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“So maybe they've patched up their long-standing quarrel?” I suggested, noting the approach of Greer and Grant Fairfax.

“Estrangement is more like it,” Vida said, wincing as Fuzzy went into one of his tried-and-true anecdotes about arriving in Alpine forty years ago, fresh out of Baton Rouge. “I really couldn't say. Alicia doesn't strike me as the type who takes things lightly. Certainly her mother doesn't. The question is not only
why
she saw him, but
where.
Was it an accidental meeting? Or was it—”

The Fairfaxes looked upset as they descended on Vida. “Where are our boys?” Greer demanded. “Have you seen them in the last two hours?”

Vida's eyebrows raised above the tortoiseshell frames of her glasses. “Why, no. They were with Roger…. Oh, dear!” Now she, too, looked alarmed as her head swiveled in every direction. “Where
did
they go?”

“We checked the riverbank,” Grant said, tightlipped.
“Greer even walked over to the mall. Is Roger responsible?”

Vida drew back as if struck. “Of course! He's the soul of maturity!”

I felt like snickering, but didn't. In my opinion, Roger was as responsible as a rabbit in heat. And about as bright. But neither Vida nor the Fairfaxes were amused. As a mother, I didn't blame them. The fear of misplacing a child is always with parents. I still vividly recalled the occasion on which I'd lost Adam at Lloyd Center in Portland. He was six at the time, and I'd been caught up in Nordstrom's annual sale. After I'd notified security and contemplated a nervous collapse, we'd finally found him hiding under a table display for the Trail Blazers. My son had thought it was a big joke. I thought he was awful, but was too relieved to say so.

“Then,” Greer said in the grimmest of tones, “where would your mature grandson have taken Byron and Lionel?”

Shoving her yellow rain hat higher on her forehead, Vida considered. “Youngsters love to fool adults. Perhaps they're sneaking about, hoping to dupe us.” It was a viable theory, but my House & Home editor sounded uncertain.

Greer, however, shook her head. “We've looked everywhere. We separated, just to trick them if that's what they had in mind.” Noting Vida's uncharacteristically helpless look, Greer turned to her husband. “We're going to notify the sheriff. Has anyone seen that big lummox?”

I bristled. “Milo has had his hands full this afternoon. He doesn't need to be bothered by parents who can't keep track of their own children.”

The Fairfaxes and Vida all turned on me. “And grandparents, I assume?” Vida snapped.

“Now, hold on….” I protested.

Greer waved a finger in my face.
“I'm
going to bother that moron! If he doesn't find our boys in the next thirty
minutes, I'll have his badge! The next time Dodge runs for election, I'll see he's run out of office!”

Vida was already moving off in her splayfooted manner, apparently in search of Milo. Checking my watch, I noted that it was going on five. The speeches were winding down, with only our state representative, Bob Gunderson, and high-school football coach Rip Ridley left on the program.

Greer was still denouncing Milo, but I chose to ignore her. Grant, however, attempted to soothe his wife. She brushed him off as if he were a gnat. I let my eyes roam around the park and, in my imagination, cover a much larger area. There were dozens of places that might intrigue a trio of young boys. Alpine's woods were seductive, as was the river, the creeks, even the old buildings that lined the railroad tracks.

Five minutes later Vida reappeared with her nephew Bill Blatt. Bill was already looking harassed, and his aunt was chewing his ear off. Greer and Grant Fairfax eyed the young deputy as if he were some subhuman species.

“Where's Dodge?” Greer demanded, fists on hips. Despite her diminutive size, she almost seemed a match for Vida.

Bill looked apologetic. “There's been a bad accident just below the summit, possible fatalities. Sheriff Dodge went to check it out. My—Ms. Runkel has brought me up to speed about the boys.”

Sure enough, the sound of sirens could be heard coming from the vicinity of the hospital. A moment later an ambulance raced down Alpine Way. Greer frowned as her eyes followed the emergency vehicle. I knew what she was thinking: will that be needed for the boys?

Bill—or Vida—seemed to have matters in hand, however. “My nephew is contacting the county Search and Rescue unit,” she announced. “Several of the volunteers are already here.”

