Alpine Hero (11 page)

I got the name of the sports-car driver, who turned out to be a seemingly unharmed but dazed young man from Everett. He’d been going too fast to take the curve, he mumbled. He’d skidded and gone into the ditch. After we determined that someone with a car phone had already called the state patrol, Vida and I returned to the Buick.

“We’re stuck for a while,” she said, wiping moisture from her face. Turning this way and that, she broke into a smile. “Where did Cal Vickers say that new house was being built?”

“Right above the spot where the North Fork of the Sky joins the South Fork,” I said.

Vida opened her window, making peculiar motions at the car in back of us. The next thing I knew, she had angled the Buick onto the shoulder of the road and was backing up.

“With any luck, we can reverse until we get to that gravel road that goes up to Sunset Falls. I’ll bet anything that’s where the new construction is located. The North Fork comes in on the other side of the highway by the last bridge.”

“That gravel road is on the other side of the bridge,” I pointed out. “How are we going to back across that with all these cars?”

“We’ll walk.” Vida inched along; the bridge came into view through the rear window. She stopped the car and got out again. I had no choice but to follow her.

I’d never been on the road to Sunset Falls before. While it was indeed made of gravel, it appeared to have been recently improved and widened. A network of vine maples grew over the road, and tall evergreens flanked both sides. The air smelled damp and fresh, but the peaceful setting was disturbed by a loud, harsh noise.

In another fifty yards, we found the source of the noise: a cement truck was spewing its contents into a
large wooden platform. Farther off, by the river, we could see an already-laid foundation that was even bigger. Vida waved at one of the workmen.

“Yoo-hoo! Press!” She trudged through the muddy ground, sinking almost to the top of her ankle boots.

The workman pointed to another man who was standing off to one side, studying a blueprint. Vida changed her path, and I dutifully followed. The man couldn’t hear us coming over the noise. He didn’t look up until we were within four feet of him.

“Press!” Vida shouted again. “
Alpine Advocate!
”

“What?” The man cupped his ear. He was wearing a hunting cap, a heavy brown jacket, and dark work pants. I assumed he was the foreman.

Vida motioned for the man to move away from the cement truck. He didn’t seem pleased by the suggestion, but complied. Just as we reached another truck that bore the Nyquist Construction logo, the cement pouring stopped.

“We’re from
The Advocate
,” Vida said, offering the man her warmest smile. She also gave him our names, which seemed to cause some alarm. The man drew back a couple of steps, colliding with the truck.

“I don’t talk to the media,” he said. “Please leave.”

Vida was dumbfounded, or as close as she ever got. “Now, see here, young man—” she began.

For once, I interposed myself between Vida and her would-be victim. “This is quite a project,” I said pleasantly. “I see Nyquist Construction has been hired. They’re an Alpine firm, and one of our advertisers. I’m surprised they haven’t mentioned this job to us.”

The man frowned at me. “I asked them not to. I don’t do interviews.”

I kept the pleasant expression pasted on my face. “Oh? Then maybe you could tell us who owns this property so
that we can talk to them. It’s so big that I assume it must be a new business. That’s news in this part of the world.”

The man’s features loosened just a fraction. “I own the property. It’s not a business. It’s my house.” He nodded curtly at the second foundation. “There, by the river. They’re pouring for the garage and workshop now. If you want to know any more, you can contact me by E-mail.”

We didn’t have E-mail at
The Advocate.
Not yet, anyway. No doubt we’d get it along with other state-of-the-art innovations when—and if—I actually converted the back shop.

“How about the U.S. mail?” I suggested. “I’d be glad to do that, if you’ll give me your name and address.”

This time the man actually recoiled. “
My
name? You don’t know
my
name?”

Vida couldn’t stand being left out. “We certainly don’t. We thought you were in concrete.”

The man began to laugh. And laugh and laugh. Vida and I stared at each other. Finally, he stopped, literally holding his sides.

“I can’t believe it! That’s hilarious! I’m Toby Popp!”

We still didn’t know who he was. When I said as much, Toby stopped laughing. He was incredulous. “Then why are you here?”

Vida waved a gloved hand at the foundations. “Because of these,” she said testily. “Any structure of this size around here is news, especially if an Alpine contractor is involved. Emma already told you that, Mister … Popp.”

