The Alpine Betrayal (30 page)

“Go get another beer,” I urged. “And bring me some milk instead of Pepsi this time. I’m getting high enough on Percodan.”

Milo complied, loping back with a glass of milk and a Miller. The ale was gone. Reclining in the rocker, Milo closed his eyes. “Everybody says it was an accident. An overdose maybe.” He spoke musingly. “It’s Art I’m thinking of …”

“Donna knows the truth,” I put in. “Isn’t that enough?”

Milo’s eyes flickered open. “It is if she tells it.”

“She’ll only have to tell it once.”

“True.”

We lapsed into silence. In the distance, I could hear the
midnight train, followed by a roll of thunder. I smiled to myself. Perhaps the heat wave was breaking, at least for a day or so. All up and down the Cascades, I could imagine rain beginning to fall, up on the mountain crests, down into the foothills, onto the hillsides, and eventually, with luck, all over Alpine.

“I could stall.” Milo lifted his head from the back of the rocker.

“For six months? A year?”

“People forget.”

“In Alpine?”

Milo gave me a twisted grin. “No. But they get sidetracked. And sometimes even when they don’t forget, they forgive.”

I smiled back at Milo. “Go for it.”

Milo’s grin widened, then he sobered abruptly. “Go for what, Emma?”

Our gazes locked. I heard myself let out a little gasp. Then I started to giggle. “Oh, Milo, you dope, you know what I mean! Besides, right now, I’m a helpless cripple. What about Honoria?”

Milo turned sheepish. “She’s a helpless cripple, too.”

“Oh, dear. You know the strangest women!” My giggles were verging on hysteria, the result of emotion, pain, and Percodan. “I should go to bed.”

A bit clumsily, Milo got to his feet. He loomed over me. “How are you going to get there?”

“Damned if I know,” I admitted.

Milo sighed. “I’ll help. Then I’ll sleep on the couch. Don’t argue. Nobody’s waiting up for me at home. Damn it, Emma, why can’t we be as sexually irresponsible as our children?”

“We weren’t raised that way,” I replied. And wondered what that said about the likes of Milo and me as parents. By the time I put my head on the pillow in my bed and Milo had settled down in the living room, I decided that maybe our children were smarter than we were. Or was it
that our own parents had been wiser? Again, maybe it was the Percodan….

“‘Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton.’” Cal Vickers paused to clear his throat, take a sip of beer from his mug, and receive a glance of approval from Vida. “‘Do not think that am very much impressed by that as a boxing title, but it meant a lot to Cohn.’”

Cal’s monotone droned on, as he read the opening-chapter of Ernest Hemingway’s
The Sun Also Rises
. I sat back on my orange crate, while the crowd of customers at the Icicle Creek Tavern listened to the fourth reader of the evening.

Vida’s brainstorm had been a success. Over fifty patrons had brought an eclectic array of books to the Saturday night gathering. New paperbacks from the drugstore rack, old novels culled from boxes in dusty attics, books checked out on seldom used or often abused library cards, even a collection of Latvian recipes, rested on the tavern’s rough table-tops and blemished bar.

During the past six days, we had had a rainstorm that lasted less than an hour, a minor earthquake with the epicenter just south of the Canadian border in Whatcom County, and the resumption of our hot, dry summer. Reid Hampton had been released from the hospital, and apparently made up with Matt Tabor, and
Blood Along the River
was proclaimed a wrap about the same time
The Advocate
hit the street on Wednesday. Our building was still the color of Vida’s canary, but we were promised it would be repainted in thirty days. I disposed of my crutches on Thursday, though I still walked with a limp and Doc Dewey informed me would last until Labor Day. But it was mid-August, and if I peeked at the calendar, autumn would officially commence in just a little over a month. But I didn’t peek. I never do—for fear that somehow I will jinx the change of seasons.

Milo was sitting between Honoria and me, wedged in at
the same table the two of them had shared the night Cody Graff had been poisoned. Two weeks had passed since Cody had staggered out the door on Marje Blatt’s arm. It seemed like a lifetime. On Monday, Milo had announced that the investigation of Cody’s death was closed. He and Doc Dewey, who was the county coroner, after all, had come to the conclusion that Cody had accidentally overdosed. I wrote the story for Wednesday’s front page, but kept it to under two inches of copy, buried in the lower left corner. No one called or wrote to question the article. Maybe that was because the much longer piece that surrounded the Graff announcement had dealt with Tacoma City Light’s desire to build a dam on the Skykomish River. Since such a project might threaten the already meager number of fish in the river, Alpiners took umbrage and personally blamed me for such a harebrained scheme. The locals knew their priorities, and Cody Graff was no longer numbered among them.

