The Alpine Nemesis (35 page)

We went, though I managed to run across the street and purchase a big gooey cinnamon roll with a pat of butter. This late in the day, the Upper Crust Bakery was out of doughnuts.

Leo and Scott were at their desks; Ginny and Kip joined us from their respective posts. Vida and I regaled the staff with the latest turn of events.

“The IRA's just a bunch of thugs,” Scott declared, “like those terrorists from the Middle East. I don't know how Irish-Americans can get sucked into that game. I'm

of Lebanese descent, and I wouldn't shell out a dime to help any of those Middle East factions.”

“You're basically right,” Leo replied. “But it's different with the Irish. For one thing, we've got a special love for the old sod—even if we've never been there. For another, the Irish have always had the short end of the stick, especially the Irish Catholics. They've suffered and starved and died for centuries just because of their race and faith. Hatred and resentment don't fade easily for us micks.”

Scott looked vaguely chastened. “But you wouldn't send rocket launchers to Ireland, would you?”

Leo uttered a wry laugh. “No, but that doesn't mean that after I hear how some British soldiers shot a bunch of women and children, I wouldn't feel a touch of satisfaction when a bomb went off in London. Hey,” he said sharply, “don't get me wrong. I wouldn't dream of doing anything like that. I don't advocate violence, but you can't help how you feel. Call them thugs, call them gangsters, call them nutcases—but don't forget, in the beginning, the IRA was made up mostly of idealists. And call them the Provisionals. It's what they call themselves.”

Scott held up his hands in surrender and grinned at Leo. “IRA, Provisionals, terrorists. I'll take your word for it.”

“Teo's right,” Kip said, looking uncharacteristically serious. “My great-uncle in Edinburgh worked hard all his life to bring back a Scottish parliament. Some amount of independence is very important to the Scots. It's too bad Uncle Ian didn't live to see the Scottish parliament open.”

Ginny seemed befuddled. “Was Oscar Nyquist part of the plan? I mean, how could a Norwegian wanting to be buried in the old country fit into all this?”

“He didn't,” Vida said. “Anyway, Oscar ended up being buried here where he belonged.”

I took the cinnamon roll into my cubbyhole and devoured it like a member of Ed's pig family. Scott came in as I was licking my fingers.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his voice down, “did I make Leo mad?”

I shook my head. “Forget it. Leo had to state the Irish case.”

Scott looked relieved. “One other thing—I got this crazy idea while I was working on the summer solstice articles this afternoon. I found out that KSKY is having a float. Why not us?”

“Ah.” I'd been too busy interrogating Tim Rafferty to notice any float activity at the radio station. “Do you know what they're doing?”

Scott nodded. “It's a flatbed truck they borrowed from Kenworth. I talked to Spence about it when I ran into him at Harvey's Hardware on my lunch hour. As a matter of fact,” Scott added with a sly glance, “Spence wondered if we'd like to share. An all-Alpine media float, as it were. Or could be.”

It wasn't a bad idea. Except that Spence had gotten it before I did. All the years that there had been Logger-amma or summer solstice festivities,
The Alpine Advocate
had been merely—and typically—an observer. But we had competition now, and the enemy seemed to be declaring a weekend truce. I suspected Spence's motives. Or maybe he wanted us to share the flatbed rental charge.

Scott saw me waver and leaped into the silence. “Ginny and Kip have some ideas for what we could do. Like take front pages of special, even historical, editions, blow them up, and mount them on the flatbed.”

“Not bad,” I admitted.

“And what about those old linotype and monotype machines out back?” Scott said, enthusiasm sparkling in his dark eyes. “Wouldn't it be cool to put them on the float, too?”

“Not bad,” I repeated.

“Kip could wear an old-fashioned typesetter's outfit— you know, with the big apron and the visor, and …”

Vida had come up behind Scott. “I think it's a splendid idea,” she said, “but Emma and Tommy should ride on the flatbed. It would be like an engagement party. I'll host a table at the postparade picnic in Old Mill Park.”

“Oh, Vida,” I protested, “I'd feel like a fool. And Tom would be embarrassed.”

“Nonsense,” she retorted. “It's perfect. I don't know why we didn't think of this before.”

