Alpine Gamble

by Mary Daheim

  The mail had arrived. Vida's stack was still in her in-basket. I sensed that she had already perused it and found nothing of immediate interest. Or at least no message from Mr. Ree.

  “Well?” she demanded, looking up from her typewriter. “What did you glean?”

  Carla doubled up in her chair. “Glean! Where do you get these words, Vida? Out of a dictionary!”

  Vida shot Carla a withering glance. “You might try ityourself sometime, Carla. You'd be surprised. There might even be some words you already know.”

  Ignoring Carla's expression of delayed umbrage, Vida gave me a sweet smile. “So? Is there anything new from the sheriff?”

  Succinctly, I recounted my visit. I remembered to include seeing Ed and Leonard going into the Venison Inn. Vida was intrigued by almost everything. But she offered no immediate enlightenment.

  “The beer cans are very curious,” she said, sipping at a mug of hot water. “So is the burned plastic. What did Milo think it was—a handle of some sort?”

  “From a shopping bag, maybe,” I suggested off the top of my head. “The kids carried the stuff up there in the bag. They'd bring a cooler for the beer, though.”

  Carla had recovered from Vida's effrontery. “How many cans?” she asked.

  “A dozen, I think.” I sat down on the edge of Leo's desk. He was out, beating the bushes for next week's advertising. There was never a letdown for the newspaper's business side.

  Carla wrinkled her nose. “That's all? Two people could get blitzed on six beers apiece. But if you're talking orgy with a bunch of boys and girls, that sounds pretty tame.”

  It did. Carla's perceptiveness surprised me, as it always did on the occasions that it surfaced. “Okay, crack reporter,” I said, swinging around on the desk to face her, “what do you make of this—condom boxes, but no condoms?”

  Carla grinned. “No sex is better than safe sex, right?” She saw my face fall and frowned. “Wrong. I give up. What's the answer?”

  But my expression had changed for a different reason. Carla's initial response had given me an idea.

  “Actually, you're right. They didn't have sex. They just had empty boxes.”

  “Good grief,” Vida muttered. “Don't tell me— they're collectors' items? Like trophies, or marking your shield for the number of kills in battle?”

  “No,” I said hastily, “not that. It's much simpler. Somebody is trying to fool somebody. The question is Who and Why.”

  Carla, who usually wasn't one to join in the deductive process, seemed fascinated. Perhaps it was the element of sex, or the concept of partying. “You mean, like the boys showing off the boxes to the girls and pretending they'd used them all up?”

  I paused before answering. “Sort of. Except not quite.” Frustrated, I shook my head. “Is it a coincidence that the murder site was vandalized less than twenty-four hours after Stan was shot? Another full day has gone by—how come nobody's heard about those kids going up to the springs? That's not like Alpine—tales breed around this town like mosquitoes in a pond.”

  Vida's chin was resting on her hand. “They do indeed. You think the murderer returned to the scene of the crime, don't you, Emma?”

  I jumped, almost losing my balance on the desk. The thought had been in labor; Vida had just completed its successful delivery.

  “That must be it,” I said in a whisper of wonder. “Should we tell Milo?”

  Vida rubbed the plain gold wedding band against her cheek. “No,” she finally replied. “Let him figure it out for himself. It sounds to me as if he's almost there.” She gave me that sweet smile again. “You made it, didn't you?”

  I smiled back, but not so sweetly. Sometimes I wondered if Vida thought Milo and I were both a couple ofdumb clucks. I already knew what she thought about everybody else.

  In my cubbyhole I did some thinking of my own. Who were the actual suspects? Leonard Hollenberg loomed largest, if only because he'd supposedly found the body. But why announce the fact if he had shot Stan? Why shoot him in the first place? If Leonard had second thoughts about the sale, why not simply bow out? Even if a contract had been signed, a good lawyer could extricate him. As far as I knew, no money had passed hands, because Stan and Blake hadn't yet secured their financing.

  Scratch Leonard, at least temporarily. The Melvilles came to mind next, mainly because Scott was involved in the project. He had canceled his Monday morning appointment with Milo. Had the sheriff asked him why? Where was Beverly Fannucci Melville at the time of the murder? But I still could find no motive for Scott, and certainly not for Beverly.

  Then there was Skye Piersall. As the perpetrator, Skye showed promise. She'd skipped our interview, her car had broken down between Alpine and the hot springs turnoff, and she might have more than one motive. Professionally, Stan and Blake constituted The Enemy. I doubted, however, that CATE's mission statement or whatever they called it recommended homicide as an acceptable method of keeping Mother Nature intact. I preferred a personal motive, such as revenge or jealousy. But a romantic link between Skye and Stan was mere guesswork. I wondered if Honoria would know. And if she did, would she tell Milo or me?

  I put Skye at the top of my imaginary list. Somebody had to be there. With a sigh, I realized that most of Alpine could compete with her: Henry Bardeen, Cal Vick-ers, Rip Ridley, even Ed Bronsky, before he switched sides in the resort controversy.

  There were too many suspects—that was the problem. No wonder Milo was out of sorts. He had been presented with a homicide in isolated, rugged terrain, and five miles away there were over four thousand suspects.

  “Could you kill anyone?” I asked Leo as he stepped into my office.

  “Sure,” he answered, setting a trio of ad dummies next to one of the vacant visitor's chairs. “I tried to strangle Liza's lawyer, but we both fell into a freaking potted palm.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “I'm talking premeditation.”

  “Hmmmm.” Leo sat down in the other visitor's chair. “Maybe. It would depend on who had done or was about to do what to whom.”

  I sighed. “You are serious. You're saying that under certain circumstances, anyone is capable of murder.”

  Leo raised his thick eyebrows. “Hey—why else would we have armies? Soldiers are trained to kill in combat. If they can't do it, then they're conscientious objectors. But most men—and now women, I suppose—are capable of pulling the trigger. Transfer that to civilian life, throw in a blackmailer or a cheating spouse or the one person who stands in your way to achieving your heart's desire. It happens all the time. Read the newspaper.” Leo almost managed to keep a straight face.

  But I knew that underneath, he was deadly serious. So was I, which made me a glum luncheon companion for Vida. She was keeping to her diet, and refused to eat out. I had gotten a burger dip and fries from the Venison Inn. By the time I arrived to pick up my order, there was no sign of Leonard or Ed.

  “I'll bet Ed's sucking up to Leonard in case he managesto talk Blake into a partnership,” I said over the crunch of Vida's celery.

  “That will never take place,” Vida asserted. “After what's happened to Stan, Blake will renege on the resort project. He's a very frightened man, and I can scarcely blame him. If you ask me, we'll never see Blake Fannucci again.”

  As usual, Vida would be proved right.

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER LUNCH I wrote a draft of the Summer Solstice editorial, even daring to suggest that it be held the third weekend of June. While that would move Alpine's annual celebration ahead by almost two months, the earlier date might encourage families who wanted a quick getaway as soon as school was dismissed.

  Having completed that task, as well as having taken care of several minor matters including the morning's phone calls, I grew restless. There was an hour to kill before the papers returned from the printer in Monroe. At one-thirty I got into the Jag and drove over to the Icicle Creek Development.

  Beverly Melville
greeted me with more warmth than I probably deserved. “You must have thought I was an idiot the other morning at the bakery,” she said, her wide smile displaying orthodontically perfect white teeth, “frow about a glass of wine?”

  While I'm not particularly fond of wine, I was trying to be an agreeable guest. A few minutes later Beverly and I were seated in the living room, surrounded by catalogues filled with fabric swatches.

  “Decor plans for the remodeling,” she said, moving what looked like carpet samples. “If we stay.”

  “More qualms?” I asked, noting that the broken window had been replaced.

  “I can't help it.” Beverly swirled the wine in herglass. “It's all this rain and the gray skies. I thought I'd get used to it. But it's depressing. And then … this.” She made a slashing gesture with one hand, apparendy taking in a multitude of sins.

  “Stan?”

  “Of course. Then there's the general hostility. The atmosphere is poisonous.” Beverly stared into her glass. Maybe she thought I'd slipped in a toxic little something.

