The Alpine Nemesis (2 page)

Oscar owned the local movie theatre, the Whistling Marmot. He was a widower, but had extended family in Skykomish County. Vida pounced on the funeral date.

“Saturday?” She was aghast. “At two o'clock? There are four weddings scheduled that afternoon. Then, in the evening, there's the Alpine High School graduation. Whatever were you thinking of, Al?”

From the expression on Al's long face, he hadn't been thinking as hard as Vida. “Well… the family wanted it then. I would've suggested an earlier time, but some of the relatives have to come from out of town. Oscar wanted to be buried with his parents, in Oppdal, Norway.”

“Ridiculous,” Vida declared. “His wife's buried right here in Alpine. Where did he get such a silly idea? And what's that got to do with when the funeral is held? The out-of-towners could come Friday and stay overnight. You won't have half the turnout for Oscar you'd have if the funeral were at ten, or even on Friday. What's wrong with Friday?”

Al considered his answer. “The out-of-towners,” he finally said, in his deliberate manner. “They couldn't make it.”

“Pooh.” Vida waved a dismissive hand and put her glasses back on. “They could if they tried. You should have insisted on a better time. As it is, many people will be torn between attending the funeral and the weddings. Of course there will be better food at the bridal receptions. But you really can't cut one short to run off to the other. Think of the emotional mood swing required. This could start some feuds.”

I stifled my comments. Strife in Alpine wasn't caused by ethnic antagonism, deep-seated religious convictions, or political boundaries. The so-called feuds, and there were many, grew out of a slight at not receiving a baby shower invitation, being snubbed in the parking lot at
the Alpine Mall, or not getting your regular barstool at the Icicle Creek Tavern.

“By the way,” Al said as he backed away from Vida's desk, “I got a call from the parents of that snowboarder who went missing on Mount Baldy back at the end of March.”

My hackles rose and I frowned at Al. “His parents? I didn't think they were around here. But then, I didn't get first crack at the story.”

As was his habit, Al rubbed his index finger along the side of his nose. “I heard you were upset.” He shot me a sheepish, sidelong glance. “I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” I snapped. “It wasn't your fault that Spencer Fleetwood got the scoop. Unless,” I went on, taking a step toward Al, “you were the one who told him about that snowboarder in the first place.”

“Me?” Al actually jumped. “How could I? Why would I? I heard about it on … the … radio.” He gulped the last words.

“So did everybody else,” I retorted. Al wasn't getting off to a good start this Monday morning, at least not in the
Advocate's
editorial office. Of course he'd had one good thing happen to him already—Oscar Nyquist had died. Not so good for Oscar, though. Teo, who had sat down at his computer, looked up. “Don't get Emma started, Al. That snowboarder story still hurts.”

I nodded three times, with emphasis. “Why did his parents call you? Where are they? What did they want?”

Al managed a feeble smile, which was about all he could muster on any given occasion, unbridled mirth not being part of his undertaker's professional mien. “They live back in New York—not the city, but someplace else with a funny name, like something Chinese. Anyway, they wanted to know if there had been any further word about their son—Brian Conley, that's his name—and if
not, could we arrange some kind of memorial for him, maybe up on the mountain.”

Vida was still looking severe. “What's wrong with them? Wouldn't they think that if Brian's body had been found, they would have been notified as next of kin? By the way, the town is Penn Yan, and I believe the name is Welsh. When we ran the story, it reminded me of Tom Murphy. He came from there.”

Tom Murphy had been an early Alpine settler who had worked for Carl Clemans's sawmill. Tom had come west in search of Yukon gold, but not having found any, he discovered instead a young woman in Seattle who became his wife. Although the couple had lived in Alpine well before Vida's time, she had the Murphys cataloged along with every other soul who had ever set foot on the steep face of Tonga Ridge.

“Yes,” Al said sofly. “Anyway, I told them I'd be glad to hold a ceremony on Baldy, though I couldn't promise that it would be exactly where Brian was … lost. Indeed, if we knew that, we'd know where to find the remains and could have a proper service. Though,” he continued, growing thoughtful, “I haven't prepared a frozen corpse for burial in years. My father was very gifted at that—but he had more practice. In those days when the timber industry flourished, loggers got caught in avalanches and trapped under trees. Not to mention careless climbers falling into crevasses. It's not like it used to be.” He shook his head sadly.

