The Alpine Pursuit (4 page)

“Dear me.” Vida looked pained but leaned closer. “I’m sure this will all turn out very well tomorrow night. Don’t they always say that a bad rehearsal means a fine performance?”

I kept my mouth shut.

Rip slid off his stool and advanced on Jim. “You want a piece of me?” He shook his fists. “Come on, Animal Boy. Let’s have at it!”

Jim held up a hand. “I won’t fight you. I don’t believe in violence.”

Rip clumsily waved his arms. “Awww! You’re just a shickenchit!”

“Hold it!” Destiny called. “Let’s hear that line again, Coach.”

Rip looked puzzled.

“The line is ‘chickenshit!’ ” Destiny shouted. “You read it backward.”

“Oh.” Rip looked embarrassed.

“Goodness,” Vida whispered. “I certainly hope there’s not much of that kind of language in this play. I wouldn’t want Roger exposed to such things.”

Again, I kept my mouth shut. The real problem was keeping my eyes open. In the next ten minutes, there were several screwups with delivery, inflection, blocking, and lighting. At last, Clea Bhuj made her entrance along with a large English sheepdog called Dodo. Clea’s petite figure was encased in tight denim jeans and a clingy red mock-turtleneck sweater. I assumed her costume hadn’t arrived, either. As Dorothy Oz, it had to be something in a blue-and-white check. Instead of a basket, Clea carried a backpack.

“Where am I?” she asked in a wistful voice.

Hans Berenger removed the cigar from his mouth. “You’re in Evergreen,” he said somewhat stiffly, then made an attempt to give Clea a hard stare. “Are you lost or are you one of those druggies? We don’t care much for druggies around here.”

“Oh, no,” Clea replied in a breathless tone that I guessed was intended to convey shock. “I got off the bus to go to the rest room and it was gone when I—”

“Stop right there!” Destiny commanded. “Clea, they won’t be able to hear you past the third row.”

“I should have sat farther back,” I murmured. “Maybe then I couldn’t hear any of it.”

“Hush!” Vida snapped. “Roger may be about to come onstage.”

But Roger wasn’t. After an hour, I couldn’t stand it anymore. The cast members were still slogging their way through Act One. Despite Vida’s pleas for me to stay, I told her I was expecting a call from Adam. It might even be true; maybe my son would make another attempt to connect with me.

But he didn’t. I contented myself with reading a book on the Civil War and eating microwave popcorn. As I headed for bed around eleven-thirty, I figured the rehearsal was probably still going on. I hoped the actual performance would be much shorter.

Unfortunately, my wish would be granted.

THREE

Friday got off to a bad start. Admittedly, I’m not at my best in the morning. All my working life I’ve found it difficult to rise early. During the years I was employed by
The Oregonian
in Portland, the job began at nine. When I purchased the
Advocate
and became my own boss, I figured I could adjust my schedule to what suited me. However, the previous owner, Marius Vandeventer, had always opened up at eight. Residents of Alpine don’t like change. The inherited staff members—especially Vida—wanted to keep to the original hours despite the fact that there’s no daily deadline pressure on a weekly. The rest of the town also preferred the status quo. If they had classified ads to drop off or items to submit, they found it more convenient to drop by on their way to work. Thus, I was stuck with the early opening and could only cope by consuming massive doses of caffeine.

It had snowed a couple of inches during the night, but because the temperature still hovered in the low twenties there was no new ice to make driving dangerous. But the weather wasn’t what made me extra grumpy. I was digging in my big handbag for my keys when I happened to look out the window to see Destiny Parsons standing on her front steps across the street and clapping her hands. Sure enough, her wretched dog was once again decorating the snow in my yard. I didn’t know if the applause was for Azbug’s success or merely to urge the mutt on. In any event, I yanked open the door and marched outside.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Beat it!”

Destiny leaned forward. “Are you speaking to me?”

“I’m speaking to your dog,” I called back. “Would you please stop sending him over to my yard?”

“It’s a she, not a he,” Destiny shouted as the fox terrier trotted back across the street. No doubt the mutt wore a smug expression. “Azbug goes where she goes.”

“Then she’d better not go here anymore,” I retorted. “If she does, I’ll take a broom to her.”

“How dare you!” Destiny drew herself up to her full height and glared in my direction. “If you do that, I’ll report you to the SPCA!”

“Then I’ll report you to the sheriff for harassment!” I shouted. “Meanwhile, get yourself a shovel and a bag and clean up your critter’s mess! If I have to do it, I’ll dump it on your porch!” Furious, I turned around and stomped back into the living room, slamming the door behind me.

I peeked outside. Azbug had joined Destiny. The big bitch and the little bitch went into their house. I started toward the fireplace to get the ash shovel but stopped at the edge of the hearth. Maybe Destiny would remove Azbug’s deposit later. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt. Better her than me. I went out to the car and backed down the driveway. As I pulled onto Fir Street, there was no sign of activity across the street. Maybe Destiny couldn’t find a shovel.

