Alpine Gamble (14 page)

Milo's long face was momentarily puzzled. “Scott? Oh, he had to cancel. He'll drop by tomorrow.”

I stared at Milo. “He canceled? When was he due?”

The sheriff was now looking relaxed and munching three fries at once. “He called around ten. I'm not sure we had a set time. It was no big deal, just a decision about how many drawers versus how much shelving. Why?”

Feeling foolish, I told Milo about Skye Piersall and her no-show at
The Advocate.
I also relayed Carta's description of Skye's reaction to the news of Stan's death.

“You probably think I'm on a trip down Imagination Lane,” I admitted, “but isn't it odd that both Scott and Skye skipped their morning appointments? They knew Stan quite well. I'm inclined to think Skye knew him extremely well. And Cal Vickers towed her westbound car from the highway.”

Never one to jump to conclusions, Milo stuffed the last chunk of cheeseburger in his mouth and chewed
thoughtfully. “I never heard of this Skye woman until now,” he finally said. “You went up to the springs with the three of them Saturday? What did Skye and Stan do, stop to grope each other on the trail?”

“Hardly,” I said, sounding a bit prudish. “It was the way they each reacted to the mention of the other's name.”

“Oh, well, that clinches it!” Milo held out his coffee mug to the waitress for a refill. “I get it, women's intuition. Maybe I should collar her right now.”

Milo's attitude annoyed me. “If you can find her. She's not at the Tall Timber, where she had Carla drive her.”

Milo remained unruffled. “So? Did she
say
she was staying there? Or did Carla make an assumption? Your star reporter isn't always accurate.”

I hardly needed the reminder. “Okay, so skip it. But I'd be interested in knowing where Skye was staying, if not the Tall Timber or the Lumberjack. There's always the ski lodge, of course.”

The waitress, who knew Milo and me well enough to leave separate checks, did just that. Milo unwound his long legs from under the table. “Dwight and Jack can ask while they're there.”

After crossing Front Street, Milo and I went our separate ways. We usually did. While I considered Milo a close friend, our socializing was limited to lunches and an occasional dinner. If there was a spark between us, we were sitting on it. In many ways.

However, sparks were flying in the news office when I returned. Vida and Leo were having one of their frequent arguments, this one over Blue Sky Dairy's full-page ad celebrating the company's fiftieth anniversary.

“I don't care what that ninny Norm Carlson told you,” Vida declared, whipping off her glasses and rubbing frantically at her eyes. “Norm's father, Victor,
started the dairy in Forty-five, not long after V-E Day. It was the end of my freshman year in high school. I remember, because I had a crush on Seth Cooper, who was a senior, and he went to work driving truck for the Carlsons after he graduated. He ran over our dog.”

Apparently, Leo had not yet learned that there was no arguing with Vida when it came to Alpine's history. “Come on, Duchess, Norm's got to know when the family business was started. He's almost as old as you are.”

“Norm's fifty-eight,” Vida snapped, “and is lucky to remember his own name. His mother, Sophie, had all the brains. She actually ran the business and kept the books.”

I waved a hand at my warring staff members. “Hold it—do we lose the full-page ad if it turns out this is only forty-nine years for Blue Sky?”

Leo all but smirked. “Probably. A full page costs—”

“I know what it costs,” I interrupted. “That's the problem. Leo, check the archives. If Vida's right, let's offer a discount, but run the full page. It's still a milestone.”

Reluctantly, Leo went over to check the bound volumes. Vida, who hadn't yet put her glasses back on, was glaring at me.

“Since when did you stop taking my word for things?” she grumbled.

I gave her a helpless look. “Leo needs to see it in black and white, if only to convince Norm he's wrong.”

“Norm's usually wrong,” Vida muttered, finally resettling her glasses on her nose. “What's Milo doing? Being obtuse?”

It was after four. I wanted to finish the draft of my story on Stan's death and also check with the local ministers to see if any of them had indeed been inciting their congregations. Not that I expected them to admit
as much in so many words, but at least they'd have to reveal the topic of their Sunday sermons.

I leaned on Vida's desk. “Want to drive up to the ski lodge after work?”

“Whatever for?” Vida's expression was severe.

'To see what Milo's deputies have learned.”

“Very little, I should imagine.” But Vida's face relaxed a bit. “I won't eat there.”

“Neither will I. I just had lunch at the Burger Barn.”

“Well.” Vida eyed Leo's back as he flipped through the old volumes of
The Advocate.
“It won't hurt to keep the deputies on their toes. We do have a deadline tomorrow.”

Leo closed one of the volumes with a loud bang and a cloud of dust. “Damn!” He turned to grin at Vida. “You're right, Duchess. Blue Sky started up in Forty-five.”

Vida narrowed her eyes at Leo. “Of course it did. I don't know why you felt the need to argue.”

Carrying the January-June 1945 volume under his arm, Leo headed for the door. “Because someday, Duchess,” he asserted over his shoulder, “I'm going to be right.” Leo closed the door firmly behind him.

“No, he's not.” With a sniff, Vida returned to her typewriter.

THE
SUN
DECIDED to favor us that evening, appearing shortly after five o'clock. It would likely be a pleasant interlude, until the clouds rolled in again before dawn. Vida and I arrived at the ski lodge just after five-thirty. A sheriff's car parked in the lot indicated that the deputies were already on site.

Henry Bardeen wasn't pleased to see us. “The summer tourist season is just starting,” he said, standing stiffly on the lobby's flagstone floor and regarding Vida with apprehension. “We're sixty percent capacity tonight. What must our guests think, with deputies and reporters skulking around?”

Vida, who had exchanged her sou'wester for what looked like a crown of orange rinds, drew herself up to Henry's eye level. “I never skulk, Henry. Never. Let's chat in your office.”

Unwillingly, Henry led the way. His office was finished in bleached knotty pine, with furniture to match. The centerpiece was a large aquarium with exotic tropical fish.

Vida sat forward on her cushioned pine chair. “Is Skye Piersall a guest at the lodge?”

Henry frowned. “I think not. The name isn't familiar. But let me check with Heather. She's still on duty because she's waiting to go home with me.”

Heather was Henry's daughter. She had worked at the
lodge since graduating from high school seven or eight years ago. Heather was pretty in an unremarkable way, but she saved all her charm for the job. I could tell her shift was officially over by the sullen manner in which she entered her father's office.

“Those deputies act like
I'm
a suspect,” she declared, banging the door behind hen “Who do Jack and Dwight think they are anyway?”

“It's their job, Heather.” Henry showed remarkable patience. “Did you check on this Piersall woman?”

“She's not in the computer,” Heather replied in a testy tone. “If she's been staying here, somebody sneaked her in.”

It was a thought, apparently one that Vida shared, because she gave me a quick glance. I, however, changed the subject:

“Jack and Dwight must have asked you about the phone calls Fannucci and Levine received. Do you remember who any of them were from?”

Heather didn't deign to sit down. She was pacing around the aquarium, fussing with the lapels of her regulation blazer. “Some. The architect, Scott Whatsis-name, called several times. So did Scott's wife, but not as often. That windbag of a county commissioner, Hollenberg. People from L.A., including a woman who kept giggling. Somebody from Phoenix.” Heather shrugged. “There were more, but I don't know who they were. Chaz might remember.”

Chaz was Chaz Phipps, a contemporary of Heather's who also worked behind the desk at the lodge. Vida pursed her lips. “Surely,” she said in her most denigrating voice, “you must remember
someone
sounding suspicious.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Heather replied in a manner that was just short of insulting. Or so I thought
until it dawned on me that maybe she really didn't know what Vida was talking about. The deputies might not have enlightened Heather Bardeen.

“There were anonymous threats,” I interjected. “Phoned in to both Fannucci and Levine. Do you remember putting through people who might have had mischief on their minds?”

“Mischief?” Heather wrinkled her upturned nose, as if amused by the word as well as the concept. “There
were
some people who sounded sort of odd. But I just figured they were from L.A.”

“No one you recognized?” I asked.

Heather considered. Like her father, she was cautious. “I'd hate to be wrong,” she finally said with a wary look.

Henry was quick to intervene. “Of course you would, Heather. You might be accusing someone unjustly. That would be … terrible.” Henry shuddered, as if he could see a long line of lawyers forming in the lobby.

Heather took the cue. “Then I won't try to guess.” Suddenly, her composure fled. “What's going on here? Does the sheriff think that whoever made phone threats shot Mr. Levine? That's crazy!”

Making a soothing gesture in his daughter's direction, Henry spoke quietly. “I don't think anybody knows anything just yet. It could have been an accident. But as I said, the deputies have to do their job. Routine, you know.”

Heather didn't appear convinced. “Is that all?” she asked in a tense voice.

It wasn't, as far as Vida was concerned. “One last thing, Heather,” my House * Home editor said with a wag of her finger. “This may sound indiscreet, but it must be asked. Did women call on Mr. Fannucci or Mr. Levine?”

While her father looked vaguely offended, Heather had been in the hostelry business long enough not to be shocked by the query. “Not really. But I'm on the day shift. Except for Sunday night, when I filled in for Chaz.” Again Heather took her time to answer. “There was a woman at the elevators I didn't recognize, around ten P.M. Not that I always know every guest by sight, but she was wearing big sunglasses and a scarf. It struck me as strange, especially the sunglasses after dark.”

Vida arched her eyebrows. “Young? Pretty?”

“Fairly young. Pretty, maybe. It was hard to see much of her. She had a light raincoat thrown over her shoulders. I never saw her again, at least that I know of.” Heather still seemed apprehensive.

Her father was toying with a silver ballpoint pen. “She certainly wasn't a prostitute. We've never allowed that sort of thing at the lodge.”

She didn't sound like a prostitute to me, at least not the amateur Alpine variety, who usually weighed about three hundred pounds, had a few missing teeth, and were raising a couple of kids on welfare.

Vida and I had no more questions for Heather. She left, with an anxious glance at her father. It appeared she was eager to go home. So was Henry, but he was duty-bound to remain until the deputies had finished. When Vida asked their whereabouts, Henry informed her that as far as he knew, they were searching Mr. Lev-ine's room. Vida announced that we would seek them out.

We were alone in the elevator. With her back pressed against the pine paneling, Vida spoke in a conspiratorial tone: “Heather's overly cautious. I'm certain she recognized one of the callers.”

“I agree. But she's being candid about the woman with the dark glasses. Skye Piersall, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

The elevator stopped at the third floor. Henry Bardeen had condescended to tell us that Stan Levine had been staying in the Tonga Suite, while Blake Fannucci was in the adjoining Tyee Suite. Even if Vida didn't know the ski lodge like the back of her hand, she would have been able to find the rooms. The Peabody brothers were standing outside of the Tyee Suite, looking like a couple of aspiring thugs from an old gangster movie.

Never having known their first names, and assuming they must be called something like Hunk and Beefy Boy, I was surprised when Vida addressed them as Purvis and Myron. I was also surprised that they had thin, high-pitched voices.

“We just got here about half an hour ago,” said Purvis, who looked to be the elder, if the shorter, of the two. “This guy pays good. How come he's so chickenshit?”

Vida frowned at Purvis. “Mind your language. It's probably because his business partner may have been deliberately shot to death this morning. Surely he explained that to you?”

Purvis and Myron both looked dubious. “He didn't explain much,” Myron said, flexing his impressive muscles. “He wants us to watch his … backside. At least until he takes off in a couple of days.”

“You do that,” Vida urged with a flinty smile. “Are the sheriff's deputies in the Tonga Suite?”

Purvis glanced in the direction of the next doorway. “Dwight and Jack? Yeah, they came up about fifteen minutes ago. Hey, Mrs. Runkel, is this really
seriousT

“Very likely,” Vida replied primly. “We're going to see the deputies now.” She nodded her orange rinds at the Peabody brothers, who made no objections. I had
the feeling that if Vida had told them she was going to call on Blake Fannucci with an AK-47, they would have nimbly stepped aside.

Dwight Gould was somewhat less welcoming. “Hey, we're in the middle of an investigation,” he protested. “You can't come in here.”

“We are in here,” Vida replied calmly. “Surely you've already dusted for prints or done whatever it is that we might disturb.”

From the door to the bedroom Jack Mullins grinned at Vida. “We don't know what we're doing. Have a seat on the sofa. If we find any hot clues, you'll be the first to know. As usual.”

The Tonga Suite looked like most of the other rooms in the ski lodge, only larger. The walls were finished in knotty pine, the furniture was rugged but comfortable, and the colors were mostly dark blue, deep green, and rich red. The sofa on which Vida and I seated ourselves was covered in a plaid that featured all of the above shades, as well as a bit of white and yellow.