“Come, come, Al,” Vida clucked. “Most of the people who fell into those crevasses were never retrieved. I can think of four different men who are still up on Baldy and Tonga Ridge.”

“True,” Al allowed. “Perhaps Brian Conley will still be found now that the spring thaw is under way. His parents also wanted to know if we had a Catholic priest here. I assured them that we did.”

“You'd think,” Vida said, speaking less severely now, “that they'd want to wait a bit. The spring runoff started only a few weeks ago.”

“They don't have mountains like the Cascades in Penn Yan,” Leo put in. “Their idea of a mountain back there is only slightly larger than an anthill.”

“What can you expect?” Vida remarked. “New York!” She shook her head.

Al was retreating toward the door. He was about to leave when Scott came in, waving a white bakery bag. “Hey, we got lucky. I managed to buy the last of the sugar doughnuts. Hi, Al. What's up?”

“A funeral,” Al said, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. “Oscar Nyquist. It should be an impressive event. Oscar wasn't one to go second-class.” Al made his farewell, with the hint of a spring in his quiet tread.

Snatching up a doughnut, I headed for my office cubbyhole. We had two days until deadline. The thought of getting scooped rankled particularly on this newsless Monday morning. The last big story in the county had been the unfortunate Brian Conley. He had been reported missing on a Tuesday afternoon, and whoever leaked the item had given it not to us—we'd easily have made our five o'clock deadline—but to KSKY. Our lead articles since then had featured the usual traffic accidents, wrangling at the county commissioners' meetings, and the April start-up date of a new bridge over Burl Creek by the college. I wished no one ill, but I could have used something juicy.

Frankly, this week's issue was painfully dull. We had a big school-end section to fill, and except for the related stories, nothing much of interest. The front page would carry the main articles on the high school and community college commencements, along with the announcement of Oscar Nyquist's death. But there was no lead,
nothing to grab the reader. I felt as if I were publishing a shopper, not a newspaper.

I scanned the wire services to see if there were any items with a local tie-in. A fatality accident had occurred this morning outside of Monroe on the dangerous stretch of road known as the Highway to Heaven. Too far from Alpine, and the victim was from Yakima. There was talk of resuming logging operations in central Oregon. Right industry, wrong state. A break-in had occurred at the naval station in Everett. No one from town currently worked there; the commute was too difficult in the winter. I was reminded of my former reporter, Carla Steinmetz Talliaferro, who had once solved the problem of a slow Tuesday by filling up three inches on the front page with a piece that began, “There was no news to report this week from the Snoqualmie National Forest ranger station….” And then proceeded to try to explain why.

Half an hour later, Mayor Fuzzy Baugh showed up, looking pleased with himself.

“Emma, how about a big front-page story?” he asked with the faint Louisiana drawl that still lingered in his voice.

My heart leaped. “Really? What's going on?”

Fuzzy, who has been Alpine's mayor since before I moved to town, eased himself into one of the visitor's chairs. “Tell me, darlin', what's the thing you'd most like to see as a civic improvement in this fine city?”

“Well …” I considered the dozens of editorials I'd written over the years, calling for more street repairs, sewer improvements, funding for the library, a bigger budget for the sheriff, trying to get the three old farts who made up the county commissioners to stay awake at the monthly meetings and actually accomplish something. “Schools,” I finally said. “I think it's time we tried to
pass another levy. The K-12 teachers haven't had a real raise in four years.”

Fuzzy nodded slowly. “My, yes, that's an outstanding plan. But I'm thinking of an even more pressing need. Now, Emma, you've heard the complaints about Alpine's great lack.”

“Lack of what?” I had no idea what Fuzzy was talking about.

Fuzzy put both freckled hands on my desk and leaned forward in the chair. “A public toilet, that's what.”

“A … public toilet?” I repeated stupidly.

Fuzzy nodded some more. “I can see your headline now: ‘Mayor Brings Relief to Alpine Voters.’ I mean Alpine
residents,”
he hastily corrected himself.

