Alpine Gamble (25 page)

I didn't argue with Vida. While I kept busy for the rest of the afternoon, I half expected to hear from Ed, saying that he was now a full-fledged partner with Blake Fannucci. But by three o'clock he hadn't called. Instead, Milo Dodge phoned.

“What's this bee Vida has in her bonnet about Fannucci?” he asked in a vexed tone. “Will that woman ever realize I know how to do my job?”

“Okay,” I said, “so where was Blake Monday morning?”

“At the ski lodge, putting the package together for the money lenders. He ordered from room service and Heather Bardeen saw him when he left to come see me.”

“What did he order?” I couldn't resist pestering Milo.

The sheriff sighed in annoyance. “Juice. Grapefruit juice, the large size. The kid who delivered the order saw Blake because he had to sign for it. The ski lodge receipts are all time-dated, stamped right on the bottom. Blake's alibi is unbreakable. He and Stan drank a lot of juice.”

“Maybe he was drinking juice when I talked to him just now,” I said in a casual voice.

There was a slight pause, presumably while the import of my words dawned on Milo. “Fannucci? Why were you talking to him?”

“He called me.” I was still being blase.

“What for?”

Repenting, I told Milo about Blake and Ed. I also mentioned that Beverly Melville wasn't Blake's sister, but his ex-wife.

“Damn!” Milo breathed. “I wish Jack would learn how to use the computer. What's the point of having access to information if your personnel can't interpret it?”

“Don't ask me. I've got Carla.”

“Does it matter?”

“What? Carla? Or Jack?”

“The relationship between Blake and Beverly.”

“Oh.” I reconsidered the question and came to the same conclusion I'd reached earlier. “Probably not to them. Maybe to Scott.”

“It doesn't wash.” Milo obviously didn't find the point of much interest. “If Blake had been killed, or
even Scott, then we'd have a triangle. But Stan wasn't part of that equation.”

I had a sudden thought. “What if Blake were the intended victim?” Hearing Milo groan, I kept talking. “Maybe this is all backward. The killer wants us to think that the motive is the resort project. But the intention was to kill Stan first, so when Blake got murdered, it would look as if both men had to die. It could be that the killer thought Stan
and
Blake were going up to the springs Monday morning. Have you looked at this line of inquiry?”

“No.” Milo's voice had no inflection. “I haven't looked at Crazy Eights Neffel as the possible perp, or Durwood Parker resorting to a gun because he's bored with using his car as a lethal weapon. I don't look at anything that isn't evidence, because harebrained theories don't convict criminals. Goodbye, Emma, I'm going to lunch.”

Despite Milo's disparaging tone, I liked my idea. After relaying Blake's alibi, I trotted it out for Vida. She was lukewarm.

“It's possible,” she allowed. “But I don't quite understand the motive. Are you saying Scott Melville shot Stan Levine because he was jealous of Blake Fannucci? Scott is married to Beverly. Wouldn't it be more likely for Blake to shoot Scott?”

Unfortunately for my theory, Vida made sense. “Don't confuse me,” I mumbled. “I keep trying to find a motive that doesn't involve an irate Alpiner hiding behind the rocks at the hot springs.”

“Yes, yes,” Vida agreed, somewhat impatiently. “So do I. I'm very disappointed that Blake can account for his time Monday morning.”

I slipped off the edge of Vida's desk. “Blake would be very convenient,” I admitted. “But what's
his
motive?”

Vida grimaced. “I haven't quite figured that out yet. Something to do with their partnership, of course. Maybe he's been embezzling, or wanted all of the profits. Money.” She brightened, “Yes, that's it—
money.
It's always an excellent motive. Blake wanted to be on his own.”

“So why is he asking about Ed?”

Vida expelled a hiss of air through her teeth. “Really, I can't imagine. Given his motive. Or putative motive, at any rate. You're right, that doesn't make sense. Oh, dear.” She turned to the half sheets of copy that reposed on her desk. “I'm sick of weddings. And bridal showers. Will June never end?”

“We're only a little over a week into it,” I noted. “Maybe you'll be doing an engagement story on Ginny and Rick before the month is out.”

The remark didn't cheer Vida. I returned to my office and worked steadily until four-twenty. On my way out I thought of asking Carla about the personals ads that had intrigued her. But she was bent over her word processor, giving a fine imitation of thinking. I left with only a brief word of farewell for my staff.

