The Alpine Decoy (11 page)

I had two choices: to believe or not to believe. I didn’t know which to take. “I wonder if he ever got there,” I remarked, trying to leave my options open.

Visibly relaxing, Cyndi shrugged. “I don’t know. That was about three o’clock, maybe even four. It took forever to make him understand. I guess he wasn’t too bright.”

“Do you think he was the one who got shot?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marilynn Lewis walking down the garden path.

My query seemed to surprise Cyndi. “Well … yes, I suppose. There couldn’t have been two of them, could there?”

Somehow, her reply made me want to smile. But I didn’t. And while two African-American males descending
upon Alpine was clearly beyond Cyndi’s comprehension, it certainly wasn’t a laughing matter.

But Marilynn’s arrival cut our conversation short. Cyndi wished us a good time, and we drove off down Tyee Street to Alpine Way. For starters, I kept to neutral topics, such as Marilynn’s search for housing. She was undecided about Dolph Terrill’s apartments, since the unit she’d looked at was in need of repair. On the other hand, there weren’t many rentals for single people in Alpine.

“The Campbells are very kind about letting me stay on as long as I want,” Marilynn said as we crossed the bridge over the Skykomish River. “But I don’t like to impose.”

I told her I’d have Ginny check out this week’s classifieds before we went to press. If there was a new listing, Marilynn would get first dibs.

“That’s awfully nice of you, Ms…. Emma.” She gave me a soft smile.

“It’s not easy to find a place,” I replied. “Carla, my reporter, has moved three times in three years. She’s still not terribly happy where she is now.” It was true, since Carla’s ideal apartment didn’t exist in Alpine. The unit she shared with Libby Boyd was in the town’s newest complex, across Alpine Way from The Pines—or Stump Hill, as the development was known before three dozen handsome houses were built among the trees. Indeed, Carla could not have afforded the monthly rent for The Pines Village if she hadn’t found a roommate. “I could ask Carla if there are any vacancies coming up,” I said. “I think they have some one-bedroom units.”

Marilynn seemed pleased by that offer, too. Indeed, Marilynn seemed pleased with any small act of kindness. I wondered if she’d spent her entire life being ignored or rebuffed. It didn’t seem likely, not in the city. But perhaps Alpine had dealt her a quick lesson in rejection.

The six picnic tables at Deception Falls were filled. Most of the visitors were families, some with teenagers, others with babies in backpacks, and the rest with children in between, clustered around the picnic tables and the stationary grills. The mountain air was tinged with wood smoke and barbecue aromas.

Other visitors studied the historical display that described
James?. Hill’s determination to complete the railroad link between the Twin Cities and Puget Sound. At the trail head, groups milled about with cameras, video recorders, and eager children. The license plates in the parking lot covered the map: Washington, Oregon, Idaho, California, British Columbia, Alberta, North Dakota, Pennsylvania, Illinois, and Vermont. We decided to visit the falls first.

Marilynn reveled in the tall evergreens, the lingering patches of snow caught among the cliffs, the birds that hopped over the ground in search of a handout. She particularly liked the falls, with the tumbling white water dashing over the rocks and cascading down the mountainside. At the upper falls, which roared under the highway itself, the spray dashed against our faces. We saw a pair of water ouzels, dipping their trim gray bodies atop a boulder as round as a basketball. We noted the recent blowdown, which struck me as excessive. But there had been some severe windstorms in the past few months. It was no wonder that so many trees had been toppled.

Along the path to the lower falls, we paused to read the informational panels. No trees in this forest were older than two hundred and eighty years. Somewhere around the beginning of the eighteenth century, a great fire had wiped out everything, including the giants that were said to be over six hundred years old. I gazed upward, awed by the western red cedar, the Douglas and Pacific silver firs, and the western hemlock. These were mighty trees, venerable trees, wearing soft emerald moss and gray-green lichen.

Back at the picnic area, a camper from Burnaby, British Columbia, was being loaded. With friendly smiles, Marilynn and I snagged the Canadians’ table as soon as they removed their plastic cloth. I had selected a modest menu of chicken sandwiches, macaroni salad, potato chips, and lemonade. Marilynn, however, seem delighted.

“I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a Girl Scout,” she exclaimed as we unpacked the hamper. The view was of the highway, not the falls, but we couldn’t complain. “When I lived in Seattle, I hardly ever got outside the city,” she mused, gazing at our fellow nature lovers. “I’ll bet a lot of people in town never come to places like this.”