“Vida—”

She gave a definite shake of her head. “This is one time that you need to come out from behind the
Advocate's
pages. Everyone loves lovers. You might even increase circulation.”

After a decade, I still often felt like an outsider. Maybe this would prove I was part of Alpine. While I still had reservations about Tom and me sitting on the float like a pair of idiots, this was an opportunity to promote the newspaper. “Make a fool of yourself for Christ,” Ben often quoted. I supposed I could make a fool of myself for the
Advocate.

Thursday and Friday flew by. There were the float preparations, the special edition covering the summer solstice, and the flurry of activity throughout the town. There was not, however, much news from the sheriff. He was still glum, and not just about being temporarily unable to pursue the county's part of the case against the Peebles brothers. I tried to comfort him about his broken romance, but my euphoria over Tom's return made me sound like a big phony.

Still, a sense of apprehension persisted even as I got ready to leave the office Friday. Maybe I was worried
about Milo, afraid that he might actually withdraw into a shell and give up on women.

The entire staff was in the newsroom as I headed out into the mild June evening. Scott, Ginny and Kip were planning the final touches for the float we'd share with KSKY. Leo was helping with a blowup of an old grocery ad from the 1940s, when you could fill up a bag for five dollars, including meat.

Vida was heading for dinner with Amy, Ted, and a completely recovered, if not rehabilitated, Roger.

“Do give Tommy my best,” she gushed. “I can't wait to see him in the parade tomorrow. He'll look so handsome.”

“You'll both look great,” Scott declared.

“Remember to be at the staging area on Railroad Avenue by ten-thirty,” Ginny reminded me.

“Bring some rain gear just in case,” Kip cautioned. “Around here you never know what to expect in June.”

“And do have a wonderful evening with Tommy,” Vida added. “We're all so happy for both of you.”

I acknowledged the advice and good wishes as I went to the door.

And still Leo said nothing.

Tom didn't arrive until after eleven. Fog had delayed his flight out of San Francisco. I thought he looked tired, and I said so.

“I am,” he confessed, his arms around me. “For a while there, I wasn't sure we'd get out at all tonight.”

“Since you're beat, let's go to bed,” I said. “Unless you want a drink first.”

He grinned at me and squeezed my waist. “I'm too beat to have a drink, but not too tired to go to bed.”

Later, after we'd made love and Tom had fallen asleep, I lay in the circle of his arms. I could see the stars through the window and hear the soft spring breeze in the evergreens. There hadn't been much time to talk, but the few
words we'd spoken had been about our future. In the darkness, I felt optimistic and secure. It was a feeling I'd never thought I would have. Sometimes the reality of it, confirmed by Tom's embrace, was difficult to grasp. But I was more ready to get used to being happy.

Over breakfast, I broke the news about the
Advocate
float. At first Tom was appalled.

“Why me?” he asked, though not without humor. “I'm not an official resident yet.”

“Vida thought it would be a good idea,” I said, though I sympathized with Tom. In fact, I sympathized with me. I still wasn't keen on riding in the parade. “You don't want to get off on the wrong foot by offending Vida, do you?”

Tom laughed and shook his head. “No, never that. Besides, I like her. She has a good head and a good heart.”

“We don't have to be in costume,” I pointed out. “I'm going to put on something I'd wear to work. For you, that crimson cashmere sweater with the gray shirt and dark slacks you had on last night would do just fine.”

Tom sighed. “If I must, I must. Good God, what an introduction to Alpine!” Thankfully, he laughed.

Over a third cup of coffee and while we got dressed for the big event, I related everything that had happened in the Brian Conley and O'Neill cases since Tom had been out of town. Tom rarely interrupted. I'd concluded my recital by the time we left the house.

“So the Conley killing isn't officially solved,” Tom remarked, taking over behind the wheel of my Lexus. “Isn't Milo upset?”

“I think he's more upset about Tara,” I replied. “Besides, he seems sure that Dan murdered Brian. It turns out that Al found what he presumed was Brian's ashes, stashed somewhere at the funeral home. I spoke with Milo yesterday on the phone, and he said that since Brian
worked for the Irish consulate he'd have been able to make the arrangements for the coffin shipments. Obviously, he was in on the whole scheme. He never dreamed that he might be paving the way for his own casket.”

“Poor Milo.” Tom shook his head, then backed out of the driveway. “He's had a rough time of it lately.”

