by Mary Daheim
“It’s not serious,” Leo announced, aware that all eyes were upon him. “Two, three days. That’s it. Ace bandage, painkillers, crutches. No biggie.”
Carla’s sigh was elongated, trenchant. “You’re lucky. Physical wounds heal. I’m emotionally scarred forever.”
Having worked with Carla for three months, Leo wasn’t disturbed by the remark. He ignored her, which, I realized, was his custom. I suspected that Carla reminded Leo of his grown children in California. I was aware that they were not a pleasant memory.
“Okay,” I said in my most businesslike voice, “time marches on. We’ve got a paper to get out. Let’s hit it.”
Vida did, by putting on her coat and a wool pillbox with earflaps. Without another word, she left the four of us staring at each other.
The silence was broken by Ginny Burmeister. At twenty-three, Ginny seems older and wiser. Certainly she’s competent, not only running the office, but helping with the advertising. Ginny is one of those redheads whose sole claim to beauty is her hair. Still, Carla’s recent attempts at a makeover had improved Ginny’s appearance. Under certain circumstances, Ginny is almost pretty. On this November morning, she was plain as a post.
“The mail will be late,” Ginny announced in a flat tone. “Marje Blatt says the post office doesn’t want to chain up, except for the rural routes. If they hit a bare spot in town, the chains break and it costs the taxpayers money.”
Leo emitted a growl. “What doesn’t?” He busied himself with a layout for Stuart’s Stereo. “I should get chains, I suppose. I never had them in L.A.”
Ginny stared. It was obvious she couldn’t imagine a Southern California winter. Judging from her expression, it was also obvious that she wouldn’t want to live in a place where November through April didn’t bring snow. Ginny left the news office on a trail of disapproval.
I had edged over to the window. The skies had lifted slightly, and pedestrians on Front Street were walking without undue care. They included Vida, who had just gone into the Bank of Alpine. No doubt she would return in half an hour with Little Bobby Lambrecht’s life story encapsulated.
Vida was back in less than ten minutes. I was pruning my annual editorial on Halloween vandalism when she stomped into my little office and closed the door. “Bobby’s in a meeting with Marv Petersen,” she announced, undoing the ties that held the woolen hat under her chin. “I wonder why.”
In the spring, there had been a rumor that Washington Mutual Savings Bank planned to open a branch in Alpine. There had also been rumors that Fred Meyer and Starbucks were coming to town. Fred Meyer had gone elsewhere. Starbucks had made its local debut in early September. Washington Mutual apparently had changed its mind. But perhaps their interest had piqued that of other financial institutions, such as the Bank of Washington.
I gave Vida a curious look. “A buyout?”
Vida was horrified. “Of the Bank of Alpine? Good grief, what next? Annexation to Everett?”
My remark hadn’t been intended to upset Vida. I’d spent my first twenty years in Seattle and most of my second in Portland, where big-city mergers and acquisitions were common. I should have known better when it came to Alpine. The bank belonged to the town, in the same way that residents claimed Mount Baldy, Tonga Ridge, and the upper Skykomish River.
“The Petersens would never sell the bank.” Vida was scornful. She was also still wearing the hat, the ties drooping on her brown tweed coat, the pillbox crown atilt, and the protruding earflaps giving her the look of a bespectacled bloodhound. “Why, the family’s been in the business since the beginning, back in 1930, when Carl Clemans decided to keep his hand in after he’d closed the mill in ’twenty-nine. Originally, the bank was the company store.”
Vaguely I recalled hearing how the Bank of Alpine had been created. Carl Clemans had shut down the original mill that had sustained Alpine for almost twenty years. He’d moved back to Snohomish, but lent his name and some of his money to the fledgling bank. It was a sign of faith by Alpine’s founding father. The town would go on without him and his mill.
“For years, no money was exchanged in Alpine,” Vida was saying in a huffy voice. “The millworkers were paid in scrip, which they used at the company store. If there was anything left when the season ended, Mr. Clemans paid off the difference in cash. Of course, he gave credit, too. It was paternalistic, but fair. People could be trusted.”
