Alpine Icon (30 page)

“Are you okay?” I inquired, aware that she obviously wasn't.

Monica kept walking. It was only when we reached the sidewalk that she answered. “I was praying for Verb,” she said, finding a tissue in her purse. Then she turned her tearstained face to me and fell into my arms. “Oh, Ms. Lord! I'm so frightened!”

“About what?” Vaguely I noticed that the line of pilgrims now reached the end of the block.

Monica didn't respond, and I felt her sag against me.

She is slight, but at five-four and a hundred and twenty pounds, I'm not exactly big. I staggered, trying to hold her up. It was only when my back struck the overgrown rockery that I realized Monica had fainted.

A recovering alcoholic from Bremerton and a heart patient from Tacoma helped me lower Monica onto the sidewalk. Both seemed to know more about first aid than I did. While they tended to the unconscious woman I satisfied the curiosity of concerned onlookers and wondered if I should make a run to the hospital emergency room.

But Monica had come 'round, and was sitting up, begging the recovering alcoholic and the heart patient not to fuss over her. “Thank you, thank you,” she said repeatedly. “Bless you, bless you.”

I escorted her to the car while she murmured apologies and expressions of dismay. My offer to take her to the emergency room was rejected, however. “I do that sometimes,” she said in an abject tone. “When I'm upset.”

“You're upset about Verb?” I asked as we drove off through the rain.

“Yes.” Monica sat up straight, her hands folded primly in her lap. “I prayed for him at the vase. I felt so … moved.”

But apparently not reassured. Monica had said she was frightened. “What's wrong with Verb? I mean, besides having those bikes stolen.”

Monica didn't answer directly. “It's very difficult to earn a living in Alpine these days. Sometimes it seems as if everything is against us. But you have to have hope. It's a Christian virtue, you know.”

I knew. I hoped.
I
was often disappointed. “Does Verb feel hopeless?”

“Maybe.” Monica sounded vague, even more so than usual. But at least she wasn't crying and it appeared that she wouldn't pass out again. We were turning onto Fir.

My house lay to the left; the Vancich residence was on the right.

“The ski season is coming,” I said after a moment of silence. “Verb's store does well in the winter, I would think.”

“Fairly well.” Monica's slim body gave off a small tremor. “He hasn't had much competition. Until now.”

Up ahead, I saw the Vancich house with the low clouds looming above the roof. The threat of Warren Wells also loomed over Verb and Monica. His proposed sporting-goods store definitely would cut into Alpine Ski's business. I didn't blame Verb for being worried.

“He can diversify,” I said, pulling into the driveway. “It'll take Warren several months to get up and running. Verb can beat him to the punch.”

Monica didn't say anything. As before, she was slow to get out of the car. Finally, with her thin fingers clutching the door handle, she turned to give me a pitiful look. “Why did it have to be Warren Wells? Why has it always been Warren Wells? I feel haunted. Why didn't God take Warren instead of that awful woman? God rest her soul.”

Monica moved with unexpected alacrity, ignoring my plea for an explanation. To my astonished eyes, she seemed to evaporate into the rain. But of course she merely went inside the house. I chided myself for having too much imagination.

Or maybe not enough.

I
T WAS AFTER
eleven-thirty when I got home. Anxiously, I checked my machine for a message from Milo. The red light showed the number “2.” Vida's voice came through on the first call.

“Roger just got picked up by his parents. Naturally they're relieved that everything turned out so well. I warned him that he mustn't take up with children who don't know how to behave. I especially cautioned him to keep away from teenagers. But the little fellow seems to have overcome his misadventure and is quite his lively self again. I just wanted to reassure you, because I knew you'd worry about him.”

Like I'd worry about Mussolini
, I thought, waiting for the next message. I couldn't imagine that Roger had turned a hair over his escapade. I wished—no doubt futilely—that his parents might show more mettle in disciplining their son. So my thoughts were running when I heard Carla's voice on the machine.

“You should have come with me,” she declared in a breathless voice. “The sheriff and the state troopers brought in twelve suspects. They've been charged with reckless endangerment, possession, vandalism, and … I forget. There was a big confrontation up on Mount Sawyer, I guess. Some of the partygoers or whatever resisted arrest. Oh—they got charged with that, too. Anyway, a couple had guns and threatened to shoot it out with the sheriff and the troopers. But they finally brought
them in, around ten. I wish I'd gone all the way up the mountain, but I got some good shots of the perps being hauled out of the squad cars. I got a totally cool close-up of Milo, bleeding. By the way, he's in the hospital. See you tomorrow. 'Night.”