It was certainly possible. Growing up in the city, I’d
been lucky. My family had enjoyed regular outings in the country. By chance, my parents, my brother, and I had picnicked several times at Deception Falls. My happy memories may have played a part in my decision to buy
The Advocate
. The stopoff hadn’t been so busy in those days. Now, it bustled with car and foot traffic. In vain, I scanned the other tables for an African-American. The only ethnic group represented was a Japanese family, who, judging from their boisterous behavior, probably were three generations removed from the Orient. Two leggy teenaged daughters were hassling their somewhat younger, whining brother; Mom and Dad were arguing over whether the hamburgers were cooked through. It seemed to me that East had met West, and West had won. It also seemed that I was making some ethnic judgments of my own.

We were finishing our lunch when Marilynn broached the subject of the harassment. “I thought I might hear from the sheriff about the letters and that awful crow, but I haven’t so far. I suppose none of it can be traced.”

“It’s the weekend,” I pointed out. “Nothing else has happened, I hope?” I couldn’t help but wonder if the death of a black man might trigger new forms of harassment against Marilynn.

But she shook her head, the big gold hoop earrings swinging. “Nothing in the mail yesterday. Today’s Sunday, though. I suppose some show of racism is inevitable.”

Unfortunately, it was. “Does it bother you?” I asked bluntly.

Marilynn considered, her dark eyes staring at the ground. “Not too much. It was the whispering that bothered me. I know some of those people were trying to connect me with the man who was shot.”

“But there’s no connection?” To my dismay, I couldn’t keep the question out of my voice.

“No.” Marilynn got up from the bench, wandering over to the dormant grill. A sudden silence fell between us. I shifted uneasily on my side of the bench. I’d berated Milo for trying to tie Marilynn Lewis to Kelvin Greene. Yet I realized I was equally guilty. Surely the arrival of a black woman in town and the appearance of a black man was a coincidence. Watching Marilynn’s tall, slim, graceful form,
I couldn’t imagine her involvement in anything sordid. But, of course, I’d felt that way about other people—and been quite wrong. Vida wouldn’t be so naive.

“I’ll have to try hiking,” Marilynn announced, facing me again and looking serene. “Skiing, too, next winter. Do you ski?”

“I used to, but I sort of quit.” I gave Marilynn a lame smile. “I wasn’t very good at it. My coordination stinks.”

“I like to swim,” Marilynn said, watching a nutcracker swoop down to forage for picnic leftovers. My father had always called the handsome, noisy birds Camp Robbers. The nutcracker found his snack and flew off into a huge hemlock. “There’s no public pool here, is there?” Marilynn asked, shielding her eyes as she followed the bird’s flight.

“No, there isn’t.” I explained my campaign to build a pool on the former bowling alley site. “Carla’s apartment has a small pool,” I added.

“Carla seems nice,” Marilynn commented, sitting back down at the picnic table. “Is it true she’s dating Dr. Flake?”

Marilynn already seemed tuned into the rumor mill. “They’ve gone out,” I hedged. “I’m not sure it’s a romance. Yet.”

“He’s a wonderful man,” Marilynn said, watching a chipmunk scurry past. “In some ways, I think he’s more upset about the hate mail than I am.”

I didn’t doubt it. Peyton Flake struck me as the type who would take such intimidation personally. In Flake’s case, it was ego as much as righteousness. He had hired Marilynn Lewis; he would be outraged if anyone questioned his judgment.

Our talk turned to more mundane matters, including a comparison between working in hospitals and private practice. Marilynn commented on the differences in treating big-city versus small-town patients. The most unusual case she’d had so far was Ellsworth Overholt who had brought in his guernsey cow to be examined by Doc Dewey. Doc had urged him to see the vet. Ellsworth refused, saying that he and Dr. Medved hadn’t spoken in fifteen years after a dispute at a Grange Hall potluck and dance. The cow was driven off to a less controversial vet in Monroe.

We were loading the picnic hamper into the Jag when
Libby Boyd approached us. She was wearing her ranger’s uniform, and I realized that I’d never seen her in the classic wide-brimmed hat. Maybe Vida had stolen it.

“Have you met Marilynn Lewis, Dr. Flake’s nurse?” I inquired, taking Marilynn by the arm.

Libby’s blue eyes shrewdly assessed the other woman. “No. In fact, I’ve only met Dr. Flake a couple of times, when he came to pick up Carla. Hi, you’re working for a fine doctor, I hear. Are you still living with the Campbells?”