Fuzzy Baugh was now reading a Tennessee Williams play, changing his voice up and down, depending upon the speaker’s sex. The relic of a New Orleans accent that remained in Fuzzy’s voice lent authenticity, which was a blessing—because he couldn’t act worth a hoot. Vida, seated on a tall stool behind the bar, kept a poker face; I tried not to snicker when I caught her eye.

Feeling a jab in my shoulder, I craned my neck, careful not to upset my orange crate. Patti Marsh and Jack Blackwell stood behind me. She carried a Jackie Collins paperback; he held a hardcover Elmore Leonard.

Patti leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Dani called from L.A. this afternoon. She’s decided to make at least one more movie.”

“For Reid?”

Patti’s laugh was on the wry side. “Yeah. Co-starring Matt. Reid—Ray—thinks they’re
hot.”

“They certainly looked hot in all those winter clothes,” I replied, forgetting to whisper. Fuzzy Baugh frowned at me
in his most mayoral manner, then resumed reading Maggie the Cat’s impassioned lines to her husband Brick.

Patti started to edge away, but Blackwell stayed put. He addressed his words not to me, however, but to Milo. “It looks like you’re unopposed, Dodge. You feeling comfortable?”

Fuzzy had concluded his scene, so Milo was able to speak in his normal voice. “I do now. Averill Fairbanks had me worried for a minute there.”

Blackwell snorted in disdain. “Averill! He’s nuts.” When Milo didn’t argue, Jack slapped the sheriff’s shoulder. “Don’t get too cozy under that badge, pal.” His grin wasn’t exactly sinister, but it would have gone well with a curling mustache and a flowing black cape. Jack Blackwell might not be as evil as he seemed, but I still didn’t like him much. I was betting he always rooted for Leonard’s sleaziest characters. “I’m going to the courthouse Monday and file for sheriff myself.”

Milo choked on a mouthful of small pretzels. “
You
…” It was hard to tell if the word was a question or an accusation.

“Why not?” said Blackwell, as Vida introduced the local dentist, Dr. Bob Starr, who had brought along Lawrence Sanders’s latest deadly sin. “It’s not that hard to run a timber company when the woods are shut down for two to three months at a time with this lousy hot weather. Who knows? The way things are going, it could be curtains for the whole frigging industry. It might be smart to have a sideline.” He gave Patti a light slap on the behind. “Let’s go, babe. Milo wants to play games with his pair under the table. His guns, I mean.” Blackwell leered at Honoria, then at me, and sauntered off in the wake of Patti’s swaying hips.

“Damn,” breathed Milo.

Honoria surveyed him over the rim of her plastic wine glass. “He won’t beat you.” Her tone brooked no argument.

“It’s still a pain,” said Milo. But he gave Honoria a grateful smile.

“It’s a democracy,” I noted, trying to keep my voice down so that Dr. Starr’s audience could hear him say something other than “Wider.”

“Maybe Blackwell’s kidding,” said Milo as the dentist stepped down to polite applause.

“Maybe,” I allowed. Honoria said nothing.

Vida was standing up, thanking all those who had participated in the reading and everyone who had brought a book. Of our trio, only Honoria had read aloud, leading off the program with Anne Lindbergh’s
Gift from the Sea
. Milo had brought a book on fly-fishing, which he admitted he’d never opened. I toted a much-worn, two generations-old copy of
Winnie-the-Pooh
.

“… to continue reading, not because you have to, but because you want to,” Vida was saying. “If you think back to the early days of Alpine, what did those first settlers do in the long winter evenings?”

“Screw!” It was, of course, Janet Driggers.

Vida gave her a flinty smile. “Besides that. We are, after all, a small town, so they must have done something else. They read. And they did it by Coleman lantern for the first twenty years or more. Alpine was always a remarkably literate town. I’d hate to see that reputation lost.” She paused, turning to her left. “To end this fine evening of books and beer, I’d like to present one of our most beloved and distinguished citizens. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dr. Cecil Dewey.”