I also left with a vague feeling of guilt. I would have to make an early exit the following day as well. My flight to San Francisco departed Sea-Tac at five-forty. I'd have to leave Alpine around three. There would be Friday afternoon traffic to contend with, and the drive would take almost two hours under the best conditions.

Just thinking about the trip made my heart beat a little faster. I was slightly breathless when I reached Stella's Styling Salon two blocks away in the Clemans Building.

Stella Magruder was combing out a perm on Shirley Bronsky's newly acquired honey-blonde head. “Emma!” Shirley squealed. “How are you? I should have had this done before the Melvilles' party.”

I sat down at the vacant station next to Shirley. She looked like an aging chorus girl who'd spent too long at the trough. “It's a real…
change”
I said with a bright smile. “How do you think Ed will react?”

Shirley giggled and looked up at Stella. “Ed won't notice until I put on my new nightie with the ecru lace. I got it in Seattle this week at that fancy place on Fifth Avenue.”

I knew the place, where, if lingerie sold by the pound, it would have cost at least a grand to cover Shirley Bronsky. “Lovely,” I murmured, glancing at the shampoo bowls where Stella's assistant, a pretty but insipid girl I knew only as Laurie, was working diligently on someone I couldn't see enough of to recognize. “Did you and Ed drive down for the day?”

Shirley took the hand mirror from Stella and admired herself from every angle. “What? Oh, Stella, it's wonderful! But will it stay this frizzy?”

“No, dear,” Stella soothed, “it'll loosen up when you wash it. But don't shampoo for forty-eight hours, okay?”

“I know,” Shirley said with a small sigh of pleasure. She twirled around in the chair again, then reluctantly handed the mirror back to Stella. “Now what did you say, Emma? About Ed?”

I repeated my question. Shirley giggled some more. “I
never
take Ed shopping! He gets so bored. And antsy. Betsy O'Toole and I drove down Monday. We spent the whole day, and had dinner at Benjamin's in Bellevue on the way back.”

“How fun,” I remarked, diverted by the surfacing of Laurie's client. It was Heather Bardeen. The salon smock had almost completely covered her ski lodge uniform. I waved; she smiled. Stella brushed stray hairs from Shirley's bouncing body.

“Go get 'em, Tiger Lady,” said Stella, standing back
with her arms crossed over her own voluptuous bosom. Stella also colored her hair and carried extra poundage, but she knew how to use both to her advantage. If Shirley had been willowy, she still would have required work. But Ed didn't deserve better. Indeed, he wouldn't have appreciated it, and, come to think of it, who was I to judge? The Bronskys had been married for almost twenty years, there were five children, and even before they inherited money, the couple had seemed happy together. Or as happy as Ed had ever been in his pre-millionaire days. I tried to join in the general enthusiasm for Shirley's new look.

But Heather Bardeen held back. At least she wasn't smiling. Her gaze narrowed as it followed Shirley's progress to the dressing room.

“Way too frizzy,” Heather murmured, her own wet hair plastered against her scalp. “Why do the Bronskys think they run the town just because some old lady left them money?”

Laurie, who seemed to change her coiffure's color and style every time I saw her, wore a puzzled expression. “Except for spending a lot on her hair and nails, Mrs. Bronsky acts the same. Only happier. Besides, she'll lose the frizzies. Totally.”

As Laurie toweled off her client, Heather was looking unusually thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said ambiguously, coming to sit at the station on my right. Heather seemed tense as Laurie rummaged through drawers, then finally headed for the supply cabinet out back. “You know the Bronskys,” Heather said in a low voice, one eye on Stella, who was seeing Shirley to the door. “Maybe she's okay, but is he … weird?”

“Define weird,” I said lightly.

But Heather was very serious. “I mean it in the real way. Like …
obsessed.
Is that the word?”

I frowned at Heather. “Obsessed with what?”

Heather's exposed forehead also wrinkled. “That's the trouble—I don't know how to put it. It's just that—” She broke off as both Stella and Laurie returned from opposite directions.

There wasn't another opportunity to speak with Heather alone. I'd wanted to ask her how her father was doing in the wake of his interrogation by Milo Dodge. But Stella had me out of the chair in thirty minutes, while Laurie was still snipping and combing Heather. The new me wasn't much different from the old me, except that my hair was shorter and straighten I wasn't entirely pleased.

I was almost finished packing by eight o'clock when the phone rang. To my initial delight, it was Tom. But as soon as he got past “Hello, Emma” my spirits sank. There was anguish in his voice, and I knew the news wasn't good.

