The Alpine Uproar (25 page)

When I emerged a few minutes later, Milo was in the easy chair and my dinner sat on a serving tray I kept in the dining alcove’s breakfront.

“Thanks,” I said, flopping onto the sofa.

“You must feel better,” he said. “You look pissed.”

“I’m not,” I responded. “Well …” I squirmed a bit, trying to get into a reasonably comfortable position. “I
am
pissed, at myself and that half-witted tart Holly. Of course she has to be poor or I could sue her.” I studied the items on the tray. “I need some melted butter for the crab.”

Wordlessly, Milo went back to the kitchen. When he returned, he handed over not only a cup of melted butter but also the accident report form. “You can do that while you eat,” he said, settling back into the easy chair. “Try not to mess it up with your food.”

I shot him a dark glance. “Why can’t it wait a few minutes?”

“Because you’re going to take more of that pain stuff and you might get goofy. I’ve had enough witness statements this past week from drunks and nutcases. I’d like to get one that makes sense for a change.”

“Fine.” Cautiously, I leaned to my right to pick up a pen from the end table. After putting in my name, address, the date, and where the collision occurred, I slathered a chunk of crab in the melted butter. “I’m not sure about the time the accident happened,” I admitted.

Milo, who was using the remote to switch channels, looked up and scowled. “You’re off to a bad start. You called me about a quarter to five. Put down four-thirty or maybe a little later.”

I wrote in “4:40
PM
” as I chewed on romaine lettuce. “Sorry,” I said a moment later, “I don’t know what kind of car Holly was driving.”

“Jesus!” Milo was exasperated. “Dustin told me it’s a 1982 Plymouth Caravelle. For a reporter, you don’t seem to notice much.”

The sheriff was right. “True,” I said. “I must’ve been more shaken up than I realized.”

“Are you sure you can do the damned diagram?”

“Back off, will you?” I snapped. “I’m starting to hurt like hell.”

Milo ignored me and continued to change channels until he got to
The Searchers
. I stopped filling out the form and ate the rest of my dinner. By eleven o’clock, John Wayne had decided to let Natalie Wood live, though not necessarily happily ever after for either of them.
Like real life
, I thought.
No guarantees
. I finished my dinner but was still debating with myself about strangling the greedy, selfish Milo Dodge for eating almost an entire crab all by himself.

“Want to watch the news?” he asked.

“I want my pills,” I retorted. “I won’t finish this damned report until I get them.”

The sheriff clicked off the TV and hoisted himself out of the easy chair. “I’ll bring some water.” He stopped halfway to the kitchen. “After I left Parker’s, I stopped by my place and grabbed some stuff so I could spend the night. I’m getting up at first light to hit the river where the Tye meets the South Fork. If you have any problems, call Doc.”

“Fine.” I didn’t bother to look up, but focused on the report, showing the position of my car and Holly’s in the Safe-way parking lot. Ten minutes later, I’d downed the Demerol and finished the paperwork.

“Here,” I said, waving the report at Milo. “I’m still lucid. Don’t lose this while you’re fishing.”

Milo ambled over to the sofa. “Can you get into bed by yourself?”

“I think so,” I replied, handing over the accident form. “I’m not going to try it until the painkillers kick in.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. Ten, fifteen minutes?”

“Okay.” Milo crossed the room to reach behind the easy chair. “I’ll do my thing in the can now. Is Adam’s room made up?”

“Yes.”

The sheriff had picked up a worn black gym bag and was heading for the hall. Guilt was seeping into my brain. It was remarkably generous of him to play nursemaid. I shouldn’t have been annoyed because he’d eaten so much crab. I shouldn’t have griped about the accident report. I shouldn’t have stomped all over his attempt at flirtation. I should make sure he knew I appreciated not only his help but his friendship. Milo,
more than anyone including Vida and Adam, knew my little log house so intimately.

I closed my eyes, wondering how to repay him. When I opened them, it was daylight and the sheriff was gone.

S
HORTLY BEFORE NOON ON
S
UNDAY
V
IDA SHOWED UP ON MY
doorstep. I still hurt, but the pain was bearable. It took me a long time to fix some breakfast and get dressed. Even as Vida charged through the front door, she was chastising me.

“I cannot imagine,” she said, taking off her black swing coat and hanging it on a peg by the door, “why you didn’t call me last night. I had to hear about your disaster from my nephew Billy at church. Surely you could have let me know. However did you manage on your own?” She paused, gazing down at me from under the brim of a brown velvet pillbox with a pheasant feather band. “Or did you?”

