Authors: Mary Daheim
I recalled Toni Andreas, a pretty but dim young woman my son had dated once or twice. Still leaning against the counter, I tried to piece Bill's report together. Stan Levine had been shot up at the hot springs. He may or may not be dead. Leonard Hollenberg had found him and apparently called the sheriff. It would take Milo and his new deputy at least forty minutes to hike up the trail. There probably would be no confirmation until one o'clock, assuming Milo could use his new cellular phone at such an altitude.
“It's really awful,” Bill Blatt was saying as the phone rang again. “If only Mr. Levine and Mr. Fannucci had come to us sooner. We might have been able to prevent this.”
“What?” I felt as if I'd missed a beat.
“The threats. They've been getting threats, mostly on the phone. Mr. Fannucci came in this morning to tell Sheriff Dodge about them. He was here when the call came from Mr. Hollenberg about the shooting.”
I blinked several times at Bill. “Where is he now?”
Bill Blatt didn't have to answer. Blake Fannucci, accompanied by Jack Mullins, came through the rear door. He looked as if he were about to collapse. Indeed, he got as far as the swinging door in the counter and passed out cold.
I was tempted to join him.
* * *
Bill Blatt convinced Jack Mullins that they should follow standard first aid procedure in reviving Blake Fannucci. But before they could decide who'd do what, Blake began to moan. Jack, who was the burlier of the two deputies, held Blake in place while Bill searched for a blanket.
“Shock,” Jack said, his curly red head bent over the distraught Blake Fannucci. “He wanted to ride up with Sheriff Dodge.”
At the door behind the counter, Toni Andreas peeked out. I remembered her from various places she'd worked around town, including Videos-to-Go and Itsa Bitsa Pizza. Her dark eyes were wide and her spiky hair stood on end.
“Is he dead, too?” she asked in a tiny voice.
Jack barely glanced up. “Nobody's dead for sure, Toni. Stick with the phones, okay?”
Toni disappeared just as Bill brought a striped Pendleton blanket to toss over Blake. The stricken man seemed fully conscious, though still overwrought. “Not Stan!” he cried. “Stan wouldn't hurt a fly! What's wrong with these backwoods bastards? Guns! They should be outlawed!” Thrashing under the blanket, Blake seemed on the verge of tears.
I turned to Jack Mullins, who was now standing up again. “Should we get Doc Dewey or Dr. Flake over here?” I asked.
Before Jack could answer, Blake broke in: “I don't need a doctor! I need a drink! Have you yokels got any decent Scotch?”
As much as Milo Dodge enjoyed his whiskey, I'd never known him to keep a bottle at work. Bill Blatt volunteered to go to the liquor store, then realized he shouldn't leave his post. I said I'd go instead.
The state-owned liquor store is at the far end of
Railroad Avenue, tucked behind Buddy Bayard's Photography Studio and across from the Burlington Northern tracks. According to Vida, the store is removed from the main commercial area because Alpiners don't want to be seen coming out with their brown paper bags, or in some cases, entire cartons of booze. Consequently, I had to hurry back to the newspaper, jump in my car, and drive down Front Street until I turned left on Seventh. I was so rattled that I could hardly maneuver the lag into a diagonal parking place.
As usual, the liquor store had its share of customers. Among them were Henry Bardeen and Charlene Vickers. I was grabbing a pint of Dewar's White Label when Charlene sidled up to me. She had a shopping cart loaded with vodka, bourbon, vermouth, and cognac.
“We're having out-of-town company this weekend,” she explained, avoiding my gaze. “I like getting a head start on my shopping.”
“How's Cal?” I inquired, ignoring what I assumed was a fib.
“Cal?” Charlene seemed startled, as if she hadn't heard of her husband lately. “Oh, he's fine! So's Rip. They had a good laugh about the dustup at the Melvilles'. Rip knew Cal would never intentionally punch
him.”
“Good,” I said, wanting to be on my way. “See you Wednesday at bridge club.”
Henry Bardeen was already getting checked out at the register. He glanced over his shoulder and seemed to shrink into himself. “Ah—Emma,” Henry said out of the side of his mouth. “I'm always amazed at the special requests from some of our guests at the ski lodge.” He gestured diffidently at the four bottles of white wine and the half gallon of Old Grand-Dad.
“You'd think our bar would have an adequate supply, wouldn't you?”
