary Daheim

  I was trapped. Trying not to look like gallows bait, I turned back to Ed. “Okay, thanks. But you’ll have to drive me home later.”

  Ed beamed. “No problem.” He patted the Mercedes’s front fender. “This baby runs like a gem in any kind of weather. Hop in and feel what it’s like to travel in style.”

  Maybe the dig at my ailing ten-year-old Jag wasn’t intentional. The Mercedes was beautiful and did indeed drive like a dream. But the pearl-gray leather interior was all Bronsky: sticky fingers had plied the upholstery; the ashtrays overflowed with gum and candy wrappers; the floor was littered with paper cups and bags from fast-food outlets. Absently, I wondered if Ed traveled with a towel. He could use one, along with a mop and a shovel.

  The Bronskys still lived in their crowded split level on Pine Street. Ed had bragged about buying a new house ever since he’d inherited his fortune from Aunt Hilda a year and a half ago. Shirley wanted to build her “dream palace” from the ground up. It appeared that they hadn’t yet come to a meeting of the minds.

  The Bronskys had, however, acquired new furnishings, mostly of Italian Provincial design. The result was that they had less room to move around in, but more surfaces to clutter. Ed, Shirley, and their five children surrounded by ornate credenzas and naked Roman deities gave me something akin to the vapors.

  So did Shirley’s gourmet meal, which turned out to be a random assortment of microwavable entrées from the higher-priced end of the Grocery Basket’s frozen-food section. On my left, Molly Bronsky was eating a pot pie; to my right, Joey was gulping down lasagna; I had what passed for creamed turkey on a wedge of something that looked like a small sponge, but wasn’t as tasty.

  The Bronskys eventually got around to talking about their future home. Shirley had won the war. They were going to build on property just past the golf course and across the river.

  “The county commissioners are still dragging their butts about the new bridge,” Ed stated, oblivious to the trickle of chicken Kiev sauce on his chin. While my host liked to eat just about anything that didn’t come marked with a skull and crossbones, he fancied himself a gourmand. His tastes, however, remained lowbrow; Ed was merely paying more for better-looking boxes. “I’m going to have to do a little arm-twisting with the local engineering folks. I’d like to see the road branch off closer to our house. Not that I want to be right on a main drag—we’ll have a tree-lined drive. And a gate, of course.”

  “With lions,” Shirley put in, her banana satin-covered bosom jiggling. “You know, one on each side, sitting on a pedestal.”

  Ed nodded solemnly. “The family coat of arms can be worked into the gate itself. Wrought iron, I suppose. Gold tarnishes. We’re hiring a Seattle architect. The best. But we’ll let Nyquist Construction do the building. If they’re good enough for Toby Popp, they’re good enough for us.”

  I stared at Ed, trying to keep eye contact instead of watching the cheese sauce run onto his shirt. “Toby Popp? You know him? Who is he?”

  Ed stared back. “Emma! You don’t know who Toby Popp is?” Obviously, he found my ignorance appalling. “Toby Popp,” he said, lowering his voice as if the revelation might shock his children or whoever else spied on Ed and his riches, “is a former computer executive who retired this fall at the age of forty-two. He’s worth billions. Toby’s been written up in the business and investment publications, including The Wall Street Journal. I subscribe, you know.” Ed puffed out his chest, so that it met his stomach.

  In my job, I try to keep up with the met dailies out of Seattle, Everett, and Wenatchee, as well as the weeklies from Snohomish and Chelan counties. Occasionally, I read The New York Times. But there weren’t enough hours in the day to catch more than a rare peek at People or Newsweek, let alone The Wall Street Journal.

  Ed, however, was more than willing to educate me about Toby Popp. “He dropped out of Stanford in his sophomore year, got a job in Silicon Valley, and took off like a rocket. Software, that was his strong suit. Toby was always a hundred miles ahead of everybody else. About ten years ago he moved to Seattle to revolutionize one of the fledgling companies on the East Side. The man’s a genius, but he’s been there, done that, and now he wants to kick back and enjoy life. What a guy!”

  Shirley, who had been nodding her gilded curls, giggled in her squeaky manner. “Just like Ed! It’s so terrific to be able to give up the drudgery when you’re still young.”

