by Mary Daheim
Leo frowned as he took a drag on his cigarette. “Don't tell me you're going to have gambling? What are you doing, hooking up with one of the local tribes? I thought casinos had to be on an existing reservation.”
“Of course we're not,” Ed replied in exasperation, then brightened. “It's not an impossible idea, though.” Obviously it had just occurred to Ed, thanks to Leo.
“Back up,” I ordered. “Ed, have you spoken with Blake Fannucci?”
Once again Ed was looking smug. “Len should be tickled pink to do business with me. He's up in the air right now because the shooting scared him. He'll get over it if somebody:—like me—can talk turkey to him. As for Blake, I called him from my car last night. He's in L.A., of course, and he's still kind of upset, but I could tell he was excited about my offer of a partnership.”
If Leonard had made up his mind to sell, he might like Ed's offer. Leonard might have been already counting his money. But Blake was another matter— I couldn't imagine him being enthused over Ed as a partner.
“Stan was the money man,” I noted. “Does Blake want you to come to L.A. to help secure financing?”
“We didn't get that far,” Ed admitted. “Sometimes my phone cuts out because of the mountains. Blake said he'd get back to me after Stan's memorial service. I think it's tomorrow.”
Leo and I exchanged quick glances. I could tell he was thinking along the same lines that I was. “I don't see why you need a poll,” I finally said, returning to Ed's premise. “As a matter of fact,” I went on, suddenly struck with an idea, “who would be better at conductingsuch a poll than you, Ed? You've known all the local merchants and”—I tried not to wince at Ed's own words—”movers and shakers for years. Talk to them, see what they think about your involvement in the resort. That way, you won't get just a yes or a no or an I-don't-care. You'll actually be able to use your old persuasive powers as an ad salesman.” Which, as I vividly recalled, consisted mostly of Ed sitting on his big butt, trying to slough off any form of advertising that would require real work on his part.
Appealing to Ed's vanity worked better than he ever did. “That's a great idea, Emma. Maybe I should call an emergency meeting of the Chamber.” With a grunt, he got to his feet. “I probably should fly down to L.A. The family and I didn't see much of it when we went to Disneyland. I'd like to try some of those hot restaurants, like Speedo.”
“Spago,” I said under my breath, but Ed was already bustling away.
Leo rolled his eyes. “God, babe, how did you ever put up with him?”
I held my head. “It was easier when he was gloomy. How are we doing for next week's advertising?”
“I'm still trying to finish the school's-out section,” Leo replied, stubbing out his cigarette. “I thought I had a jump start on the bridal edition for the end of June, but Henry Bardeen wouldn't see me, and Cal Vickers doesn't think it's appropriate for the Texaco station.”
“But you had that cute idea, with the shoes and cans tied to the car and the bride and groom standing by the highway, waiting for Cal's tow truck.”
“Right.” Leo sighed, fingering his broken nose. “Maybe Cal will change his mind. He was pretty grouchy this morning. In fact, this whole town seems grouchy. Do you think it's the murder?”
“Maybe.” Dixie Ridley and Charlene Vickers dancedacross my mind's eye. So did several other people who had made irate phone calls or written outraged letters. It was bad enough that someone had been killed in Alpine; it was even worse for the locals to suspect their neighbors.
It was shortly after the mail arrived that Vida sidled into my office, looking furtive. “Mukilteo, the coffee roasting place,” she murmured. “Sunday noon. Mr. Ree.”
Mukilteo is just south of Everett, on Puget Sound. At the edge of the small commercial district, the Whidbey Island ferry shuttles back and forth to Clinton. “You're going?” I asked, somehow surprised.
Vida leaned on one of the visitor chairs. “I don't know.” The broad shoulders that so many had leaned upon suddenly slumped. “Emma, am I playing the fool?”
I let out a strangled little laugh. “How would I know? It's been my favorite part for years.”
Vida seemed to mull over this self-deprecating statement. Somewhat to my chagrin, she didn't contradict me. “Are all women fools?”
This time the laugh was more akin to a snort. “I'm going to San Francisco. At least Mukilteo is closer.”
The rejoinder seemed to stiffen Vida's spine. “So you are. Then I suppose I ought to go to Mukilteo.” Now looking like a paradigm of resolution, Vida marched out of my office.