“Did I … what?”

“Manage alone.”

“Milo stayed here. He was coming to dinner, remember?” I shifted around on the sofa. “He left early to go fishing.”

Vida didn’t respond at once. “I see,” she said at last, and sat in the sheriff’s favorite easy chair. “You should’ve called Doc.”

“We did,” I replied. “He came over right away.”

“Oh.” Vida’s sharp gaze roamed around the living room. Maybe she was looking for signs of debauchery. “Very kind of Doc.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t quite sit up straight. “He seemed … a bit odd.”

“Odd?” Vida scowled. “That’s unusual. Like his father, Gerald Dewey is very sound and has good sense. What do you mean by ‘odd’?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I was kind of out of it last night.”

Vida fingered her chin. “Doc and Dr. Sung have both been very busy. I’ll ask my niece Marje if she thinks Doc’s working too hard.”

Knowing how quickly rumors spread, I downplayed my comments. “Maybe I misunderstood Doc. I was fuzzy while he was here.”

Vida looked affronted. “I won’t suggest to Marje that Doc is behaving oddly. He may be working too hard. He’s no spring chicken.”

“True,” I agreed. “We need a third doctor in SkyCo. Maybe I’ll write an editorial about it for this week’s paper.”

Vida stood up. “And how will you get to work tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Cal’s having my car towed to Bert Anderson’s shop.”

“I’ll pick you up at ten to eight.” She patted her velvet hat and tucked a couple of errant gray curls under the small brim. “Leo has the bakery task tomorrow, but you should remind Amanda that it’s her turn Tuesday. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” She saw me shake my head. “Very well. I’m on my way to see my sister-in-law, Ella. She’s not herself since she had that stroke last summer,” Vida went on as she reached for her coat. “Of course she wasn’t that sharp to begin with.”

I started to get up, but Vida raised a hand. “Don’t. Sit. Rest. I can see myself out.”

“See you tomorrow,” I called after her.

I spent the rest of the afternoon dozing and reading. Another postseason baseball game, Houston versus St. Louis, started at five. Shortly before the pregame show, the phone rang. I fumbled with the receiver but finally got it in the vicinity of my ear.

“Do you see what I see?” Rolf Fisher asked.

“I see a bottle of Demerol and a cane,” I retorted. “What now?”

“I’m twenty yards away from the Loire in a delightful French cottage for two. The autumn leaves are turning gold and amber, the river is flowing gently, the ducks and geese are … Did you say Demerol?”

“Yes. I hurt my back. I was in a car wreck yesterday. If you must talk, talk fast. I’m due for my next pain pills in ten minutes.”

“Well. That’s not very promising when it comes to travel, is it?”

“No travel of any kind. My car has to be fixed.”

“You need a cane?”

“I lied about the cane. Why not? You lie to me all the time. For all I know you could be lying right now and instead of the Loire Valley, you’re standing on the banks of the Dosewallips River over on the Olympic Peninsula and contemplating a hike to Mystery Mountain.”

“I’m not,” Rolf said, sounding self-righteous. “In fact, a quaint native from Orleans is reversing his BMW out of the driveway after we shared a fine meal at a fine restaurant in Blois.”

“Good for you. Look,” I said, not in the mood to play any more games, “stop needling me. I couldn’t come to France if I wanted to. Which I don’t. When and if you ever come back to this part of the world, give me a call—if you feel like it. If I feel like it, I’ll answer. Okay?”

A long pause ensued. “I think you’ve made yourself clear.” Rolf’s usually flippant tone was so formal that it might have belonged to the quaint native from Orleans. “I have nothing to say except
adieu
.”

The phone went dead. I set the receiver down and held my head. Rolf had so many qualities I really liked. He was smart, open-minded, funny, charming, and attractive. At least
I
thought he was attractive. It wasn’t easy in middle age to find a man
—any
man—with so much going for him. And he was single, having been a widower for several years. Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t fallen in love with him. But now, in my typically perverse fashion, I suddenly missed him. Maybe he was never moving back to Seattle. Maybe he’d spend the rest of his life in Europe. Maybe I’d never see him again. Maybe I was nuts.

“Demerol,” I murmured, reaching for the bottle on the end table. Before I could remove the lid, the phone rang again. I pounced on the receiver. “Yes?” I said breathlessly.

