by Mary Daheim
“Dirt cheap,” Ed was saying, even as my mind wandered down memory lane and over to the contentious trio by the drapes. “Ask Fuzzy.”
Obviously, I'd lost the train of Ed's conversation. “Fuzzy? Ask him what?”
Ed looked exasperated. “Emma, have you been drinking too much cheap wine? You're fuzzy.” He chuckled heartily at his own joke. “I'm talking about Melville's quote for this stupid resort deal. Fuzzy Baugh gets to see all the bids for building projects. Fuzzy and I have gotten kind of tight lately.” Ed paused, puffing out his chest, his stomach, and his cummerbund. “You know, movers and shakers have to hang together. We played golf today. Fuzzy said that Melville's quote came in dirt cheap.”
Now Ed had my full attention. “Really? Who else bid on it?”
Ed's chubby face grew grave. “Gee, Emma, I shouldn't leak this kind of information. You don't intend to publish it, do you?”
I forced a reassuring smile. “Of course not. We've already run the story about Scott Melville getting the job. There's no news value in who didn't, especially since he's the only architect in Alpine. The others were outsiders, I take it?”
Ed nodded. “Everett. Seattle. Even somebody from Skagit County—Mount Vernon, I think. But Melville won, fair and square. He had to, with a bid so much lower than the rest.”
“How much lower?” Maybe there was more news value here than I'd thought.
Now Ed turned canny. “Considerable. Like …” He closed one eye in what passed for a discreet wink. “Like fifty percent.”
“Hmmm.” I sounded sage, but in truth I didn't know whether the bid would be fifty percent of a thousand or a hundred thousand dollars.
Nor did I get a chance to ask. At that moment, Cal Vickers took a swing at Scott Melville, missed, and caught Rip Ridley with a glancing blow to the cheek. The football coach reeled, then dived at Cal, knocking him against the drape-covered window. The glass shattered, flying all over Rip, Cal, Scott, and the vicar's wife, whose first name I suddenly remembered was Edith. Darlene Adcock and Irene Baugh both screamed. Janet Driggers jumped on top of Scott Melville, to what purpose, I didn't want to guess.
“Omigod!” Ed shouted, hopping from one foot to the other. “Help! Stop them!”
Leo Walsh was trying to do just that. My ad manager had leaped into the fray and was pulling Cal away from Scott. In alarm, Fuzzy Baugh glanced around the room, looking to a higher authority. Apparently, he felt that only God could pull rank on the mayor, and grasped at Regis Bartleby's sleeve. The vicar frowned, dabbed at his thin lips with a cocktail napkin, and nudged Cal Vickers with his foot.
“Gentlemen!” Bartleby called out in his familiar refined and often soporific voice, which both soothed and lulled his congregation. “Please! Where are your good manners?”
Scott Melville's religious preferences were unknown to me, but Cal was a Methodist and Rip was Presbyterian. According to my Episcopalian friend Mavis, other sects were in complete ignorance of good manners. It seemed that she was right. With blood trickling from his balding head, Cal was kicking at Leo Walsh and Rip Ridley, who were either trying to help or hinder. My eyes were riveted on Scott, who still had Janet Driggers clinging to his back.
Trying to avoid the combatants, I reached Edith Bartleby's side. She was in a state of shock, but seemingly unhurt by the flying glass. Charlene Vickers pushed both of us aside in an effort to reach her husband, Cal. In the process, she stepped on Shirley Bronsky's green satin pumps. Shirley squealed like a pig and grabbed a chunk of Darlene's pageboy bob. The two women faced off, screeching like harpies. They hit the floor just as Milo Dodge burst into the room, holding his King Cobra Magnum in both hands. Everybody screamed, including me.
Chapter Five
“FREEZE, DAMMIT!” MILO ordered, raising his usually low-pitched voice. “What the hell's going on here?”
Everybody obeyed, more or less. At first Cal couldn't seem to quit flailing with his feet, and Janet wasn't about to release her arms and legs from Scott's torso. Leo had backed Coach Ridley into a corner. Finally, amid much angry muttering and embarrassed expressions, the room grew quiet and everybody assumed an upright position.