I was too upset to actually run out and strangle Carla. Instead I struggled into my jacket and headed back into the night. The hospital is located about halfway between my house and the newspaper office. It took me three minutes to get there.

A weary-looking Marilynn Lewis was behind the desk, talking on the phone. She saw me at once and nodded. I glanced at the waiting room, where a young couple sat with a fidgety two-year-old, an older man held his head while his grim-faced wife stared at the opposite wall, and Ginny Burmeister Erlandson leaned against her husband, Rick.

Despite my concern for Milo, I rushed over to Ginny. “What's wrong?” I asked, fearing that the worst can happen in the early stages of pregnancy.

Ginny pointed to her left ankle. “I fell. There was a big hole in the street by Videos To Go, but you couldn't see it because of all the rain. Rick wants to make sure it's not broken.”

With a sigh of relief, I patted Ginny's arm, then turned back to the desk, where Marilynn was hanging up the phone. “The sheriff?” I asked in a whisper.

Marilynn rolled her dark eyes. “He'll be fine. Somebody hit him with a beer bottle. He's had about ten stitches and there'll probably be a scar, but he can go home in a little while. Dr. Flake wants to keep him under observation just to make sure there's no concussion.”

“Oh.” My shoulders slumped in relief. “Should I stay so I can drive him home?”

Marilynn, like everybody else in town, knew that Milo and I were a duo. “If you want,” she said, sounding faintly frazzled as she gathered up a chart. “But it might be
another hour. Kelly Amundson?” Marilynn had raised her voice as she smiled at the couple with the two-year-old.

I sat down next to Ginny and Rick. “The city should fill those holes,” I said, wishing that the Erlandsons would make their big announcement so that we could speak of more important things, like babies.

“I really don't think it's broken,” Ginny asserted. “But Rick fusses over me like a mother hen.” She gave her husband a fond smile.

“It's always better to be sure,” I said somewhat vaguely, for Milo was coming out of the examining-room area. He saw me and made a face.

“What's wrong with
youT
the sheriff demanded. There was a large diagonal bandage above his right eye.

“Nothing,” I said hastily. “I heard you got hurt and came over to see if I could take you home. With me,” I added in a whisper.

“Oh, hell! Why not? This is a bunch of bullshit.” The sheriff led the way out of the hospital, oblivious to the stares of the older couple and the Erlandsons.

If Milo had given in without a struggle, he was also giving up—at least for the night. “No damned reporter's questions about those bums up on Sawyer, no dingbat ideas about what happened to Ursula, no running commentary on the frigging picnic. Give me a stiff shot of Scotch and let me zone out. We can jabber like a pair of jays in the morning.”

I met all of Milo's not unreasonable requests, as well as one he hadn't mentioned. The Scotch restored him, if briefly. Lying in his arms while he slept deeply, I felt secure and almost happy. Milo might be damaged goods in many ways, but he was safe. I, too, slept.

We both woke up grumpy. Less than six hours of sleep hadn't revitalized either of us. Milo had hoped to take some time off after the three-day weekend, but couldn't because of the arrests on Mount Sawyer—and Ursula's
mysterious demise. I had a paper to put out, and a ticklish lead story. We didn't really discuss any of those things over breakfast. Once we put on our professional faces, we would deal with the harsh realities of our jobs.

The rain had dwindled to a drizzle by morning. Since Milo's Cherokee Chief was still parked on Front Street, I drove him to work. He could see me around ten, after filling out all the paperwork necessitated by the bust on the mountain. There'd be a transfer of prisoners involved, since Skykomish County didn't have adequate facilities, especially in the case of juveniles. While Vida might glibly talk of juvenile hall, the only holding area we had in Alpine for young people was a bleak room in the courthouse basement. Over the years it had been used more as a drop-off point for parents who wanted to party all weekend. They dumped their kids, and let the county pay for them from Friday night until Monday morning when Mom and Dad arrived with world-class hangovers. The sheriff had mixed emotions about the practice, but figured in the long run that the children were better off under county supervision than they would be if left alone.

