The Alpine Escape (11 page)

“My summer quarter schedule isn’t as demanding as the rest of the year,” Mike explained. “The students need an extra sense of freedom. Hopefully, it will help them expand their minds.”

The last college professor I’d dated in Portland had dreaded office confrontations with his students because, as he put it, “the little shits only come in to bitch about their grades.” Thus, I should have found Mike Randall’s attitude refreshing. Instead, I thought of Carla Steinmetz and wondered how many teachers she’d driven to the window ledge.

“I hear you two have been doing your homework,” Mike said, discreetly clearing off one of the kitchen stools. “The city librarian called the college librarian. Is there anything new?”

I was prepared to let Jackie fill Mike in, but she seemed lethargic, toying with her hair and staring at the refrigerator. The burden fell on me. As concisely as possible I recounted the pertinent information we had unearthed.

Mike was impressed. “You’ve been very busy. That’s astounding about the smashed skull. I should have spotted it myself. Has Paul heard any of this?”

Paul hadn’t, of course. I made my excuses about going to the store, but Mike insisted on accompanying me.
“You’re a visitor and all these gullies and dead ends and one-way streets are terribly confusing. Come on, I’ll give you a lift in my car.”

I feigned enthusiasm for Mike’s offer. The black Corvette was a handsome automobile, though I felt it didn’t measure up to my green Jag. Except that the ’Vette started and kept going. I wondered what was happening at Dusty’s. If my car was ready by the end of the afternoon, I’d feel compelled to leave Port Angeles. But I hated to give up on the Melcher mystery. I also hated the idea of being alone with my thoughts.

We weren’t taking the route to the Safeway I’d seen near the courthouse. Instead, we were driving west, away from the business district and along the water where huge freighters lay at anchor. Gulls swarmed on the ships’ pilothouses; longshoremen readied big crates for loading; forklifts rumbled over the docks. Mike explained the town’s importance as a Pacific Rim port. Currently, pulp and paper were being shipped to Japan. The looming presence of a Daishowa America mill confirmed the connection.

“There’s been a lot of change here in the past few years,” Mike informed me as he turned the car around. “The timber industry’s been hit hard by the environmental concerns. There’s a rumor that ITT Rayonier may close. Poor Paul—he just got here.”

I knew all about the decline in forest products. In the past logging had been the lifeblood of Alpine. Now the economy was so depressed that the town seemed to be existing on an IV. Too many loggers were out of work. Like doctors or actors or priests, most seemed unable to find another calling.

But it appeared that Port Angeles was more diversified. Along with the port and the paper and the pulp, there was a helicopter manufacturer, commercial fishing, tourism, a two-year college, and the fallout from a
burgeoning retired population. There was also the U.S. Coast Guard, and Mike insisted on taking me out to Ediz Hook to admire the installation.

The Hook is so narrow in places that the road feels more like a bridge. I tried to relax and enjoy the view, which was spectacular. To the north, the waters of the strait were ruffled but not choppy. On the south, the town sprawled at sea level, then climbed up into the foothills of the Olympics. Smoke poured from the tall stacks on the Daishowa and Rayonier mills. I suspected there had been great struggles over pollution, but so far I hadn’t noticed that Port Angeles smelled bad.

“Most of downtown is fill,” Mike explained as we paused in front of the Coast Guard station’s gates. “Originally, there wasn’t enough solid, level land for building, so the early settlers hauled in dirt to create what’s now the business district.” He nodded at the harbor, where the
Coho
ferry was pulling into its slip. Maybe the Jaguar part was on board.

Mike was turning the car around again. Civilians weren’t allowed on the Coast Guard base. We headed back along the Hook, past the empty fishing-boat ramps and a picnic area. Another big freighter was moored in the harbor, awaiting space at the docks. Closer in were the logjams, evidence that somebody was still cutting trees on the Olympic Peninsula.

Back in town, we passed the marina with its proud cluster of pleasurecraft. Mike frowned as we paused at an intersection on the edge of downtown.

“I was going to show you the Arthur D. Feiro Marine Lab and the city pier’s viewing tower, but the Victoria ferry just got in. Traffic downtown will be tied up.”

From what I could see so far, that statement was relative. There were more cars in Port Angeles than in Alpine, but compared to Seattle and Portland the local congestion was a lone way from gridlock.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I really should get some food to bring back to Jackie.” I explained that she’d been ill earlier in the day.

