The Alpine Uproar (6 page)

Vida carefully folded her list and stood up. “I must see if I can catch Marlowe Whipp. If I do, shall I bring him in here?”

“Do you think we should interrupt him on his route? He’s not the fastest mailman at best.”

“It won’t take long,” Vida insisted, and went off to meet the postman on his appointed rounds.

Five minutes later, Ginny buzzed me to say that Vida wanted me to come into the front office. Sure enough, when I arrived she had Marlowe Whipp backed up against the counter in front of Ginny’s desk. Ginny, however, was nowhere in sight. She seemed to spend a great deal of time these days in the rest-room.

“Marlowe has an interesting tale to tell about the Hansons,” Vida declared.

Marlowe, who is well into his forties, looked as if his third-grade teacher had called on him and he didn’t know the answer. “I wouldn’t say it was really … interesting,” he said, looking warily at me. “Is this going to go in the paper?”

“I doubt it,” I said and smiled encouragement. “What about Walt and Amanda?”

Marlowe had set his mailbag down on the floor. He kept looking at it as if he expected a bunch of outlaws to rush through the door and steal his precious load of circulars, brochures, and catalogs. “I know Amanda. Kind of. From when she works part-time at the post office,” he explained, speaking the way he walked, which was slow and meandering. “She’s … oh … a … a nice young woman, but … well … she likes to … flirt.”

Vida was eying Marlowe as if she were a ravenous cat and he, a plump chickadee. “A tease or something more flagrant?”

Marlowe looked puzzled. “Flagrant?”

“Yes, yes. Is she having fun when she flirts or is her behavior an actual invitation to seduction?”

“Oh.” Marlowe frowned. “To be honest, she’s … um … never flirted with me. As I recall.”

“Really.” Vida kept a straight face. “You would, I assume, hear rumors if Amanda was seeing another man?”

“I would?”

Vida tapped a foot, which was, as always, shod in a black sensible mid-heel pump. “Are US postal workers immune to gossip?”

“Gosh,” Marlowe said, “I don’t think Amanda’s worked at the post office since … January?” He darted an apprehensive glance at his mail pouch. “I should be—”

Vida interrupted. “What set off the fight between Clive and Alvin?”

“Well …” Marlowe removed his USPS hat and scratched his bald spot. “Amanda and Walt had been playing pool. With … who was it? Oh. Mickey Borg and his wife … what’s her name?”

“Janie,” Vida put in.

Marlowe nodded. “That’s right. But she used to be married to—”

“Fred Engelman,” Vida snapped. “Go on.”

I sensed that Marlowe wasn’t ready to continue, so I spoke up, lest he forget that I was a real person and not a wax dummy. “Where were you when this happened?”

“At the bar,” he replied. “Well … no. I’d been at the bar, but Spike got grumpy, so I moved. To the pull-tabs on the wall.”

“Grumpy?” I remarked. “About what?”

“I don’t know.” Marlowe rubbed his shoulder, maybe to ease chronic pain from toting heavy mailbags. “Spike can be … touchy.”

“I’m not familiar with the layout of the place,” I admitted. “Are the pull-tabs within view of the pool table?”

Marlowe nodded. “They’re by the restrooms,” he said. “The pool table’s between the end of the bar and … I’m not sure where the door goes. Maybe it’s … no, the office is by the rear exit. The door by the pull-tabs is probably … a storeroom? Oh! There’s some pull-tabs by the front door, too. I never win on them. A couple of weeks ago … or was it right after Labor Day?” He paused, seemingly deep in recollection.

“Marlowe!” Vida barked. “Get on with it! What did Amanda do with regard to Mickey Borg?”

Marlowe actually recoiled. He reached down and grabbed the strap of his mail pouch, as if it might be a weapon—or a
talisman. “Give me some time, Vida. I already told Sam Heppner all this stuff.”

“I hope,” Vida said through clenched teeth, “Sam stayed awake during the interview.”

Marlowe looked baffled. “Because it was so late at night?”

I thought Vida might explode. Instead, she took a deep breath before speaking again. “Please. Just tell us about the commotion.”

Still clutching his mail pouch, Marlowe gulped. “Well … there was a lot going on. Mickey Borg said he didn’t feel good. Janie didn’t want to leave yet. Fred offered to take her home.” Marlowe stopped for a moment, maybe exhausted from speaking much faster than usual. “Fred and Janie were kind of chummy, if you want to know the truth. But they used to be married, so …” He shrugged. “Amanda Hanson told Janie she’d take Mickey home. Walt Hanson said their Miata only had room for two. Walt sounded ticked off. Holly Gross … gosh, she’s on the make most of the time. She’d been cozying up to Clive Berentsen, but he gave her the brush-off. Al De Muth got kind of mad at Clive then, said he shouldn’t be so rude to Holly. Amanda was giving her husband, Walt, some dirty looks while she talked to Mickey. Then Holly butted in on Al and Clive. I think she wanted Al to go home with her, but he said he had a headache.” Once again, Marlowe stopped for breath.

