The Alpine Uproar (11 page)

“It
is
old,” Vida replied. “It belonged to Jake and Buzzy’s father, Millard, who started the store years ago. But the truck’s still used and well maintained. I believe it’s some kind of Dodge.”

Mitch nodded. “It was a 1968 Dodge Fargo A100. As a guy from the Motor City, I can tell you that if the truck’s been kept up, it’s worth at least five grand. Or was, until it went in the river.”

Vida leaned forward, her gray eyes suddenly cold as she stared at Mitch. “Trucks can be replaced. Children cannot. Consider how the O’Tooles must feel right now.”

Mitch’s own gaze didn’t waver. “I’d rather not.” He turned away and studied his computer monitor.

Vida shot me a questioning look. I shrugged and went into my cubbyhole. Five minutes later, Leo returned.

“Fleetwood had taken off for the accident site before I could get to the station,” Leo said, standing in the doorway to my office. “I waited around for him and when he didn’t show after fifteen minutes, his engineer-of-the-month from the college told me his boss was trying to do a remote, but was having problems. I left, but not before I asked the kid if a Ms. Weaver had visited KSKY in the last couple of days. He—his name is Cole Something—said she’d come by last night but Fleetwood was gone so she ‘floated,’ as the kid described it, out the door.”

“Not a bad description of Jica Weaver,” I remarked. “Maybe Cole has a future in journalism. If there
is
a future these days.”

“Sad but true,” Leo said, coming closer and leaning on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs. “By chance, I decided to stop by the Grocery Basket to check on their plans for the autumn harvest ads.” His leathery face turned grim. “I was there when Buzzy got the news about Mike.”

“Poor Buzzy!” I exclaimed. “How did he take it?”

Leo shook his head. “You can imagine. Buzzy’s not the strongest blade of grass in the lawn. He went to pieces, and
Betsy had to take over. She was upset, of course, but you know her—she’s strong, probably stronger than Jake.”

“The family anchor,” I murmured. “Laura’s no tower of strength, either.” With Leo blocking my view, I couldn’t see into the newsroom. “Is Mitch here? He was heading for the Grocery Basket.”

“No. I met him going out as I was coming in. Think he can handle this? I don’t mean the news coverage,” Leo added quickly, “but the personal stuff.”

“I hope so.” Fleetingly, I recalled my own career as a reporter for
The Oregonian
. I knew that in a big city, media types could usually afford the luxury of distance from their human subjects. I’d learned in a hurry that there was a huge difference in a small town where everybody knew everybody else. “He’s savvy,” I added. “He’ll catch on.”

“He’ll have to.” Leo was silent for a moment. “I know I did.”

“Yes. Did you turn on the radio to see if Spence ever got on the air with the news?”

“I didn’t check,” Leo said. “If the remote setup flopped, he probably did the broadcast from the station. I’ll check in with him tomorrow about those co-op ads.”

Vida had suddenly appeared, hovering behind Leo. “I forgot to tell you,” she said, “that I saw the baby at the hospital. Quite homely, but so often newborns are. I tried to call on Ginny, but she was asleep. No stamina, really. The third birth is comparatively easy. Or so I found with my three girls.” She started back into the newsroom, but stopped and turned around. “Speaking of my daughters, I’m having dinner tonight with Amy and Ted. I must ask Roger about Mike O’Toole. They’ve been chums—not close, Mike being a year older. His younger brother, Kenny, is a year or two younger than Roger.”

As Vida continued on to her desk, Leo’s expression was droll. “That should be … interesting,” he murmured, sharing the same negative opinions I had of Vida’s grandson. “Okay,” he went on more loudly, “do we leave for the ICT from work or later?”

“Later,” I said. “I’d like to go home first and eat food that doesn’t have paw prints on it.”

“We could have dinner at the Venison Inn,” Leo suggested. “Only deer-shaped hoof prints, and they’re kind of cute.”

I smiled. “Okay. How about six-thirty? I’d like to stay around in case there’s any news about Mike.”

Leo agreed and left. Kip had come out of the back shop and gone into the front office, where he’d promised to fill in for Ginny when he finished his other duties. He’d told me that our classified ads, which were usually taken by Ginny, might increase after we went online. I assumed he was setting out some guidelines for Ginny and her temporary replacement, Amanda Hanson. Mitch, meanwhile, was busy on the phone. His visit to the Grocery Basket hadn’t added anything new because all of the O’Tooles were gone and the rest of the employees were either upset or ignorant about why Mike had taken over the produce run. Shortly after four o’clock, Mitch came into my cubbyhole.