“Well, now you know.” Toby’s mirth had faded. He was again looking stern. “You’d better leave.”

“Certainly,” Vida said, turning away.

“Thanks, anyway,” I said, trying not to sink into the mire.

Back on the gravel road, Vida demanded to know who
Toby Popp was. I didn’t hear her at first, because a second cement truck was now growling away.

“I’ve no idea,” I replied. “A rock star? A TV personality? A psychopath?”

“He’s not from around here,” Vida asserted. “There’ve never been any Popps in Skykomish or east Snohomish counties.” Her tone dismissed Toby Popp. I decided to do the same, except for having Carla check with Nyquist Construction so that we could run a small article. Their client seemed of no importance, except that he was bringing much-needed dollars into Alpine. I, too, put Toby Popp out of my mind.

That was foolish.

W
E DIDN’T GET
back to Alpine until just before five o’clock. Carla had left, though Leo was still at his desk, going over some of the Presidents’ Day ads. As expected, the phone messages had piled up, most of them in reference to the murder at Stella’s.

“Vida,” I asked as my House & Home editor sorted through her own calls, “you must know Stella fairly well. Is there anything in her background that might link her to Kay Whitman?”

Vida shot me a triumphant look. “So you’ve been thinking about what I said. That’s progress. Perhaps.” But she turned rueful. “Stella’s life is an open book. The only connection might be through Becca. You see,” she added in apology, “I don’t know much about Becca’s life outside of Alpine.”

Leo glanced up from his ad copy. “Jeez! There’s something you don’t know, Duchess? I thought you had everything filed away inside that awe-inspiring head of yours!”

“Go to the dickens, Leo,” Vida said with dignity. “I do know that in high school Becca was seeing a very nasty young man from Skykomish.” She pointedly ignored Leo, and spoke directly to me. “He was involved in all sorts of unfortunate activities, including a motorcycle
gang. That’s when Stella became involved. She’s always pitched in to help young people with problems.”

I was well aware of Stella Magruder’s compassion for troubled youth. It was said that she had saved many a teenager from getting in too deep. Apparently, Becca Wolfe was one of them.

“When Becca graduated—barely,” Vida went on, “Stella advised her to leave Alpine. Imagine! That was a very daring idea.” I kept a straight face, knowing that many adolescents couldn’t wait to head for the Big City. “Becca moved away, with her parents’ blessing. They simply couldn’t handle the girl. Later, I heard she married. Then it seemed that the groom wasn’t much better than the biker from Skykomish. That happens so often—young women making the wrong choices, over and over again.”

I felt my face stiffen. I hadn’t fallen into that particular trap. Instead, I’d clung to the same man for over twenty years. Maybe we all went to extremes when it came to mating. For some women, love had to be found, tested, lost, and found again. The cycle never stopped. Not being in love, or in the act of pursuing it, was tantamount to death. I, however, had found love early. The man I’d chosen had been both dangerous and safe. He had cast me adrift, which frightened as well as suited me. I’d never had to make promises I couldn’t keep; there was no need to search for a new love. Until now.

“Anyway,” Vida continued, “Becca divorced him, attended beauty school in Seattle, and returned to Alpine. I gleaned that much from the brief interview I did with her in January when she went to work for Stella.”

“It’s a weak link,” I admitted.

Leo was on his feet. “Weak? It doesn’t exist. You two are pushing it.”

Vida’s gaze was filled with disdain. “We didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“It’s still free.” Leo was putting on his raincoat. “If you’re trying to tie this Whitman broad into the locals, dig into her past first. I used to work with a guy out in the San Fernando Valley who retired to Carmel. You want me to call him tonight?”

I thought it was a good idea. The offer also seemed to smooth Vida’s ruffled feathers. “By all means,” she said, gathering up her belongings. “Assuming, of course, this chum of yours is in the know.”

Leo shrugged. “He’s got contacts. Carmel’s just south of Pacific Grove. Jake’s bored spitless these days. He’ll probably be glad to have something to do.”