Maybe. People were people. Still, it wouldn’t do to say so. Vida was a realist, but when she got launched on the subject of Alpine’s history, her judgment was sometimes clouded.
“So what’s Bob Lambrecht doing here?” I asked in a mild tone.
Vida evaded my gaze. “Fishing. With Milo.”
“At the bank?” My expression was droll. “Well, why not? Milo’s always complaining that there aren’t any fish in the river.”
“It must be a courtesy call.” Vida was frowning, speaking more to herself than to me. Abruptly her arm shot out in the direction of the news office and she threw me a challenging look. “Larry Petersen wants to talk to you. It’s about Leo.”
I blinked. “Leo? What now?”
Vida turned secretive. “I couldn’t say. Do you think anyone at the bank would breach customer confidentiality?”
Of course they would if Vida asked them. Especially if one of her kinfolk worked there. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t recall a connection.
“I’ll go see Larry before lunch,” I said. “I need to cash my check anyway.” It was the first of the month, payday, and Ginny would distribute our checks as soon as she and I signed them. We were paid on the first and the fifteenth of each month, a tradition started by Marius Vandeventer. In almost four years, I’d given three raises to Vida, two to Ginny, and one—not entirely deserved—to Carla. Maybe it was time to give one to me. I’d already screwed myself once by paying too much for The Advocate. No doubt I’d done the same with the secondhand Jaguar I’d bought before moving from Portland to Alpine. The monies had come from an unexpected inheritance that had been nowhere in the same class as Ed Bronsky’s windfall. However, the newspaper and the Jaguar had both brought me great joy as well as various headaches.
It was ten minutes before noon when I entered the Bank of Alpine. Back in the 1950s, Frank Petersen, the original president and chief financial officer, had been considered an old fuddy-duddy for refusing to cave in to modernization of the lobby. Time had proved him right. Though small, the bank’s interior was replete with Grecian columns, gilded grillwork, and a marble floor. Pilasters ran halfway up the walls, and next to each pair were medallions depicting the profiles of the bank’s founders. The three teller cages featured the original brass bars and were faced in polished mahogany. Fir would have been cheaper and more plentiful, but Carl Clemans and Company wanted the best. In the depths of the depression, it must have been difficult not only to raise the capital, but to build such a handsome bank.
Larry Petersen represented the third generation of his family to work for the Bank of Alpine. Grandpa Frank had been dead for almost twenty years, and Larry’s father, Marvin, had been president since 1960. Larry’s official title was treasurer, but everyone in town recognized him as his father’s heir apparent.
“Emma!” Larry exclaimed, swiveling in his old-fashioned chair behind his old-fashioned desk. He was about my age, a tall, balding man with a wide jaw and slightly sunken blue eyes. “Payday, right?” He got to his feet and came over to where I was standing at the mahogany rail that separated the executives from the customers.
I shook Larry’s hand. “Right,” I agreed, inwardly wincing at his enthusiastic grip. “Vida said you wanted to see me.”
Larry grimaced, then opened the grilled gate that led inside the office area. “Yes, about Leo.” Larry was seated again, his hands circumspectly folded on the desk. “Well. Leo’s a fine fellow, I’m sure of that.”
Bankers, like brokers and bookies, put me on guard. I always sense that they want my money for the sole purpose of enr
iching themselves. Unlike plumbers and electricians and retailers, they pretend to have my best interests at heart. I suspect otherwise, and I’m always wary.
“Leo has increased advertising revenue by twenty-two percent,” I said, which accounted for my on-the-spot decision to give the entire staff a raise after the first of January. I’d get one, too. But the newspaper’s financial status was another source of resentment toward the Bank of Alpine. When it came to money, I had no secrets from Larry Petersen or anyone else who worked for the bank. “I’m Leo’s employer,” I went on when Larry said nothing but merely inclined his head in what I assumed was approval. “What he does in his private life is none of my business.”
Larry had the grace to look embarrassed. “I know that, Emma. But he’s new in town. His account here was activated just three months ago. Already he’s had six NSF checks. We believe in personal banking, Emma. He claims to be poor at math, yet he must handle business transactions for the newspaper. I suspect he’s simply careless. We try to help our customers, not hinder them. How do you think Leo would feel about a proxy arrangement?”