I was sure they did. “People are peculiar,” I murmured, and meant it. At the rear of the store I could just make out Charlene shuffling around in the rum section.
“Say,” Henry said, patting his toupee as the clerk rang up his total, “did you hear those sirens a few minutes ago? I thought I saw a sheriff's car hightailing it toward the bridge. Has there been another accident on the highway?”
The only rumors I'm responsible for go into print. It was too soon to say anything about Stan Levine. “I'm checking on it,” I replied.
Henry's tab came to almost sixty dollars, which necessitated the writing of a check. Suppressing a smirk, I noticed it was on his personal account at the Bank of Alpine. Scribbling furiously in a virtually illegible hand, Henry gave the clerk a thin smile.
“Back to work,” he said in what passed for his most jocular tone. “By the way, Emma, will you be at the Chamber meeting tomorrow? We're going to take a vote on the hot springs project.”
I stared at Henry. “Whatever for?”
Henry's expression turned dour. “Why, to get a sense of how the local merchants feel about the plan. These California fellows ought to know what kind of support they might get—or not get—from Alpine's businessmen. And women,” he added, in his customary style which always made the female sex an afterthought.
I kept my lips clamped shut. I would attend the Chamber meeting, along with Ginny. But a vote on the resort construction was useless. It seemed to me that somebody had already cast a ballot. With a gun.
Blake Fannucci was sitting in Milo's office when I returned. He was still shaken, but had gotten himself under control. The Scotch was gratefully accepted.
“Do you mind?” he said, pushing the pint back at me. “This damned thumb—it's hell to open a bottle.”
There was no ice, and the only decent receptacle was what seemed to be a clean coffee mug. I poured out a measure of whiskey and added twice as much water. Blake drank deeply, then asked if I cared to join him. I didn't.
“Tell me about the threats,” I said, sitting in the other visitor's chair and taking a notepad out of my purse. “Bill Blatt told me most of them were made by phone.”
“Right.” Blake rubbed the back of his head. “We've been getting them ever since we arrived. They call both of us—we have separate but adjoining rooms— and some may be repeats. Offhand, though, I'd guess that maybe a dozen different people have called, including a couple of women. No names, of course, just various crazy warnings about what happens to interlopers.”
“Warnings—or threats?”
“Both.” Blake took another sip of his drink and sighed. “Last night I got a real zinger. It was a man, I'm pretty sure of that. The voice was hoarse, as if it were disguised. He said that if we went ahead with the project, we'd be sorry. Alpiners have a way of dealing with our likes. It wouldn't, the caller said, be the first time that somebody mistook a man for a bear.”
It sounded like something a local would say. I frowned, wondering who would make such calls. And who might actually carry out the threat. “What happened this morning? Did Stan go up alone?”
Blake held his head. “It was pleasure, not business. He went bird-watching. Frankly, I've made that hike so many times that I'm sick of it. But Stan enjoys every inch of the way. He's a real nature lover.”
“So I gathered.” It seemed ironic that Stan was also a developer whose calling often resulted in the destruction of the very environment that brought him joy. As I'd said to Henry Bardeen, people are peculiar.
“When did he leave?” I asked, discreetly checking my watch. It was ten to one, still too early to hear from Milo.
Blake managed to pour himself another dollop of Scotch. “I came down for breakfast in the coffee shop around nine. He was just finishing. I suppose he left the ski lodge about nine-fifteen, maybe a little later.”
I thought of Skye Piersall and the ten-thirty appointment she hadn't kept. “You're sure he went alone?”
“That was the plan.” Blake eyed me curiously. The liquor had calmed him; he seemed to be back on track. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, really.” It was the truth. Except for my rampant imagination, there was nothing to indicate that Skye had gone with Stan. She probably had a credible excuse for not coming by the office.
Blake stood up and went to the door. The reception area seemed unnaturally calm, with Bill Blatt and Jack Mullins going about their business. A question popped into my mind. I moved past Blake and joined Bill behind the counter.
“Where's Leonard Hollenberg? How did he contact Milo?”
Bill glanced at Blake, apparently to make sure he was recovering. “Leonard's got a CB in his truck. Sheriff Dodge told him to stay put in the parking area by the
trail. He might still be there.” The young deputy's face turned slightly pink. “Maybe I shouldn't mention it, but I
think
Sheriff Dodge said Mr. Hollenberg heard the shot when he was coming up the trail.”