  I refrained from pointing out that Ed’s idea of drudgery at The Advocate had involved drinking coffee, eating sweet rolls from the Upper Crust Bakery, and digging through his dog-eared clip-art file.

  “So,” I remarked, relinquishing the rest of the sponge, “Toby Popp’s building a snazzy house down by Index.” I wasn’t about to confess that Vida and I had met the man and not known who he was.

  “Yes,” Shirley said, her plump body writhing some more under the satin pantsuit. “We’ve seen the architectural drawings. It’s going to be fabulous.”

  “Big?” I kept my tone casual.

  “Huge,” Ed responded as the Bronsky offspring began to leave the table in relays, returning with large bowls of ice cream topped with various syrups. “The main house is four bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, five bathrooms, den, video-viewing room, and sunroom. There’s a pool and an exercise room, too. Then he’s got a separate triple garage with his computer lab attached, and another bathroom with an adjoining sauna and whirlpool. It’s all cutting-edge stuff, solar heating, the works.”

  “Does Popp have a Mom Popp and some Poppettes?” I asked.

  Ed grimaced. “I haven’t gotten that chummy. In fact, we haven’t exactly met yet. But we will. We have so much in common.”

  I assumed Ed had garnered his knowledge of Toby Popp through the media and Nyquist Construction. I was vexed. A retired billionaire software king was news. Index was less than twenty miles from Alpine. Ed should have passed the tip along to his former boss. Toby Popp might not like the media, but his presence was still worthy of a story. I’d ask Carla to step up her news-gathering efforts.

  Shirley’s efforts in the kitchen apparently ended with pressing the buttons on her microwave. I wasn’t offered dessert, which was fine. I was anxious to get home. The Bronskys made feeble protests about my early departure, but Ed put on his cashmere overcoat before I could reconsider. When we were back in the Mercedes, he sprang his next surprise.

  “Remember what I was saying when I stopped in front of the office this evening? What I meant by being too close to a thing is this book deal.” Ed pulled onto Seventh, where the snow was falling harder. “I’m not sure I’ve got the perspective to put my life on paper. I can organize all the facts, the highlights, the insights, everything like that, but I need an outsider to capture the real me.”

  A butterfly net would have captured the real Ed about now, as far as I was concerned. We passed the Lutheran church. I knew what was coming. The sponge turned over in my stomach. Throughout my career I’d been approached by many leeches who wanted to collaborate. “I’ve got a great book in me,” they usually began. I always tried to think of a tactful way to tell them that’s where the book should stay.

  “So what I mean, Emma, is that you’re a pretty decent writer,” Ed rattled on. “You can make the county commissioners’ meetings sound sort of interesting, and some of your editorials aren’t bad, either. You could write my biography. I’d give you credit, of course. You know, My Rise to Riches and Beyond by Ed Bronsky and Emma Lord.” Even as he spoke, my name came out in much smaller type than his.

  “Ed, I’m flattered, but—”

  “I’ll tape everything, then you can transcribe it and make it into a—what do you call it?—a narration style?”

  “Narrative,” I said in a weak voice.

  “We can start this weekend,” Ed asserted as we turned off Spruce Street to climb the final block to Fir, where my log house was situated at the edge of town. “I’ll start tonight with my baby days. By Saturday, I should be up to third grad
e.”

  While the Mercedes handled beautifully, even a 400 E is only as good as its driver. Ed was looking at me instead of at the road. Despite the studded tires, the car was skidding ever so slightly because Ed wasn’t following in the tracks laid down by other vehicles. We just missed hitting a Ford pickup parked by the high-school baseball field.

  “Let me think about it,” I hedged, knowing I should have said no outright. But I was nervous, and didn’t want to upset my self-absorbed chauffeur.

  “There’ll be some money in it for you,” Ed declared warmly. “Publishers pay big bucks up front, right?”

  “They give advances, yes,” I agreed, regaining my nerve as we glided along Fir Street. My house would have been in sight if I could have seen through the thick snow. “It’s not the money, Ed. It’s that I’m not sure I’ll have the time. Right now we’ve got this murder story on our hands.”

  Ed aimed for the driveway, missed, and almost hit my mailbox. He slid to a stop, and I started to get out of the car.