“I just talked to Dustin Fong,” he said, leaning against the door frame. “The older couple at the local hospital are in critical condition, but might make it. The O’Toole kid’s another matter.” He paused, frowning. “Two leg fractures, a broken arm, ruptured spleen, punctured lung, and severe concussion. Apparently he wasn’t wearing a seat belt, though that may have kept him from drowning. He was able to get out of the cab before it was completely submerged.”

“Mike may’ve broken one law with his driving, but ignoring
the seat-belt requirement saved his life.
If
he lives.” I sighed. “I should call Father Kelly in case nobody else has notified him.”

“Your pastor, right?” Mitch grinned. “How’d he manage when he first got here? It couldn’t have been easy in what you described as a white-bread town ten years ago.”

“It wasn’t,” I replied. “There was very little diversity until the community college was built. Still, it didn’t take Father Den too long to be accepted, at least by his parishioners.”

Mitch nodded once. “That’s good. Brenda and I wondered what being Jewish in a small town would be like.” His lean face looked sheepish. “Not that we practice our religion much, but …” He shrugged.

“My first reporter, Carla Steinmetz, was Jewish,” I said, “but she didn’t practice hers, either. Not,” I added, “that there’s a synagogue around here. Leo’s Catholic, but his appearances at Mass are few and far between. I don’t think you’ll find much anti-Semitism in this part of the world, even in Alpine, where it’s basically the Lutherans against the rest of the world.”

Mitch chuckled. “Is that good or bad?”

“I’m not criticizing. This town was founded by an Episcopalian, but the majority of the timber workers were Scandinavian. German, too, which accounts for the Lutheran dominance. It’s changing, though. The college brought in people of various races and religions. Alpine’s content to rely on family feuds for hostility and excitement.”

“Old-fashioned hatred,” Mitch noted. “Easier to understand, I suppose.”

Mitch ambled back to his desk. I called the rectory at St. Mildred’s, but the secretary, Mimi Barton, said Father Den had already gone to Monroe with Jake and Betsy. After hanging up,
I succumbed to the moment and reread my file on Highway 2. Maybe I’d take a new angle, urging the state patrol to add more troopers to the stretch from Snohomish to Stevens Pass. Cedar trees didn’t march onto the road and unless there was an avalanche, boulders didn’t roll in front of cars. Drivers had to use better judgment, and if paying hefty fines was one way to save lives, we needed more law enforcement. Milo and his gang were responsible only for SkyCo’s relatively short stretch of Highway 2. The rest of the dangerous roadway was up to King and Snohomish counties—and the state. I finished my first draft just before five. It needed work. I’d tiptoed a bit around driver responsibility. With Mike O’Toole fighting for his life in a Monroe hospital, I didn’t want to rub any salt into already deep wounds.

Vida had left a few minutes early. Kip showed me some detailed directions for the online classifieds before leaving for the night. Mitch made a last-minute call to Monroe, but Mike’s condition was unchanged.

“I didn’t reach Fred Engelman today,” he added. “Jack Blackwell told me Fred was tied up for most of the afternoon. Did you know there’s money to be made in sawdust?”

“Ah … how do you mean?”

Mitch grinned. “I may be new to small-town living, but we do have a timber industry in Michigan. More to the point, an old college pal of mine teaches at Bowdoin in Maine. He told me a couple of weeks ago that the mills back there are starting to sell sawdust to dairy farmers and particleboard makers. The big market is wood pellet manufacturers. With the rising cost of energy, tons of people have stopped buying oil and are heating their homes with wood pellets instead. You say Blackwell’s a pain in the ass, but he’s shrewd. He couldn’t stay in business if he wasn’t. Even though the big demand is mainly in the Northeast now, Jack’s looking down the road to increase his own profits.”

“I never said Blackwell was stupid. You’ll do a story on it?”

“Sure.” Mitch straightened up. “I’ll get back to him tomorrow and have another go at Fred Engelman.”

“Great,” I said as my phone rang.

Mitch snapped a salute before going back to his desk. Edna Mae Dalrymple’s twittering voice was on the line. “Oh, I’m so glad I caught you! I thought you might’ve left for home. Seven-thirty, at Janet Driggers’s house. This is a reminder, Emma. Charlene’s still ailing.”

I’d forgotten about the bridge date. “I thought Char might be able to play tonight,” I said, stalling for time. “I have something to do this evening. Business,” I added.

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear, dear!” Edna Mae sounded flustered. “I’ve no idea who to ask now. What shall I do?”