Mr Ree, I thought. Who was he? What was he like? I envisioned a tall, distinguished man of seventy with a well-trimmed moustache and a walking stick. Reality was probably quite different.
Then I thought of Tom, who was literally tall, dark, and handsome. Of course he was going gray, and there were lines in his face, and life had added a certain grim-ness to the noble Roman profile. But to me, he waseternally twenty-eight. Maybe, to him, I was still the dewy college student with the soft brown eyes and vivacious smile. I sighed like a teenager and then grabbed the phone.
Stella Magruder answered on the second ring. I desperately needed a haircut, I told her. Did she have an opening almost immediately? She didn't, but could squeeze me in at four-thirty. Gratefully, obsequiously, I thanked her. Stella rang off, sounding a bit smug. Had Janet Driggers or someone else from the bridge club been spreading rumors?
I didn't have a chance to speculate. The phone rang under my hand. It was Blake Fannucci, calling from Los Angeles.
“Emma, what can you tell me about Ed Bronsky?”
What couldn't I? But I didn't want to be unkind. “Ed's eager—once he gets the bit in his teeth,” I replied, measuring my words. “I assume you're talking about his proposal to get involved in the resort project?”
“You got it.” Blake sounded tired, but otherwise more like himself. “I think he wants to come to L.A. You know, Mr. Smith Goes to Hollywood. I was trying not to look beyond Friday—tomorrow—when Stan's services are being held.” He paused, and I thought I heard his voice break. “But in my business, you have to seize the moment. Nobody knew that better than Stan. Would you recommend Ed as a partner?”
I was on the spot. I certainly wouldn't recommend Ed as my partner. But Blake Fannucci was a savvy guy. Maybe he'd know how to handle Ed.
“Ed's heart is in the right place,” I replied, though doubts galloped through my mind. “He wants the best for Alpine.” No, he wanted the best for Ed. “He needs to be busy since he quit his job.” Ed had been busy, driving the rest of us nuts. “He has quite a bit of money,but no real sense of purpose.” At last, maybe I'd found the key.
“But not enough to bankroll the project.” It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact. I sensed that Blake had done his homework.
“Not all by himself,” I replied. “But his financial position is very secure, which might lend credibility.” I didn't know how wisely the Bronskys had invested their windfall. Certainly they'd spent some of it on cars and fur coats and travel. But if Ed and Shirley had been prudent, his inheritance should last a long time.
“I like the idea of a local coming into the deal,” Blake said. “That was lacking in the original proposal. What do you think, Emma?”
“It would short-circuit some of the criticism,” I allowed. “I take it you're still interested in moving ahead?”
“I guess.” Blake's soft laugh was bittersweet. “At first I didn't give a damn-all. But Stan wanted to do this, even more than I did. Now I'm thinking it's like a memorial. You know, his crowning achievement. Jesus, Emma, he died for it! How can I let go?”
Blake's words were painful in my ear. I wasn't about to discourage Blake in any way. I couldn't bring myself to knock Ed. And I certainly didn't intend to ask Blake where he was Monday morning. That was up to Milo.
“I can think of worse things you could do,” I said. Well, I could, like removing his own gallbla
dder with a pickle fork. But the project had been given a green light, mainly by Leonard Hollenberg, and it wasn't up to me to play devil's advocate. Besides, I'd love to see the maitre d' at Spago when Ed showed up. “Why not? Ed's very enthusiastic.”
“I was hoping you'd say that.” Blake's voice was now warm, even animated. “I'll give him a call today instead of waiting until after the memorial service.”
“That's fine,” I said, suddenly feeling inadequate. Since I still couldn't quite swallow Vida's theory about how Blake could have shot his partner and returned to town to establish an alibi, my heart went out to him. “You take care of yourself, Blake. By the way, I had a nice chat yesterday with your sister.”
The line grew so quiet that I thought it had gone dead. Or that Blake had hung up. At last he spoke, and his voice was ironic. “My sister? I don't have a sister. What are you talking about, Emma?”
I was glad Blake couldn't see me, because I could feel myself blushing. “Ah … Beverly? Beverly Melville? Somebody said she was … ah …” I dropped my ballpoint pen and had to scramble around under the chair to retrieve it.
