Alpine Hero (19 page)

I remembered the odd look in Laurie’s eyes the previous morning. I’d thought of it as determination, but perhaps it was much more. Vida could be right. On the other hand, what did it have to do with Kay Whitman’s murder?

“Possibly nothing,” Vida admitted as Ed Bronsky charged through the door. “Oh, Ed, how nice!” The sarcasm was lost on our visitor. “Do you want to buy an ad or have you written a news release?”

Ed was wearing a different overcoat, black alpaca, with a fur collar. I could tell it was new, because the price tag dangled from the left-hand pocket. No doubt it was an oversight, since Ed couldn’t see around his stomach. He looked like a big fat squirrel.

“I’m here to see Emma,” he announced, offering me a conspiratorial smile. “Can you spare fifteen minutes out of your busy schedule?” Ed chuckled, pleased to have caught us seemingly taking our ease.

I agreed that I could fit Ed in, though I added that I had an interview scheduled at nine-fifteen with Principal Freeman. Ed helped himself to coffee, but showed disappointment when he couldn’t find any sweet rolls.

“That’s Ginny’s job on Fridays,” I said, leading the way into my office. “She’s still on her honeymoon.”

“Oh, well.” With a disheartened sigh, Ed wedged himself into one of my visitor’s chairs. It creaked ominously, reminding me that one of these days I’d have to get it fixed. It creaked again when he turned to stare at my open door. “Say, Emma, shouldn’t we … ah, that is …”

As a former employee, Ed knew my policy regarding doors. Unless the discussion was extremely delicate, the door stayed open. I gazed at Ed with innocent eyes.

“Is something wrong, Ed? It’s not trouble with Shirley, I hope?”

Ed drew back in the chair, causing it to retreat a couple of inches. “Shirley? Of course not! It’s about the …” He gestured with his hands, indicating what I assumed was the size of a book. “You
know
,” he whispered.

“Oh!” I all but shrieked, looking beyond Ed into the news office, where Leo had just arrived. “Your autobiography!” Picking up a Seattle phone book, I ignored Ed’s wince. “I’ve solved your problem, Ed. I’m giving you the number and address of a writers’ group. They’ve got members all over the state, and they’re often looking for projects just like yours. I can imagine how excited they’ll be to hear about your book idea.”

Ed may be dopey, but he isn’t dumb. “Now, just a minute, Emma,” he said, sounding severe. “I don’t want some freelancer who doesn’t know me from Adam. The reason I asked you is because we go way back, both on the job and off. We’re not just friends and former coworkers, we’re fellow parishioners and members of the Chamber of Commerce. How could some hired gun out of Seattle or Yakima write about the real me?”

My brainstorm seemed to be backfiring. I rested the phone book against the edge of my desk. Ed’s pudgy face showed signs not only of indignation, but of anguish. Puffed-up jackass that he might be, Ed was still human. I could see Vida fetching more hot water and pretending not to eavesdrop. Leo was almost as discreet, standing by Carla’s desk, seemingly lost in admiration of some contact photos.

“Okay,” I said, trying to inject camaraderie into my voice, “let’s try this. When you get everything organized,
I’ll go through it, and help you outline your own version. We’ve got two problems, Ed. One is that I honestly don’t have the spare time to give a full-length book—especially one that’s meaty” —I’d almost said beefy—“the attention it deserves. The other is that you are the only person who can write this story.” Ed started to protest, but I held up a hand, which unfortunately allowed the phone book to fall on my foot. “It’s not perspective,” I emphasized, “that’s so vital, but insight. You’ve written advertising copy, you know your way around words.” I couldn’t believe I was saying all this with a straight face. No doubt the pain in my foot helped. “When you start putting things down on paper, you’ll make all sorts of discoveries, subconscious, latent, intimate, even spiritual sides of yourself that you—that all of us—don’t think about on a day-to-day basis. It’ll be a journey, Ed, inside of you, and the result will bring what you are out into the open for the benefit of the reader.”

Leo spun around and had to lean on Carla’s desk for support. I could see his shoulders shaking with mirth. Fortunately, Vida had returned to her desk and was out of my range of vision. I could imagine her rolling her eyes.