I frowned at Larry. “Proxy? By whom? Me?” The thought was appalling. I had enough trouble keeping my own books straight. I, too, was poor at math.
But Larry chuckled and shook his head. “No, no. I mean we handle his money. Manage it, I should say. Automatic deposits and withdrawals. We don’t advertise the service, but we do offer it. Most banks and credit unions do. The fee is nominal—much less than he’s paying for NSF charges. Of course, we waived the first three.”
Leo’s money matters weren’t my affair. I started to say so, then realized I wasn’t entirely correct. If Leo ended up in rough financial waters, his job performance could be affected. According to Vida, he already had other personal problems.
“I’ll ask him,” I finally replied. “Do you really do this for other customers?”
“Of course.” Larry’s expression became guarded. “Several, in fact. Naturally, I can’t name names.”
Naturally, I thought, mentally cataloguing likely candidates. Crazy Eights Neffel, local loony, sprang to mind.
Larry, meanwhile, had turned philosophical. “Most people don’t realize it, but banking’s a sacred trust. Yes, we want to make money—we have to in order to meet payroll and turn a profit—but our major concern is our customers. You know that ad we’ve been running?”
I nodded. I was well acquainted with the recent series, which showed a picture of a locked safe. The slogan, inspired by Leo, was Your Money is Safe with Us.
“It’s not just a catch phrase,” Larry said, very serious. “Our family and the bank are part of Alpine. We both go way back. I was five years old the first time Grandpa brought me in here.” Larry gestured at the lobby, as solemn as a tourist guide pointing out the treasures of the Vatican. “It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. All the marble and wood and brass. In a way, I never changed my mind.” His slight smile was diffident. “I grew up knowing I’d work here someday. And all the while, Grandpa and Dad kept reminding me that we had a responsibility to the town. As far as I’m concerned, friends and neighbors are the same as customers and investors. We care about them. That’s why we want to help Leo.”
The little speech had been pretty, and I couldn’t deny that Larry was sincere. If he fancied himself born with a silver dollar in his mouth, there was no harm in it. Somebody had to run the Bank of Alpine, and it might as well be a Petersen. It always had been, and probably always would.
I rose, thanking Larry for his concern. Then, in one of my rare and usually futile attempts to one-up Vida, I asked about Bob Lambrecht. Larry’s face closed as tight as a bank vault door.
“Now, Emma, Bob’s visit is strictly confidential. Milo Dodge can tell you more than I can.”
“Can or will?” I gave Larry my most ironic smile.
He chuckled again, a dry, mirthless sound. “Bob’s not here to make news. I can assure you of that.”
I wasn’t assured. I’m still surprised by people’s opinion of what’s newsworthy. Fifteen years ago, I covered a four-alarm fire at a Portland warehouse. The owner insisted that the story shouldn’t run in The Oregonian because the warehouse was empty, and besides, he was insured. When we ran the article and a photo, he threatened to sue us for invasion of privacy. I kept waiting for him to be arrested on charges of arson and insurance fraud. It turned out that he was honest. But he sure was dim, at least when it came to news.
Since it was payday for many Alpiners, all three tellers were on duty. I stood in line behind Polly Patricelli, a fellow parishioner at St. Mildred’s. Polly is small, with a wrinkled face and badly fitted dentures. She acknowledged me with a smile that dislodged her upper plate.
“I’m getting used to him,” she whispered. “Are you?”
“What?” Andy Cederberg, the bank’s manager and loan officer, had just left his desk behind the mahogany rail. I assumed that Polly referred to Andy, but I couldn’t think why. He’d worked at the bank for years.
“Father Kelly,” Polly said, still whispering, still not in control of her teeth. “You know what I mean. His color.”
Dennis Kelly was black, not yet forty, and extremely personable. In an age when good priests were as hard to find as buried treasure, the parishioners at St. Mildred’s were very lucky to get Father Kelly. Had he not been a Tacoma native surplussed from a recently closed seminary in California, we might still be suffering through haphazard liturgies performed by Sister Mary Joan and Buzzy O’Toole.