Blake laughed, a bit stridently. “Whoever told you that is confused, Emma. Beverly isn't my sister. She's my ex-wife. Our marriage didn't last long. I always called it Briefs Encounter. Have a good one.”
Blake hung up.
Chapter Fourteen
ON THIS DRIZZLY Thursday morning in June, Vida was spurning all manner of food, including cottage cheese, hardboiled eggs, and munchable fodder.
“Do you think I look thinner?” she asked in an uncharacteristically anxious voice. She turned around several times in an attempt at a pirouette.
In all honesty, I didn't think she looked a bit different. But for once I had to he: “Trimmer,” I said. “Vida, Mr. Ree is interested in other things. He's not out for a Playboy centerfold.”
“I should think not!” Vida sat down at her desk and picked up a mug of hot water. “Still, I'd like him to find me … comely.”
I was glad that Carla wasn't in the office. Even I had to suppress a smile at the old-fashioned word. “Mr. Ree will find you utterly delightful,” I declared. “By the way, I'm leaving early today. I have a four-thirty appointment at Stella's Styling Salon.”
Vida arched her eyebrows. “Well! You're as vain as I am. How comforting!”
I gave her a half smile. “You have to admit, I'm pretty shaggy. What did Milo have to say for himself?” I hadn't spoken to Vida since she'd left for the sheriff's office because she'd gone on to cover her Presbyterian church's spring rummage sale.
Vida pursed her lips. “Milo was out. Or so Billyclaimed. But I talked my nephew into checking Blake's alibi. The more I think about it, the more likely it seems to me that he did it.”
It was then that I told Vida about Ed's visit and the call from Blake. She was appalled at Ed's involvement, unsettled by Blake's inquiry, and flabbergasted by the news of Beverly Melville being the former Mrs. Fannucci.
“Who told you she was his sister? That Skye person? I thought Jack Mullins checked out the background on all these people.” Vida's expression was severe.
“He did, but I suppose when Beverly turned up as Beverly Fannucci Melville, Jack thought it was because she was his sister.” I was sitting at Leo's desk, trying to ignore the overflowing ashtray. I hadn't had a cigarette since arriving at The Advocate. “What I wonder is if Skye intentionally lied, or didn't know any better.”
“She's unstable,” Vida asserted. “You should have seen her when she found out that Stan was dead. She practically swooned.”
“She didn't deny a romantic link with Stan/' I said, glancing through Leo's mock-up for the end-of-school insert. “I'm going to call Honoria later today, after Skye's gone. Maybe she'll open up.”
Vida sipped her hot water. “Don't count on it. Honoria is the sort of person who keeps confidences. It's a fine trait, unless you want to know something.”
I didn't argue with Vida. While I kept busy for the rest of the afternoon, I half expected to hear from Ed, saying that he was now a full-fledged partner with Blake Fannucci. But by three o'clock he hadn't called. Instead, Milo Dodge phoned.
“What's this bee Vida has in her bonnet about Fannucci?” he asked in a vexed tone. “Will that woman ever realize I know how to do my job?”
“Okay,” I said, “so where was Blake Monday morning?”
“At the ski lodge, putting the package together for the money lenders. He ordered from room service and Heather Bardeen saw him when he left to come see me.”
“What did he order?” I couldn't resist pestering Milo.
The sheriff sighed in annoyance. “Juice. Grapefruit juice, the large size. The kid who delivered the order saw Blake because he had to sign for it. The ski lodge receipts are all time-dated, stamped right on the bottom. Blake's alibi is unbreakable. He and Stan drank a lot of juice.”
“Maybe he was drinking juice when I talked to him just now,” I said in a casual voice.
There was a slight pause, presumably while the import of my words dawned on Milo. “Fannucci? Why were you talking to him?”
“He called me.” I was still being blase.
“What for?”
Repenting, I told Milo about Blake and Ed. I also mentioned that Beverly Melville wasn't Blake's sister, but his ex-wife.
“Damn!” Milo breathed. “I wish Jack would learn how to use the computer. What's the point of having access to information if your personnel can't interpret it?”
“Don't ask me. I've got Carla.”
