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In late July, Milo and I had taken off for five days. We had driven out to Grays Harbor and spent a couple of days on the ocean at Klaloch. On the way home, we had explored the Kitsap Peninsula, then ferried across Puget Sound to Seattle. One night in the Big City had been enough for Milo. There were too many cars, too many people, too much noise, and not enough trees. He didn't relax until we hit Highway 2 at Monroe.

“Are the pictures any good?” I inquired, knowing that Milo had tried out his Minolta camera's new zoom lens.

“Not bad,” Milo allowed. “I got some good sunset shots. Want me to bring them over tonight?”

“Sure. I'll make shish kebabs on the barbecue. It's too hot to cook inside.”

“Sounds good.” Despite his wounds, Milo looked pleased. “Can I bring something?”

I shook my head. Since the sheriff and I had officially become a couple, he was in the habit of offering liquor, steaks, or, upon one memorable occasion, a pink dogwood tree that had taken me three hours to plant.

“I'm well stocked,” I said. “You haven't been over for a week.”

“Nine days,” Milo said, surprising me with his accuracy. “It's been crazy around here. It'll get worse toward the end of the week, especially now that Sam's on vacation. Jack's back, but he's got a hell of a sunburn. He went to sleep for five hours at Lake Chelan. The shade moved, but he didn't.”

I was on my feet, edging out of Milo's office with its mounted steelhead, NRA posters, county maps, and piles of paperwork. “By the way,” I said, a hand at the doorknob, “wasn't that Burl Creek Road address in the log where Nunzio Lucci lives?”

Milo cocked his head to one side. “You mean the
ruckus Saturday night? Yeah, that was Luce. No big deal, though. Their twins had a birthday party. Somebody tossed the cake through a window. Luce tried to do the same with the kids. Ron and Maylene Bjornson don't like noise, so they called in a complaint.”

As I recalled, the Bjornsons lived next door to the Luccis, though it was a relative term. The houses off the Burl Creek Road were scattered among the fields and woods. Either the Bjornsons had very sensitive hearing or the Luccis had been making more noise than just throwing cake through a window.

“How are the Luccis getting by?” I asked. “He's been out of work for almost two years.”

“Delia's still cooking at the high school,” Milo replied. “Luce picks up odd jobs, mostly driving trucks. Even if there were jobs open, I don't think he could go back to logging. He got hurt pretty bad in the woods about four or five years ago. Still, they seem to be doing okay. The twins got new bikes for their birthday and their TV is newer than mine.” The sheriff shrugged. “Of course my set doesn't have half a pizza plastered on the screen, but somebody's probably cleaned that up by now.”

Shaking my head at the vagaries of domestic life in Alpine, I returned to the office. Father Den had called in my absence, relaying the final tally on the school-board expansion vote. The measure had passed, ninety-six to seventy-nine.

“So who've announced as the candidates?” I inquired, eyeing the formal notice on my desk that all timber operations had ceased due to the high fire danger.

Father Den cleared his throat. “They have until Friday to submit their names. So far, we've got only two—Rita Haines and Derek Norman.”

I'd never heard of Derek Norman, but Rita had been a Patricelli before her marriage to a man named Haines. Since Rita seldom attended Mass, I knew her better from
her job as the Chamber of Commerce secretary. Mr. Haines wasn't around, so I assumed they were divorced. There were children, but I knew virtually nothing about them. Rita had always struck me as mercurial in temperament.

“Who's Derek?” I asked.

“He works at the state fish hatchery,” Father Den responded. “His wife, Blythe, is a writer who does some tutoring. They have a second grader and a kindergartner. I think they moved to Alpine at the end of June.”

More newcomers, I thought. “Do they come to Mass?”

“Well…” Father Den's laugh was lame. “They're not Catholic. But they believe in private education. School-board members don't have to be Catholic. In some cases, they don't have to be parents, either.”

I jotted down a note for Vida or Carla to set up an interview. Obviously the Normans had slipped through the cracks. “So we'll vote at the weekend Masses? Do you expect anybody else to jump in or will these spots be uncontested?”

“You'd better ask Ronnie Wenzler-Greene about that,” Father Den said. “I try to keep out of the school side of the parish as much as I can. I've already got enough headaches.” Judging from the weary note in his voice, the pastor was having one now. I didn't want to add to his woes, but felt compelled to mention Polly Patricelli's cracked vase.