Mayor Baugh tugged at his shirt collar, then decided to take on the responsibility of spokesperson: “It seems there was … ah … some sort of … um … ruckus,” he said, the vestiges of his original Louisiana accent never more apparent. “Friendly fire, as it were, Sheriff.”
Milo was wearing a dubious expression along with his best sports coat and slacks. It flashed through my mind that he was either coming from or going to a date with his main squeeze, Honoria Whitman.
“Anybody hurt?” Milo asked, lowering the gun.
Cal rubbed his head, Coach Ridley touched his cheek, and Scott flexed his muscles. Shirley and Darlene stood like statues, with their backs to one another.
“I believe,” the vicar said softly, “it was more sound than fury, Sheriff.”
“Then how'd the window get broken?” Milo demanded,gesturing with the magnum toward the fluttering drapes. “I saw the glass flying as I drove by.”
Fuzzy Baugh was fingering his chin. A tall, heavyset man in his sixties, he often assumed a ponderous stance, which he hoped the electorate took for wisdom. “Well now, Sheriff,” he began, crinkling his small green eyes at Milo, “let's say that there are times when everybody can't agree on everything. If I comprehend all this correctly, what we have here is simply a matter of some people who don't see eye-to-eye about local development.” His glance took in Scott Melville and Cal Vick-ers. “By mere chance, Coach Ridley got caught in the middle. It happens to those of us who are basically peacemakers.”
As I've often told myself, Milo isn't as stupid as he sometimes looks. Milo, in fact, is very shrewd. Sticking his gun in its shoulder holster, he approached Scott.
“Maybe you ought to announce that the party's over,” said Milo.
Scott's eyes narrowed at the sheriff, then he shrugged. Milo, after all, was a current client. “Maybe it is. Most of the appetizers are gone.” His glance strayed to Ed and Shirley Bronsky, who were now appropriately reunited next to the buffet table.
Harvey and Darlene Adcock were the first to go for their wraps. The Bartlebys and the Bronskys went next, followed by a grim-faced Al Driggers and a reluctant Janet. Judging from her smoldering glance at Scott Melville, Janet Driggers had some unfinished business.
So did Rip Ridley. Clutching Dixie's wrist, he glared at Scott Melville. “This is a hell of a way to break into Alpine's social life, Melville. If it were up to me, I'd penalize you fifteen yards and the loss of a down.” With that sally, the Ridleys also departed.
Regis and Edith Bartleby had taken it upon themselves to herd the still-fuming Cal Vickers and Charlene out the door.
Over his shoulder, Cal glowered at Scott. “The truce won't last. We've just begun to fight.” Cal stomped down the carpeted stairs while Charlene tried to calm him.
Scott laughed, a bit uncomfortably. “Why me?” he asked of no one in particular. “I'm just the hired gun.” He turned to Milo, who was standing with his arms folded across his chest. “I work for you, I work for VineFan. I have to put food on the table, too.” For the first time, a trace of humanity emerged in Scott Melville's mien.
“Cal's feisty,” Milo said, resuming his usual laconic manner. “So's Rip Ridley. Football coaches have to be aggressive.”
Ever the gentleman, Fuzzy Baugh was helping Irene with her coat. “I should hope so,” the mayor drawled. “But you'd think the man would have better than a seventy-two and sixty-four record overall. Plus eight ties. Sometimes I wonder if oP Rip knows how to motivate. Now when I was a young'un, LSU had—”
Irene Baugh, who in her own way was as accomplished a politician as her husband, put two fingers over Fuzzy's lips. “Come on, honey, let's leave these nice people alone so they can clean up this place. It's drafty in here.”
Leo and I were left with Milo and the Melvilles. “Okay,” said Milo, “what really hap
pened?”
Once again wearing his air of detachment, Scott shrugged. “I was talking to Vickers and the football coach. They both started in about so-called California carpetbaggers coming here and ruining the environment. I wanted to keep out of it, but they made some pretty outrageous statements. Narrow-mindedness—and ignorance—bother me. I tried to set them straight— politely—but they got even angrier. The next thing I knew, Vickers took a swing at me, but hit Ridley instead. I guess the coach had a knee-jerk reaction, and knocked the Texaco guy into the window.” Scott shrugged again.
Beverly Melville, who had been silent for as long as I could remember, now spoke with fervor: “Small town, small minds. If these people want to make a living, why don't they do something about it instead of just griping when newcomers take action? They're all inbred, I'll bet, and that's why they act like idiots.”
Beverly's previous assertion that she wanted to blend in seemed to be forgotten. Not that I blamed her much. In an effort to avoid further argument, I pushed Leo forward.
“Here's one newcomer who tried to break up the fight,” I said, patting my ad manager's arm. “It could have been worse if he hadn't intervened.”
“Bull,” Leo said, but his face flushed slightly. “I wasn't even sure who was hitting who.”
Milo regarded Leo with a lifted eyebrow. “Our hero,” he said, but didn't sound completely sincere. “Okay, I guess that does it. I was heading home when I saw the glass break. I decided to get my side arm before I came in.” He patted the holster under his sports coat. “Maybe I overreacted, but you never know. All of us law enforcement types are being warned about the dangers of domestic violence.”
“Hardly that,” Beverly sniffed.
Scott steered Milo toward the door. “Just the same, thanks for your concern, Sheriff. I'll drop by Monday morning with those blueprints for the revised storage space.”
Milo left. Beverly was looking worried as she saw Leo and me out. “This doesn't have to go in the newspaper, does it?” she asked, her forehead furrowing beneath the smooth center part of her hair.
“No,” I assured her. “Not as long as charges aren't filed.” I didn't add that if we reported every Alpine party that turned ugly, The Advocate wouldn't have space for other news.
“Good,” Beverly replied with a sigh of relief. “Then we can forget about it. Maybe we should forget about giving parties at all. These people don't seem to be able to handle hospitality.”
I didn't say anything; neither did Leo. The exterior view of the jagged window spoke for itself. It was no wonder that the Melvilles didn't bother to wave goodbye.
Father Dennis Kelly understood the problems of blending into Alpine better than most. A Tacoma native, he had spent the past fifteen years as a priest in the San Francisco Bay Area. Thus, he was considered a City Boy. As a Catholic clergyman in a basically Lutheran community, he was in the minority. And as an African-American, he was definitely an Alpine oddity.
Thus, he spoke from experience when he delivered his Sunday homily on acceptance. Naturally, Father Den didn't mention the Californians by name—or state. But his message was clear: The strangers among us were all children of God, and our brethren. Some of my fellow parishioners exchanged looks indicating they firmly believed that God hadn't made people from L.A.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, which allowed me to finish getting caught up around the house. I did what I could to prepare for Adam and Ben's arrival, which was now less than two weeks away. In the evening, I tried to call Ben at the rectory in Tuba City, but he was out. I didn't leave a message. Around ten o'clock I was thinking about a long soak in the tub when the phone rang. Ben, perhaps, sensing that his sister had him on her mind. But it was Tom Cavanaugh, and he sounded unusually vexed.
“I've moved into my club,” he announced in a beleaguered tone. “Sandra and Zorro have taken over the house.”
“That's not fair,” I said, indignation rising. “Sandra was the one who moved out. You should have held your ground.”
“I hate scenes,” Tom replied. He, like most men, also hated confrontations. “I'd never met Zorro before and I was afraid I'd pop him one. Besides being twenty-five and built of brick with a brain to match, he's got an attitude. If I'd hit him, he probably would have killed me.
Tom is no small thing, but at almost fifty, the odds were definitely not in his favor. “Oh, dear.” My comment was inadequate. “So what happens next?”
“The lawyers fight it out. At my expense, of course.” Now Tom sounded rueful. “What's worse is that the kids will be home from college in a few days. I don't like the idea of them staying with Sandra and Zorro, but there isn't anywhere else for them to go. And it is their home.”
I'd never met Tom's two legitimate children, nor had Adam. The elder, Graham, was a senior at USC, studying cinema. The daughter, Kelsey, attended Mills, but I didn't know her major. I'd often wondered if either of them had inherited any of their mother's goofy genes. Certainly the environment in which they'd been raised had been unstable enough to make them both a little wacky.
“Why,” I inquired, trying to be helpful, “don't you take the kids away for a few weeks? A vacation to Europe or Canada or someplace.”