None of our photos from the weekend would be back from Buddy Bayard's studio until noon, so I concentrated on writing the story about the fight between Luce and Bill Daley. I kept it short, not wanting to offend or humiliate either man. As usual, Vida would handle basic picnic coverage.

I had also assigned myself the task of doing the article about Polly's vase. It would be the second lead. I was mulling over the angle to take when Vida came into my office.

“I still haven't seen that thing,” she said, shaking her head at my offer to sit down. “Now I hear that half the state is showing up. I drove by there this morning on my way to work and there were people standing out on the stairs. Really, Emma, don't you think it's a humbug?”

I uttered a deep sigh. “I don't know. I mean, I can't see anything unusual. But then Polly thinks I'm sort of a heathen.”

“Polly!” Vida waved her hands in dismissal. “The woman's addled. She always has been wanting. She simply gets worse with age. I'm certainly not going to stand in line to see that vase. All of her crockery is cracked. I know, years ago I covered your Legion of Mary meetings at her house. Honestly! The dishes she used to serve that funny striped ice cream! All chipped and none too clean, if you ask me. She'd better ask God to send her a dishwasher.”

Vida stomped out, but before I could write a lead, Leo wandered in. He looked as tired as I felt, and I wondered how he'd spent his weekend. It occurred to me that I hadn't seen him around town. “Where do you want to run this?” he asked, setting a full-page layout in front of me.

It was a formal portrait of Ursula Randall, with her name, dates of birth and death, and the inscription,
BELOVED WIFE OF THE LATE WHEATON ALBERT RANDALL, M.D., CHERISHED FIANCEE OF WARREN WILLIS WELLS, ADMIRED AND RESPECTED BY ALL WHO KNEW HER. REST IN PEACE.

It was not uncommon for families to pay for the privilege of running a memorial for their dear departed ones. However, a full page was a first during my tenure on
The Advocate.
I stared at the portrait, which showed Ursula from the waist up, seated in a Victorian brocade chair, and wearing an artfully draped off-the-shoulder evening gown.

“Who brought this in?” I asked.

“Wells. First thing this morning.” Leo didn't sit down, but paused to light a cigarette. “He was waiting for me at the door.”

“This is overkill. Excuse the expression.” I gave Leo a wry look.

He merely shrugged. “It helps pay the bills.”

“Well, yes,” I said, trying to sound as impersonal as Leo. “But it really is too much. If Fuzzy Baugh dropped dead tomorrow, I wouldn't run a full page of him, mayor or not.”

Leo was beginning to look peeved. “Do you want me to pull a Bronsky and discourage advertising? Come on, Emma, this is revenue. It doesn't reflect your editorial stand on dead people, for chrissake.”

“Okay, okay,” I said hastily. “We'll run it. But you can take all the heat. And there
will
be heat. A lot of people will resent the fact that Ursula gets this kind of space. She may have been a native, but she defected years ago and only returned within the last couple of months. Then she rubbed quite a few folks the wrong way after she got back. Furthermore,” I added, tapping at the layout, “there's no mention of her first husband, and even if his family's not around anymore, people in Index and Alpine will remember. And what about her brothers? Warren should have included Jake and Buzzy.”

Leo puffed on his cigarette. “I asked him about that. He didn't take well to the suggestion. I gather there's some bad feeling involved.”

“Maybe so.” I gazed again at Ursula's portrait. Her smile seemed enigmatic, her manner, complacent. “I wonder why they're at odds with Warren.”

“Money,” Leo said, taking the layout from me. “Isn't it always money?”

“Often, yes.” I was inclined to interrogate Leo again about his standoffish attitude, but thought better of it. “We'll run the thing on page nine, across from Vida's House & Home section.”

Leo gave a single nod, and left in a cloud of smoke. I resumed tackling the article on Polly's vase.
Miraculous vision or maudlin misconception?
I typed, then deleted the words. They were too harsh.
Is seeing believing?
Too flippant.
Could the face in the vase be Jesus?
Too irreverent.

Maybe I was trying too hard to be clever. A simple, straightforward lead would serve me—and our readers— better.
Polly Patricelli thinks she has a miracle in an old cracked vase, and people from all over western Washington and British Columbia agree with her.
That was better, if less colorful. I typed away, sticking to the facts, remaining the observer. By the time I finished the story, it was going on ten, and Ginny was delivering the mail. She limped, but said that her ankle was neither broken nor sprained.