Alpine Gamble (2 page)

“Here, Emma,” she said in her primmest tone as she handed me a piece of paper. “These are the names Henry gave me. Blake Fannucci and Stan Levine. Obviously, there's a story in it. You may want to handle it, rather than turning it over to Carla.”

I acknowledged the unspoken criticism of my youthful, if dizzy, reporter with a slight nod. “I'll call the lodge and try to arrange an interview for today. This is a short week, so we're up against deadline.”

Wordlessly, Vida left my office. Leo leaned across the desk and handed me his cigarette. I took the last puff, then hastily extinguished the butt in a Trader Vic's ashtray I'd swiped from the Benson Hotel in Portland during my tenure as a reporter for
The Oregonian.

“How was your three-day weekend?” Leo asked, putting his feet on the chair Vida had vacated. “Full of adventure and romance?”

I wanted to pretend that it was, but instead I made a face. “I got out the lawn furniture and put in bedding plants. What about you?”

Leo shrugged. At just over fifty, he occasionally exhibited a boyish air that didn't quite go with his usual world-weary attitude. His wavy auburn hair was flecked with gray and there were deep lines in his pleasant face. Obviously, Leo had laughed and worried and drunk a lot. But most of all, he exuded an aura of frustration.

“I drove down to Seattle with Delphine Corson,” Leo
replied, referring to the buxom local florist. “We stayed at the Edgewater and screwed most of the time.” He stretched and yawned, though whether from exhaustion or boredom, I couldn't tell.

“How nice,” I said, aware that I sounded like a waspish vestal virgin. “I think we'd better go over this first set of personals. Fm not sure we want to run some of them as is. In fact, Fm not sure this was a good idea in the first place.” I shoved the proof sheet at Leo. “We're only going to do this once a month. That way, if it gets to be a real nightmare, we can drop it without too much flak.”

The idea to run personals had come from Ginny Burmeister last fall. I often felt that Ginny had little imagination, but sometimes she surprised me. She was also pressing for a Summer Solstice Festival to replace the outmoded Loggerama.

Leo's smile was quirky as he read through the ads. “Some of these are a little raw,” he allowed. “If you take them that way.” He wiggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “But these people are prepaying by the word. That's what I've got against so-called obscenity. One word is the same as another when you count them up for an invoice. What difference does it make if you say
fuck
or
intercourse?
Either way, it's fifty cents.”

“If you can get a fuck for fifty cents, you've got a real bargain,” I said, refusing to be drawn into a moralistic debate with Leo. Then I fluttered my lashes, just to annoy him. “Of course, maybe Delphine works for free.”

Leo reddened, bristled, and started to get up. “Emma, that's a bitchy thing to say!” With effort, he got his temper under control. “Delphine's a decent woman. She's just lonesome. Like the rest of us.” The last few words were muttered into his chest.

I had the grace to be embarrassed. “Sorry. I like Del-phine. Really. She does wonderful arrangements.”

The comment made Leo grin, if wryly. “She leaves her artistry in the shop. Trust me. If Delphine's an exotic orchid at work, she's a shrinking violet in the bedroom. Now let's see what we can do about these ads. What I like is the deception. Take this one—'DWM, cuddly, fun loving, big spender seeks sympathetic DWF homeowner with no strings attached.' The guy's probably been married three times, he's fat as a hog, can't pay his bills, and is looking for some sappy female who'll put a roof over his head and give him three squares a day. Plus boudoir benefits, if he's still awake. He doesn't want anybody with kids, either. Personals are like real estate ads—you know,
fixer-upper
translates as 'falling down, complete with stalker from former residents.' Let the
big rig
and the Lesbian DWF go. Change the 'bed-and-not-bored' to 'no boredom.' You'll preserve the tone of the paper and save the guy a buck. The rest of them look okay to me, babe.” He ignored my cringing at his breezy term of endearment, then chuckled. “You see this one? 'SWM, mature, financially secure, gourmet cook, varied interests from baseball to Beethoven; desires companionable relationship with sixty-plus woman; prefers intelligence, adventuresome spirit, ample figure, roots in community, yen for travel.' “ Leo arched his eyebrows again, but this time in inquiry. “Jesus, who does the ideal woman sound like, Emma?”

Involuntarily, my glance darted to the outer office. I could see half of Vida, typing away on her battered upright. “Wild,” I breathed. “Who is this guy? At fifty cents a word, he spent a small bundle on the ad. Maybe he really is financially secure.”