  “Have you gotten ugly phone calls, too?” I remembered my own experiences as a new arrival. When my status as an unmarried mother had leaked out, the calls and letters had grown more malicious. Eventually they dribbled away. Either I had won the locals over or they had lost interest. The latter was more likely.

  “We did at first,” Beverly answered slowly. “They weren't threats—just a 'Califomians, go home' sort of thing. As soon as Scott got the bid to design the sheriff's new offices, the calls stopped.” She gave me an ironic little smile.

  “I doubt there's a plan to systematically wipe out all California emigres.” I smiled back, hoping to lighten the mood.

  Beverly ran a nervous hand through her long blonde hair. “Maybe not. Still, it's uncomfortable. Look at what a disaster our party was!” Her blue eyes strayed to the new windowpane.

  There was no denying that the evening had turned out badly. I decided this was the moment to introduce my excuse for calling on Beverly Melville.

  “How would you like to get better acquainted with some of the local women? Do you play bridge?”

  Beverly looked at me as if I'd asked her to join in a game of piquet or pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. “Bridge? Hey, I'm no cardplayer.”

  “Oh.” I was mildly embarrassed. I'd hoped to getBeverly to fill in for me at Edna Mae Dalrymple's get-together in the evening. Janet Driggers would be there, and I didn't want to face questions about my trip to San Francisco. The invitation had also seemed like a good pretext for leading up to other, more serious queries. “There'll be other opportunities. Have you been able to get involved with any groups or organizations yet?” I had the feeling that Beverly would find most of Alpine's activities as quaint as playing bridge.

  “No, I haven't,” she replied. “I keep busy here. This isn't just a hobby.” Her fingers flicked at the nearest catalogue. “I'm an interior decorator by trade. I still consult with clients in L.A. When I finish figuring out our own decor, I intend to market myself on a regional basis. Alpine itself probably wouldn't keep me going.”

  “You're right,” I agreed, taking in the present eclectic furnishings, which spanned three centuries and five times as many countries. “Do you go into Seattle often?”

  “At least once a week. I was there Monday.” Beverly gazed at me steadily over the rim of her glass. “All day.”

  I pretended she hadn't said anything important. “Lucky you. I don't get into the city more than once every three months. When you remodel, will Scott have his office here or keep the rented space in the Clemans Building?”

  “He'll keep it,” Beverly said, pretending I wasn't pretending. “He believes in separating work from home. I feel differently. I can integrate both without one taking away from the other.”

  “It's easier for women,” I said.

  “We're more flexible.”

  “We've had to be.”

  “Yes.” Beverly put her glass down on a small rosewood table that probably dated from early nineteenth-centuryEngland. “I liked Stan. If Blake was the heart of their partnership, Stan was the soul. He had substance, integrity, compassion. I wouldn't dream of harming him. Neither would Scott. And Blake is going to be lost without him.”

  I avoided Beverly's level gaze. “I'm not very subtle.”

  Beverly shrugged. “One of the deputies—a young Asian-American, very sweet, very earnest—already called on Scott and me. Monday morning Scott was here. He had to come home unexpectedly because the glazier was arriving at ten-thirty, and I'd already left for Seattle. Why don't people around here work on Sundays?”

  I didn't try to justify small-town philosophies. It was time for me to leave. “Do you expect Blake to come back?” I asked at the door.

  Beverly stared up at the mountains with their lingering pockets of snow. “I'm not sure. He'll have to find a new partner, no matter what he does next. Blake could never operate alone.”

  I thought about Ed, waiting in the wings. There were worse things than working alone. I also considered mentioning Beverly's relationship to Blake. But the visit had gone better than I'd hoped. I decided not to push my luck.

  I just wished that Beverly played bridge.

  “Why,” Vida asked in exasperation, “didn't you tell me where you were going? Secrecy gets my goat. I'd have gone with you.”

  “That's why,” I said reasonably. “The two of us would have overwhelmed Beverly Melville.” More accurately, Vida would have overwhelmed her.