Off the top of my head, I counted Coach Ridley,
Clancy Barton, Verb Vancich, and Garth Wesley, the resident pharmacist. Even as Bill Blatt got on his cell phone, Rip Ridley climbed to the bandstand and started talking about the high school's upcoming football season. Apparently his beeper went off before he finished assessing the linebacker situation: With a call to “Cut 'em up, you Buckers!” he signaled for the band to play the Alpine fight song.

Keeping one eye on Bill and the assembling members of the Search and Rescue team, Vida now steered me away from the Fairfaxes. “This is probably very silly,” she murmured, “but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. I'm sure those Fairfax boys have led Roger into some harmless mischief.”

I held my tongue. Before Vida could speak again, Monica Vancich approached with her two^ children trailing behind her. “Did I hear that Greer's boys are missing?” she inquired in an anxious voice.

“Not missing,” Vida retorted. “Disappeared. With my grandson.” Her steely glare reproached Monica for omitting Roger.

“I don't think I know your grandson,” Monica said, looking vaguely apologetic. “Is he … um … a
sturdy
boy?”

Vida started to bristle, then regarded Monica with her full attention. “Roger is a husky lad, yes. Why do you ask?”

As ever, Monica seemed nervous. “Well… I saw the Fairfax boys and someone who might have been your grandson get into a car about an hour ago. It was after Verb and I had left the picnic table, so I didn't know anything about Byron and Lionel being missing until just now. I thought that they were getting a ride home with somebody they knew.”

Vida looked as if she could pounce on Monica and swallow her whole. “A car? What kind of car? Who was driving? Which way were they headed?”

Monica gulped. “I told Verb, so he and the other Search and Rescue members will know what to look for. It was an older car, maroon—I don't know what kind. I didn't see who was driving, but I think it was a young person. A boy, maybe, with long hair.” Monica was speaking faster now, obviously intimidated by Vida.

“Maroon,” Vida said. “Old. Young driver. Hmm.” She squinted through the rain and tapped one foot.

“You mustn't worry,” Monica interjected. “The Good Lord will take care of them. We must learn to trust, not only Him, but each other.”

“Oh, bilge!” Vida exclaimed, now stamping her foot. “Don't talk nonsense! Try to think instead what
kind
of car it was!”

Monica looked as if she didn't know whether to cower or be affronted. “But I told you I don't—”

“Laura O'Toole,” I said suddenly. “Laura has a maroon Plymouth Fury.”

Vida's head whipped around as if it were on a string. “Where's Laura? Is she here?”

I shook my head. “I haven't seen her since she was at my house.”

“Ah!” Vida spun away, apparently searching for her nephew.

The conclusion of the Alpine fight song had signaled the official end of the picnic. Though the rain had let up a bit, the banners sagged and the bunting drooped. The high-school band was loading instruments onto the tired yellow team bus. About half the remaining crowd began to gather up their picnic items and head home. The rest lingered in small groups, some talking and laughing, some still eating, and those who apparently had heard about the missing boys were looking concerned.

My inclination was to join the departing picnickers. It had been a long, tiring afternoon. I was wet, if not cold. With only one day to get ready for Wednesday publication, tomorrow promised to be hectic.

But I didn't feel right abandoning Vida. I could see her hat bobbing above a knot of people near the tennis courts. Collecting my basket, I started for the little group. Before I could reach them, Vida marched off in the direction of the parking lot. My guess was that she was going in search of Roger on her own. Maybe it was just as well. I didn't think I could stand listening to her ascribe any more undeserved virtues to the little creep.

On the other hand, I was being mean. It
was
possible that something terrible had happened to Roger and the Fairfax boys. That was the trouble with contemporary life: the worst-case scenario was always feasible. I got into the Jag and tried to spot Vida's Buick. It was just pulling out of the lot, turning left on Park Street.

It seemed likely that Vida was headed for Laura O'Toole's. Now we were on Alpine Way, and I could see Bill Blatt's county car in front of the Buick. He turned on the siren just before making a right onto River Road. My hunch appeared to be correct. But to my surprise, he stopped short of the dilapidated old houses beyond Icicle Creek. We'd arrived at the holding pond by the only working mill in Alpine.