Leo tapped the page proof. “Has Vida seen this?”

I shook my head. “Ginny brought the ads in while I was on the phone.”

Leo grinned again. “After you edit these, let the Duchess read proof. Maybe she'll find her duke.”

I started to demur. Then I, too, grinned. “Okay, Leo. Why not?” After all, everybody needed romance in their life. Except me. I had a phantom, and his name was Tom Cavanaugh.

Blake Fannucci sounded very agreeable on the telephone. It took a four-call game of telephone tag to reach him at the ski lodge, but by eleven-thirty we had set a lunch date. He and his partner, Stan Levine, would treat me at King Olav's. Since almost nobody in Alpine is ever willing to pick
up
the tab in exchange for an interview, I leaped at the opportunity.

The Iron Goat Trail editorial was in the pipeline. It was one of those noncontroversial pieces, praising the innovative and adventuresome souls who had spent more than two years re-creating the former passage of the Great Northern Railroad through the Cascade Mountains. The accolade was overdue, well earned, and therefore easy to write. The editorial of the previous week had also featured goats, but they'd been the real thing. National Park officials had proposed reducing the burgeoning mountain goat population by using helicopters, spotters, and marksmen. The situation was an environmentalist's nightmare: The animals gulped down various delicate plants and caused serious erosion. Attempts to capture the goats and sterilize them had not proved practical. I had urged park personnel to come up with a third alternative. My suggestion had provoked anger from several factions. The goats were probably on my side, but they didn't write letters.

The spa story might prove equally tricky. Under fitful clouds, I drove up to the ski lodge for my lunch date.
While the lodge is old, if well maintained, the restaurant is relatively new. Until about two years ago there was only a coffee shop, which still exists in a refurbished state. But King Olav's itself features handsome Scandinavian decor and, for lunch, an eclectic menu. I was thinking about a crab omelette as I pulled into the parking lot.

In the high-beamed lobby with its knotty pine and gray stone decor, I spotted my hosts without difficulty. Their casual but expensive attire, the deep suntans and their easy manner, stamped them as Californians. Blake Fannucci was stocky, with wavy brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. His partner, Stan Levine, was tall, lean, and sharp-featured, with a receding hairline. They greeted me as if we were old high school chums, which was mathematically possible, since they both appeared to be in their early forties.

“Excuse me if I don't shake hands,” Blake apologized, holding his right arm at an angle. “I took a spill at poolside last month and I've got gamekeeper's thumb.”

Deciding that was a subject we could tackle later, I smiled with sympathy. Stan Levine's handshake was firm and friendly. His manner was somewhat more reserved than Blake's, however, and I figured he was the less outgoing of the pair.

“This restaurant isn't half bad for being in such an out-of-the-way place,” Blake remarked as we sat down at what I assumed was the power table. I'd never considered that King Olav's possessed such a thing, but Blake had made a point of indicating where he wanted to sit. The hostess, Angie Patricelli, had regarded him with mild curiosity. Even Mayor Fuzzy Baugh didn't seem to mind which table he was given, as long as the chair legs didn't collapse under him.

Stan Levine was nodding agreement with Blake
Fannucci. 'The wine list features some reputable California vintages. I can't speak for the Washington vintners. What do you think, Ms. Lord?”

I blinked, at the wine list. “I'm no connoisseur,” I admitted. “My favorite drink is Pepsi.”

Blake and Stan chuckled as if I'd said something genuinely droll. Maybe I had and didn't know it.

“You've hit on something,” Blake said, carefully placing his injured right hand on the blue and white linen tablecloth. “Whether it's soda pop or mineral water or Dos Equis beer, we'll offer it at the spa. People are tired of being told what to eat and drink. They're going right off the edge of the envelope. We intend to give them choices.”

I, however, was not given any. Our waitress, who was one of the Bjornsons, was told to bring a bottle of che-nin blanc from the Napa Valley.

“Nice,” Blake commented, waving his left hand at the room in general. “Very integrated with the environment. Native American in the lobby, Vikings in the restaurant. But too narrow a purview. How many people know Odin?”

Odin was represented by a Fogelberg replica perched on high between the tall windows at the far end of the dining room. “Odin's big around here,” I noted. “We have a large percentage of Scandinavians.” I wasn't one of them, but suddenly I was feeling defensive.