“So that’s how Dr. Carlisle ended up at the house,” Mike mused. “That’s very odd about the skull. I can’t get over it. Do you suppose it was a blunt instrument?” Before I could speculate, he turned left, not right, on Lincoln Street. Safeway was a reflection in the rearview mirror. “Would you care for a quick drink? The Greenery is right off the alley. We’ll miss the ferry traffic altogether.”

My patience was growing thin. I tried not to sound waspish. “Look, Mike, I really have to go to the store. If Paul gets home before I do, he’ll think I’m a lousy guest. Jackie’s starving. So’s the baby.”

Mike glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard that read two fifty-eight. “Paul gets off at four, which gives us ample time.” He had turned toward me in the bucket seat, resting his jaw on his hand. The smile he gave me might have melted the heart of a nineteen-year-old coed, but not a fortyish newspaper publisher with a pregnant mother to feed. “I’m enjoying your company,” Mike said, his other hand gripping the steering wheel. “This skeleton situation is intriguing, and I’ve been admiring your input. You’ve got an excellent mind.” He slipped the key out of the ignition. “Ten minutes, that’s all I ask. I’ll be candid. Life’s too short not to seize opportunities. Tomorrow you’ll be on your way and we may never see each other again. I’d hate to look back at this interval and feel regret. Come, they make a fine tequila sunrise in here.”

Wearily, I got out of the Corvette. I began to wonder who had been the real alcoholic in his family. But maybe that wasn’t fair. I pictured thirty Carlas in a classroom and understood his need for a pick-me-up.
All the same, I didn’t see the necessity for me to join him.

But across the alley Mike was giving me a sheepish look. “They’re closed,” he said, returning to the car. “I forgot, they shut down between lunch and dinner. Oh, well.” He slid behind the wheel before I could decide whether or not he was a complete boob or just another pathetically flawed human being like the rest of us.

Mike reversed out of the alley and headed for Safeway. “You must think I’m a fool,” he remarked, not looking in my direction.

“Nonsense,” I replied, hoping I sounded sincere. “I appreciate your …” I faltered, searching for the right word.

“Openness,” Mike said. “I’m reaching out, and the best way to do that is to be up-front. No games, just two people trying to …” It was his turn to pause.

“Reach out?” I felt my mouth twist with irony, then immediately berated myself for being crass. “Look, Mike, I’m all for honesty. I’m not good at games. But let’s face it, we don’t know each other. You’re right, after tomorrow I’ll be gone.” Seeing his face tighten, I softened. “That doesn’t mean I’ll be out of touch. I mean, if we wanted to be friends, that would be wonderful. But at this point in time we’re barely acquainted.”

Pulling into the Safeway parking lot, Mike’s blue eyes were sorrowful. “It’s not easy meeting women who are intellectually stimulating as well as physically attractive. Oh, you’d think there would be plenty of them at the college, but either they’re married or living with someone or they’re … uh …” Again Mike stumbled.

“Repulsive?” I couldn’t keep from laughing. Mike, however, remained serious, merely nodding as he eased the ’Vette between a pickup truck filled with scrap
metal and a gleaming-white Chrysler Imperial. I sobered, wishing I could do more for Mike than offer flippant remarks. “You aren’t used to being on your own,” I said, hoping to strike a compassionate note. “It’s a tough world out there in Singleland. For one thing, the rules have changed.”

Mike sighed as he leaned back in the bucket seat. “They certainly have. When did flirtation become harassment? Where did gallantry go? What has become of romance?”

The man of science was more fanciful than I’d guessed. I hadn’t heard anybody talk like this since going with a guy who wrote freelance verse for a greeting-card company. Even he usually had to smoke a lot of pot before he got the hang of it. No wonder his specialty had been sympathy cards.

But Mike had hit a raw nerve. I wagged a finger at him. “You got it. Those things are all still there, though under a different guise. The key is taking the time to build friendship. What I just said. Friendship creates trust. Women are scared, Mike.”

“So are men.”

