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Greer nodded solemnly. “I gathered as much. You support the loggers, it seems.”

“I've tried to be fair,” I said. “My main concern is for people.”

“People can't live in a world that they rape,” Greer declared as two boys about nine and eleven came up and started pulling on the sleeve of her poplin jacket. “We have to address environmental concerns first, or there'll be nothing left to support life as we know it.” She turned to the importunate boys, who were demanding food, while I pondered her last statement. Maybe life as we know it wasn't quite as good as Greer thought. At least not in Alpine, judging from the number of battered pickups, aging beaters, and rusting vans.

“The veggie burgers will be ready in a few minutes,” Greer crossly informed the boys, then poked the man
who I assumed was her mate. “Grant, take them for a run around the park. They need to expend some energy before they eat.”

Greer made their sons sound like a pair of dogs. But Grant dutifully rose and led the boys away. They went with reluctance, whining until out of earshot. Their mother was still talking, now about the need to spare old-growth timber. I tuned her out, having heard every possible argument from both sides of the logging dilemma. My mind wandered to the Vanciches, who seemed lost in their own little world at the end of the table. When Greer finally ran out of steam, I asked if anyone had seen Father Den.

The question caught Monica's attention. “He left right after Mass yesterday,” she said.

I recalled not getting an answer Sunday morning when I knocked at the rectory. “That's right—he was going to visit his mother in Tacoma.”

Ronnie sniffed. “He claims she's ill.”

I stared at the principal. “Isn't she?”

Ronnie shrugged, then her gaze locked with Monica's. “He says so.” The two women laughed softly.

Cringing as one of the Vancich kids whacked me in the shin, I tried to think of something that would rescue the conversation, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. I needn't have worried. Vida was approaching with Roger dawdling behind her.

“Well! There you are!” she exclaimed, though I wasn't sure whether my House & Home editor referred to me or the entire group. “Anyone for coleslaw?” Vida pointed to a wicker hamper which she carried over one arm.

“Is it low-fat?” Greer inquired.

Vida fixed Greer with her owlish look. “Of course there's no fat. I don't make my coleslaw with meat.”

As far as I knew, Vida didn't make coleslaw at all. I suspected that she'd bought it. Which, I reflected, was a blessing. Escaping from the bench and the bruising by
the Vancich children, I informed Vida that I was going to find a barbecue pit and cook my hot dogs. Would she care to join me?

Vida gave Roger a dubious look. “Are you hungry, dearest? You just had a big bowl of chili and a pizza.”

Roger studied the wet ground. Since I'd last seen him, he'd grown, both vertically and horizontally. His light brown hair was much longer than I remembered, though his manner was as truculent as ever.

“Where are the other kids?” he asked, straining to look around the milling crowd.

Vida bent down to peek under the table. “Too young,” she murmured, espying the Vancich duo. “Well, now …” It was her turn to scan the picnickers. “Ah!” she cried as Grant Fairfax returned with his two panting sons. “Here are some nice boys, just about your age.”

Roger curled his lip. Vida, however, persevered. “Now run along with these fine fellows and play some games. The three-legged race is set for two-thirty.”

I shuddered for whoever got stuck with Roger in a three-legged race. It would have been more appropriate if they'd held a two-headed contest. Roger would win hands down—or heads up, so to speak. Thus my uncharitable train of thought ran on, whimsically and nastily.

“How,” Vida demanded after Roger and the Fairfax boys had formed a wary alliance and gone off, “did you end up with that dreadful crew?”

We were making our way to the nearest barbecue pit. “It was the first table I saw. By the time I got close enough to see who was there, I couldn't turn around and leave.”

The jazz trio had been replaced on the bandstand by a barbershop quartet. I recognized Norm Carlson and Ellsworth Overholt, but not the other two. As I unwrapped my hot dogs, I brought Vida up to speed on my latest bits and pieces of information, including the ruckus between Laura and Buzzy O'Toole.

She was only mildly surprised. “Frustration, failure, a sense of hopelessness, all the besetting sins of a town under economic siege. By the way, the newly appointed dean of students for the college is going to speak today.”

“What newly appointed dean?” I asked sharply. “Carla hasn't written a word about him. Or her.”

“Now, now,” Vida soothed. “It's not Carla's fault this time. I understand it won't be officially announced until this coming week. His name is Ryan Talliaferro, from Spokane Falls Community College.”

“So how do you know?” I asked.

