The Alpine Uproar (28 page)

“A dog’s behavior depends on how it was trained,” I said, recalling an incident that had figured in a homicide several years ago.

Vida sniffed disdainfully. “If these Dobermans are supposed to guard Bert’s junk, he’ll train them to attack.”

“They may be trained already,” I said. “He’s getting them from Minnesota.”

“Minnesota,” Vida murmured, sitting down. “I can’t imagine living where the land is so flat. I don’t care very much for eastern Washington, but at least it’s got some parts that aren’t like a pancake.”

I didn’t comment further. To my knowledge, Vida had never been out of the Pacific Northwest. She’d lived her entire life in Alpine and rarely strayed far from the I-5 corridor between the Canadian border and Oregon. A few years ago, we’d spent some time in Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast. Although Vida thought the town’s seaside architecture had a certain charm, she’d gone on to say that life on the beach must get tiresome. “The tide comes in and the tide goes out,” she’d told me. “So predictable, with exact times just like a bus schedule. I much prefer living in a place that’s nestled in the mountains.” Like Alpine, of course. Valhalla would have suffered by comparison with Vida’s hometown. “Are you eating in?”

I confessed that I hadn’t thought about it. “Are you?”

Vida made a face. “I planned to, but the celery and carrot sticks and the hard-boiled egg I brought to the office suddenly don’t appeal to me. I certainly don’t want to go off my diet, yet I feel the need for something a bit more hearty.”

Vida’s so-called diets were a joke among the rest of us. She had a large frame and she was tall. Ten, even twenty pounds either way were scarcely noticeable. “The Venison Inn?” I said.

She hesitated. “Yes, I believe they have some low-calorie items on their menu.” She checked her watch. “It’s ten to twelve. Shall we go?”

“Sure.” I stood up as Vida went back to her desk to retrieve her purse and coat. Before I could get farther than the middle of the newsroom, Amanda entered.

“Here,” she said, handing me a
WHILE YOU WERE UNAVAILABLE
note. She turned around and left.

Marisa Foxx had returned my phone call at ten-forty. Annoyed, I considered chewing out Amanda, but I conquered the urge, mouthed the word
Wait
to Vida, and went into the front office.

“I wish,” I said, trying to remain pleasant, “you’d given me this when I got back here an hour or so ago. Ms. Foxx is probably at lunch.”

Amanda was gathering up her own belongings. “Yes,” she replied. “She probably is. I’m meeting her at the ski lodge coffee shop. I may be a few minutes late getting back.” With another frosty smile, she slung her hobo bag over her shoulder and went out the door.

Vida had edged her way closer to the front office. “Well now! What was that all about?”

“I’ve no idea,” I admitted. “I don’t think Marisa and Amanda are friends. Marisa has never mentioned her.” I paused. “On the other hand, Marisa is rather cagey about personal matters. Maybe that’s why she and I get along. Neither of us is willing to open up to other people.”

Vida, who is also reticent about her private life, yet ferrets out every detail and nuance of anyone who crosses her path, nodded. “That’s possible. I’ll have to ask my niece Judi about it.”

Going out the door, we almost collided with Mitch Laskey.
He made a bow. “Off to lunch? I may be late getting back. Brenda has to have that burn checked out at the clinic. It’s worse than we thought.”

“Dear me,” Vida murmured, glancing at me. “I suppose she can’t drive, either.”

Mitch smiled at his colleague. “We seem to be the designated drivers. See you soon.”

Vida and I continued down the street to the Venison Inn. “I’m beginning to wonder about Brenda,” she said. “She seems to have a great many problems.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Well … yes, of course.” Vida let me go inside first. It wasn’t a sign of deference to The Boss, but because she inevitably stopped along the way to the booth, interrogating each person she knew and thus holding up her companion and occasionally a few other customers as well.

For once, the restaurant was less than half full. It wasn’t quite noon and the rush would be on in the next five to ten minutes. Vida found slim pickings for her gossip basket. By the time she joined me in a booth—with a window view, of course—the only snippet she’d gleaned was that Francine and Warren Wells were thinking about spending Christmas in Bavaria.

“They call it their third honeymoon,” Vida said in disgust as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. “Married, divorced, married again.” She shook her head. “That’s all very well and good, but how many honeymoons do people really need? And Bavaria! Why not save money and just drive over to Leavenworth?”