My mouth dropped open. “You mean that whoever shot at Stan might be hiding in the woods?”
“Could be.” Bill looked chagrined. “Of course by now whoever it was could have come out by a different route.”
A vision of the steep climb traversed through my mind. Following unmarked routes in the Cascades isn't easy. An occasional glimpse of some landmark such as Windy Mountain can be deceiving. Even experienced hikers who got off the beaten path often ended up hopelessly lost.
“I don't suppose Leonard mentioned any cars parked in the lot,” I said doubtfully.
Jack Mullins looked up from the official log. “Leonard was pretty incoherent. He probably wouldn't have noticed an elephant tied to a tree.”
Blake, having again freshened his drink, now joined us. “It's one o'clock. How much longer before we hear?”
Jack shrugged; Bill grimaced. I considered my options: I could stay to get official word, or I could grab a camera and drive up to the parking area. Better yet, I could send Carla. That way, if Milo called in from the hot springs, I'd be able to hear the pronouncement firsthand. Carla could take a picture of Milo and Dustin Fong as they came out at the bottom of the trail.
Getting permission to use the phone, I called
The Advocate.
Ginny put me through to Carla. I began by asking her to take a picture, but before I could tell her of what, she interrupted:
“I'm tied up right now, Emma. Where are you? Skye Piersall is here and I'm interviewing her because you're not. Here, I mean.”
I winced. Sometimes Carla talked the way she wrote. Or vice versa. I wondered if the University of Washington offered a course in Contemporary Colloquialism. “Where's Vida?” I asked, cutting to the crux. Hopefully, Skye Piersall could convey her organization's philosophy in simple, lucid terms.
“What's wrong?” Carla demanded, then dropped her voice to a hissing whisper. “Don't you trust me to fill in for you with an interview? You're poking big holes in my self-esteem. Why do you have to talk to Vida instead of me?”
“Because you're busy,” I retorted, losing patience. “If I didn't trust you, why do I keep you employed?”
“You trust me with little stuff,” Carla shot back. “I never get the big stuff. Hold on, I'll transfer you to
Vida.”
Carla made my House * Home editor's name sound like a disease.
After several annoying clicks I heard Vida's voice. As succinctly as possible I explained what had happened— as far as I knew—and asked her to drive up to the hot springs parking lot.
Vida was aghast. “Well! Doesn't that beat all! Do you think that old fool Leonard shot Stan Levine?”
The idea hadn't occurred to me. Yet. “Why would he report it?”
“Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe Leonard's smarter than he looks. That's unlikely, though not impossible.” Vida paused. “Very well. I'll head out in a few minutes. It's going to take Milo and that new fellow some time to get down the mountain. Has an ambulance been sent?”
I'd neglected to ask. As usual, Vida was taking a broader view. I posed the question to Jack Mullins.
“We've got a helicopter from Chelan County stand ing by. Even with the bond issue passage, we can't afford anything fancy like that,” Jack explained.
Having relayed the information to Vida, I hung up. Blake Fannucci was now pacing the area behind the reception counter. It was obvious that he was getting in the way. Jack Mullins started to say something just as Grace Grundle tottered into the office.
Grace is a retired schoolteacher of seventy-odd with a chronic inner ear problem that makes her look as if she's half juiced. Since she was carrying an open umbrella, she also resembled a tipsy Mary Poppins.
“I wish to report a crime,” she announced, teetering in front of the counter. “It's raining.”
“That's not a crime, Ms. Grundle,” said Jack Mullins, who, along with Bill Blatt and most Alpine residents over sixteen years of age, probably had been taught by Grace.
“I know that,” she snapped, closing her umbrella. “But it just started a few minutes ago and I didn't think you'd noticed. You've never been very good at noticing things, Jackie. You stargaze, especially out of windows.”
“I've tried to overcome that since fifth grade,” Jack replied, keeping a straight face.
Grace's sparse eyebrows shot up. “I should think so. Paying attention to your surroundings is very important. That's why I was so worried about Toofy.”
“Toofy?” Jack leaned on the counter. “Who's Toofy?”
Grace Grundle scowled at the deputy. “My cat. He has an extra tooth, so I call him Toofy, for Toofum-Pegs. This morning, he went berserk. Fortunately, he's all right now. But just as I was finishing my lunch, I saw Crazy Eights Neffel in my backyard. I want him arrested.”