To be fair, there had been criticism over the years because the town didn't provide public toilets, not even in Old Mill Park. Originally there had been two privies in the park, but they'd had to be moved every autumn and new holes had needed to be dug. Some four or five years earlier, there had been an early frost, right after Labor Day. Since Alpine is three thousand feet above sea level, the ground had remained solid until April. The city council got into a squabble over the placement of the new privies, and didn't resolve the matter until late September, when it was again too late to dig. Somehow, the whole issue got tabled, leaving the public stranded.

Milo and his deputies were forced to cite individuals who relieved themselves in public. And, because of my policy of printing the names and charges of everyone on the police blotter, I became the butt, so to speak, of the irate citizens who had not enjoyed seeing themselves charged with PIP, or Peeing/Pooping in Public.

“You see, Emma,” Fuzzy went on, “Granite Falls is putting in a public toilet. If they can do it, so can we.”

Granite Falls was another former logging town, north of us on the Mountain Loop Highway. Whatever was
good for Granite Falls apparently was good for Alpine. Fuzzy wasn't going to be outdone.

“When?” I inquired. “It's already June.”

“Before the summer solstice parade, June twenty-first,” the mayor replied, looking pleased with himself. “There's enough money in the parks department budget to put in two toilets. Nothing fancy, of course, just the basics.”

“That's great, Fuzzy,” I said, trying to show enthusiasm. “Can you give me the details?”

“I'll have somebody from city hall drop off that information this afternoon,” Fuzzy said, getting to his feet and brushing at the temples of his dyed auburn hair. “Work should start in a few days. You'll want some pictures in progress, I imagine.”

“Definitely,” I replied, keeping a straight face.

“Wonderful.” Fuzzy rapped on my desk, an apparent sign of jubilation. “I kind of thought that since this was my idea it would be nice to name the rest rooms after me. What do you think of running a contest to see who can come up with the best name? The winner could have the privilege of inaugurating the toilets.”

After more than ten years in Alpine, I know there is no such thing as a really terrible idea. “Why not?” I said. “Make up the rules, send them along with the other information.”

“I've got a really good photo of the toilets in a catalog,” Fuzzy said. “Can you scan them into the newspaper?”

“Why not?” I repeated. Why not have a contest for the biggest hind end in Skykomish County? The candidates were too numerous to mention. I felt as if I were drowning in a sea of… something or other.

A proposed toilet was not a lead story, not even for the
Advocate.
I cudgeled my brain for other ideas. Maybe I could use the phone call to Al Driggers from Brian Conley's parents:

I sighed, even as I jotted down the possible headline. To refresh my memory, I pulled out the binder that contained the issues for the first quarter of the year. There was the first snowboarder story, telling our readers— after they'd already been informed by KSKY—that a twenty-five-year-old Seattle man named Brian Conley had been missing for four days on the north slope of Tonga Ridge. A week later, the follow-up story reported that Brian still hadn't been found. We had received a black-and-white photo of him from his girlfriend, and I'd run it on the front page just below the fold. I stared at the one-column cut. Brian looked younger than twenty-five, but perhaps the picture had been taken a couple of years earlier. He had a pleasant if undistinguished face. The description that had been given to the authorities listed Brian as five-ten, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, with blue eyes, dark brown hair worn short, and a small scar on the back of his right hand. I stared some more at the photo. He looked like the kind of person I'd inferred from the way his girlfriend had talked about him: ordinary, average, nice. Not the sort of person whose life should be cut off by a tragic accident. I shook my head and closed the bound volume.

If I planned to write another story I'd have to call the Conleys back in Penn Yan. Without much enthusiasm, I dialed Al's number at the funeral home. His gusty, lusty wife, Janet, answered.

“I'm filling in this morning,” she announced. “Cammy Olson is in bed with a bad case of postcoital sex.”

“The result or the cause thereof?” I inquired, laughing at Janet's typically ribald remark.

“Actually,” Janet replied, “she's got chicken pox. At twenty-two, isn't she a little old for that?”

“Not really,” I said. “The problem is, the older you
are, the harder the case. I expect she's miserable.” Maybe this was my lead story: