The Alpine Betrayal (3 page)

“Thanks, Mom.” My son spoke as if the ticket purchase was a
fait accompli
. “Hey, I just talked to some guy who’s leaving for Seattle this afternoon and then going on to Alpine. Curtis Graff. You know him? He works here in the cannery as a foreman.”

The name rang a bell, but it was off-key. “Cody Graff I know. At least I know who he is. His name just came up a few minutes ago.” There was no point in boring Adam with details. “How old is Curtis?”

“Oh—thirty, maybe. He went to Alpine High, worked in the woods, was a volunteer fireman, and went out with the daughter of the guy who owns the Texaco station.”

Adam’s thorough account amazed me. Usually, I was lucky to get the last name of his acquaintances. But I still couldn’t place Curtis Graff, unless he was Cody’s brother. Vida would know. “What’s he bringing down?” I inquired. Surely Adam couldn’t pass up the chance to have somebody hand-carry videos that were six weeks overdue, a broken
CD player, or a torn jacket that only Mother could mend.

“Nothing,” my son replied, sounding affronted. “I just thought it was kind of strange that there was somebody else up here from Alpine. It’s not exactly the big city.”

“True,” I agreed, thinking wistfully of the metropolitan vitality I still missed since moving to Alpine. But my years on
The Oregonian
in Portland and my upbringing in Seattle seemed far away. I had committed my bank account to
The Advocate
and my soul to Alpine. My heart was another matter.

We chatted briefly of mundane concerns before Adam announced he had to race off and help somebody fix an outboard motor. I turned my attention back to the other phone messages, the mail, and the print order for the weekly press run in Monroe. It was after one o’clock when I realized I’d skipped lunch. I said as much to Vida, who had already consumed her diet special of cottage cheese, carrot and celery sticks, and a hard-boiled egg.

“You eat alone too much,” she announced, depositing two wedding stories with accompanying pictures on my desk. “I’ll come with you. I could use a cup of hot tea.”

“Good.” I started to sign the print order just as Carla returned, bubbling like a brook.

“Dani Marsh isn’t much taller than I am,” Carla declared, dancing into my office. “She’s in terrific shape though, works out for two hours a day, and drinks nothing but cabbage extract. Her skin is
amazing!
But you ought to see Matt Tabor! What a hunk! He’s six-two, with the greenest eyes ever, and muscles that ripple and bulge and—”

Happily, the phone rang, cutting short Carla’s bicep recital. The mayor, Fuzzy Baugh, was on the line, his native New Orleans drawl characteristically unctuous. He wanted to make sure we included an article about the celebrity bartenders who were going to be on duty at the Icicle Creek Tavern during Loggerama. He and Doc Dewey Senior; Dr. Starr, the dentist; and Sheriff Milo Dodge would make up the star-studded cast of mixologists, unless they got lucky
and enticed somebody from the movie crew to take part. That struck me as dubious, since the Icicle Creek Tavern makes Mugs Ahoy look like the Polo Lounge. Located at the edge of town, the rival watering hole is famous for its Saturday night brawls which usually involve raucous loggers hurling each other through the windows. I frankly couldn’t imagine Fuzzy or any of our other more dignified citizens having a beer at the place, let alone serving the rough-and-tumble clientele. But this was Loggerama, and apparently a truce was in effect.

I was still listening to the mayor’s long-winded description of how he planned to give civic-minded names to his libations
(citizen schooner, mayor’s mug, political pitcher
—I didn’t take notes) when Ed Bronsky staggered in, looking as if he’d been attacked by wild beasts.

“Inserts!” he wailed, clutching at the doorjamb. “In color! Every week! It’s worse than I expected!”

Inwardly, I was elated. Enough color inserts might pay for Adam’s ticket from Ketchikan to Fairbanks. But between Fuzzy yammering about his Beer à la Baugh, the star-struck Carla still twittering to Vida, and Ed now threatening to have an aneurism over Safeway’s advertising temerity, I was anxious to escape. Hastily, I shoved the print order at Vida to sign for me while I relented and took down the dates and times that the various so-called celebrities would be at the Icicle Creek Tavern. At last I was able to hang up, console Ed, listen to Carla, and get out the door before some other obstacle rolled my way.

“Burger Barn,” I said, feeling the full impact of the sun overhead.
The Advocate
wasn’t air-conditioned, but its proximity to the Skykomish River gave an illusion of cold water and fresh air. Outside, I could see the dry foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Even the evergreens seemed to droop. To the north, Mount Baldy was bare of snow, with wild heather blazing under the blank blue sky. The forest fire danger was extreme, and all logging operations had been curtailed. After over a month without rain, we natives
were beginning to feel as if our own roots were drying up and withering our souls.

The Burger Barn is both restaurant and drive-in, located two blocks west on Front Street, across from Parker’s Pharmacy, once owned by the wayward Durwood. Fleetingly, I wondered how he was managing in jail. In Alpine, the county prison consists of six cells in the building that houses the sheriff’s office. Usually, the only inhabitants are drunk drivers, transients, and the occasional spouse batterer. Durwood probably had the place to himself. I mentioned the fact to Vida, who snorted loudly.

“He’ll probably ask to stay an extra day. Dot Parker talks like a cement mixer. Non-stop, just grinding her jaws away.” She took a stutter step, then waved, a windmill gesture that might have stopped traffic had there been more than three cars on Front Street. “Marje! Yoo-hoo!”

At the entrance to the Burger Barn, Vida’s niece, Marje Blatt, returned the wave. She was accompanied by a lanky young man wearing cutoffs and a tank top. As coincidence would have it, he was Marje’s fiancé, Cody Graff. Introductions were made, but before I could inquire about Curtis Graff, Vida whisked us inside the Burger Barn.

“We might as well sit together,” said Vida, heading for an empty booth that looked out toward the bank across the street. “I’m just having tea.”

Marje and Cody looked a little reluctant, but docilely sat down. “I’m on my lunch hour,” said Marje. She was in her mid-twenties, with short auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and a piquant face. Unlike her more casual counterparts in many big city medical offices, Marje wore a crisp white uniform. She scanned the menu as if it were an X-ray. “Why am I looking at this?” she asked, pitching the single plastic-encased sheet behind the napkin holder. “I’m having the Cobb salad.”

The waitress, a pudgy middle-aged woman named Jessie Lott, stood with order pad in hand, blowing wisps of hair off her damp forehead. Cody asked for the double cheeseburger, fries, and coffee. I opted for a hamburger dip au jus,
a small salad, and a Pepsi. Vida requested her tea. The waitress started to wheel away, but Vida called her back:

“There’s a minimum per table setting, right?”

Jessie Lott shrugged. “Really, that’s just when nobody else orders more than—”

“In that case,” Vida interrupted, “I’ll have the chicken basket with fries, tartar sauce on the side, and a small green salad with Roquefort.” She threw Jessie a challenging look and deep-sixed the menu. “Well,” Vida said, eyeing her niece and Cody, “when’s the wedding? I heard you ordered the invitations last week.”

“October nineteenth,” replied Marje in her brisk voice. She didn’t look at all like her aunt, but some of their mannerisms were similar. Both were no-nonsense women, devoid of sentiment, but not without compassion. “We’re going to Acapulco for our honeymoon.” She turned her bright blue eyes on Cody, as if daring him to differ. “We’ll love it.”

Cody, who had been toying with the salt and pepper shakers, gazed ironically at his beloved. “Yeah, sure we will, Marje. Especially the part where we both get the Aztec two-step.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Marje retorted. “You just don’t drink water out of the tap, that’s all. Or eat in strange places. Good Lord, Cody, don’t be such a wimp!”

Cody drew back in the booth. He was sharp-featured, with straw-colored hair, restless gray eyes, and a sulky cast to his long mouth. Though he was narrow of shoulder, his bare upper arms were muscular, and I supposed that younger women would find him attractive, especially with that petulant air. He struck me as spoiled, but I hoped—for Marje’s sake—that I was wrong. Certainly she seemed to be getting her way about the honeymoon.

“You just wanted to go fishing in Montana or Wyoming or some godforsaken place,” Marje was saying. “As if you don’t hotfoot it out to the river every chance you get around here.”

“Fishing stinks in this state,” declared Cody. “There isn’t a river in Washington that isn’t fished out. I haven’t caught a trout bigger than eight inches since I was sixteen. And steelheading is a joke. You’re lucky if you get one of those babies every season.”

Cody wasn’t exaggerating, but I kept quiet, not wanting to take sides. But Cody wasn’t finished with his griping: “Everything stinks around here these days,” he proclaimed, flexing his biceps for emphasis. “Take all these wimpy environmentalists trying to wipe out the logging business. How does a guy like me live in this state? I don’t know how to do anything but work in the woods. Do they want me sitting on a street corner with a tin cup and a sign that says
WILL WORK FOR FOOD
? Work at
what?
It pisses me off.”