Vida referred to the town on the other side of Stevens Pass that had become a destination not only for winter sports but for tourists year-round. Within Leavenworth’s city limits, most
of the buildings along Highway 2 were built in the Bavarian style. Shops and restaurants featured German goods and food. During the Christmas season, special passenger trains were put on for day trips so that visitors could enjoy the sights, sounds, and smells of an ersatz Bavaria. On one of Tom’s visits to Alpine, we had driven there to spend the night. It was a magical time. The memory was still as vivid as it was bittersweet.

“Of course,” Vida continued after briefly studying the menu, “Francine must make good money with her women’s apparel store. I only go there when she has a clearance sale. Since they got back together, Warren may nominally manage the shop, but I doubt he does much in the way of work.” She paused. “I’ll have the steak sandwich special.”

I looked at the menu’s description: rib-eye steak on a French roll with fries, onion rings, and a salad. “That’s definitely hearty,” I said.

To my surprise, Liz, the Burger Barn’s surly waitress, suddenly appeared bearing two glasses of ice water. “You decided yet?” she asked. Before either Vida or I could respond, Liz scowled at my House & Home editor. “What’s with that piece in the paper about me moving here from Idaho?”

Vida stared unblinkingly at Liz. “I interviewed you, or don’t you remember? Frankly, I didn’t learn anything to justify a feature story, so I put a brief mention in my ‘Scene’ column. Had I known you were working two jobs, that would’ve provided more human interest.”

“I’m not working two jobs,” Liz snapped. “I quit the Burger Barn last Friday. Now I’m here. Are you going to put that in the paper, too, or are you finished prying into my private life?”

Vida wore her Cheshire Cat expression. “Your job is
not
part of your private life. And, I might add, I certainly will mention your change of employment. If I don’t, readers will think we made a mistake. That simply won’t do.”

Liz’s face grew tighter with Vida’s every word. “Mistake? You’ve already made enough,” she declared. “If everybody in this burg knows everybody else, then they’ve already figured out where I work.”

“Well …” Vida appeared to ponder Liz’s words. “Given your career path in Alpine, will you be at the diner or the ski lodge next week?”

Liz, who looked as if she wanted to throttle Vida, took a deep breath. “Just give me your order. I’ve got other customers waiting.”

Vida pretended to study the menu. “The special, medium well done, with Roquefort dressing on the salad, and please don’t skimp. It’s very annoying when the dressing runs out before the greens do.” With an emphatic gesture, she slapped the menu closed.

Liz turned to me. “What about you?”

“The same,” I said, avoiding the waitress’s sour expression, “but I want my steak rare.”

“All the steak sandwiches are medium,” Liz said in triumph.

“Okay. In that case, I’ll have the beef dip rare.”

Liz smirked. “All the beef is well done.”

“I see. How about a bowl of gruel?”

“We don’t serve gruel,” Liz said.

“Gee, that’s a shame.” I gave up. “Let’s do the steak sandwich.”

Without another word, Liz stalked away.

Vida’s eyes could have drilled holes in the disagreeable waitress’s back. “She won’t last long here, either. I’m sure she was
fired from the Burger Barn.” Vida rested her chin on her hands. “Why is Liz so unpleasant? Why, having an obvious dislike of other human beings, does she work as a waitress? There are many kinds of jobs for unskilled people in which you don’t have to interact with the public.”

“Why Alpine?” I mused. “Did you ask her?”

“Of course. She mumbled about wanting a change of scenery. Ah!” Vida was leaning halfway out of the booth. “Here comes Betsy O’Toole with Roseanna Bayard.” She paused and frowned. “They’re being seated toward the front. We must stop to chat on the way out.”

Liz served us without comment. Vida asked for a refill of her water. Her request was granted with a frown. The rest of the lunch hour was spent in speculation about what might happen to Clive Berentsen, Holly Gross’s threatened lawsuit, how Buzzy and Laura O’Toole would cope in the wake of Mike’s death, and the need for another doctor in Alpine.

“Which reminds me,” Vida said as we got out of the booth, “I should try again to talk to Marje and ask if Doc is doing too much. Maybe I’ll go to the clinic now. Marje usually eats in.”

I was surprised. “You’re passing up a chance to talk to Betsy?”

Vida grimaced. “I can’t be everywhere at once—though I’d like to.”