Ed was looking very thoughtful. “You have a point, Emma. Maybe I should keep the tape I brought along.” He patted the breast pocket of his overcoat. “Actually, I only got up to the first day of kindergarten. It was a logical stopping place, though. You know how writers always end chapters with some kind of drama that makes the reader keep turning the page—at school nap-time, I got rolled up in my mat.”

“Yes.” I nodded solemnly. “That’s just the thing. It sounds great, Ed.” As if taken by surprise, I glanced at my watch. “Good grief! It’s almost nine-ten! Principal Freeman will keep me after school if I’m tardy! Ha-ha.”

Ed laughed, but it was perfunctory. I suspected that he
was already delving into his inner self. Escorting Ed out of the office, I couldn’t look at Leo or Vida. I managed a wave for Carla, who was on the phone in the front office. Accepting Ed’s earnest handshake, I got into the Jag and headed for the high school. I felt as if I were driving a getaway car.

The snow of the previous night hadn’t amounted to much, and I was reminded of the collision between Amanda Hanson and Tim Rafferty. I’d forgotten to stop by the sheriff’s office to fill out a report. I’d also forgotten what Amanda had said about the customer who had returned the unwanted parcel. While Amanda had mentioned no names, she’d said that the woman wrote poetry. I had intended to pass the remark on to Vida, but in the excitement of figuring out Laurie’s parentage, Amanda’s complaint had slipped my mind.

The interview with Karl Freeman took longer than I’d expected. Sometimes I forget how cautious and long-winded educators can be. All I had wanted to find out from the principal was if he’d heard anything new about the community-college plans. Often, the local high school serves as a springboard, sometimes providing physical plant and a source for faculty.

The most that Karl Freeman could tell me—and he hedged there, too—was that he felt a sense of interest among several or at least a few teachers who might consider teaching at a higher level, depending upon various other factors. As for the actual location of the new college, the principal didn’t really know, but would guess—if pressed—that it would be somewhere close to town. The high school had formed three committees, one to explore the impact of the college on the curriculum for grades nine through twelve, the second to determine which faculty members were qualified to teach at the college level, and the third to discuss whether or not a task
force should be set up to work at the local level between the high school and the college, or if it would be more appropriate for the legislature to make that decision, in which case, there was a subcommittee handling that specific issue. The one thing that Principal Freeman could say in all sincerity was that the quality of education at Alpine High would continue to be maintained at the highest standards, as long as the voters kept passing school levies, one of which would be put before the electorate in March of the following year, if board members agreed upon the timing and the amount. Both factors were being studied by ad hoc committees from the school board, and a decision should be forthcoming in the next few months.

My head was spinning as I drove down Highway 187 to Front Street. As usual, I noted the vacant storefronts. Some had moved to the Alpine Mall; others had simply closed their doors forever. Not much in the way of new business had come along to fill the vacuum. If Principal Freeman thought he could pass a levy before the community college began to sprout foundations and walls, he was doomed to disappointment. Alpiners needed a visible sign of new life before they’d agree to pay for so much as an unabridged dictionary.

I passed
The Advocate
and the sheriff’s office. The post office was located in a brown brick building, wedged between the U.S. Forest Service and the state highway department. The architecture was so uninspiring that I assumed it had been a cooperative venture between the three agencies. Only the government could turn such a beautiful setting into something so drab.

Amanda Hanson was waiting on Grace Grundle when I arrived. Grace is a retired schoolteacher, and has an inner-ear problem that sometimes causes her to stagger. At present she was leaning against the counter, fussing
over the cost of a package she was sending to a relative in Kansas.

“I simply don’t understand,” Grace said in her quiet but firm voice, “why there’s so little difference between second class and parcel post. Are you trying to tell me that for six cents less, it might take up to five more days to deliver this to Hector?”

Amanda, who was wearing a frilly white blouse that probably violated several regulations handed down by the postmaster general, gave Grace a condescending look. “It’s up to you. What’s the rush?”

Grace bristled. “It’s three loaves of banana bread. Hector loves my banana bread. I don’t want it to get stale.”

“Then send it express mail,” Amanda said as her patience began to ebb. “He’ll have it Monday.”

“But his birthday isn’t until Wednesday,” Grace protested.

Amanda leaned her pert chin on one hand. “Then ship it first class.”

“But that will cost me almost five dollars!” Grace looked horrified.