It was pissing off an increasing number of people in the forest products industry, though I noticed that Cody seemed to take the environmentalists’ concerns very personally. I supposed I couldn’t blame him, but I had an urge to point out that there were two sides to the story, and that while I sympathized with him, he was not alone in his outrage. Vida, however, intervened.

“Just be glad you can afford a honeymoon at all,” she admonished them. “And the time. How long will you be gone?”

“A week,” replied Marje. “That’s all I can take off at once from Doc Dewey’s office. It’s too hard to get anybody to fill in for me in this town. In fact, he’d rather I went next week because he’s going to be gone.” She pulled a face at her aunt. “Frankly, I don’t think he wants me to go at all. Doc’s been real cranky lately.”

“We ought to elope,” said Cody, his ruffled feathers apparently smoothed. “With the logging operation shut down and that bunch of dorks making a movie up there on Baldy, this would be a good time for me to take off.” He jostled Marje’s arm. “What do you say, honey, want to slip off to a J.P. and forget about all those flowers and champagne glasses and ten pounds of gooey cake?”

“I sure don’t,” Marje countered crossly. “Between Doc’s
constant advice and your weak dose of enthusiasm, I wonder why we’re getting married in the first place. It may be old stuff to you, but I’ve never had a wedding before. Besides, I don’t know how long Doc’s going to be away this time.”

Vida leaned across the table, scenting gossip. “Where’s he going?”

Marje lifted her slim shoulders. “Seattle, I think. Frankly, he’s been sort of vague. Mrs. Dewey’s going with him, though. Maybe it’s just a getaway. He could use it—that’s probably why he’s such a crab. Doc doesn’t take much time off for a guy his age, especially when he’s got his son to rely on to back him up.”

Vida sniffed. “His son has too many peculiar ideas, if you ask me.” She paused as Jessie showed up with our order. “Last Friday, Amy took Roger in to see young Doc Dewey,” she went on, referring to her daughter and grandson. “Amy and Ted think Roger is hyper.” Vida rolled her eyes and pounced on her chicken. “Hyper what, I asked? He’s just a typical spirited nine year old. But young Doc Dewey is putting him on some kind of medication. Doesn’t that beat all?” She bit into her chicken with a vengeance.

Marje looked as if she were trying to keep from smiling. “Well, Roger
is
pretty lively. Amy told me how he tried to microwave Mrs. Grundle’s cat. And put a garter snake in the bank’s night depository.”

“Kid stuff,” asserted Vida. “Roger has an active imagination, that’s all.”

The truth was that Roger was a terror, but Vida doted on him all the same. Although her three daughters had provided her with a running total of five grandchildren, only Roger lived in Alpine. Familiarity did not breed contempt, as well it might, given Roger’s proclivity for mischief.

“Somebody,” said Cody, who had seemed temporarily lost in his world of double cheese and fries, “ought to smack that kid. At the family Fourth of July picnic, I caught him putting cherry bombs in the barbecue pit. Remember those big explosions?”

Marje nodded, but Vida gave Cody her most severe expression. Before she could defend the errant Roger, however, the sound of honking horns blasted our ears. We all craned our necks to look out toward Front Street.

“What is it?” asked Marje, whose vision was blocked.

Cody had gotten to his feet, dropping a couple of french fries in the process. “Jeez.” He turned pale under his summer tan as the honking grew louder, competing with the whistle of the Burlington Northern, heading east. “It’s that ballbuster Dani.”

I was sticking to my clothes and my clothes were sticking to the booth. I leaned out as far as possible, but could see only the rear end of a big white car, no doubt a demo on loan from the local General Motors dealership. “They got in about noon,” I said in what I hoped was a neutral voice.

Cody sat down, looking more sulky than ever. He picked up his napkin, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the direction of the empty booth opposite us. “That bitch is going to be here for two weeks!” He gave a violent shake of his head, straw-colored hair quivering. “Why couldn’t she go away and stay away? What’s the point of coming back just to get everybody riled up?”

Marje gave Cody a cool look. “As far as I can tell, you’re the only one who’s riled up. Ignore her, Cody. All that was five years ago.” She pushed at his plate. “Eat up, I’ve got to get back to the office.”

But Cody wasn’t so easily mollified. With one furious gesture, he swept the plate off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. I jumped and Vida tensed. Marje opened her mouth to protest, but Cody was on his feet, yelling at her: