Alpine Gamble (5 page)

“I got a windbreaker,” Ginny said, waving a royal-blue garment at me. “They were having a sale. We ran the ad.”

I nodded, commenting favorably. Ginny, however, swiftly changed the subject. “Are we going to the Chamber meeting next week? You promised to push them about my Summer Solstice idea.”

I avoided Ginny's probing gaze. I'd been making the same promise for a year. To be fair, I'd done my best to gain the Chamber of Commerce's approval. But most of the merchants still clung to Loggerama. It was familiar, it was traditional, it was Alpine. Never mind that the concept was becoming increasingly outdated, even melancholy in its nostalgic celebration of the macho timber
industry past. The only Chamber member I had on my side was Francine Wells, owner of Francine's Fine Apparel. Maybe she thought her upscale clothing would reach a wider audience if Alpine's annual civic festival improved its image.

With an apologetic air, I gave Ginny a sickly smile. “It won't happen this year. These things take time. A lot of planning is involved. The town has an investment in the Loggerama props.”

Ginny's green eyes were wide. “Props? You call some rusty old saws and a couple of ugly axes
propsl
Or are you talking about the parade floats? They're just logging trucks and pickups and Mayor Baugh's Chrysler with some crepe paper streamers and Richie Magruder wearing long underwear pretending he's Paul Bunyan. It's totally stupid.”

There had been loggers and millworkers in Ginny's family, but if her scornful attitude was typical of the younger generation, maybe it was time for a change. Thoughtfully, I regarded her plain face with its crown of amazing red hair.

“Loggerama is in August,” I said at last. 'The Summer Solstice is in June.”

“So?” Ginny's manner was hostile, which was very unlike her. My office manager was normally even-tempered, even stoic. “Why is that bad? It would be like a kickoff for the summer tourist season. By the time August rolls around, people are thinking about back-to-school.”

Ginny had a point. “Okay,” I said. “You can come with me to the Chamber lunch meeting next week.”

Ginny lifted her round chin. “I will.” Still pugnacious, she sashayed out of the news office.

“What's with her?” I asked my two remaining staff members. “Are she and Rick on the outs again?” Ginny
had been going with Rick Erlandson, one of the tellers at the Bank of Alpine, off and on for over a year.

Carla and Vida exchanged conspiratorial looks. “No way,” Carla said, snickering behind a fall of raven hair.

“Really, Emma,” Vida said somewhat disparagingly, “don't you keep up?”

“With what?” I felt at sea.

Carla and Vida both leaned forward on their respective desks. “Ginny and Rick are getting engaged,” Carla whispered.

“Oh!” I beamed at my female staffers, then suddenly sobered. “So why is Ginny belligerent?”

“Because,” Carla replied, still whispering, “Ginny doesn't know it yet.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at Carla. “Then how do you … ?” The question trailed off as my eyes roamed in Vida's direction. Lynette Blatt, one of Vida's numerous kinfolk, worked at Tonga Gems, the jewelry shop in the Alpine Mall. “Lynette?” I inquired, also whispering.

Vida nodded once. “Rick was in over the weekend. He's buying on time, a diamond solitaire in white gold, ten carats, twelve hundred dollars, with a wedding band for another two fifty. Rick's birthday is June fourth, which is Saturday, so Lynette figures he'll pop the question then. Ginny has bought him a very nice gold watchband for sixty dollars. She paid cash.”

Having long since gotten over Vida's remarkable pipeline, I merely nodded. “So Ginny is off her feed because she doesn't know that Rick has the ring?”

“Right,” Carla responded, fiddling with her Nikon thirty-five millimeter camera. “She thought he'd propose over Memorial Day. But he didn't, and now she thinks he never will.” Carta's grin was infectious.

“Well, well,” I remarked cheerfully, “that's great! Rick's a nice young man.” At twenty-three and twenty-five respectively, Ginny and Rick seemed rather young
to be married. But in Alpine the average age for matrimony is much lower than in the city. At least for the first time around. I refrained from saying so, however. I had no right to criticize. What did I know? I'd never been married at all.

Leonard Hollenberg was short, stocky, and almost bald, with a seamed face like tree bark. Still, he was vigorous for his age, and somehow reminded me of a bulldog. I'd never known Leonard during his railroading career, but I'd often watched him in action as a county commissioner. Or, in lack of action, since the three men who sat on the Skykomish board spent more time talking than doing. On this drizzly Thursday afternoon in early June, Leonard was talking to me.

“You got to see the hot springs, Erma,” he declared. In the five years that I had been in Alpine, Leonard had never figured out that my name was Emma. I'd long since stopped trying to correct him. The bulldog quality prevented Leonard from changing his mind about anything.

“I'm thinking about hiking up there over the weekend,” I admitted. “Vida wants to go, too.”

“Vida?” Leonard made a face. “She'll never make it. Too damned flat-footed. Big woman, too. Not like you, Erma. You're almost puny.”

At five-foot-four and 120-some pounds, I didn't consider myself puny. However, I often felt insubstantial next to Vida—for many reasons.

“We'll see,” I replied enigmatically. “Now tell me, Leonard”—I repressed my perverse urge to call him Leopold or Leroy—“what is the final figure?”

Leonard patted the desk with his pudgy fingers. “Six bits. That's seventy-five
thousand
dollars.” His thick lips curled in a smile of self-satisfaction. “Those Los Angel-ease fellas were offering sixty. I fixed 'em, huh,
Erma? No fast-talking Cal-eye-forn-eye-ans are going to get the better of Leonard HoUenberg.”

I gave Leonard a half smile of congratulations. “That includes the right-of-way through the property you're keeping?”

Leonard nodded, both chins bouncing. “It's a good deal for me. I'll have a free road to the ski chalet. Maybe I'll get that Milldew fella to design it for me.”

“Melville,” I said faintly, not quite giving up completely on straightening out Leonard. “So Doukas Realty will handle the sale here, and the developers are getting their financing from L.A.”

“You got it.” Abruptly, Leonard's round face darkened. “Listen here, Erma—you know what they say about strange bedfellas. I'm no dummy, I'm a politician. I know there'll be some backlash. Yeah, that's the word—backlash. Some of the voters are going to think Leonard HoUenberg sold out. But let's face it—what Skykomish County needs more than anything else is
jobs.
And that's what I'm giving 'em. Hell, I wouldn't care if I sold the property to Hitler for two bits. If it means putting food on the table for all these out-of-work families, then swell. Come November, they'll thank me. You wait and see.”

Leonard had a point. I'd forgotten that he was up for reelection in the fall. “May I quote you?” My smile was benign.

“Huh?” Leonard's small blue eyes narrowed. “Yeah, sure. Not about Hitler, though. He doesn't get votes.”

“Okay,” I agreed, somewhat reluctantly. I Uked the quote. I wasn't sure I liked Leonard HoUenberg.

“Good,” said Leonard, rising from the chair. “Now let's put Alpiners to work.” Suddenly, he was running for election, puffing himself up, holding out his hand and grinning at me.

I shook Leonard's hand, subjecting myself to a professional
squeeze job. The self-important county commissioner had barely left my office when Ed Bronsky thundered through the door. The former advertising manager of
The Advocate
and current millionaire-by-inheritance wore a stormy expression.

“Hollenberg!” cried Ed, dumping his bulky body into the chair Leonard had just vacated. “That traitor! Is it true he's sold out to the Californians?”

My manner was unperturbed. “He's sold to them, period. How've you been, Ed? I haven't seen you since the last Chamber meeting.”

Ed whipped out a rumpled handkerchief and lustily blew his nose. “I got a cold attending the Memorial Day services at the cemetery. It was raining, remember?”

I did remember, though I hadn't been at the cemetery. My own dead were buried in Seattle, at Holyrood. My memorial had been in the form of Masses offered up at St. Mildred's by our pastor, Father Dennis Kelly. Ben, of course, had said Masses for our parents' souls at his mission church in Tuba City.

“Something's got to be done,” Ed announced, stuffing the handkerchief back into the pocket of his raincoat. Before Ed inherited his fortune from an aunt in Cedar Falls, Iowa, his clothes were always old and wrinkled. Now they were new and wrinkled. But Ed had changed in other ways. No longer was he negative, pessimistic, or lethargic. The inheritance had charged Ed Bronsky's batteries. Money had given Ed power, and a heady dose of self-importance. It was not for me to point out that Ed was still Ed, no matter how high the limit on his Visa card. He wouldn't have understood.

“Got to be done about what?” I asked, trying to sound interested.

Ed waved a hand, the raincoat falling open to reveal the newly acquired cellular phone he kept hooked to his very large belt. “HoUenberg. The L.A. guys. The hot
springs. I've been taking a straw poll around town. People talk to me. They trust me. I'm telling you, Emma, this Windy Mountain spa idea is a disaster. Haven't you been getting outraged calls and letters?”

I had, but no more than usual. My inconclusive article in Wednesday's paper had rung no loud alarm bells. A half-dozen subscribers had phoned so far, damning California influence. The letters that had arrived in the morning mail contained only two protesting the Windy Mountain project. One was from Darla Puckett, who was old enough to recall the original hotel at Scenic, and who lamented the possibility of “a modernistic monstrosity which would deface the natural beauty of Skykomish County.” The other was anonymous, rambling, and addressed me as Dear Poop-Head. The response would heat up next week when we ran the story about the pending sale.

I fought the urge to light a cigarette. “The project means jobs, Ed. Have you got something against people working?
Other
people, that is?” I kept a straight face.

Ed took me seriously, which is more than he ever did when I was his boss. “No, of course not. In fact…” He lowered his big, balding head, snuffled a bit, and cleared his throat. “You and I don't always see eye-to-eye.” Ed's brown spaniel eyes were fraught with meaning. Or so I supposed, since they were also watery and bloodshot. “Last fall, the Chamber vote, the murder hunt idea. You were on the other side.”

Ed's harebrained scheme to turn a homicide investigation into a commercial game for gain had appalled me, as well as several other members of the Chamber of Commerce. I'd spoken out against the wacky, tasteless plan, which subsequently had been voted down. Obviously, Ed hadn't quite forgiven me for my alleged betrayal.

'The killer was caught and convicted, as you know,”

I said calmly. “Let's forget all that. What's on your mind?”

Ed rubbed at his reddened nose. “Well—it's like this: the basic idea about the hot springs is fine. It's been real nice of Leonard and those doctors before him to let people use the pools for free. Of course I never knew the doctors—they weren't from around here—and Leonard does it to help get votes. But now we've got these Californians with their big bucks and big ideas. It's not Alpine, Emma, and you know it.”

“Which doesn't mean it's bad,” I pointed out, still staying calm.

Ed's expression said otherwise. “It's not appropriate. Now, I've never hiked up to the springs myself,” he admitted while I bit my Up to keep from laughing out loud at the mental image of tubby old Ed clambering up the side of Spark Plug Mountain, “but I've got a good idea of where they're located on the map. Building a big resort up there is going to be impossible. Look here.” The chair groaned as Ed struggled to his feet and went over to the U.S. Forest Service map I kept on the wall. “See, here's Scenic on Highway 2, the Burlington Northern railroad bridge, then the old dirt drive into what used to be a hotel, and here's the washed-out gravel road that goes as far as the power lines.” Ed ground his thumbnail into the map. Up close he smelled like Vicks VapoRub and cherry cough drops, “From there, you start a steep two-mile hike that's mostly uphill. Look how that baby climbs!”

While the trail wasn't marked on the map, I could get a general idea of what Ed meant. The terrain rose steadily, from the three-thousand-foot level, which was the approximate altitude of Alpine, to well over four thousand feet.

Ed smacked the map with his fist. “That's mountain goat country—literally. There isn't enough flat land
to build a parking lot, let alone tennis courts and a golf course. What do these guys think this is—Palm Springs?”

Ed, Shirley, and the five litde Bronskys had been to Palm Springs in January.
The Advocate
had carried an account of their trip, which had centered around Ed's sighting of various aging celebrities and Shirley's shopping exploits. It was only later, after the Bronskys returned to Alpine, that we had heard the
real
news: Ed had been mugged on route to a local convenience store to get a couple dozen burritos. Maybe Palm Springs was losing some of its luster, at least for Ed.

“Now cabins are another matter,” Ed was saying in a musing voice. “You could build cabins, maybe a small restaurant. But that's about it.” His bloodshot eyes took on a bit of sparkle.

I cocked my head to one side. “Ed—are you thinking about a contingency plan?”

Ed gave a self-conscious shrug, making the Aqua-scutum raincoat quiver around his bulk. “It's an idea. These L.A. guys are going to bail out I could get some local investors together, maybe even go as far afield as Everett, and we'd come up with something realistic. Talk about jobs—Alpine could look to Ed Bronsky for them.”

I tried to ignore Ed's pompous stance. If he wanted to play lord of the manor, why not? Ed had rarely earned his salary at
The Advocate;
maybe it was only fitting that he should help other people earn theirs.