Vida shrugged. “A little bird told me. Do you remember Faith Lambrecht?”

I did, vaguely. Her husband had been the pastor at Vida's church years ago.

“I called to tell her about the outrages committed by our younger set,” Vida continued, her eyes, as ever, skipping from group to group around the park. “She lives in Spokane, and her podiatrist's neighbor's son is married to Ryan Talliaferro's sister.”

I didn't try to follow the connection. It was sufficient that Vida had nailed the story. “His appointment is no secret if he's speaking at the picnic,” I noted.

“He's not speaking in his new capacity,” Vida replied. “He's representing the state community-college system. But he's the goods, I assure you.”

With any luck, we might announce the new dean in
The Advocate
before the story hit the rest of the media. Feeling slightly mollified, I turned the hot dogs on the grill. When I looked up, Vida was talking to Alicia Wells Lowell.

“Well,” Vida cried, “you made quite an impression on Craig Rasmussen the other night! He's not used to seeing such sophisticated young women at Icicle Creek Gas 'N Go.”

Alicia, who was wearing a quilted jacket over tailored
navy slacks, gave Vida a modified smile. “Craig Ras-mussen? Who is he?”

Vida explained. Alicia was nodding in comprehension when Francine joined us. “I hear Ursula was drunk as a skunk when she fell in the river. What a surprise. Ha-ha.”

Vida tapped her chin. “Now, Francine, how did you know that Ursula drank? I never heard any such thing.” The idea of such a juicy snippet eluding my House & Home editor clearly unsettled her.

The question clearly unsettled Francine. “What? Well… I hear things, from Seattle. I have contacts there. I know someone in the chancery. Oh, trust me, those rich Catholic families try to keep things like that under wraps. They're very protective. But word leaks out all the same.” Her tone was defensive.

I was bothered by Francine's assertions. Not that I doubted what she said about wealthy Catholics circling the wagons, but I had to wonder about her omission when she was trashing Ursula the previous Wednesday while I was in her shop. Such an obvious vice as drinking would have been tailor-made for Francine's critical tongue.

Vida was looking thoughtful. “You wouldn't think Warren would marry a woman who drank. Wasn't that the problem with his second wife?”

“Alexis?” Francine made a face. “I don't know. I think it was more of a stepson debacle. The kid was incorrigible.”

Roger leaped to mind. I glanced among the picnickers but couldn't see him or the Fairfax boys. Maybe they'd gone into the Old Mill Museum and were playing with sharp instruments. I waited to see what scent Vida would pick up on next. She hadn't gotten very far with Alicia's stop at Gas 'N Go.

Naturally it didn't pay to underestimate Vida. She had put a friendly arm around Alicia and was leading her out of hearing range. “You must tell me all about your
visit to Snohomish. Now, which Carlson girl is your old chum … ?”

Francine was eyeing me suspiciously. “What's Vida up to now? She's pumping Alicia. Why?”

I gave Francine a helpless look. “Do you think I know why Vida does what she does? Maybe she's trying to figure out what really happened to Ursula.” Sometimes the truth serves better than a lie.

“By asking Alicia?” Francine was scornful. “Alicia wouldn't have known Ursula if she fell in her lap.”

“Did you know her? Other than from church, I mean.”

The barbershop quartet had stepped down, and was replaced by a rock group from Sultan. Either they were very loud, or I was getting rather deaf. I had to ask Francine to repeat her reply.

“Are you nuts?” she shouted, which should have been clear enough to me. “I wouldn't have spit on that bitch if she was on fire!”

A few yards away the three-legged race was being organized. I noticed that Roger and his companions hadn't yet shown up. “I thought Ursula might have come into the shop,” I said, raising my own voice above the din.

“Never!” Francine snapped. “I'd have barred the door.” As the bass pounded and the guitars thwanged and a young man made noises that sounded like someone was performing surgery without an anesthetic, Francine edged closer. “Look, the woman's dead. I ought to shut up. If she really was killed—though I don't see how—I don't want to be at the top of Dodge's suspect list. If you want to know what Ursula was really like, ask Warren. He knew her better than anyone, at least in Alpine.”

“I ought to do that,” I mused as the drums crashed and a great shout went up from the younger set, which had made its own mosh pit below the bandstand. “Do you think he'll stay on in Alpine?”

Francine opened her mouth to say something, then shrugged. “I don't know.”