  “Vida’s covering the murder,” Ed said, leaning in my direction. “Like I told you, it doesn’t help your reputation to associate yourself too much with these killings. People get the impression that you enjoy them.”

  Having arrived on my own property in one piece, I had the luxury of losing patience. “That’s rot, Ed, and you know it. Good grief, you’ve worked on newspapers. Even if Vida’s assigned to the investigation, I still have to oversee her coverage.” Now out of the car, I gave Ed what I hoped was a friendly smile. “Thanks for dinner and the lift. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “I’ll call Friday,” Ed promised. “Remember, this is the chance of a lifetime. You won’t ever get another offer like this one.”

  Thank God, I thought. I kept smiling until my back was turned and I was headed for the sanctuary of my snug log house. I certainly didn’t enjoy murder, but death warmed over held more charm than coauthoring Ed Bronsky’s biography. Presently, the only story that captured my imagination was Kay Whitman’s. Her life might not have been any more eventful than Ed’s, but her manner of dying had given her notoriety. Too often that was the case: an ordinary person, living out routine days, without special talent or burning ambition, holding down a job, paying bills, going to the dentist, taking an occasional trip. Then, for some terrible reason, or none at all, death hurls the unremarkable victims into the limelight. They don’t know, they don’t care, which is as well. Still among the living, the rest of us are left to pick over their bones, like vultures.

  Ed Bronsky was silly. Kay Whitman was dead. In all probability, I couldn’t escape either of them.

  Chapter Seven

  VIDA AND LEO had both left messages on my answering machine. Figuring that the call to Leo wouldn’t take long, I dialed his number first.

  “No big meetings tonight,” Leo remarked in a strained voice. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d run into an icy patch—or a hot stud.”

  “I ran into Ed Bronsky,” I replied dryly. “He runs neither hot nor cold, but always at the mouth.”

  Leo chuckled. “Ed probably wants to run for mayor. I’ll vote for him, if only because the job might keep him out of my hair.” His voice had relaxed. “I wanted to tell you that I called my old buddy Jake Spivak in Carmel. Unfortunately, he wasn’t home. His wife said he had to go up to San Francisco unexpectedly. Jake probably won’t be back for a couple of days. Shall I try him then?”

  “Oh …” I had sunk onto the sofa and was kicking off my boots. “That’s up to you, Leo. Do you think he can help much?”

  “He can dig up backgrounds,” Leo said. “Honoria’s from Carmel, and Pacific Grove’s within spitting distance. There’s always gossip. Maybe Jake knows somebody like Vida.”

  I appreciated Leo’s willingness. “Sure, let him try. It probably won’t do any good as far as solving the murder is concerned. Milo will be checking out the suspects, too.”

  “Will he?” There was irony in Leo’s voice. “Face it, babe, your favorite sheriff is on the hot seat. How hard is he going to push this thing when it comes to his bed partner?”

  “Ex-bed partner,” I said, a bit too sharply. “Don’t underestimate Milo. We’re talking about his job. He’ll do what he has to.”

  “Sure.” Leo didn’t sound convinced. “But he won’t go for the gossip. He never does.”

  That much was true. Milo dealt strictly in facts and evidence. But I didn’t defend the sheriff any further. I knew Leo wasn’t a great admirer of our local lawman, an attitude I chalked up to journalistic cynicism. In thirty years of newspapering, Leo had seen it all, and not liked much of it.

  On the other hand, Vida was full of enthusiasm. “I dropped in on Stella,” she said before I could get in any more than “Hi.” “A courtesy call, in a sense, because she’s been through a great deal. Naturally, I got her to talk about Becca.”

  “Naturally,” I murmured, carrying my gypsy phone to the cupboard where I kept my meager supply of liquor.

  “Becca’s been legally divorced for over a year,” Vida continued. “Her husband’s name was Eric Forbes. I’m told he has a pleasing way with women, all charm on the outside. When Eric worked, which wasn’t often, he drove a truck for some firm in the south end of Seattle. He drank and beat her. An awful person, but apparently very good-looking. So was the unsuitable boy from Skykomish. Becca and Eric stayed together for three years, which means she married him about a year after she left Alpine. Now here’s the interesting part.” Vida took a deep, audible breath. “He stalks her, mostly by phone. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  “Ahhh—well, not these days. It happens.” I’d poured myself a small amount of bourbon and was adding ice. Quietly. I didn’t want Vida to know that I was imbibing an alcoholic beverage. My House & Home editor was Presbyterian to her toes, and didn’t approve of strong drink, except on rare occasions.

