Alpine Gamble (19 page)

“Why,” I mused out loud, “did Leonard go up to the hot springs Monday morning? I never thought to ask him that. I wonder if Milo did.”

Leo had put out his cigarette and finished his soda. He stood up, yawning. “There's a better question,” he said, giving me a tired, quizzical look. “Besides Blake Fannucci, who else knew Levine was going up there?”

I admitted I didn't know. Leo bade me good night, and it was only after he had pulled away in his secondhand Toyota that I remembered what Heather Bardeen had said about the woman with the sunglasses. She had come to the ski lodge Sunday night. Maybe she had called on Stan. Or Blake. My initial reaction was that she was Skye Piersall. But after talking to Skye, I realized that the mystery guest could have been Beverly Melville.

Then again, it could have been anybody. It was eleven o'clock, and I was too weary to try out new hypotheses. That wasn't my job. For once, I'd let Milo do his duty. Switching off the kitchen and living room lights, I headed for the bathroom.

But Milo didn't know some of the facts, at least not
what Skye Piersall had told me this evening. As I brushed my teeth, it dawned on me that maybe
what
she had confided wasn't as important as
why.
Knowing that I would eventually leak the information to the sheriff, could Skye have been leading me down the garden path? Was I not seeing the forest for the trees? Was a bird in the hand … ?

Bird.
As I undressed I saw clouds of birds fly across my mind's eye. Sparrows and starlings and crows and woodpeckers and swallows and blue jays and purple finches. They soared and circled and swooped, just as my brain seemed to reel, in chaos and confusion.

I was getting nowhere. Except to bed.

In the morning my first call of the day was to Leonard Hollenberg. But before I dialed his number, I asked Vida if he had a wife. Somehow, Mrs. Hollenberg's name had never come up in my dealings with the county commissioners.

Vida explained why: “Violet Hollenberg is precisely what her name implies—a shrinking sort. What other type of woman could stay married to that old windbag for almost sixty years?”

By coincidence, Violet Hollenberg answered the phone, her voice soft and timorous. Her husband had gone steelheading at first light. She had no idea when he'd return. Leonard was like that, unpredictable. Violet sighed wispily into my ear.

Wednesdays always feel a bit like limbo. We wait for the paper to be delivered in the early afternoon, but suffer from an obligation to get a jump on the next issue. There's no problem with inside features, but front-page news is often late-breaking. Ordinarily, the lead stories are rather tame. This week was different. We had a pending homicide investigation, and it was unlikely that we could write much copy in advance.

In consequence, I mulled over my editorial options. As sensational as the murder story was, it didn't lend itself to opinionating. Maybe I could coerce the Chamber members by beating the drums for the Summer Solstice Festival. Previously, I had shied away from the topic, since its biggest booster worked for me. But now that the motion had been formally introduced, the self-serving nature of the issue was defused.

I was still mulling in the news office when Vida announced that she was going out. Her expression was canny, which put me on my mettle.

“Where?” I asked.

“I'm treating my nephew Billy to coffee,” she said, crushing her Edwardian velour hat onto her gray curls. “He's been working very hard.”

Carla, who was also about to leave, stopped at the door. “Is Billy still going with that Bjornson girl?”

Vida regarded Carla with something akin to alarm. “My, no! That was over two months ago. But he isn't interested in dating just now. He's … recovering.”

Shooting Vida a dirty look, Carla made her exit. “What are you up to, Vida?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Protecting Billy,” Vida snapped. “He'd be putty in Carla's hands. Besides, she'd drive him quite mad. Oh—did I tell you that Lynette says Rick Erlandson still hasn't picked up the engagement ring? That explains Ginny's occasional lapses into gloom.”

“Vida …” As she dashed for the door, I nimbly sprinted in front of her. “What's up? You've got something on your mind besides being a kindly aunt.”

Planting both feet flatly on the floor, Vida let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Come along, two heads are better than one.”

“At what?” I asked, but had already raced into my
office to grab a jacket. It was cool again, with a bit of drizzle mixed with fog.

Vida's gaze flitted around the empty news office as if she expected someone to pop out of the filing cabinets. “Stan Levine's journal. Billy agreed to let me have a peek.”

Like spies, we settled into a rear booth at the Burger Barn. Since the restaurant is catty-corner from the sheriff's office, the subterfuge seemed wasted. But Vida enjoys her little intrigues, and so, it seemed, does her nephew. It must be in the genes.

