Alpine Gamble (16 page)

“I guess not. He thought he heard a noise around three A.M., so he got up and looked around. Nothing. He decided he was dreaming.”

No wonder. I expected Blake Fannucci would have nightmares for a long time. “Nobody else noticed anything?”

“Not according to Henry. They keep a skeleton staff after the bar closes at two. One custodian, somebody in the kitchen, the shoeshine boy who acts as security if needed, a waiter who usually spends most of his shift cleaning up after the late diners and drinkers. One of the Gustavson kids was working the desk. Hey, Emma, are you going to print this?”

“Did Henry officially report it?” If he did, it would be in the sheriff's log, and therefore public knowledge.

“Yeah.” Milo sounded glum.

I didn't blame him. The hot springs story was becoming more depressing by the minute. “I'll check with Henry. He'll be at the Chamber meeting. Where's Blake now?”

“He and the Peabodys went over to Everett. The M.E.'s done, so Fannucci can take the body to L.A. today if he can make arrangements with the airlines.”

I couldn't resist the question: “Is he taking the Pea-body brothers with him?”

“God, I hope not. Can you imagine them in L.A.?” I could. That was the problem.

“THIS,” GINNY BURMEISTER declared with a toss of her red hair, “is totally stupid.”

The three dozen faces at the five cloth-covered tables stared in bewilderment. Though Ginny's cheeks turned pink, she stuck to her guns. “Why would anybody
care
who brings new business to Alpine, as long as people have jobs? Can't we stop talking about the hot springs and discuss something more important? Important, I mean, to this group. What's the point of Loggerama anyway? It's totally
old.”

After twenty-five minutes, Ginny had grown sick and tired of listening to harangues about the California-sponsored resort project. When Ed Bronsky finally shut up and sat down, Ginny had sprung to her feet and demanded the floor. Luckily, Harvey Adcock was chairing the meeting. Harvey had prejudices of his own, but he was basically kind and fair-minded. He had recognized Ginny and allowed her to speak her piece.

“What's wrong with
oldV
inquired Mayor Fuzzy Baugh. “I'm kind of old myself.” The self-deprecating remark evoked laughter as well as denials, both of which Fuzzy had expected.

Francine was the first to make a cohesive statement. “Ginny's right. It's time to deep-six Loggerama.” She waved away a burst of protests. “No, not this year—it's too late, the plans are made. But next summer we can
move into the modern world. Admit it—change is everywhere. Why should Alpine cling to the past?”

Ginny gave Francine a grateful, if diffident, smile. I secretly applauded her, too, though I wondered if she'd have been less eloquent if I hadn't just dropped over six hundred bucks in her shop.

To my surprise, Cal Vickers also spoke up on Ginny's behalf. “Maybe we should be more realistic, folks. It wouldn't hurt to look at new ideas. What if we had a Scandinavian theme for this solstice thing? Isn't it some kind of old-world deal anyway?”

Norm Carlson might not remember when his family's dairy was founded, but he knew his traditions. “That's right, Cal,” he said with an enthusiastic nod. “I think it has something to do with the Vikings.”

“Gods and goddesses,” cried Janet Driggers. “Fertility rites! Think what we could do on those floats!”

The next ten minutes were spent in a lively discussion of the possibilities. I sat back, toying with my raspberry sherbet and marveling at the herd mentality. The tables were being cleared when Harvey Adcock asked for a formal motion to consider the Summer Solstice Festival and vote on it at the next meeting. Ginny, urged on by Francine and Janet, nervously stated her case. I seconded, and it was passed, twenty-nine to four, with three abstentions. The meeting was adjourned.

Ginny was jubilant, or as close to it as she ever gets. Placing a hand on my arm, she beamed and sparkled. “I can't believe it! Why did they do such a turnaround?”

“People aren't unreasonable,” I began, then saw Ed Bronsky plant himself next to Ginny and wondered if I should amend the statement.

But Ed also surprised me. “No room for fuddy-duddy ideas, eh, ladies?” He put an arm around each of us. Ed smelled like a cross between Drakkar Noir and tuna fish. “This solstice festival could be a class act. Janet's
right about those gods and goddesses. We could have a grand marshal, like the Rose Bowl parade, only he'd be dressed up like … what's his name?”

“Odin,” I supplied.

“Right, Odin. He'd have to be a civic leader, active, well-off, imposing. You know, to exemplify the forward-looking theme of the new celebration.” Ed smiled coyly.