  “Of course it does!” Vida suddenly sounded impatient. “But in this case, I mean the connection with Kay Whitman’s murder. What better way to get back at your ex-wife than to kill off one of her clients?”

  I took a quick gulp of my drink. “Vida! That’s preposterous!” My House & Home editor wasn’t showing sense, one of her favorite attributes.

  Vida harrumphed. “I didn’t say that’s what happened. I’m merely pointing out that it’s a possibility. Have you got a better idea?”

  I didn’t. But at least I could tell her about Toby Popp. Vida dismissed the software magnate with a sniff. “So silly, all these Windows and Apples and Macs and DOS. Indeed, until five years ago, the only Doss I knew was a stool softener. Not that I use it, of course, but Darla Puckett—”

  “Ed wants me to ghost-write his autobiography,” I interrupted.

  “What?” Vida’s voice was a predictable squawk. “Don’t tell me! Ed’s an utter ninny! What on earth could you write about him? He hasn’t done a single thing in his life worth putting into a two-inch cutline! Oh, Emma, I hope you refused!”

  “I tried to,” I replied meekly.

  “Say no. Now.” She paused fractionally. “It’s just after eight. Shall we try Laurie again?”

  “Laurie?” I blinked into my bourbon. “What for? We came a cropper there already.”

  “We could invite her out to dessert. It’s imperative that we see her alone. It would be our way of apologizing for intruding on her family’s dinner hour.”

  The idea of putting on my boots again and surrendering my bourbon wasn’t appealing. “It’s snowing like mad,” I pointed out. “Jane Marshall won’t let Laurie meet us. I’ve got a better idea.”

  “You do?” Vida sounded surprised.

  Accustomed to Vida’s lack of confidence in anyone but herself, I ignored her response. “I still have to get my hair cut. Stella’s appointment book must be crammed because of all the cancellations. I’ll ask for Laurie, and make it sound as if I’m doing Stella a favor by freeing her up.”

  “Well …” Doubt surfaced in Vida’s voice. “I’m the one who shou
ld talk to Laurie. After all, I’m covering the story.”

  “Do you need a hair appointment?” I knew Vida was better at prying.

  “I could use a shampoo set,” Vida replied thoughtfully. “Ordinarily, I go on Saturday morning, but I could pretend that I have an important engagement tomorrow night.” She paused, then brightened. “Indeed, I might ask Buck to dinner. I haven’t yet cooked for him.”

  I shuddered. Vida’s cooking was just one notch above Shirley Bronsky’s. Despite all the recipes and kitchen tips Vida had run over the years, her attempts at the stove were always doomed. I felt that serving Buck Bardeen a home-cooked meal was a bad idea. But I didn’t dare say so.

  “Okay, you ask for Laurie and I’ll stick with Stella.” We cut the deal. Pumping Laurie was a dirty job, but nobody could do it better than Vida Runkel.

  “Why,” Carla demanded, stamping one of her Doc Marten-clad feet, “does a retired billionaire in Index have to be a computer nerd? Why can’t he be a basketball player or a movie star?”

  Under my overgrown bangs, I narrowed my eyes at Carla. “You wanted a tough assignment, you got it. Toby Popp hates the media. Go get ’em, Steinmetz.”

  “Oh, wow!” Carla was sarcastic. “I can see it all now. Funny glasses, complexion problems, dresses like my father. Plus, he’ll talk about macros and the Internet and all that boring junk. The only thing he’ll have to eat is Ding Dongs. How do I find this dweeb?”

  I drew Carla a map, advising her that Toby Popp might be on site. “I suspect he enjoys watching his mansion’s progress,” I said, checking my watch. It was eight twenty-five, and I’d conned Stella into taking me half an hour early, before her official opening at nine. “If he’s not around, the workmen should know where to find him. Call Nyquist Construction first. They’ll have an address.” I shouldn’t have to lead Carla by the hand. After almost five years of experience she should know how to track down a potential interviewee.