He was right, of course. I gave him a sad smile and got out of the car. So did he, following me like a pet pup. Maybe I could lose Mike in produce, with the rest of the rutabagas. Or, better yet, the cold-storage locker. I drove my grocery cart as if it were an entry in the Indy 500. Two young mothers, four senior citizens, and a man in a clerical collar were scattered in my wake. Ten minutes later I checked out of the store with fifty dollars’ worth of groceries. If Jackie didn’t reimburse me, I’d have to eat cat tuna for the rest of the trip. On the other hand, I was her guest and I shouldn’t press for payment. Maybe cat tuna wouldn’t taste as bad as it sounded.

Mike was waiting at the magazine rack, still looking
miserable. Somewhat diffidently, he offered to carry two of my four grocery bags. I figured that that was his way of showing me that we were equal. I made sure I gave him the two that were the heaviest.

Determined to pass the fíve-minute drive in a lighter vein, I asked Mike questions about the college and his classes. He answered in a polite but strained manner. I barely heard him; I was too busy asking myself why I was being so perverse. Mike’s candor was admirable; he had exhibited nothing but kindness and courtesy; his eagerness for companionship should have been endearing, not annoying. So what if he didn’t have a sense of humor? Maybe he did. I’d said it myself, I didn’t know him well enough to judge. The real Mike Randall was still a stranger.

Unless the open, earnest, sensitive, caring man beside me
was
the real thing. To further prove my perverse nature, I gathered up all the grocery bags and carried them into the house myself.

I
WAS SORELY
tempted to tell Vida about the possibility of a murdered woman in the Melcher basement. But I never got the chance. When I called
The Advocate
at ten to four, my House & Home editor was full of her own problems, which, of course, were mine as well.

“Ginny and I patched something together for Barton’s Bootery and Harvey’s Hardware. It isn’t fancy, but it carries the message and takes up space. As long as we were late getting to the printer anyway, I figured we might as well try to salvage the ads and stretch the paper to twenty-four pages. That would save you the charge for the single-sheet insert.”

“Bless you, Vida,” I breathed into the phone. Mike had joined Jackie in the den for a quick meal I’d prepared of boneless chicken breasts, white rice, and carrot sticks. I had the feeling that Mike’s bachelor eating habits might be as unwholesome as Jackie’s.

“Don’t bless me,” Vida snapped. “With all this extra work I didn’t have a chance to proofread the paper thoroughly. I’m vexed with myself, and you will be, too.”

My face fell. “Oh.” I hate typos. I hate sloppy work of any kind. I’m not a perfectionist, but there’s no excuse for a lack of professionalism. “Like … what?”

“The paper delivery was forty-five minutes late, which means it hit the mailboxes around ten minutes ago. I’m already
getting calls
.” Vida sniffed into the receiver.
It was hard to tell if she was more angry with herself or our readers.

I teetered on the kitchen stool, waiting for the worst. There was a stream of invective about the print job itself, which apparently had something to do with our timing on the press.
Muddy
was the word Vida. used most, along with
fool
, which I trust referred to the pressman. “… and then Carla forgot to run my wedding story on Shari Stuart and Ted Davis, but she did get in the birth announcement of their new baby. The Burl Creek Thimble Club piece got cut off after the line that read, quote, ‘The business meeting ended when Darla Puckett removed her clothing,’ unquote.” Vida paused and I blanched.

“What?” I asked faintly.

“I told you, Carla dropped the last line,” Vida said in an irritated voice. “It should have read that, quote, ‘Darla Puckett removed her clothing drive suggestion from the agenda,’ unquote. Naturally, Darla is
wild
.”

“Oh.” I kicked myself for letting Carla lay out the paper. Even Vida’s hard-eyed supervision was no match for Carla’s ineptitude. To be fair, it was Carla’s maiden effort with layout, though I had hoped that the Pagemaker program would prevent any serious foulups. Computer technology has not yet found a way to overcome human error. I cringed at the thought of the typos that had gone unnoticed.

As usual, Vida seemed to read my mind. “Mayor Fuzzy Baugh is now
Wuzzy
. The county commissioners discussed construction of a new
bride
across the Skykomish River by the golf course. Elsewhere, it was a proposed steel
spam
. At least Carla didn’t capitalize it. The 4-H Club speaker next week will be a well-known Everett dog
broomer
. Oh! Did I tell you how she spelled Darla Puckett’s name in the Burl Creek lead?”

“No! Please!” I begged. The high standards I’d set
for the past three years had been washed away by a tide called Carla. “I should have asked Ginny Burmeister to help more.”