Vida scowled. “
Al
had a headache?”

Marlowe nodded. “That’s what he said. He was nice about it, though. The next thing I knew, Walt went over to Amanda and grabbed her arm and said they were leaving. Amanda told him to … leave her alone. All of a sudden Al and Clive went at it, and the next thing I knew, Clive swung a pool cue at Al, who went down and never got up.”

“Where,” I asked, “were you during the actual fight?”

“I’d moved away from the pool table toward the front door,” Marlowe replied. “I wanted to leave, but my jacket was by the bar. I couldn’t get past Spike Canby and Bert Anderson. Spike was coming from behind the bar to break up the fight. Bert was in his way. I thought maybe he—Bert—was protecting his wife, Norene. She was taking another pitcher of beer to the Peabody brothers.”

“Who else was fighting besides Clive and Al?” Vida asked.

“Mainly them,” Marlowe said, licking lips that had gone dry from his lengthy recital. “But I think Amanda threw something at Walt, and Janie Borg was screaming at Mickey, who was on the floor.”

“Why,” Vida inquired, looking almost as dazed as I felt, “was Mickey on the floor?”

“His stomach,” Marlowe replied. “He had bad cramps. After the police and everybody came, one of the medics, Del Amundson, told Mickey to get his stomach checked. It could be appendicitis.” Marlowe was holding the mail pouch in both hands. “Please. I’ve got to run.”

“Run?” Vida said under her breath. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

He left, displaying some fancy footwork I’d never seen before.

“Honestly,” Vida gasped, “I am quite confused.”

“That makes two of us,” I said.

“Perhaps I should’ve taken notes,” she murmured. “Generally, I don’t need them.”

As far as I was concerned, Vida’s flawless and prodigious memory was the Eighth Wonder of the World. “I hope Sam Heppner followed Marlowe’s rambling story better than we did.”

“Sam’s detail-oriented,” Vida said. “He’s been a deputy for years, and Milo will want to be factual even …” She stopped, a curious expression on her face. “I hear a cat. Did one creep into the office?”

“It’s been known to happen,” I said, and listened for a few moments. “It’s not a cat. But it’s close by.”

Vida and I both jumped as Ginny’s head suddenly bobbed above the reception counter where we were standing. “Help me,” she said in a breathless voice. “I’m in labor.”

“What in the …” I stared as she hauled herself to her feet. “Where … Here, let me help you.” I hurried around to the other side of the counter. In the space under her desk was a blanket, two pillows, and a couple of plastic Evian water bottles. “Ginny!” I exclaimed as I tried to get her into the chair. “Have you been napping under your desk?”

“Only since …” She winced with pain, uttered a gasp, and pressed a hand to her back. “… last week.” Clumsily, she sat down, short breaths coming rapidly. “I get
so
tired.”

“Of course.” I wasn’t without sympathy. “But you should’ve told me. We could’ve figured out a better setup.” I looked around, suddenly realizing Vida had disappeared. “How many minutes apart are the pains?” I asked, glancing into the newsroom. It was empty. It occurred to me that Vida had probably gone to the Bank of Alpine to let Rick, Ginny’s husband and the manager, know that their baby was on its way.

“Eleven minutes and eighteen seconds,” Ginny replied after a pause, presumably to calculate exact timing. She checked her watch. “The next one should be at nine-thirty-four.”

“I’ll let Kip know what’s going on,” I said, heading for the back shop.

I couldn’t catch what Ginny said in response, but as long as she hadn’t announced that she could see the baby’s head,
we had plenty of time. The hospital was only three blocks away.

Kip, whose wife had had their first baby in the early spring, grinned at my news. “Great! Maybe Ginny will get a girl this time.” He suddenly sobered. “Who’s replacing her?”

I grimaced. “I’m not sure. I’ve put it off because whenever I mention finding a temp, Ginny starts to cry and says whoever we get will be better than she is and she’ll never be able to come back to work.”

“That’s crap,” Kip said as we both headed for the front office. “Ginny’s good at what she does. You’d never hire anyone else full-time.”

“Of course not.”

We entered the front office just as Vida came through the door. “Rick’s getting your car, Ginny. Come, I’ll guide you out to the curb. He should be there very shortly.”