Tom snorted. “I don't dare leave the lawyers for more than twenty-four hours at a time. They don't do anything if you don't keep prodding them. And when they finally act, it may not be in your best interest. I feel like a watchdog.”
“Are you able to keep up with business?” I hoped Tom could sense the sympathy in my voice. For now, it was all I could offer.
“At a distance. No road trips, though. I might as well be in jail.”
Seldom had I heard Tom so discouraged. Despite having suffered his share of life's traumas, he was basically an optimist. Desperately, I searched for some way to comfort him.
“Do you want me to fly down this coming weekend?” I could hardly believe my own audacity. Never had I offered to visit Tom.
I heard his intake of breath; I sat in motionless suspense. “Would you?” Tom sounded eager. “My treat. I'll book a room at the Fairmont. Or would you rather be out at Fisherman's Wharf?”
I didn't care if I had to pitch a tent on the Embarca-dero. “The Fairmont's fine. But I can pay for the flight. I'll call the travel agency in the morning.”
“Friday night, right?” Tom's voice had definitely lightened. “Don't eat on the plane. As soon as I know what time you're getting in, I'll make a dinner reservation.”
I was excited, my heart racing madly, stupidly. “Where can I reach you tomorrow?”
“Here, at the club.” He gave me the number. “If I'm not in, leave a message. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”
After mutual exchanges of abiding love, we hung up. For almost ten minutes I wandered around my living room, smiling to myself. I'd be seeing Tom in just five days. I'd be lying in his arms in an elegant suite at the Fairmont Hotel. I'd be stuffing myself on delicacies in exotic San Francisco restaurants. I'd be in heaven, or as close as I'd ever get, considering my disregard for a couple of the major commandments.
At last, I took my bath and went to bed. Hugging the pillow, I hoped to dream of delicious nights on Nob Hill.
Instead, Ed and Shirley Bronsky dressed up as parrots and tap-danced in satin shoes. My subconscious might have a sense of humor but it sure didn't want me to have any fun.
Vida wasn't wearing satin shoes, but she was certainly tapping her foot. Every five minutes she looked up, obviously waiting for Ginny to arrive with the mail. It wasn't yet nine o'clock, and if the office routine followed its usual course, it would be another hour before delivery time.
“I still think the Melville party could go into 'Scene Around Town,' “ Vida asserted in a pettish voice. “At least the part about the broken window.”
“I told them we'd sit on it,” I said, losing track of how often I'd repeated myself.
“Maybe,” Vida murmured, “Rip Ridley will file charges.”
�
�Against who? Cal Vickers? Cal hit him by mistake. He was going for Scott Melville.” Now I was beginning to sound cross, too.
Carla looked up from her word processor. “It's too stupid. Why can't people in Alpine act civilized? I haven't heard anything so silly since I used to go to frat keggers at the UDub.”
Carla's reference to her days at the University of Washington always made me wince. I'd never yet figured out how she'd gotten away with a diploma. Maybe she'd stolen it. Judging from some of her journalistic attempts, she sure as hell hadn't earned it.
Leo Walsh finished filling his coffee mug and poked Carla in the upper arm. “Hey, kid, lighten up. That was just a skirmish the other night. I hear some of the local preachers have got a bunch of bees up their butts. A couple of them came down pretty hard on the California contingent yesterday. What did your Presbyterian reverend have to say for himself, Duchess?”
As usual, Vida bridled at the nickname. “Pastor Purebeck doesn't indulge in smear tactics,” Vida huffed. “His sermon was on vanity.”
Leo raised his eyebrows. “It was? Why? I've seen some of your Presbyterians, and if there was ever a sin they didn't have any reason to commit, it's that one. How about self-delusion?”
Vida was close to an explosion. She stopped tapping her foot, made her hands into tight fists and glared at Leo. “Don't be so rude, Leo. What do you know about religion? You never go to church.”
“That's because thanks to a Jesuit education, I do know a lot about religion,” Leo retorted, grinning at Vida as he sat down behind his desk. “It taught me to think for myself. Spending an hour on my dead butt every week won't make me a better person. It's all show, not to mention hypocrisy. I'd rather do The New York Times crossword puzzle and stretch my brain.”