“You won't find anything very interesting,” Bill Blatt warned us. “If there were, I wouldn't dare remove the journal from the evidence locker.”

Vida raised her eyebrows. “Then it
is
considered evidence?”

Bill gave a shake of his head. “Not really. We didn't know where else to put it.”

The journal was book-size, with an imitation leather cover, the kind that's available in any stationery shop or drugstore. It began in mid-May; its entries were sporadic:

May 18—Lunch at Spago with Bernstein and Roux. Veiled interest in Baja concept Roux has no money, Bernstein lacks imagination.

May 23—Flight from LA. to Sea-Tac two hours late. Alpine is backward, economy still in toilet. Potential looks good. Scenery spectacular.

May 26—-Hot springs site more rugged than we thought. Bids are all in, so met with Melville. Hollenburg (sp.?) is a tough old coot, but can be managed. Getting flack from locals, but that's to be expected. My enthusiasm high for project.

May 27—This is gorgeous country, great for
birdwatching. Wish I fished. Hollenburg (sp.?) beginning to bend. I can feel a rush, know we're going to move ahead. These people will thank us, eventually.

May 31—Deal with Hollenberg looking solid. Melville has some terrific ideas for coping with structural problems caused by terrain. Limitless possibilities opening up re facilities, marketing ploys, etc.

June 3—If we could get rid of the local residents, everything would be beautiful. Nasty bunch of narrow-minded provincial schmucks. But adversity adds excitement to the chase. On cusp of closing with Hollenberg. Californians 28, Alpine 3.

Then came the final entry, Sunday, June 5:

Everything except the weather is going our way. Usual environmentalist obstacles, but we can get around them. I can visualize the completed project, and it's wonderful. Financing should be no problem, once we get back to LA. Saw a bluebird today, and feel it's on my shoulder. Fm sitting on top of the world at this altitude, in more ways than one.

So he was. I frowned as I handed the journal back to Vida. Stan had been so happy, so optimistic, so confident. I watched Vida's mouth turn down. She reread the last few lines, then returned the small bound volume to Bill Blatt.

“Plans!” she said in an uncertain voice. “They're so futile! It's no wonder so many people lead reckless, heedless lives.”

Placing my hands Ground my coffee mug, I felt its reassuring warmth. If I could feel, I must be still alive. But Stan Levine wasn't. “I liked him,” I said. “Obviously, he loved what he was doing. And he believed in it. If we ran those entries, would Alpiners understand?”

“You'd have to get permission,” Vida said, speaking now with her usual crispness. “From Blake Fannucci, I suppose.” She turned to Bill. “Were there survivors?”

“Jack checked this morning,” Bill replied. “Stan had never married, but he has a sister in Encino. His father's dead, but his mother's in a nursing home. She has Alzheimer's.”

“That's just as well.” Vida adjusted her hat again. It seemed the velour wouldn't behave. “That is, she won't realize what's happened to her son. Poor woman.”

We were all quiet for a moment, perhaps in homage to Stan. Then I remembered something, and abruptly broke the silence. “Bill, Stan had another journal. Well, not a journal exactly, but a notebook, with his bird-watching information. What happened to it?”

Bill looked blank. “It wasn't in the briefcase. Dwight never mentioned finding anything like that in Mr. Lev-ine's room.”

“Stan probably had it with him when he went up to the hot springs,” I said. “Was it found on his body or at the murder site?” It was painful to think of Stan lying dead on the mountainside, with the small notebook falling at his side.

But Bill Blatt insisted that no notebook had been found, not on Stan, not in the rented Range Rover, not at the hot springs, not even along the trail. Vida frowned, then asked her nephew if there were any new developments in the case. With an anxious look around the restaurant, he lowered his voice and confided that the bullet was from a Ruger .357 Magnum.

“You can match the grooves from the bullet to a specific make of gun barrel,” Bill explained in his conscientious manner. “But that doesn't tell us much. First, we have to find the weapon itself.”

Vida didn't look entirely pleased, but she gave Bill a small smile of gratitude. “The weapon's incidental,” she
said, struggling with the calculation of a proper tip. Vida plunked down what looked like a dollar in coins. When Bill gave his aunt a questioning look, she scowled at him. “What you must do,” she said, enunciating even more carefully than usual, “is find the person who fired it.”