Father Den laughed. “Somebody brought it up the other day,” he said. “But Polly hasn't said anything. You know how rumors get started in this town.”

“You mean … Polly isn't taking it seriously?” If ever there was a candidate for a home miracle, Polly Patricelli struck me as at the top of the list. She was what I called an “old-fashioned” Catholic, with a houseful of sentimental religious paintings, plaster statues of saints, and blessed palms stuck everywhere except behind her ears. Or so Vida claimed.

But Father Den shrugged off the alleged portrait in the
vase. “I've seen the Blessed Mother in a waffle, St. Therese in dry wall, and the Holy Spirit flying out of a cigar humidor. Believe me, they weren't miracles, just optical illusions. I'll bet your brother has seen his share, too.”

It was true. One of Ben's most memorable “visions” had occurred during his Mississippi assignment when an otherwise sensible young woman had reported seeing the Holy Family in a plateful of chitlins.

On that note of skepticism, I rang off. I had to grab some lunch before my one-thirty appointment with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Carla and Ginny had already gone out to eat, Leo was nowhere in sight, and Vida was munching radishes and celery sticks.

“Well?” She looked up as I came into the news office.

I knew that she had been dying of curiosity about the school-board vote. “It passed,” I said simply. “Who are Derek and Blythe Norman?”

“What?” Vida all but shot out of her chair. “Norman? I've never heard of them! Where did you get such names?”

I recounted my conversation with Dennis Kelly. “They've been here since the end of June,” I said with a hint of reproach. “He works at the fish hatchery.”

“He can't,” Vida muttered, clearly in denial. “The state would have sent a news release.” Her eyes darted in the direction of Carla's vacant desk. “She threw it out. I've seen her discard news releases before this. Last week it was the Burl Creek Thimble Club's Fall Remnant Sale! It should have come to me in the first place. Do I have to start going through her wastebasket or will you speak to her?”

“I'll remind Carla,” I promised. “But if you have time, can you check out the Normans?”

Vida's entire body quivered. “Of course! It'll be in this week's edition, even if I have to pull the Wickstroms' trip to Salmon Arm. Honestly! Carla gets worse, instead
of better.” Whipping off her glasses, Vida rubbed furiously at her eyes. “Emma, I really don't see how you put up with that young woman. Have you read her story on the community college?”

I gave my House & Home editor a blank stare. “I didn't know she was doing one. Is there some new development I missed?”

“No.” Vida replaced her glasses, removed her magenta beret, and ran agitated hands through her gray curls. “That's the point. The article begins, There was no news on the community-college scene this week.' And then she spends five hundred words telling why not.”

It probably had been a mistake to assign the college coverage to Carla. But most of the journalistic value was visual at this point, and I did have faith in my reporter's competence with a camera.

“I'll kill it unless we're desperate to fill the paper,” I said. “But you have to admit, Carla's done a good job with the back shop. She understands computers.”

“Pooh!” Vida wasn't yet ready to admit that computers existed. “Maybe that's what she should be doing instead of pretending she's a reporter. Carla has no sense of news. Such a waste of time, writing about things that haven't happened! I wouldn't put a nonitem like that in 'Scene Around Town.' What have you got for me this week? 'Scene' is very dull—again.”

Everyone on the staff was responsible for helping Vida fill her gossip column. Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of anything interesting. “I'm going to interview the principal at St. Mildred's this afternoon,” I said. “I'm sure I'll pick up a couple of things there, like how they're decorating for back to school.”

Vida didn't appear mollified. “You aren't exactly on top of what's going on there, Emma. I can't believe you waited until just now to find out about the school-board vote.”

“They had to count the ballots,” I explained. “It was up to the parish secretary, Monica Vancich. She doesn't come in until ten o'clock on Mondays.”

“Monica?” Vida frowned. “I thought she taught Sunday school.”

I started to pour a cup of coffee but discovered that the pot was empty. It was unlike Ginny to neglect our caffeine lifeline. “Monica is in charge of religious education,” I clarified, “which includes Sunday school.”

“Indeed!” With an incisive gesture, Vida ripped a half sheet of copy paper out of her manual typewriter. “How can Monica find time to handle all that and run your church?”

