Alpine Gamble (34 page)

I was switching on the ignition when another vehicle came from the opposite direction. This time the car did
slow down, with its turn signal flashing. It was Vida's big white Buick. I expelled a sigh of relief.

“Emma!” Vida whirled when she saw me hurrying up the drive. “Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I wanted to tell you about the murder,” I panted. “Blake Fannucci is dead and Milo found the gun and Beverly told us that—”

“Yes, yes,” Vida interrupted impatiently. “After I dropped Roger off, I took Billy out to dinner at King Olav's. My treat.” She unlocked the back door, then flipped on the lights. “Roger and I had seen Milo hightailing it out of town when we were at the Burger Barn for lunch. I suspected something was up. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Well …” Wearily, I sat down in one of Vida's kitchen chairs. “You had Roger and I didn't want to bother—”

“Bother, indeed!” Vida scoffed. “Really, Emma, you'd think Roger was a duty, not a pleasure. I'm surprised at you. Would you care for tea?”

I shook my head. “Mostly, I was worried about you. I've been trying to call since ten o'clock.”

Vida removed her veiled pillbox and also sat down. “Goodness, I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for over sixty years.”

“I know, but still …”

“Mr. Ree is Henry Bardeen.”

“… when it gets so late and …
whatV
I all but rocketed out of the chair.

“You heard me.” Vida was looking very tight-lipped. “Henry put that ad in the paper.”

I was incredulous. “But … Henry's around fifty. Why would he want a woman in her sixties?”

“Henry's handwriting is atrocious. He wrote down
sexy-plus
, not
sixty-plus.
Or so he claims. Ginny misread
it. Not that I blame her. Doesn't that beat all?” Vida made a disparaging face.

I tried to let the enormity of the mistake sink in. My eyes wandered around the kitchen, landing on Cupcake's covered cage. Again I thought of birds. “So Mr. Ree has flown the coop?” I murmured.

“Not exactly.” Vida tugged at one earlobe. “It seems that Henry somehow figured out I was the one he was supposed to meet tomorrow in Everett. He simply couldn't face up to it, so while Billy and I were having dinner at King Olav's, Henry came over and poured his heart out. It's really rather pitiful, Emma. He's been very lonely since Doris died, but he just couldn't bring himself to ask a certain woman out. So he bought the personals ad, hoping she'd see it.”

Confusion replaced astonishment.
“She?
You mean the ideal sexy-plus woman?”

“She being Francine Wells. Henry's had a crush on her for some time.
Sexy-plus
was a larger-sizes line she carried for a while, but it was too risque for Alpine. The ads caused quite a controversy. But that was before your time. Now it appears that Francine didn't read Henry's ad. Or she ignored it. I suppose I'll have to play Cupid.” Vida's eyes sparkled at the thought.

“But what about you? Your hot date is all washed up.” My gaze was full of sympathy. Vida and I were in the same boat.

But Vida hardly seemed dismayed. “Where there's life, there's hope.” Her expression was enigmatic. “Henry felt just terrible about … leading me on, so to speak. He wants to make amends. And of course he's terribly embarrassed, which is much better than having him angry with the paper for running the wrong wording in the ad. After all, I proofed it, even though Ginny was the one who typed it up. She can hardly be blamed for not deciphering Henry's handwriting.”

I recalled watching Henry scribble out the check at the liquor store. “Yes, it's pretty bad,” I acknowledged.

“So,” Vida went on with a monumental heave of her bosom, “Henry is fixing me up with his brother.”

Vaguely, I recalled some mention of another Bardeen. “I thought he and Henry didn't keep in touch.”

“So did I,” Vida agreed. “But that was a false impression. Ralph Bardeen is retired from the Air Force—a colonel, I believe—widowed, sixty-four years old, and has recently moved back to Everett.” Deliberately, Vida opened her purse and searched among its contents. “Here's his picture. This was taken a year or so ago at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. Ralph's nickname is Buck.”