“Does it matter?”
“What? Carla? Or Jack?”
“The relationship between Blake and Beverly.”
“Oh.” I reconsidered the question and came to the same conclusion I'd reached earlier. “Probably not to them. Maybe to Scott.”
“It doesn't wash.” Milo obviously didn't find the point of much interest. “If Blake had been killed, oreven Scott, then we'd have a triangle. But Stan wasn't part of that equation.”
I had a sudden thought. “What if Blake were the intended victim?” Hearing Milo groan, I kept talking. “Maybe this is all backward. The killer wants us to think that the motive is the resort project. But the intention was to kill Stan first, so when Blake got murdered, it would look as if both men had to die. It could be that the killer thought Stan and Blake were going up to the springs Monday morning. Have you looked at this line of inquiry?”
“No.” Milo's voice had no inflection. “I haven't looked at Crazy Eights Neffel as the possible perp, or Durwood Parker resorting to a gun because he's bored with using his car as a lethal weapon. I don't look at anything that isn't evidence, because harebrained theories don't convict criminals. Goodbye, Emma, I'm going to lunch.”
Despite Milo's disparaging tone, I liked my idea. After relaying Blake's alibi, I trotted it out for Vida. She was lukewarm.
“It's possible,” she allowed. “But I don't quite understand the motive. Are you saying Scott Melville shot Stan Levine because he was jealous of Blake Fannucci? Scott is married to Beverly. Wouldn't it be more likely for Blake to shoot Scott?”
Unfortunately for my theory, Vida made sense. “Don't confuse me,” I mumbled. “I keep trying to find a motive that doesn't involve an irate Alpiner hiding behind the rocks at the hot springs.”
“Yes, yes,” Vida agreed, somewhat impatiently. “So do I. I'm very disappointed that Blake can account for his time Monday morning.”
I slipped off the edge of Vida's desk. “Blake would be very convenient,” I admitted. “But what's his motive?”
Vida grimaced. “I haven't quite figured that out yet. Something to do with their partnership, of course. Maybe he's been embezzling, or wanted all of the profits. Money.” She brightened, “Yes, that's it—money. It's always an excellent motive. Blake wanted to be on his own.”
“So why is he asking about Ed?”
Vida expelled a hiss of air through her teeth. “Really, I can't imagine. Given his motive. Or pu
tative motive, at any rate. You're right, that doesn't make sense. Oh, dear.” She turned to the half sheets of copy that reposed on her desk. “I'm sick of weddings. And bridal showers. Will June never end?”
“We're only a little over a week into it,” I noted. “Maybe you'll be doing an engagement story on Ginny and Rick before the month is out.”
The remark didn't cheer Vida. I returned to my office and worked steadily until four-twenty. On my way out I thought of asking Carla about the personals ads that had intrigued her. But she was bent over her word processor, giving a fine imitation of thinking. I left with only a brief word of farewell for my staff.
I also left with a vague feeling of guilt. I would have to make an early exit the following day as well. My flight to San Francisco departed Sea-Tac at five-forty. I'd have to leave Alpine around three. There would be Friday afternoon traffic to contend with, and the drive would take almost two hours under the best conditions.
Just thinking about the trip made my heart beat a little faster. I was slightly breathless when I reached Stella's Styling Salon two blocks away in the Clemans Building.
Stella Magruder was combing out a perm on Shirley Bronsky's newly acquired honey-blonde head. “Emma!” Shirley squealed. “How are you? I should have had this done before the Melvilles' party.”
I sat down at the vacant station next to Shirley. She looked like an aging chorus girl who'd spent too long at the trough. “It's a real… change” I said with a bright smile. “How do you think Ed will react?”
Shirley giggled and looked up at Stella. “Ed won't notice until I put on my new nightie with the ecru lace. I got it in Seattle this week at that fancy place on Fifth Avenue.”
I knew the place, where, if lingerie sold by the pound, it would have cost at least a grand to cover Shirley Bronsky. “Lovely,” I murmured, glancing at the shampoo bowls where Stella's assistant, a pretty but insipid girl I knew only as Laurie, was working diligently on someone I couldn't see enough of to recognize. “Did you and Ed drive down for the day?”