Another shout rent the air, but this time it didn't come from the mosh pit. Francine and I both turned to see Nunzio Lucci facing off with Bill Daley. Onlookers, including Vida, Alicia, Delia Lucci, and Bill's wife, Kathryn, were moving out of the way, watching in frozen silence.

“So put your mouth where your money is, you SOB!” Luce yelled. “Admit it, you're all talk and no guts!”

Bill Daley was about the last person I'd expect to see in a fistfight. Nearly sixty, with a full paunch and almost no hair, he was a genial man who was respected as a pillar of the community.

“Now, Luce, be reasonable,” Bill pleaded as his would-be opponent stomped around on gimpy legs. “I didn't mean any disrespect.”

“You called me a bigot!” Luce shouted, revving up his fists. “I ain't no bigot! But where's your racial pride? You want some slope marryin' one of your granddaughters?”

“We don't have any slopes in Alpine,” Bill shot back. “Except ski slopes,” he added with an impish smile.

If Bill thought to disarm Luce, he was mistaken. “You called me a dago!” Luce cried, moving in on Bill. “Take it back or I'll clean your clock!”

“I did not! I only said that… oh, to hell with it!” Bill lunged forward and caught Luce with a haymaker to the midsection. Luce retaliated with two quick blows to Bill's head. The home-furnishings-store owner staggered, then collected himself and butted Luce in the chest. The former logger began raining his fists on Bill's head as the women shrieked and the men began to take sides. The loggers seemed to be rooting for Luce; most of the others rooted for Bill. Nobody seemed inclined to stop the fight.

“Oh, dear!” Vida exclaimed as she and Alicia moved back to where Francine and I were standing transfixed.

“This is no way to hold a Labor Day picnic!” Ever the professional, she began adjusting her camera to capture the brawl on film.

The two men were thrashing about at close range, missing more than hitting. Luce had just put a hammer-lock on Bill when Milo entered the fray. “Cut it out!” he ordered, his long face grim. “Now!”

Neither combatant seemed to hear him, which wasn't entirely Bill's fault, because he was turning a peculiar shade of puce. Milo grabbed Luce by the back of the shirt and attempted to break his hold on Bill. He failed—and had to draw his baton, which made contact with Luce's skull, dropping him to the ground like a load of dirty laundry. Bill also collapsed. Delia and Kathryn rushed to their respective mates' prone figures, both cursing Milo, though for what I wasn't sure.

And the band played on.

I
T WASN'T EXACTLY
the most successful Labor Day picnic in Alpine's history, but it might have been one of the more memorable. Nunzio Lucci and Bill Daley were both taken to the hospital emergency room, as were two teenagers who had been stomped in the mosh pit. Vida used up four rolls of film before the day was out.

“Really”—she sighed as we sat at a table situated as far as possible from the bandstand where Fuzzy Baugh was pontificating—”I don't recall a Labor Day quite like this since Dust Bucket Cooper's shorts caught fire and he jumped in the river, forgetting he didn't know how to swim.” Vida sighed again.

The rain was coming down hard, but it didn't bother the crowd, which seemed to have been energized by the fight between Luce and Bill Daley. While at least half the spectators paid desultory attention to the mayor's speech making, the rest appeared in a frolicsome mood. Around the fringes, there was much laughter, exuberant conversation, and diminishing half racks of domestic beer.

“I wonder what really set Luce off,” I mused.

Vida, who was sipping a paper cup filled with plain water, shrugged. “It wouldn't take much,” she said. “Luce is touchy.”

“I hope it didn't have anything to do with St. Mildred's,” I said, stepping aside as a Frisbee sailed past me. “Luce told me that he thinks Bill is something of a fair-weather
school-board member. He votes not for what's right, but what's popular.”

Vida seemed temporarily disinterested in the school-board controversy. “Alicia Wells—Alicia Lowell, I should say—is very much of a clam. It was difficult getting anything out of her—except for one slip on her part.”

“Which was?” I tried to ignore Fuzzy's honey-and-grits platitudes, even though the loudspeaker seemed beamed in my direction.

“She's seen her father.” Vida gave me one of her smug little smiles. “I mentioned that Ursula's death seemed to have aged Warren overnight—not that I actually thought so, of course. Or, I suggested—just doing a bit of fishing—was he ill? Alicia acted shocked, then said she thought he looked all right, considering. But she added— far too quickly—that she'd only seen him at a distance, on the street. She was lying, though I don't believe she realized I saw through her.”