By noon, my temper had cooled down and the weather had warmed up. I rarely watch the TV forecasts. A more accurate prediction came from going outside and sensing what meteorological changes were in store for Alpine. Crossing Front Street to the Burger Barn, I thought it felt like more snow.

Milo Dodge agreed with me. He was headed in the same direction, coming from his office two blocks down from the
Advocate
.

“The state patrol is issuing a traffic advisory for later in the day,” he said as we entered the restaurant. “The big snow they expected earlier still may hit by tonight.”

“Before or after the play?” I asked, looking for an empty booth.

Milo apparently didn’t realize I was being facetious. “No telling.” To my surprise, he started in the direction of the counter.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing at the sleeve of his regulation parka, “there’s a vacant booth toward the back.”

“Huh?” Milo turned slowly. “Oh.” He hesitated. “Okay.”

As I led the way, the sheriff couldn’t see the annoyance on my face. After we sat down, I asked him the burning question:

“What’s with you lately? Ordinarily, if we bump into each other on the way to lunch, we always eat together. Have I done something to piss you off?”

Milo stared at me without expression. “No.”

“Then why were you going to sit at the counter?”

He shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“Not when you’re with me.”

“I wasn’t with you. I mean, we didn’t . . .” His hazel eyes wavered. “I had my mind on something else.”

“Like what?”

He shrugged again. “Oh . . . work.”

When it came to “work” with the sheriff, it often translated into “news.” “Is it something I should know about?”

“No.”

My response had to go on hold as our server appeared. Both Milo and I stared. Instead of the usual young, blond waitress of Scandinavian descent, Rita Patricelli stood at our table.

“Are you ready to order?” she asked as if she’d never seen us before.

Milo turned his coffee mug right-side up. “Coffee here, Rita. What’s this?” he asked, waving a big hand at her Burger Barn waitress uniform. “Did you quit the chamber?”

“No, sir,” Rita replied meekly. “Would you care to order your entrée now?”

Looking baffled, Milo nodded. “Sure. Cheeseburger, fries, green salad. I don’t get it.” He stared at Rita again.

Rita leaned closer. “I’m getting into my part for the play tonight. Destiny thought I should try being a waitress for a few hours to get the feel for my character of Angela.” She straightened up. “And you, miss?” Rita said to me.

I ordered the Friday fish and chips special with coleslaw and a pineapple malt. Rita moved briskly to the kitchen counter, where she slid our order into a metal clip.

“I suppose I should make an appearance to show SkyCo’s law enforcement support,” Milo said. “Not to mention that Dustin Fong would get his feelings hurt if I was a no-show.”

I hadn’t seen Milo’s deputy after the rehearsal started. In proofing the playbills earlier in the day I’d noticed that he was playing the part of Kevin Chang, an attorney. Dustin would probably do all right if he maintained his usual professional, somewhat stoic manner.

“Want to go with me?” I asked in what I hoped was a casual voice.

Rita had returned with the coffeepot for Milo. He didn’t answer until she was gone. I got the impression he was grateful for the interruption. “I probably should take the Cherokee Chief,” he said at last. “If more snow comes and we get some accidents around here, I may have to leave early. I wouldn’t want you to be stuck at the playhouse.”

I considered sulking but reminded myself that I was a mature middle-aged woman. I’d get mad instead. After all, my day had started out with a flare of temper. Why should I stop now?

“Fine,” I snapped. “What next, we pretend we don’t know each other? You’ve been acting like a real jerk for the past . . .” I had to stop to think how long it had been since Milo had become standoffish. “. . . Four, five months? What did I do, snub you at Harvey’s Hardware because I didn’t see you from behind the Weed-Eater display?”

Milo grimaced, then began rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, a longtime habit of his. “Forget it. It’s no big deal.”

I leaned across the table, keeping my voice down. “No, I won’t forget it, not as long as you keep putting me at a distance. I thought we were friends again. We went through this once before, after our official breakup. But after Tom died, we picked up where we’d left off, and I was happy about that. We even slept together a couple of times. And then”—I snapped my fingers, hoping that the Nordby brothers across the aisle wouldn’t notice—“poof! You started acting as if I were a contagious disease.”

Milo’s gaze also roamed toward the Nordby brothers, but they were engaged in a serious conversation, too. Trout and Skunk, as they were known, owned the local GM dealership. They weren’t talking car sales, though. Rather, I had caught the words
Martin Creek
,
too cold
,
too high
,
off-color
, and
hopeless
. I knew they referred to steelhead fishing and apparently not having any luck. Milo probably heard them, too, and wished he could join them. Typical male that he is, the sheriff would prefer discussing the elusive seagoing trout rather than a relationship with any mere woman.

“Okay,” he finally said, passing a hand over his long face as if he wished he could make himself disappear. “You’re the one I thought was being kind of strange lately. I figured you had somebody else on the line.”

I almost smiled. The analogy revealed what Milo was really thinking about. “Me?” I was surprised. “Who? I’m not seeing anybody.”

Our orders arrived, courtesy of Rita, who remained in character. “May I bring you anything else?” she inquired politely.