I sensed that Marje and Doc weren’t the only people on her inquisition list. The Laskeys might still be at the clinic. Even if they’d come and gone, Vida could still quiz her niece about Brenda. “Here,” I said, handing over two fives and my lunch bill. “Pay this for me. I may spend a few minutes with Betsy and Roseanna. No tip.”

Vida nodded. “Certainly not.”

She paused at Betsy and Roseanna’s booth just long enough
to be polite. Roseanna offered to scoot over so I could sit next to her. Betsy, who hadn’t yet shed her air of grief, still made an effort to lighten the mood. “I hope you learned your lesson about shopping at Safeway, Emma. How do you feel?”

“Better.” I tried to smile. “The truth is, I couldn’t bear to see the reader board again.”

“Understood.” Betsy passed a hand across her forehead. “I was going to see you after lunch. The funeral will be Thursday at ten. We’d have preferred to hold it sooner, but we wanted to get it in the paper and have Vida mention it on her program Wednesday night. In fact, I wish we could’ve held the services today. Jake suggested putting the funeral information on the reader board, but Buzzy and Laura couldn’t deal with that. The message up there now is heartbreaking enough.”

“It is,” I agreed, noting that Betsy had eaten only a small portion of her Reuben sandwich.

Roseanna, however, had demolished most of her Cobb salad. “I thought they’d have an autopsy,” she said. “There was one for Buddy’s mother a few years ago. Of course,” she added with a slight shudder, “that was different. Genevieve had been poisoned.”

My mind went back to those disturbing days that followed Genevieve’s death. It had occurred at the parish rectory on my brother’s watch. Ben had been filling in for Father Den while our pastor was on sabbatical. The tragedy had far-reaching consequences beyond the Bayard family. I felt like shuddering, too.

“An autopsy on Mike wasn’t necessary,” Betsy said, bringing me back to the present. “The surgeon in Monroe asked if we wanted one, but Doc Dewey advised Jake that the family should refuse to consent. We knew the cause of Mike’s death. Why put us through more misery?”

“I agree,” I said. “How are Buzzy and Laura doing?”

Betsy crumpled her napkin and put it next to her plate. “Not very well. How could they be otherwise? Buzzy’s beating himself up for not making the trip to Monroe and Laura is inconsolable.”

Roseanna shook her head. “It all falls on you and Jake. I marvel at how well you’re coping.”

“It’s an act,” Betsy replied. “Somebody has to prop up the rest of the family, and I’m it. Jake is channeling his grief by fixating on the truck. It may have been old, but he kept it up. It was totaled, of course. But my husband considered it as … well, part of the family, an heirloom from his father and a symbol of … what? The store’s longtime presence, I guess. Maybe Jake’s the wise one. It’s easier to mourn a thing instead of a person.” Her expression turned droll. “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I almost think Jake would like to hold a memorial service for the truck and have Bert Anderson bury it instead of demolishing the darned thing.”

Roseanna finally put her fork aside. “Betsy, you’re awful. Keep it up, it’ll help you and everybody else get through this. Life’s no picnic.”

I smiled at Betsy. “Roseanna’s right. Haven’t we all had some horrible bumps in the road?”

All three of us were quiet for a few moments. It was only the approach of Liz that made me slip out of the booth. “I don’t know about you two, but I’ve had enough lip from that waitress for one day.”

“She’s a pill, all right,” Roseanna said softly. “Maybe she’s had a few horrible bumps, too.”

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll see you both … later.” I didn’t want to say
at the funeral
. I suppose it was because none of us should have to attend a funeral for a young man. Or maybe we
three middle-aged women didn’t want to acknowledge our own mortality.

I
T WAS AFTER ONE WHEN
I
GOT BACK TO THE OFFICE
. I
T WAS ALMOST
two when Amanda showed up. I wasn’t in a mood to coddle her. “Lunch here is an hour unless it involves business.”

Amanda seemed unfazed. “Okay.” She turned to her computer in an obvious gesture of dismissal.

I stalled for a few moments, pretending to study the posted ad rates. It was very difficult to keep from asking Amanda why she’d had lunch with Marisa. But that would switch the boss-employee relationship to girl talk. I kept my mouth shut and retreated to my cubbyhole. If I wanted to know what the long lunch session was about, I’d have to take my turn at telephone tag and call Marisa.

I told her I had a couple of questions, adding that she could bill me since they were lawyer-client queries. “First, is it likely that Holly Gross can sue me for allegedly running into her car and then beating her up?”