After Leo was gone, Vida heaved a great sigh. “I wish I had kinfolk in Carmel. They’d know something. Do you realize that I have only three California addresses on my Christmas-card list? None of them are in that part of the state.” My House & Home editor sounded as if she were owning up to one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

I grinned at Vida. “That’s okay. I thought of something just now while Leo was talking about his former colleague. Remember the environmentalist who stayed with Honoria last spring? She and Honoria went way back. Why don’t we call her?” Proud of my brainstorm, I kept grinning.

Vida, however, was stalking across the room to the door. “I already did. The environmentalist moved to Brazil to save the rain forests. Good night, Emma.”

Deflated, I wandered into my office. The phone calls could wait until morning. My editorial for next week was already outlined. I’d decided to write about the proposed sale of timberlands that had been charred in the previous summer’s devastating fires. The blazes had roared through three of eastern Washington’s national
forests, and federal officials were still debating how to offer salvage logging. Supposedly, parcels of timber that hadn’t been seriously harmed by the fires would be put up for bid. The plan was controversial, with the environmentalists arguing that the once-protected areas should stay that way. Timber-industry leaders couldn’t agree whether the selected trees would be worth the effort. My point was that the government was dragging its feet.

I was doing the same thing. My buoyant mood of two days earlier had changed into listlessness. Maybe I was suffering from frustration over the seemingly fruitless interview at Honoria’s house. Or perhaps the slow drive back to Alpine had dampened whatever enthusiasm I had left for the remainder of the day. I couldn’t force myself to make up my mind whether to grocery-shop or eat at the Venison Inn.

The phone rang. It was after five-thirty, too late for anyone to expect an answer. I let it ring twice more, then noticed that the call was coming in on my direct line. I grabbed the receiver before the answering machine switched on.

“Mom—how come you’re still at work?” Adam demanded. “Don’t you usually cut out early on Wednesdays?”

I was surprised that Adam remembered any details of my job schedule. “Vida and I had to go down to Startup. What’s happening in Tempe?”

“Not enough,” Adam replied in an unusually mournful voice. “Just like everywhere else. People are indifferent. They don’t care. You know what’s wrong with the world? Selfishness. Everybody’s too inner-directed.”

I sucked in my breath. How had my son come to this conclusion when he, too, was guilty? Given his youth and my doting maternal instincts, Adam was in the vanguard of contemporary self-absorption.

“Selfish, yes,” I agreed. “But some of it’s fear. What gave you this sudden insight?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Adam sounded world-weary. “It’s been sinking in for a long time, maybe starting with the Navajo. The Hopi, too. Uncle Ben knows what I’m talking about.”

So did Mother Emma. But a parent’s opinions are rarely worth more than five cents on the dollar. “You’ve talked to Ben lately?”

“He called me a week or two ago about those family pictures,” Adam responded, still solemn. “I was in the middle of making out my class schedule for next term. He advised me to take a lot of sociology and philosophy. That way, I can work with the Inner Person. Otherwise, change is useless.”

I hesitated before asking the obvious: “Did Ben suggest beginning with you?”

Adam’s laugh was patronizing. “He’s always told me that. I made up a slogan. I’ve got it on the wall of my dorm. ‘It all starts with I.’ ” Taking my silence for lack of comprehension, Adam went on, somewhat impatiently. “The word
it
—that begins with an
i.
Which means that if a person is going to make a difference—”

“I get it,” I said. “Ben’s right. You’re right. But how do you intend to go about changing the world?”

“Mom,” Adam said in his familiar tone of exasperation, “you’re out of it. Change is made in ways that seem small, even unimportant. You have to go one-on-one with other people. That’s why I want to be a social worker.”

For the past few months Adam had been digressing from his previous goal, which was to become an anthropologist or an archaeologist, whichever was easier to spell on a résumé. He had spent two summers working the Anasazi digs with Ben, which had inspired my son to
live in the past. That had been fine with me, as long as he worked at preparing for the future. Social work didn’t seem to suit him.

“How many credits do you need to graduate in social work?” I inquired.

“Graduate?” Adam now sounded vague. “I don’t know why a diploma is such a big deal. It’s understanding and experience and compassion that mean the most when you work with people. Getting a so-called degree will take forever. I figured that after this next term I’d quit school and start doing something. Think of all the people I could be helping instead of staring at a computer screen or listening to some disorganized prof drone on about theories.”