“Father Kelly is a miracle,” I asserted. “He’s well organized, frankly devout, and his homilies aren’t bad.” At least, I thought to myself, they didn’t take place in a time warp as did those of our previous pastor. I had tended to tune out Father Fitzgerald whenever he began railing against bootleg gin and the Axis powers.
Now Polly’s lower plate jutted. “He’s nice enough,” she mumbled. “But he’s still colored.”
“I think it’s a permanent condition.” My retort was a trifle testy. Polly, however, didn’t notice. She was being beckoned by Christie Johnston at window number two. Denise Petersen, Larry’s daughter, was still waiting on Harvey Adcock. Maybe the hardware and sporting goods store owner had to dig deep into his reserves to pay for his refrigeration repair.
Rick Erlandson finally finished with a woman I recognized only vaguely. Apparently she didn’t recognize me at all. We exchanged the faintest of nods as I approached Rick’s window.
Rick is in his mid-twenties, and has let his unfortunate orange punk-rocker hair grow out into a normal style. Or more normal, I should say, since his head featured hair only in a close-cropped circular cut. He looked as if he were wearing a brown doily. Such reactions on my part make me feel older than forty-two and stodgier than Vida.
Rick was glum. Usually he’s friendly; always he’s sincere. His greeting was polite, but there was only fleeting eye contact. Wordlessly he cashed my check, made the separate deposits into savings and checking, then handed me my eighty dollars in cash.
“Thanks, Ms. Lord. Have a nice day.” Rick looked over my shoulder. “Next, please.”
Delphine Corson of Posies Unlimited greeted us both in her breezy manner. I darted a glance back at Rick. He was still glum.
On my way out, I saw Marvin Petersen, the current family patriarch, speaking to Linda Lindahl, his daughter and the resident bookkeeper. I intended to wave, but noted their serious expressions. I took one last look around the lobby—Andy Cederberg and Larry Petersen had both gone to lunch. Denise Petersen was closing her teller’s window. Rick and Christie were still busy with customers. Marvin and Linda had now disappeared behind closed doors. With a shrug, I left the bank.
I could never have guessed that one of the people I’d just seen would be dead before the next payday.
Chapter Two
CARLA AND GINNY occupied a booth for two at the Venison Eat Inn and Take-Out. Judging from their sour faces, they didn’t want company. My perverse streak compel
led me to greet them. They reacted as if I’d rung a bell, announcing a virulent strain of leprosy.
“Well?” I demanded, leaning on the booth’s high back. “Didn’t you get paid today? That should cheer you up.”
Carla eyed me with disdain. “What’s money compared to love?” She looked at Ginny. “It’s totally nothing. Right, Gin?”
Ginny gave a dispirited nod. Rick Erlandson’s glum face was fresh in my memory. He and Ginny had been dating for several months, though I didn’t think they were very serious. Maybe I was wrong.
“Carla’s going to the bank for me,” Ginny said in a listless voice. “I refuse to go there. Under the circumstances.”
“Which are?” I sighed, impatient with the vagaries of youth. Having an office manager who wouldn’t set foot in the local financial institution was going to be a problem.
Ginny turned away; Carla was aghast. “I can’t believe you don’t know! Rick dumped Ginny! For Denise Petersen! Emma, where have you been the last two days?”
“At home,” I answered truthfully. I’d spent the weekend getting both house and yard ready for winter. Awkwardly I patted Ginny’s thin shoulder. “I’m sorry. Maybe Rick’s going through a phase.”
“He’s going through it with Denise.” Ginny’s voice was bitter and her cheeks were pink. “She got tired of waiting tables at the Icicle Creek Tavern, and came to work at the bank a month ago when Alyssa Carlson quit to have a baby. Denise thinks she’s hot because she’s a teller! Easy for her, with Dad and Granddad running the place. Now she thinks she can get the hook up with Rick. I hate her—she was such a bitch in high school, especially junior year!”
Never had I heard Ginny make such an impassioned speech. Nor had I ever seen her so angry. Mentally I kicked myself for butting in on my miserable female staffers. Out loud, I apologized. Carla and Ginny seemed indifferent. I was trying to make a gracious exit when I felt a big hand on my shoulder.