We both said we had everything we needed.

Rita suddenly switched gears. “You two look like you need a lot of things,” she snarled, then leaned forward and literally got in the sheriff’s startled face. “If I catch you screwing some slut in the rest room again, I’ll see you never come in here again!”

I must have looked as shocked as Milo. Before either of us could say anything, Rita straightened up and smiled a bit sheepishly. “Sorry,” she said, “but I’m rehearsing my back talk to one of the characters in the play.”

“You seem to have it down pat,” I responded, feeling relieved.

“You bet your sweet ass I do, chicky.” Rita turned around on her rubber-soled shoes and screeched off like a car on two wheels.

It took a moment for Milo to regain his aplomb. “What,” he asked, still keeping his voice down, “about Max Froland? Didn’t you go out with him?”

“Once,” I retorted. “As you well know. He passed out during our dinner at Le Gourmand, and you and the rest of the emergency crew had to haul him away to the hospital. Of course, he was grieving over his father’s death at the time.”

“I thought you dated him after that,” Milo said.

I shook my head. “He called once or twice, but we never got together. Do you really think he’d drive all the way up here from Seattle in the winter to see me?”

Milo shrugged again. “He might.”

“He didn’t.” I waited, but the sheriff seemed focused on his cheeseburger. “That’s it?”

“Unh.” He pointed to his mouth, where he was chewing the cheeseburger. “You and Fleetwood seem pretty friendly since he got his radio station blown up.”

“He had a lot more happen to him than that,” I replied. “I’ll admit, it changed him a bit. He’s not nearly so obnoxious and arrogant. But our relationship is strictly business.”

“Like going to Seattle together before Christmas to hear some concert?”

“The Messiah?”
I scowled at Milo. “Would you have wanted to go with me?”

“Isn’t that the one with all the
hallelujahs
?”

“That’s it.”

“Probably not. You know me. I’m not much for highbrow music.”

“I know,” I said. That was one of the problems with our relationship. Milo didn’t care for many of the cultural activities I enjoyed. Our only common interest was baseball, and spring training had barely gotten under way.

“So you invited Fleetwood to go with you.” He made the statement without inflection.

“He invited me.” The conversation was getting more stupid by the second. “He’d gotten two free tickets from one of his buddies at a Seattle classical FM station. I’d mentioned something about not having heard
The Messiah
in concert for over twenty years, so he asked if I’d like to go with him.”

“Mmm.” Milo was chewing French fries.

I knew what he was thinking. After a late dinner at El Gaucho, Spence and I had stayed over. We’d had separate rooms at the downtown Marriott. I refused to mention that fact. Milo’s attitude still annoyed me, and I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of supplying an answer to the question he wouldn’t ask. I’d gone to Mass at the cathedral that Sunday morning before we headed back to Alpine. My absence from St. Mildred’s had been a source of gossip. Furthermore, Vida had used our attendance at the concert for one of her “Scene Around Town” items. No doubt people had conjectured for days.

“Well,” Milo finally said, “I hope you don’t think I’m sticking my nose in your business. That is,” he went on, his long frame squirming a bit, “I was kind of curious.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “No kidding.”

He smiled faintly. “Guess I sounded pretty weird.”

Rita stopped to refill Milo’s coffee mug. “If you’d lay off the booze,” she said to me, “you wouldn’t wake up in the gutter every morning. No wonder you can’t get a job, scumbag.”

I received this latest bit of acting talent with a fixed smile. After Rita had stomped off again, I responded to Milo’s remark. “You sounded suspicious—just like a lawman.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” Milo finished his salad and reached for his Marlboro Lights. “My treat today,” he said, picking up the bill that Rita had left on the table when she stopped with the coffeepot. “Should I tip her?”

The sheriff isn’t cheap, but he’s careful with money. “You mean because she’s not really a waitress?” I shrugged. “Why not use phony money?”

Milo, however, decided he should make a gesture. Maybe, I thought, it’d help her acting. I had to admit, she’d sounded fairly convincing when she’d called me a scumbag.

“Speaking of the play,” Milo said, reaching for his wallet, “what do you think about Destiny Parsons?”

I eyed the sheriff curiously. “In what way?”

“Oh . . .” He paused, putting down two ones and a couple of quarters. “When this
Outcast
stuff is over, I thought I might ask her out to dinner. You know, to thank her for reviving the dramatic club thing.”

I wore a face of stone and fought to keep my mouth shut.

“I haven’t socialized much lately,” Milo went on, tapping his cigarette into the plastic ashtray. “She seems like a decent woman. You must know her pretty well. Not bad-looking, either, although she could use some meat on her bones. She lives across the street from you, right?”

“Yes.” The stone face was cracking. If, after over two years of not dating, Milo found Destiny attractive, I should be happy for him. But he had a poor track history with women, including his ex-wife. And me, for that matter. At least—unlike some of the others—I’d never wanted to hurt him. I had anyway, but that was different. There would have been even more pain in store for Milo if we’d continued our romantic attachment. “Destiny’s a good choice if you like shoveling dog crap.”