I knew Tom genuinely liked the sheriff. Oddly enough, while Milo might still harbor some jealousy, he never showed it. I took comfort in that, and tried to relax as Tom and I headed for the parade staging area between the railroad tracks and the Toyota dealership.

All was in chaos when we arrived. Musicians practiced on their instruments, organizers ran around in circles shouting orders, cars and trucks tested their engines to make sure they'd start, and the Rainbow Girls' Drill Team marched in one last formation under the old railroad water tank. The air was filled with odors of hay, gasoline fumes, and leavings from the Dithers sisters' horses. We watched the floats line up, with the high school band first, then Fuzzy on his toilet. Sure enough, he was already seated—pants on, thank God. Irene was at the wheel of the Baughs' ten-year-old Cadillac convertible. A banner displayed the winning name for the mayor's innovation:
FUZZY'S WHIZZIES.
Tom thought it was funny. Maybe he'd fit in after all.

Somewhere in the middle, between the 4-H float and the Masons, were the Bronskys, all seven of them dressed as quite credible pigs. Even their dog, Carhop, was wearing a pig snout. The float's bucolic backdrop looked professionally done.

Karl Freeman, the grand marshal and high school principal, was climbing up on the backseat of a new Corvette loaned by the Nordby Brothers GM dealership. Kip MacDuff was standing by the
Advocate
float, looking pleased with himself.

Tom admired my staff's handiwork. The blowups of
old-time front pages and long-ago ads had turned out well. The typesetting machines, especially the ancient monotype, however, looked dilapidated, as well they might. Spencer Fleetwood came over to greet us. I introduced him to Tom. If Spence was impressed, he didn't show it. KSKY's half of the float looked good enough; it was a reasonably accurate mock-up of a broadcast booth, with music blaring.

At precisely eleven o'clock, the parade began with the high school band whistling, tootling, and oompahing away. We were behind the Masons and in front of the Elks. As we turned onto Front Street, I felt very self-conscious.

“Tom,” I said in a hushed voice, “is this too awful for you?”

Tom grinned. “No. I think it's kind of sweet. Old-fashioned, nostalgic. You know what I mean.”

I did, though I still felt silly. But as we moved slowly past the onlookers who were gathered two and three deep on both sides of the street, I saw so many friendly faces that my spirits rose. Some waved and cheered; several called my name. Even Spencer Fleetwood turned around from his place on the other half of the flatbed and smiled at me.

We cruised past the Tall Timber Inn, the public utility district office, McDonald's golden arches, and Francine's Fine Apparel. The Alpine Buckers' band was up ahead three blocks, blaring out a Sousa march. Above us, the sky had cleared. We were in sunlight on a perfect June day.

Passing the Venison Inn on our right and the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre on our left, I could see the
Advocate
office just ahead. Ginny had found some red-white-and-blue bunting to put over the main door and the two front windows. In the crowd at the corner I spotted Ginny with her husband, Rick, and their two small children. Scott was taking pictures; when he saw our float he
let out a war whoop. Vida, of course, would be at Old Mill Park, readying our picnic lunch. There was no sign of Leo, but he was probably helping Vida. I felt proud of my staff, proud of the paper, most of all proud of being with Tom. I turned to him as we passed the
Advocate
on one side and the Alpine Building on the other.

“I don't feel so foolish anymore,” I said with a big smile. “In fact, I don't know when I've felt so happy.”

The last word still hung in the air when the shots rang out. I jumped, then looked at Tom. He was staring at me, his mouth open as if to speak. Before I could do or say anything, he pitched forward, knocking me to the hard floor of the flatbed.

People were screaming, shouting. I could hear what sounded like running footsteps and cries of “Get down! Get down!”

I was already down, with Tom's weight shielding me. It was difficult to breathe. The cab of the truck had jerked to a stop. Whoever had fired the gun had stopped shooting, thank God. But the paradegoers were still making ear-wrenching noises. It sounded like a full-fledged riot had broken out on Front Street.

“What's happening?” I finally managed to whisper to Tom.

Tom didn't reply.

Tom didn't move.

I gave him a poke with my finger. “Tom?”

Nothing.

I managed to move just enough to look at his face. He was still staring at me with those wonderful blue eyes.

“Tom!”