Doc was wearing a suit and tie with a white dress shirt. He looked shrunken, yet undaunted. His hands no longer shook as he held them up to quiet the raucous ovation. I glanced at Milo, whose long face was wistful. Did Honoria know? Probably not. She was wearing her most serene expression as Doc read from Samuel Clemens’s speech delivered on the occassion of his seventieth birthday. Doc spoke in a clear, strong voice:

“‘… This is my swan-song … Threescore years and ten! It is the Scriptural statute of limitations … You have served your term, well or less well, and you are mustered
out … you are emancipated, compulsions are not for you … You pay the time-worn duty bills if you choose, or decline if your prefer—and without prejudice—for they are not legally collectable.

“‘… Keep me in your remembrance, and … wishing you well in all affection, and that when you … shall arrive at Pier No. 70 you may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart.’”

Until then, I’d never seen Vida with tears in her eyes.

Doc’s funeral was held on the Saturday after Thanksgiving at Trinity Episcopal Church. The rector, the gaunt-faced Regis Bartleby, whose ascetic appearance belied his horse-like appetite, gave a fine eulogy. Fuzzy Baugh’s words were fulsome, and Young Doc’s reminiscences were suitably personal. But the truth was, I thought Doc had given himself a better send-off at the Icicle Creek Tavern on that August evening three months earlier.

There was snow on the ground, almost six inches of it, and the forecast called for more throughout the weekend. Indeed, it had started snowing in early November, typical for Alpine. We might not see bare earth until April.

Though in fact, we were seeing it now, as we stood around Doc’s grave and waited for the casket to be lowered. I had one hand on Vida’s tweed coat sleeve, and Adam draped an arm around my shoulders. He had gotten in from Fairbanks Wednesday afternoon, his second trip home in three months.

The rector intoned the final prayers as a few flakes of new snow drifted down over the cemetery. The church had been packed, and at least a hundred brave souls had ventured up the hill for the burial service. Milo, newly reelected in a walk over Jack Blackwell, had been one of the pallbearers, along with Dr. Starr, Fuzzy Baugh, and Durwood Parker, who, thankfully, had not been required to drive. At the head of the grave, Doc’s widow was leaning on her son, clutching a rumpled handkerchief in her gloved
hand and looking very brave. When Regis Bartleby presented the American flag to Mrs. Dewey, Young Doc kissed his mother’s cheek.

“Medical Corps, Army Air Force, World War II,” whispered Vida. “Stationed in England, 1943 to 1945.”

“I know,” I whispered back. “I read your obit.”

Under her black felt bowler, Vida frowned at me. “It’s not finished.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Donna Fremstad Wickstrom approach the grave. She hesitated, teetering on her high heeled calfskin boots, then dropped a single white rose onto the casket. I turned back to Vida.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

Vida gazed at Mrs. Dewey and Young Doc. Marje Blatt had joined them. She hugged Mrs. Dewey and glanced in her aunt’s direction. Marje smiled.

“You’re right,” said Vida. “It’s finished.”

Adam wanted to get a tan. “Two days at Malibu,” he said for the fifth time. “That’s all. Hey, Mom, I’ve got mucho money. I can come home for Christmas, then Easter, maybe even a midwinter break. But, man, I’ve got to catch some rays.”

“You’re not a native; you’re a changeling,” I accused. We had just dropped Vida off after the reception at the Dewey house. Adam was driving, having developed a love as great as mine for the green Jaguar. “If you fly to L.A. tomorrow, even for two days, you’ll miss Monday and Tuesday classes. Wait until Christmas break. You’ll have over three weeks of freedom.”

To my surprise, Adam seemed to be considering my suggestion. Surreptitiously, I watched his profile. As he matured and the angles sharpened, the likeness to his father grew even more apparent. Except for his eyes and twenty years of bills, there was nothing to show my claim on this son of mine.

“Okay,” he finally agreed, leaning back into the leather bucket seat as he maneuvered the slippery corner onto Fir
Street. The snow was coming down harder now. With a sinking feeling, it occurred to me that by tomorrow afternoon, the pass might be closed.

“It’s not snowing in Seattle,” I said suddenly. “Do you want to drive in tonight, catch a Sonics game if they’re in town, and stay over?”

Adam eased into my driveway. “Sonics—or Warriors?”

I started to make a face of noncomprehension before his meaning dawned on me. “The sun doesn’t shine in the Bay Area this time of year, not even where the Golden State Warriors play. At least not much. Were you talking L.A. or S.F.?”