“She doesn't,” I said calmly. “Father Den does.” I inched toward the door. “I've got to eat before I interview Ronnie Wenzler-Greene. I should be back around two-thirty.” With a feeble smile, I backed out and ran smack into Leo Walsh.

My ad manager put out a hand to steady me, then pulled away as if he'd been singed. “Sorry,” he muttered, and edged on by.

I couldn't help but stare. Vida did, too, though sensing the awkward movement, she spoke up: “Jean Campbell is the secretary at our church, and very efficient she is. I don't know what Pastor Purebeck would do without her. Of course she's been there longer than he has.”

Jean Cooper Campbell was a native; James Purebeck wasn't. What little confidence Vida had in anyone else was always assessed in a direct ratio to the length of time they'd spent in Alpine.

But the diversion didn't quite turn the trick for me: I marched over to Leo's desk and forced casual charm into my voice. “I'm getting something to eat, Leo. Come with me. We need to talk. About the Labor Day edition.”

Leo's sad brown eyes told me he knew I was lying. Without expression, he flipped a pencil into an open drawer and stood up. “Okay. I can spare twenty minutes.”

The Venison Eat Inn and Take Out was in the next block. At twelve-thirty the restaurant was packed with locals and tourists. With some misgivings, I agreed to sit in the bar. While Leo seemed to look longingly at the rows of bottles, he ordered only coffee.

“What's bothering you, Leo?” I demanded after the owner and bartender, Oren Rhodes, had taken my order for fish and chips. “You don't seem like yourself lately.”

Leo made as if to pull out his wallet. “That's funny. I could have sworn I had my ID with me. That'd prove who I am.”

“It's not funny,” I retorted. “It's tough working with someone who goes around like the Grim Reaper.”

“Really?” Leo's weathered face showed a trace of amusement. “I thought your previous ad manager always acted like that until he got rich.”

“Touche.” While working at
The Advocate
, Ed Bronsky had been the eternal pessimist, a pall of gloom in a baggy raincoat. But even when Leo was still drinking, he'd been cheerful. When he began to curb his alcohol intake, he remained chipper if cynical. “You're not Ed. I know that, even if you don't show me your ID. Are you upset about something?”

The question sounded fatuous in my own ears. The fifty-odd years that showed in Leo's face revealed many upsets, along with disappointments, dead ends, and lost causes. Mediocre jobs, a broken marriage, rifts with children, and an uprooting from California to Alpine hadn't seemed to improve Leo's outlook on life. Indeed, it had brought him here, now, drinking black coffee in the darkened bar of a second-class restaurant in a third-rate logging town. I didn't find much consolation in the fact that I was there, too.

“Well,” Leo finally said after lighting a cigarette, “it's not the weather. It's been nice. No rain.”

That piece of news hardly cheered me. But I was
trying to see things through Leo's eyes, which is always futile. “So what is it?”

A brief roar of guffaws and curses erupted from the bar where a half-dozen loggers commiserated among themselves. I glanced up briefly. It occurred to me that the men who occupied the stools were always the same, or at least interchangeable: burly, belligerent, dejected, discouraged—they sat on heavy haunches with their scuffed work shoes planted on the floor as if they were afraid somebody might pull the shabby carpeting out from under them. Of course in a larger sense, somebody already had.

Leo's brown eyes finally met mine and held. “Look, babe,” he began, resurrecting the annoying nickname I realized I hadn't heard in quite a while, “let's say I'm going through kind of a bad patch and let it go at that. I'll snap out of it. I always do. That's one thing about Leo Fulton Walsh—he lands on his feet—even if the rest of him is in the crapper.”

I let out a small, exasperated sigh. “I'm probably going to be able to give you a raise before the year is out.” When at a loss, editor-publisher Lord can fall back on mundane matters such as money.

Leo shook his head. “I'm doing okay. Wait till you see how this back-shop thing goes. Stop worrying that pretty head of yours. It's not your problem.”

I opened my mouth to ask the next obvious question, but Leo stopped me. “It's not Delphine Corson, either. We've kind of cooled it, but that's no big deal.”

Leo's romance with the blonde, buxom owner of Posies Unlimited had been an ongoing affair almost since his arrival in Alpine two years earlier. His ex-wife was remarried, and the initial acrimony seemed to have diminished. As for his three grown children, Leo actually had entertained two of them in the late spring. It seemed that in some ways, the big rips in his life had begun to mend.