“Zorro left Sandra,” he said in a tight, tense voice. “She's a mess. Emma, don't hate me—I have to cancel the weekend. I'll reimburse you for your flight and—”

“Stick it,” I interrupted. Anger, disappointment, and pain exploded somewhere inside my breast. How typical of Tom to mention financial details first. No, that wasn't fair—he could do something about money. He couldn't do anything with Sandra or Zorro or me. “What's happened?” I asked, trying to steep my voice in sympathy. But the sympathy was mostly for me.

“It was over the movie deal,” Tom replied, still sounding unlike himself. “Look, Emma, I'm at home, Sandra's lying down, but she could pick the phone up at any minute. I've got to make this quick. Anyway, he'd asked Sandra to put some money into a movie he was writing. I think I told you about it a while back.”

Vaguely, I recalled Zorro's cinematic ambitions. “So what happened?” Now my sympathy was in full spate, washing over both Tom and me.

Tom emitted a truncated laugh. “For once, Sandra got a grip on herself. She said no. One of her girlfriends used to be married to a Hollywood producer, and she advised Sandra that you never put your own money into a movie. Sandra doesn't listen to me, but sometimes she pays attention to her friends. When Sandra closed her wallet, Zorro took a hike. He left in the middle of the night. Sandra was hysterical when she called me this morning. So here I am, playing nursemaid again.”

“She's stopped being hysterical, I take it?” I was slumped at my desk, visualizing my crammed suitcase. Maybe I should get hysterical. It seemed to work for Sandra.

“Sandra wasn't hysterical when I got here,” Tom said, and I could tell from his rapid speech that he was anxious to get off the phone. “That's what really worries me. She's like a zombie. God only knows what kind of pills she's been taking. Or worse. I know Zorro does coke, and he may do other drugs, too.
Damnr
The sudden fierceness of the word told me more than I needed—or wanted—to know.

Tom's anxiety was contagious. “Hang up, we'll talk later. Don't worry. I'll be fine.” The outrageous lie fell from my tongue like cold lead.

“Emma—goodbye.” Tom clicked off.

It wasn't the first time Tom had canceled on me. He was supposed to come to Alpine after Christmas, but his son Graham had broken a leg skiing at Lake Tahoe. Sandra had refused to leave Zorro, Zorro hated hospitals, and Zorro wouldn't budge from Big Sur. Tom had had to rescue Graham and, as usual, play the dual roles of mother and father.

None of it was Tom's fault, of course. It was always Sandra. Sandra, Sandra, Sandra … Her name beat on my brain like a mallet. It
wasn't
all Sandra's fault. Tom allowed her to manipulate him and shackle him and
keep us apart. Maybe that's what Tom wanted. He needed to have Sandra need him, needed her more than he needed me. I wandered from room to room in my little log house, taking no comfort from its snug pine walls.

But the terrible irony was that if Tom ever abandoned Sandra, I'd lose my respect for him. I might even stop loving him. It was his very selflessness that made him so appealing. If it also made him unattainable, that was my tragedy. Or maybe that's what / really wanted: a handsome, charming, intelligent, wealthy, noble, generous man I could never have. I was like a teenager with an imaginary boyfriend. I could talk about him, think about him, dream about him—and take no risks.

The thought was often with me, sitting at the back of my mind like the symptom of a dreaded disease. If you ignore it, maybe it'll go away. But it doesn't, and you can't quite face it, and you always fear the worst.

Almost an hour passed before I unpacked. I thought of calling the airline, but decided to wait until morning. I didn't like the prospect of dealing with Janet Driggers at the travel agency. Maybe it would be her day off. She only worked part-time.

I thought of calling Ben, but he had troubles of his own. I considered Vida, but somehow I wasn't up to it. She would still be dithering happily over her Sunday date with Mr. Ree. Assuming, of course, that she had decided to go. Maybe she, too, would prefer romancing a phantom.

Then the phone rang again, and like a fool, I thought it was Tom. It wasn't. Heather Bardeen was on the line, and she still sounded worried.

“I can't settle down this evening,” she said in a fretful voice. “Things have been so …
strange
around here lately, especially last night.”

I spoke into the pause that followed: “You mean with your dad? Is he okay?”

“He's fine,” Heather said, but she didn't sound convinced. “He understands that the sheriff has a job to do. Still, he's … well, upset. I mean, he
was
upset. But I don't like to bother him with any more …
problems.”