“Okay.” Ginny’s voice was feeble. “Help me up.”

Kip gave her a hand. “I’ve had practice this time, Gin,” he said with a big smile. “You need a coat?”

“No. Yes.” She leaned on Kip. “My heavy brown cardigan. It’s under the pillow under the desk. Oh—and my purse. It’s under the desk, too. And my other shoes and …”

“We’ll make sure everything gets to you,” I said. “If there’s anything else, I’ll come by the hospital with it later, okay?”

Kip turned Ginny over to Vida. By the time the two women had reached the door, Kip had found the cardigan and the purse. I spotted Rick pulling up in the Erlandsons’ Saturn SUV. Unfortunately, he had to back up on the diagonal to get into the empty space next to Vida’s Buick. He ran up over the curb, denting the back bumper on one of Mayor Fuzzy Baugh’s concrete planters.

“Our car!” Ginny cried, and promptly doubled over, yelping in pain.

“A simple job to get rid of the dent,” Vida soothed, holding on to Ginny and half dragging her to the SUV’s passenger side while Rick got out to check the damage before coming to his wife’s aid.

“I can fix that!” Kip shouted. “Don’t worry. Just go, man!”

Rick went—back behind the wheel, leaving Vida to struggle with a moaning, groaning Ginny. I was about to offer my help but, as usual, my House & Home editor was up to the task. The last I heard from either Erlandson was Ginny wailing that she couldn’t fasten her seat belt. Rick stepped on the gas—and hit the planter again. Obviously, he’d forgotten to take the car out of reverse. A moment later he pulled out into traffic, narrowly missing a school bus, which, luckily, was empty at this time of day.

“Good Lord,” I muttered. “Can they go three blocks without killing themselves?”

“I hope so,” Vida replied. “I called ahead to let the hospital know they were coming.” She walked over to the planter, which was undamaged. “Fuzzy’s winter pansies are rather nice,” she remarked. “I wonder if I dare use this incident for ‘Scene’ next week? I don’t usually put staff members in the column, but this is rather exceptional.”

“It sure is,” Kip said, shaking his head. “You’d think Rick would be calmer. Heck, it’s the third time around for him.”

“Maybe’s he’s forgotten. There’s been a bit of a gap since the two boys were born.” My eyes strayed in the opposite direction down Front Street. “Are you both going to stick around the office?”

“Yes,” Vida replied. “I’m not going anywhere until I meet Maud Dodd for lunch. I must apologize for the cornucopia disaster, though I’ve only gotten two calls about it.”

“I’m not going anywhere, either,” Kip put in. “I’m trying to figure out a new program for …”

I held up a hand. “Don’t. I won’t understand whatever it is. I’m going to Stella’s to get my bangs trimmed. She just opened and shouldn’t be too busy yet.” I didn’t bother getting my jacket. The morning was cool, but I was wearing a long-sleeved sweater.

As my two staff members went back inside, I crossed Front Street at the corner of Fourth and headed for Stella’s Styling Salon two blocks away in the Clemans Building. Although one of the other stylists and the new girl she’d hired to do nails both had clients, Stella was free at the moment, waiting for her ten o’clock.

“Oh, God, Emma!” she cried. “You
are
Emma, aren’t you? I can’t see your eyes. Where’s your guide dog?”

“Okay, okay,” I snapped, accustomed to Stella’s not unwarranted criticism of what I did—or didn’t do—to my hair. “Just let me see my eyebrows again and I’ll be out of your hair. So to speak.”

“You will never be out of your own hair with that mop,” she declared, beckoning me to her station. “Sit. I’ll get you a smock. This won’t take long. I’m going to use a meat cleaver.”

Less than a minute later, Stella returned with the requisite blue smock. “So,” she said, surveying me in the mirror, “what’s new? Besides death by pool cue at the ICT?”

“Ginny just left to have her baby,” I replied. “She wasn’t due until Tuesday, but you know how that goes.”

“I sure do, with three of my own.” Stella cocked her head to one side. “Frankly, you need it all cut. You look like you put your head in a blender. I’ll do the bangs, but make an appointment before you leave.”

“Okay,” I said meekly. “By any chance, do you know of anyone who’s looking for some temporary office work? I have to replace Ginny for six weeks. She wants to come back sooner
than I think she should, but our maternity benefits aren’t exactly lavish.”

“Actually,” Stella said, beginning to snip away, “I do know someone who’s interested in a short-term job. She’s my ten o’clock.”

“Who?” I asked, blinking as cut hair fluttered onto my cheeks.