I glanced at my watch. It was five after five. “I might be able to make it,” I said, “though I could be a bit late. Is that okay?”

“I …” Edna Mae faltered, probably considering which of the other six players would be most pissed off. “It
should
be a congenial group. Darlene Adcock, Dixie Ridley, Mary Jane Bourgette and her daughter, Rosemary, Molly Freeman, Janet, of course, and … oh, my, who else?”

“You,” I said. “And me. That makes eight.”

“Oh! So it does!” Edna Mae’s giggle was more like a bird’s trill. “Yes, yes, then we’ll see you … when?”

“Before eight,” I promised and rang off.

I hurried out to Leo’s desk. “Let’s eat,” I said. “I forgot I had a bridge date. I’ll have to leave the ICT by seven-thirty.”

“Reeking of cheap beer?” Leo’s crooked smile was ironic. “Don’t you ladies pull the drapes so the high school faculty wives aren’t seen glugging down wine like a bunch of homeless derelicts in a dark alley?”

The reference was to Molly Freeman, the principal’s wife, and Dixie Ridley, the football and basketball coach’s other
half. “At least Linda Carlson won’t be there,” I said, mentioning the PE teacher’s name. She was one of the members who’d blackballed me a few years ago when the rumor mill was feasting on my so-called affair with Milo. Dixie and Molly had gone along with Linda at first—faculty families sticking together—but they’d apologized later. Even such social occasions as playing cards could become not only judgmental, but downright nasty. “The Dithers sisters aren’t playing tonight, either,” I went on. “They’re probably watching TV with their horses.”

“In their living room?”

“Of course.”

Leo turned off his computer and stood up. “Let’s go. We have plenty of time. The Venison Inn shouldn’t be busy yet. Kip left five minutes ago.”

“I’ll turn off the lights and lock up,” I said, returning to my cubbyhole to get my purse and the brown leather jacket I’d splurged on at a Nordstrom end-of-winter clearance.

Five minutes later, we were ensconced in a booth toward the back of the restaurant. Sunny Rhodes, the sometime hostess and full-time wife of bartender Oren Rhodes, had seated us. “I can take your drink orders,” she said, flashing the bright smile that had earned her nickname. “One of our waitresses is running a little late.”

I looked at Leo. “Drink?” I said in a doubtful voice.

Leo shrugged. “I’ll have a Coors Light.”

I wasn’t fond of beer, but told Sunny I’d have the same.

She looked surprised. “I thought you always ordered bourbon or Canadian, Emma.”

“I do,” I said. “But not tonight.”

Sunny didn’t bother to write down our requests. “It’s going to be slow,” she said, gazing around the dining room. “There’s a candlelight vigil for Mike O’Toole.”

I was surprised. “Who told you that?”

“Clancy Barton,” Sunny replied. “He’s in the bar, having a drink with a shoe wholesaler. His sister, Mimi, called from St. Mildred’s just before you got here. It’ll be held in Old Mill Park.”

“That must have been a last-minute decision,” I said. “I talked to Mimi not quite an hour ago.”

“Could be,” Sunny said. “I don’t know much about Catholics.” She took in a short breath and looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I mean, I know you people have a lot of rituals and all that, but I’m glad Father Kelly is holding the vigil in the park so everyone can come. If you know what I mean.”

I wasn’t sure, unless Sunny thought Catholics practiced some sort of secret ceremonies. Leo, however, intervened. “You mean like the Masons?”

Sunny blushed. “Oren says the Masons just do those things to keep the traditions. I’ve been in Eastern Star for years and it’s not very mysterious. It’s just … nice. A pleasant way for women to get together.”

“So’s bingo,” Leo responded, his green eyes twinkling. “That’s about as secret as we Catholics get. Nobody knows what numbers will pop out of the big glass ball. Very suspenseful.”

“Really?” Sunny sounded skeptical. “I’d better put in your drink orders. Dr. Starr and his wife just came in, but they have a favorite table so I don’t need to seat them.”

I could see the tall figure of Alpine’s dentist and his petite wife, Carrie, heading for the second window booth. As usual, Dr. Bob was wearing one of his colorful ikat sweaters that I recalled came from Peru. Mrs. Starr was more conservatively dressed in forest-green slacks and an ecru suede jacket I’d ogled in the window display at Francine’s Fine Apparel.

“If we drink beer now,” Leo said, “we won’t have to mix our grains at the ICT. One beer ought to do it after we get there. You should be able to take in the layout pretty fast so you can get to your bridge club.” He cocked his head to one side. “You aren’t worrying about me staying and getting hammered, are you?”