I COULDN'T KEEP Skye Piersall's information to myself. I tried it out on Vida first, after we got back to the office. She grew thoughtful.

“What's Skye saying? That Blake gave his brother-in-law the job? Is that illegal?” Vida was speaking more to the air than to me. “Or that Scott Melville was afraid Blake and Stan would tell everyone he was responsible for faulty buildings, so he's killing them both off? That makes no sense. Why would they hire him in the first place?”

“I know it's odd,” I said, sorting through the half-dozen phone messages that had accumulated in our twenty-minute absence. “I can't figure out why Skye told me this stuff in the first place.”

Dispensing with her troublesome hat, Vida turned toward her typewriter. “You might as well tell Milo. I can't see that it does any harm.”

I agreed, then decided to deliver the news in person. The phone messages were probably from people curious about the shooting, the mail still hadn't arrived, and inspiration hadn't yet struck for my editorial. Noting that the fog had lifted and the drizzle had stopped, I quickly covered the two blocks to the sheriff's office.

My arrival coincided with Leonard Hollenberg's noisome departure. He was blocking the entrance, still
shouting over his shoulder. I waited for him to quiet down before I spoke.

“Emily!” he said in surprise, trying to regain his public image and my vote. “I didn't see you. Just letting off some steam—keeping Milo on his toes. We county officials have to row the boat together, eh?”

Swiftly, I took in Leonard's baggy suntan pants, suspenders, checkered shirt, and windbreaker. It was his usual attire, so I supposed he might have gone fishing. “I thought you were giving Milo a bad time because you caught a twenty-pounder. Any luck, Leonard?”

The county commissioner shook his bald head. “Naw. Not even a bump. Too cloudy. The river's off-color besides.”

“It's a nice outing,” I remarked, hoping my smile wasn't coy. “The way you get around amazes me. You must spend half your time outdoors.”

“That's why I live here, Emily. I don't know how people stand it, stuck in the city. They have to drive and drive to get where you can drop a line or sight a deer. And noise! Ever stood on a street corner in downtown Seattle? Cars and horns and trucks and buses and jackhammers—no peace and quiet. What's the point of living if you can't listen to the wind in the trees or hear the ripple of a river?”

Leonard had a point, though I marveled that he ever shut up long enough to listen to anything. Maybe I wasn't doing the man justice. “Is that why you like to hike to the hot springs?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone. 'To get away from it all?”

Leonard gave me a puzzled look. “I can get away from it all at my house on the river,” he replied. “I go up to the hot springs to soak. Isn't that what they're for?”

“Is that why you went Monday morning?” Again I tried to sound conversational.

But Leonard wasn't as unobservant as I'd hoped. “Hey, Emily, why do you ask, eh? You sound like Dodge, trying to figure out if I shot poor Stan Levine. Now why would I do such a thing? I was doing business with him and his partner. Wouldn't I be pretty damned stupid to blow one of 'em away?”

That depended, of course. “You were happy with the bargain?”

Again Leonard surprised me. He turned away, gazing down Front Street. “I guess. It was a big decision. You always have to wonder if you did the right thing. It's like being commissioner—there's never any easy answers.” He turned his fleshy face to me. “Yeah, I was happy. But now I don't know. With Levine dead, maybe it'll all fall through. Then I'll have to be happy with that, eh, Emily?”

A pragmatist, I thought. Or a politician. Both, of course. That's the way the system works. Before I could say anything more, Leonard thumped past me, heading for his old pickup truck. I went into the sheriff's office.

Milo was drinking his crummy coffee and eating a bear claw. He seemed unsurprised to see me.

“Hi, you want a cup?” He tapped his mug with the NRA logo. “Fresh pot.”

The sheriff's coffee might be fresh, but it'd still taste like drain water. “No thanks. What's with Hollenberg? Is he giving you garbled accounts?”

“He's giving me crap,” Milo replied, tugging at his left ear. “Every time I try to pin him down about
anything
, he waffles. Typical politician. Plus, he blames me for the vandalism at the hot springs. He says I should have kept a man up there.” Milo's expression was rueful. “You know what? He's right. I screwed up. Most of all, Len's pissed about the birdhouse. He put it up for the spotted owls.”