  “She never told me she was an interior decorator when I interviewed her this winter. More secrecy. I'm putting that item in 'Scene.' ”

  That sounded harmless enough. “Use Harvey Adcock's new sign for the hardware store. He's a good advertiser.”

  Vida nodded abruptly, still smarting from being left out. “ 'Scene' has been too dull lately. Names make news, and everyday occurrences catch people's attention in a small town, but there has to be something that piques interest. This week is worse than last week.” She waved the newly arrived edition of The Advocate, “Darla Puckett dropping a dozen eggs at Safeway. lone Erdahl having her car washed by the Rainbow Girls and the De Molays. Guests at the ski lodge getting the wrong shoes back from Boots. The Thordahl twins eating fresh strawberries at John Engstrom Park. Whistling Marmot patrons complaining about low fat popcorn. Dull, dull, dull! We need sprightly items. Is no one paying attention to Alpine's human foibles?”

  I tried to humor Vida. “What about Crazy Eights Neffel in the buff?”

  Vida shuddered. “You know my policy on Crazy Eights items. Unless he's doing something extremely unusual—for him—I refuse to write it up. Besides, the police log story included Grace's complaint about an intruder. It was just as well to name no names or mention his lack of attire. Otherwise, he might be encouraged to do it again.”

  Vida's guidelines for Crazy Eights Neffel were shared by the rest of the staff, especially Carla, who found the old nut utterly unamusing. She dismissed his antics as silly, but I sensed that deep down she felt sorry for him. Carla's brain might be suspect, but she had a good heart.

  The paper looked pleasing, from a journalistic standpoint. A page one murder is definitely subjective. I, too, had liked Stan, and wished to heaven he hadn't been killed. But death always makes bigger headlines thanbirth or whatever happens in between. Feeling callous, I skipped to the sports page, which almost always centered on the Alpine High Buckers. The stories were submitted by Coach Ridley and edited by me. Occasionally, Carla would write a feature, but as she had absolutely no interest in sports, the stories tended to take on a nonathletic slant. This week's coverage was exceptionally thin, due to the end of the school year. Some twenty column inches were devoted to the annual sports banquet, which had been held the previous Friday night, and an accompanying photo showing Rip Ridley presenting a lanky lad named Grant Aadland with the Alpine Athlete of the Year award. Grant had distinguished himself in basketball, baseball, and track.

  Such stories
are generally innocuous, so I hadn't read Carla's account closely. I knew Vida had proofed it, because she'd made some biting remark about Grant's parents, neither of whom had finished high school, let alone excelled at much of anything except warming bar stools at Mugs Ahoy.

  “It's too bad Grant didn't continue with football,” Rip Ridley had said in Carla's direct quote. “With his sure hands, he would have made a great receiver. With the graduation of our starting quarterback and most of the offensive line, the Buckers may be in for a rough season this fall. I'm beginning to think we should start recruiting some of those big, fast kids out of southern California. If all those people from Los Angeles want to move someplace else, why not bring in somebody who can actually help Alpine instead of hurt it?”

  I blanched. The awards banquet story wasn't the place for Coach Ridley's comments. I should have read the article before it was published, but there are times when I feel I have to trust Carla's judgment. And, of course, Vida's.

  I stormed out into the newsroom. Vida was stillalone, studying wedding pictures. “Whatever is Candace Daley wearing on her head? It looks like a pineapple.”

  Since Vida had been wearing orange rinds earlier, I felt she had no right to criticize. “How come you let this quote from Rip Ridley pass?” I asked, pointing to the sports page.

  Vida frowned at the article. “I didn't. Not the quote. After Carla laid out the page, she was an inch short so she added that later. I never saw it.”

  At that moment Carla came into the office. I confronted her at once. She gazed at me with wide, innocent eyes. “What's wrong with it? I spelled everything right. I didn't even have to use the dictionary.” Over my shoulder she shot Vida an impertinent look.

  “It isn't that,” I said, now fairly calm. “Maybe I'm reading something into it that isn't there. But the next night Rip and Cal got into it with Scott Melville. And now that Stan Levine is dead, Rip's going to want to eat his words. But first he'll chew us out for printing them in the first place.”