A bit stiffly, Marilynn allowed that she was. Libby’s calculating manner retreated. Marilynn’s tension remained. To cover what I sensed as awkwardness, I asked Libby if she had to work through the weekend.

“I sure do, six days in a row,” Libby replied. “I’m the new kid on the block, so I get the last choice on the schedule. Ten hours a day, too, from eight until six. And I’m lucky if I get home before seven. There’s always some little kid who falls in the creek or a tourist who’s lost a camera. But it’s fun, much better than being cooped up in an office.” She gave us a humorous look.

Marilynn, however, wasn’t smiling. “I like being in an office,” she declared, sounding a bit defensive. “It’s a definite improvement over hospital work.”

“Oh?” Libby was cool, yet pleasant. “I suppose it would be. I’ve never been in a hospital in my life.”

“Except when you were born,” I threw out, hoping to lighten the mood.

But Libby turned absolutely frigid. “No. I was born in a converted bus, somewhere between Santa Fe and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. My parents were hippies. They didn’t believe in hospitals—or money—or having a home. The wind blew them all over North America. It finally blew them both away, from me and from each other. Luckily, I landed on my feet in Seattle. This is as far as I care to wander. I’m putting down roots in Alpine.” She gave both Marilynn and me a defiant look, as if we might be about to hustle her onto a passing Greyhound bus.

The moment was saved by a towheaded twelve year old who wanted to know if he could take home a garter snake he’d captured. The snake was trying to crawl out of his
shirt pocket. We bade farewell to Libby, the boy, and the snake.

On the way home, I refrained from mentioning the meeting with Libby Boyd. It had not been a comfortable interlude, though I wasn’t sure why. Instead, I told Marilynn she would get used to small-town eccentricities. The bizarre quickly becomes the ordinary. Irrational behavior often goes unquestioned, even by a journalist like me. Marilynn allowed that was probably so, but that she wasn’t quite used to it yet.

“There are similarities, too,” she said as we stopped in front of the Campbell house. “I think people in Alpine can be just as wicked as people in the city.”

I didn’t argue. But I wondered exactly what she meant.

Vida had delivered her hyacinth bulbs to Wendy Wilson about the same time that I was unpacking the picnic hamper at Deception Falls. Wendy had been very vague about her sister’s encounter with a black stranger at the Icicle Creek Tavern. At first, she had feigned downright ignorance, Vida revealed, then she had admitted—lamely—that Cyndi “ran into some guy” and gave him directions to the ranger station.

“It was the ski lodge in Cyndi’s version to me,” I noted.

Vida harrumphed. “Cyndi—and Wendy—ought to get their stories straight. It was neither, of course. What do you suppose it was?”

“We don’t know it was the same man,” I pointed out as we waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

But Vida gave me her gimlet eye. “Who else? Come, come, Emma, it’s not likely there would be two of them.” Her comment echoed Cyndi Campbell’s. Somehow Vida’s remark didn’t strike me as funny.

Ginny brought the mail around just after ten. She looked worried, and I wondered if she was still stewing over her pairing with Rick Erlandson. I suspected that the double date had probably been Carla’s idea.

But Ginny had reevaluated the evening. “Rick’s really very nice. He’s just sort of quiet.” I kept my face expressionless. Ginny wasn’t exactly a firecracker. “I think that orange hair is his big protest against the world. He won’t
speak out, so he dyes his hair a funny color. He’ll grow out of it.”

So, I thought, would his hair.

Ginny, who was usually not loquacious, kept talking. “It’s these letters,” she continued, placing three single sheets of paper in front of me. “They’re all from people who want you to write more about the logging issue. You know, like the editorial you did in December. But I think they’re wrong.” She took a deep breath and stared at me with a very somber expression. “I think you were wrong. I mean, in theory, it’s wonderful to support the timber industry. But it’s not very realistic, is it?”

Ever since the president’s timber summit in Portland the previous winter, I had suffered qualms about my unabashed endorsement of Washington State’s loggers. While I hadn’t leapt on a soap box to demand the resumption of clear-cutting, I had certainly cast my lot with the forest products people. It was, I felt, my duty as a resident of Alpine. Certainly my big-city background had groomed me as a spiritual environmentalist. I’d been converted to a pro-logging stance by living in a small town where so many faces had grown bleak and so many lives had lost hope. People came first. The loggers were proud, so were their families. They were steeped in the tradition of the forest, a vocation handed down from generation to generation. It seemed impossible that they could retrain, regroup, and recant.