“I simply don’t believe it!” Vida exclaimed. “Milo and Tricia are getting back together! Doesn’t that beat all?”

I
WAS STUNNED
. H
UMAN BEHAVIOR IS OFTEN PREDICTABLE:
A teenager rebels against authority; a seemingly happy couple splits up; a husband has an affair; a wife drinks too much; and the New York Yankees don’t make it to the postseason every year. But Milo and Mulehide getting back together was never in my crystal ball.

I must’ve looked stricken. It was just as well that Vida couldn’t see my face, although she undoubtedly realized the news would distress me. For a long moment I was too stunned to speak. “How did you find out?” I finally asked.

“From Thelma Petersen, Milo’s aunt,” Vida replied, sounding even more brisk than usual. “While I was at the retirement home for lunch with Maud Dodd, I called on the Petersens to personally apologize for the cornucopia typo. Tricia had stopped to see Aunt Thelma and Uncle Elmer before leaving town yesterday morning.” A brief pause could’ve been intentional to let Tricia’s departure time sink in to my addled brain. “This second marriage has been in trouble for the past two or three years,” she continued. “I always wonder why a woman
would marry a man who cheats on his wife when she knows from personal experience he has a roving eye. She sets herself up for betrayal. I’m not including Tommy as that sort of man,” Vida added quickly. “His situation was much different with an emotional disaster for a wife.”

“Very … true.” I knew I sounded vague, though it wasn’t because of the reference to “Tommy,” as Vida always called the love of my life. Tricia’s Saturday morning departure spoke volumes. Milo’s ex had probably spent the night with him. No wonder he hadn’t been annoyed by my refusal to have sex with him. Maybe he was all worn out. Or perhaps I’d overreacted to what might have been a lighthearted response. “Is Tricia getting a divorce?” I asked.

“She’s seeing an attorney tomorrow,” Vida said. “Peter—her second husband—moved out shortly after Labor Day. Tricia’s selling the house. I suppose the sale will be divided between her and Peter. Frankly, Thelma doesn’t seem too happy about this reconciliation. She never cared much for Tricia. Elmer didn’t have much to say, but of course he never does. He was busy making Christmas gnomes out of papier-mâché.” She paused. “Or were they elves?”

I didn’t give a damn if they were hippopotamuses. “So,” I said, still trying to conceal my shock, “you figure Tricia’s moving back to Alpine?”

“It’s the sensible thing for her to do,” Vida responded. “I can’t imagine why she’d want to stay on Seattle’s Eastside. My goodness, it strikes me as being much like California. Not that I’ve been to Bellevue more than twice.”

I didn’t bother to point out that Vida had never been to California at all. “I hope Milo and Tricia know what they’re doing,” I said without enthusiasm. “I have to take my medicine now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Of course.” A brief silence ensued at her end of the line. “You’re doing well, I take it?” she asked in a more solemn tone.

“I’m improving,” I said. “Doc may take an X-ray tomorrow just in case.”

“You should have it done before you go to the office,” Vida said. “Marje will be there at eight even though the clinic doesn’t officially open until eight-thirty. I’ll call now and let her know we’re coming. It’ll provide an excellent excuse for me to ask her if Doc is worn out.”

I was in no mood to argue. “Okay.”

We said good-bye and hung up. I sat on the sofa, staring into space. My brain told me I should be happy for Milo and Tricia. But I wasn’t. Instead, I felt a deep sense of loss. A wife usually doesn’t take well to a husband whose closest friend is another woman. It was Milo’s companionship that I would miss most.

Or was it? I didn’t know what I thought. Maybe I just needed time to think through this jarring development. I opened the pill bottle, took two Demerol, and wondered if I should call Milo. But I refrained, assuming he’d call me to find out how I was doing.

I was wrong. He never phoned. I thought that was odd. If he’d gone fishing at first light, he should’ve come off the river by noon. As the hours passed, I grew irked, annoyed, and downright angry. By the time I went to bed, I’d made up my mind not to call him at all.

Monday morning, Doc Dewey appeared more like himself when Vida and I met him in the waiting room just after eight o’clock.

Doc did the X-ray while Vida stayed in the reception room to grill Marje Blatt. The medical news was good. “Just one of those crazy things,” Doc said. “You probably got jarred up
when Holly hit your car. Then, after you got home, you moved too fast or the wrong way, and—bingo! You’re in trouble. How’s the pain?”