My perverse nature wouldn't let me play up to Ed. “It sounds like a natural for Fuzzy Baugh.”

Ed's smiled faded. “Not Fuzzy! As mayor, he ought to disqualify himself. He'll have plenty of other things to do.” Somehow, Ed had disengaged himself from Ginny, which was fine with her since Francine, Harvey, and Cal had drawn her off to one side. “Listen, Emma,” Ed went on, edging me up against a long banquet table at the end of the room, “what's happening with the resort? Is it on hold or what?”

I was trying to listen to Ed while keeping track of Henry Bardeen. I hadn't yet had an opportunity to ask him about the break-in at the ski lodge.

“I gather Blake Fannucci intends to move ahead.” My tone was vague as I saw Henry in a little knot of people that included Clancy Barton, lone Erdahl, and Buddy Bayard.

Ed nodded eagerly. “Good, good. But he's used to working with a partner, right? And what's been his big problem? No local involvement. Maybe that's why Stan Levine got shot. Now Fannucci has his big chance—he can bring in an Alpiner. That ought to assure him of smooth sailing, huh?”

I let Henry out of my sight long enough to stare at Ed. “What? You're suggesting that Blake pair up with somebody from here?” Enlightenment dawned. Ed was referring to himself.

Apparently, a busboy had left a basket with two
uneaten rolls on the banquet table. Ed grabbed one and began gobbling it up. “You got it,” he said, sputtering crumbs in my direction. “I could give Fannucci credibility. How about it, Emma? You know him. Can you make the introductions?”

Surely I'd heard of worse ideas; I just couldn't remember when. “Gosh, Ed, the poor guy is on his way to L.A. with his partner's body. I don't know when he's coming back. By the time he does, everything may be in place. Or it may be scrapped.”

Ed snatched up the last roll. “That's why Fannucci should know he's got local support. He can use that in L.A. when he goes after the financing.”

Henry was drifting away with Buddy Bayard. I tried to get around Ed, which was difficult in more ways than one. “Skip it for now, Ed. Besides, I thought you and most of the Chamber were dead set against the project. Or did I hear wrong about a half hour ago in this very room?”

“Letting off steam,” Ed said, dogging my footsteps. “That was my plan, to go along with the criticism so that I could refute it after I got involved. These folks know I'm one of them, Alpine through and through. Come on, Emma—can't you get hold of Fannucci before he leaves for L.A.?”

Ed's persistence was making me cranky. “No, I can't. The last I heard, he was on his way to Everett to claim the body. See if Henry has an L.A. number for him, then call tomorrow. I'm not your business agent, Ed. I've got to run—Tuesday is deadline day, remember?”

If Ed did remember, he obviously didn't care. His sour expression brightened, however, when his cellular phone rang into his well-padded ribs. “Bronsky here … What? Listen, Shirley, you knew we were out of toilet paper when I left this morning. I'm not an errand boy …”

Ed had turned away, which was the perfect cue for my exit. I didn't catch up with Henry Bardeen until he was entering his office.

Henry was about as happy to have me pester him as I was to put up with Ed. “Emma, this is a bad time. I should have ducked out on the Chamber meeting early. Everything's gone wrong around here in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Like the break-in?” I said, trying to sound both sympathetic and astute.

“Nobody broke into the lodge,” Henry declared with a scowl. “A window latch was forced and some dirt got on the floor. But Mr. Fannucci didn't see anything suspicious. It might have been a raccoon. You know what nuisances they can be. They're around all the time, trying to get at the garbage. The guests think they're cute, so they feed them, which is a huge mistake. They can be vicious.”

I knew all about raccoons.
The Advocate
featured at least one photo of the annoying little darlings every year. I had mixed emotions about feeding anything but seed to the birds who frequented my backyard. The raccoons devoured bread crusts, then boldly marched up to the back door and demanded another course.

Still, I was having qualms about raccoons climbing fire escapes and opening latched windows. “But you reported the incident to Sheriff Dodge, didn't you?” I persisted.

Henry was blocking the door to his office in an effort to discourage me. “Yes, and I wish I hadn't. Mr. Fannucci overreacted—not that I blame him—so I did, too. Later, when we talked it out, we both realized there was no real cause for concern. The air-conditioning, the laundry facilities, the fruit and produce deliveries, are more important to making this place run smoothly. I don't have time for errant wildlife or broken hair dryers
or missing wing tips or a misspelled word on the dinner specials menu. If you don't mind, Fd appreciate it if you wouldn't blow this window thing out of proportion. The lodge's reputation will get enough negative publicity just because Mr. Levine stayed here.”

Henry dismissed me with an abrupt nod that threatened to dislodge his toupee. My patience began to slip away, then I reminded myself that there was a deadline to meet. I couldn't indulge my temper.

By the time I got back to the office, I was willing to placate Henry Bardeen. I gave Vida the item about the window latch, asfcing her to include it in “Scene.”

“Make it cute,” I suggested, “but add a caution about people in general egging on the raccoons. Henry's afraid one of them will bite a guest.”

“They will,” Vida replied. “When Roger was only about six and didn't know any better, he got nipped badly. The poor little fellow was trying to put one in a grass skirt. His parents had just gotten back from Hawaii.”

While wondering if Roger had taken the first bite, I really didn't want to hear any more grandmotherly anecdotes. “Henry's a wreck,” I remarked, changing the subject.

Vida shrugged. “He always is. No doubt that's why his hair fell out when he was so young. Now what is this idiocy about Ed?”

The question caught Leo's attention. “So Ed wants in,” his successor mused after I had finished recapitulating. “You know, it's not as nutty as it sounds. Putting a local name on the project just might give it the seal of approval. Are you sure Fannucci's left for L.A.?”

I nodded. “On my way out of the lodge, I asked Heather Bardeen if Blake was coming back today. She said he'd called from Everett and was headed for Sea-Tac. He asked her to store his things—and Stan's—until
he returned. He didn't know when that would be. And no,” I added for Vida's benefit, “the Peabody brothers didn't go with him.”

Despite constant telephone interruptions from people asking for confirmation of the homicide rumor, I finally finished the front page. I'd left six inches for coverage of that evening's city council meeting, which I'd decided to let Carla attend. The agenda was short, and while I usually sat in on the monthly meetings, I figured the assignment might boost my reporter's self-confidence. Her story on Skye Piersall was predictable, with quotes along environmental party lines. I felt Skye had more to offer, but Carla had only skimmed the surface. What I wanted to know most, however, was Skye's whereabouts. Since hearing of Stan's death, she seemed to have fallen off the edge of the earth.

By four-fifteen we were waiting on a couple of ad corrections and Carla's inside picture feature on Dutch Bamberg's pet skunk. With the rare luxury of time on my hands, I decided to stroll down to the sheriff's office. Maybe Milo had some late-breaking information.

Jack Mullins was alone on duty. He looked up from his computer screen with a sheepish smile. “Hi, Ms. Lord. Boy, these things are tricky! I'm not looking forward to learning the upgraded system we've got on order.”

“You'll manage,” I said with a reassuring smile. “Where's Milo?”

Jack all but pressed his face into the screen. “He's out. Say, do you know anything about speadsheets?”

“Absolutely not.” With growing suspicion, I watched Jack ply the keyboard as if he were playing Chopin. “Where did Milo go?”

Jack was biting his lip, shaking his head, apparently wrapped up in concentration. “Heck, I lost something here. Maybe if I hit Insert, it'll come up again.”

The phone rang, and Jack grabbed it as if it were a life preserver. “Yes? … I've got it, Toni … Hi, Mrs. Barton … You don't say … Kids, probably … No respect for private property … Hold on, how do spell
zin-niaV
He glanced up, gave me a helpless shrug, then buried himself in the receiver again. “Two n's?& Okay. What else did they pick?” Jack was scribbling away; I knew when to quit.

But only temporarily. It was four-thirty, and if the sheriff had a secret, I needed to know before
The Advocate
closed shop. Crossing Front Street, I entered The Upper Crust Bakery and ordered coffee and a twister. I positioned myself at one of the tiny tables closest to the window opposite the Skykomish County Sheriff's headquarters. There was still no sign of Milo when I finished my snack.

Brushing off my skirt, I glimpsed Beverly Melville entering the bakery. She recognized me and smiled wanly.

“I'm beginning to think we made a big mistake,” she said, lowering her voice. “This town is turning into a disaster. What next, terrorists?”

'There's no escaping real life,” I pointed out, then nodded in the direction of the bakery owners who were conferring behind the counter. “Gail and Brenda are from California. Riverside. They seem to like it here.” I didn't add that they had gained grudging acceptance after a mere three years because the locals couldn't resist stuffing themselves on The Upper Crust's confections.