“Express mail will cost you fifteen.” Amanda stood up straight, her contemptuous blue eyes regarding Grace as if she had her picture on the post office wall.

“Fifteen dollars! Oh, my.” Grace reeled against the counter. “Why, I’ve never spent that much in my life to mail anything, including my husband’s ashes!”

There were now three other people behind me in line and Amanda was the only clerk on duty. “Look,” she said sharply, “make up your mind. If you want to think it over, step aside and come back when you’re ready.”

As classroom dictator to three generations of Alpine elementary students, Grace wasn’t used to taking orders. “Now see here, young woman,” Grace huffed, “your job
is to accommodate me. If you don’t wish to do that, then I must ask to speak to your supervisor.”

“Oh, for God’s …” Amanda grabbed the parcel from the scale and shoved it back at Grace. “Go ahead, talk to Roy. I’ll get him for you right now.” With a rustle of white frills, she left the window and hurried to the nether reaches of the post office.

Heather Bardeen, the daughter of Henry, was standing behind me with several large packages. We exchanged knowing looks.

“It’s my break,” she whispered. “Dad will think I’ve been kidnapped if I don’t get back behind the desk at the ski lodge before ten-thirty.”

Roy Everson appeared at that moment, his thin face wearing what I presumed was his customer-friendly expression. “Now, Mrs. Grundle—” he began.

“Roy,” Grace interrupted with a wag of her finger, “posture, posture, posture! What have I always told you about keeping your shoulders straight and your head back? You’ll have a crooked spine by the time you’re forty!”

“I’m fifty.” Roy sighed, beckoning for Grace to join him at the next window. “Let’s see what we’ve got here, Mrs. Grundle. I take it you want to—”

“Take
it? No, Roy, you aren’t
taking
anything—not in that sense. What you mean is that you
understand
.…”

I smiled faintly at Amanda, who had resumed her stance behind the counter. Her gaze was conspiratorial—until she recognized me. “You saw the wreck,” she said, lowering her voice. “Well? Was it my fault, or that jerk Tim Rafferty? He was going way too fast for that kind of road conditions.”

“Those kinds
,” Grace Grundle shot across the partition. “Plural nouns require plural adjectives and adverbs.”

Amanda, who had moved to Alpine with her husband
only a year and a half earlier, didn’t feel compelled to obey Grace’s grammar rules. “Evil old bitch,” Amanda mouthed. “Well? Wasn’t that Rafferty guy speeding?”

The last thing I wanted to do was to get into an argument over the collision. “I haven’t filed a report,” I said truthfully. “I’m sure that black ice sent you into a skid. It’s up to the sheriff to decide who was at fault. May I have twenty thirty-two-cent stamps?”

Amanda flipped open a book showing the various commemorative and regular issues. “Which kind?”

“Any kind,” I replied. Amanda gave me a bunch of lighthouses. I gave her six dollars and forty cents. “Say,” I said, not quite up to being ingenuous, “who was the pest with the parcel last night?” Seeing Amanda frown, I clarified my question. “You know, the woman who came in just before closing time.”

Amanda handed me a receipt and gave an incredulous shake of her head. “That Marshall woman, the one who writes poems. Sometimes she puts them on the envelopes she’s mailing. You know, like her light bill—‘Utility rates are outrageously high/Who can afford to bake a pie?’ Junk. The problem with people like her is that they spend all their time thinking so-called deep thoughts and not paying attention to real life. If she’s got a package she doesn’t want, just hand it over to the carrier. Don’t bother us about it, especially not at one minute to five.”

I managed to put on my most sympathetic face. “What was it, something she ordered from the TV shopping network?”

“QVC?” Amanda shook her head. “No. I wish it had been. Those are easy—so many people order stuff from that cable deal and then change their minds. But this one didn’t have a return address. We don’t know what to do with it. Dead Lettersville, that’s where it’ll go. Somebody wasted a lot of postage.”

I felt myself tense, though I wasn’t sure why. “Don’t do that,” I said, barely able to recognize my own voice. I saw Amanda’s curious expression. “Humor me,” I went on, feeling silly. “If you’ve still got that package, turn it over to the sheriff.”

Amanda continued to stare, then shrugged. “Okay, why not?” She leaned across the counter and again lowered her voice. “Does that mean Dodge and you will admit Rafferty was at fault?”