Ralph “Buck” Bardeen was tall, broad-shouldered, and his gray hair seemed to be his own. He was attired in slacks and a rather hideous tropical print shirt. But the smile was open and the gaze seemed appropriately keen.

“Very nice,” I remarked, handing the photo back to Vida. “Is he interested in the same things as Henry? Music, theatre, travel?”

“Not travel,” Vida said, snapping her purse shut. “He's been everywhere and wants to setde down.”

“So you'll go out with him?”

Vida shrugged. “We may as well meet.” She gestured at her full figure with one hand. “I haven't lost all this weight for nothing, you know.”

As far as I could tell, Vida didn't look an ounce thinner. But the important thing was that she looked like Vida and she was in one piece. It was almost twelve-thirty. I stood up to go, then leaned down and gave my friend an impulsive hug.

“You scared me,” I said. “What would we do without you? What would I do?”

A small huffing noise came out of Vida's mouth,
which I took as a prelude to a testy retort. But Vida merely patted my arm and smiled. I pretended that I didn't notice the glint of grateful tears in her eyes.

“Come to dinner tomorrow night,” I said, the invitation popping out of my mouth. “I've already asked Milo.”

“That sounds enjoyable,” Vida replied. “Unless,” she added, seeing me to the door, “you two want to be alone.”

I stared. “No, of course not! I mean, it's Milo and me. Why would we want to be alone?”

Vida had blinked away the tears. She now looked very ingenuous. “Oh—let's say that a little bird told me.

I refused to rise to the bait. “I'll see you around five-thirty. Good night, Vida.”

On Wednesday afternoon
The Alpine Advocate
broke its exclusive coverage of the Stan Levine homicide investigation. Milo Dodge was covered in righteous glory. I was covered with a sense of professional achievement. It's rare that a small-town weekly gets a jump on the rest of the media.

I had written all the copy myself, except for the cut-lines. I let Carta do that, figuring she couldn't get us into any trouble. Of course I was wrong: She'd spelled Fannucci's first name as
Bleak
, Nobody on the staff had caught the mistake.

Ironically, Milo was the first to call. “Great job,” he said trying to sound modest. “You make me sound like a hero. But somebody misspelled Blake.”

That was when I reread the front-page cutline. “Damn,” I breathed. “You're right. We're wrong.”

“Not entirely,” Milo said in his laconic manner. “In a way, it's accurate. Last week I was feeling pretty bleak myself.”

“You were too willing to give up too soon,” I noted, juggling the phone with one hand and the newspaper with the other. “You're usually more tenacious. Frankly, I was a little surprised at your attitude.”

“Maybe it's because I didn't want the killer to be someone from Alpine. That could have really put this town on its ear. There's enough gloom and doom without setting a precedent for killing off anybody with new ideas.”

“I can understand that part,” I replied. “But this is a good lesson in perseverance.”

“Perseverance.” Milo's voice took on a strangely musing tone. “You mean in not giving up even when you think there's absolutely no hope?”

I couldn't quite figure out why Milo sounded so odd. “Right. Persistence.”

“But once in a while something happens that's encouraging?”

“Right. That's when you get a new dose of hope.”

“Even if you get invited to dinner and Vida Runkel shows up wearing a sombrero?”

“That wasn't a sombrero, it was a gaucho hat. Hey, wait a minute, Milo—what are you talking about?”

The sheriff chuckled. “Persistence. Perseverance. Hope. Got to go, Emma. Jack Mullins just got a report of a cougar prowling the golf course. See you.”

I sat there staring at the phone for about three minutes. Surely Milo didn't mean what I thought he meant? When had he ever shown persistence or perseverance in advancing our relationship? Coming off of the Levine investigation, the sheriff was in a good mood. He must have been teasing.

Then again, there was always hope. Vida had said the same thing.

And when was Vida ever wrong?