Blake nodded. “My point exactly. That's insular thinking. We want to attract people from all over the Pacific Northwest—Washington, Oregon, British Columbia. We're thinking global. What're hot springs about, really? Using high tech to get back to basics, right? In touch with their bodies, in touch with the earth itself, but with state-of-the-art convenience. This is alternative medicine in a luxury setting. What's more therapeutic than minerals coming right out of the
ground? What we're talking here with our Windy Mountain spa concept is Marienbad Goes Digital.” He leaned back in his chair wearing a self-satisfied smile.

“Wonderful,” I said lamely. “But isn't Windy Mountain on the other side of the highway?”

Blake wagged a finger at me. “Sharp, very sharp. Yes, but the view from the spa will be of Windy Mountain. Unfortunately, the peak nearest the springs is called Spark Plug. We can't name a five-star resort after something like that. Unless,” he added, frowning up at the open-beam ceiling, “we have the state or whoever change the mountain's name.”

I tried not to look askance. “Is your plan to build the facility on top of the hot springs?” I had already taken out my notebook and was prepared to write.

Stan Levine, who had been gazing out the window at a sassy flock of crows in a cedar tree, nodded gravely. “That's right. If the architect considers it structurally feasible. We've hired one of your people.”

I regarded Stan quizzically. Until the first of the year, Alpine had no architects. But Scott Melville and his wife Beverly had moved to town in early February. Scott's first job was the renovation of the Skykomish County Sheriff's headquarters on Front Street.

Stan was nodding again, still solemn. “Melville's from California, originally.”

I knew that, courtesy of Vida's feature story on Scott and Beverly. They were an attractive young couple who had been frightened by the recent earthquakes in the Los Angeles area. Scott had been quoted as saying he didn't want to design or live in buildings that could be demolished every time the ground shifted.

“Good,” I said, making a note. “Have you actually acquired the property yet?”

Stan and Blake exchanged quick glances. Melissa
Bjornson arrived with the chenin blanc and went through the presentation ritual, which clearly bored her.

It did not have the same effect on Blake Fannucci, however. “That's the wrong year,” he said in a pleasant yet assertive voice. “I asked for a Ninety-one. This is Ninety-two.”

Melissa, who was barely of legal age to serve liquor, narrowed her blue eyes at Blake. “So? It's wine, isn't it?”

Blake assumed an avuncular air. “My dear … Melissa,” he said after a quick glance at her name tag, “let me give you a short course on wine. Every year brings change. Climate conditions create differences in grapes. In Ninety-two, the Napa Valley was subject to …”

Blake went on. And on. I turned to Stan. “Leonard Hollenberg owns that property. It covers a large parcel of land, mostly uphill. Has he put a price on it?”

“We're negotiating,” Stan replied. 'This Hollenberg is trying to hold us up, of course. But who else would want it?” His expression was ingenuous.

“Right,” Blake chimed in, having concluded his sermon on grape-raising. Melissa had taken away the offending bottle. “VineFan, cap V, cap F—that's the corporation's official name, half Levine, half Fannucci— VineFan's willing to purchase all or part of what Hollenberg owns. Our big bargaining chip—besides money—is that he can keep the acreage by the highway. The springs are actually two miles up into the mountains.”

I considered the site, trying to draw a mental map in my head. A washed-out gravel road led to the steep hot springs trail, or so Vida had informed me before I'd left for lunch. The land must be very rugged. I posed the obvious question:

“You'll have to buy the right-of-way to build a road, though. Won't this be an expensive project?”

Blake and Stan both nodded, with varying degrees of certitude. “You bet,” Blake replied. “Offhand, we're figuring fifteen million, total. But if you want the best, you have to pay for it.”

I couldn't help but be impressed. As far as I knew, no one had ever spent that kind of money to build anything in Skykomish County.

“Where do you get your financing?” I inquired, making another note.

Melissa returned, bearing the proper vintage. Blake sniffed the cork, took a sip, and pronounced the chenin blanc acceptable. Despite his approval, Melissa seemed sulky as she left the table.

“Ah, financing.” Blake savored the term, along with the wine. “Naturally, we'd like to use your local bank. But we met with their people Friday right after we got here, and frankly, the Bank of Alpine doesn't have the resources for a project of this magnitude. We'll deal with our usual contacts in L.A.”