The smokestacks were dormant on this holiday, and the logs floated listlessly in the man-made arm of the river. As I saw Vida and Bill get out of their cars, my heart sank.

“What is it?” I shouted, hurrying across the sawdust-covered ground.

Vida peered out at me from under her hat. “Roger's fascinated with the holding pond. We came down here several times this summer. I thought he might…” One gloved hand fell away at her side.

For the moment it appeared that Bill Blatt felt more secure talking to me than to his aunt. “We're getting some dogs,” he said. “But I honestly think the kids are just driving around. Aunt Vida tells me that the O'Toole kid does that, even if he hasn't got his license.”

“I don't know why you haven't arrested him,” Vida declared angrily. “Surely you must recognize him.”

Bill gave a helpless shrug. “He hasn't done anything wrong behind the wheel. How do we know he hasn't passed his driving test?”

“You ought to know these things. I do.” Vida scoured the pond again, as if she could will Roger to pop out of the murky water.

A search of the area showed no evidence of any trespassers. Certainly there was no sign of the Fury. With a faint sigh of relief, Vida trooped back to her car.

“I'm going to see Laura,” she called to Bill. “You keep driving around town. Where are the Search and Rescue people?”

Bill didn't know, though he guessed they were waiting for the dogs. Vida snorted in apparent contempt, then got into the Buick and drove away. I sidled up to Bill Blatt.

“Where would you have gone at Roger's age?” I asked.

Bill, who was in his mid-twenties but looked much younger, scratched one ear. “Walk the railroad trestle. Swing on a rope over Burl Creek. Sneak a smoke under the old loading dock.” He gave me a sheepish grin. “It sounds kind of tame now. Kids can get into a lot more trouble these days.”

I nodded. “Yes, they can. Are you sure Mike O'Toole's never been collared?”

Bill thought, his earnest face still showing a few freckles under the summer tan. “I think Dwight or somebody gave him a warning for shoplifting at Harvey's. Dustin caught him and some of his buddies drinking beer up on Second Hill. That's about it. We busted his brother, Kenny, for breaking into cars a while back. Shoot, he's only thirteen.”

“Betsy said the other O'Tooles had been in quite a bit of trouble,” I noted. “But you think not?”

Bill shrugged. “Maybe with the park rangers. There've
been a ton of problems this summer. But you know that from the reports.”

I did. Some of the misdeeds that plagued tourists included theft, vandalism, harassment, a couple of assaults, and an attempted rape. The Icicle Creek campground in particular had been a hotbed of wrongdoing. Many of the young offenders were local kids, but some were imported. Almost all had been drinking or doing drugs.

Bill got into his squad car and drove off. Not having been invited to join Vida in her visit to Laura O'Toole, I considered going home. But as I sat tapping the steering wheel and mulling over my options, I saw Buzzy's van ease onto a short spur off the holding-pond road. He pulled up at the west edge of the pond but didn't get out. Perhaps he hadn't noticed my car through the rain. I waited a full minute, then sloshed my way over to the van and called his name.

The rusting door slowly opened. I could glimpse blankets and an air mattress in the rear section. Buzzy's home-away-from-home looked meager and sad.

“Okay, Emma,” he began in a tired voice, “if you're going to chew me out for—”

I put up a hand to silence him. “That's over. You already apologized. Just don't do it again. I wanted to ask you a question.”

Buzzy's haggard face showed surprise. “You want to come inside? It's raining pretty hard.”

I shook my head. “It'll only take a minute. It's for my story on Ursula's death,” I said, exaggerating only a bit. “I understand you were at your sister's late Friday afternoon. Did she seem okay to you then?”

The query seemed to puzzle Buzzy. “Well … that depends. Yeah, she seemed … okay. Sort of in high gear, you could say.”

“Like how?” I asked, brushing my wet bangs from my forehead. “As if she were expecting someone?”

“Not that.” Buzzy paused, obviously thinking hard. “I mean, maybe she was. But when Ursula drinks …
drank
, that is … she'd get all revved up. Sort of … what do you call it? Hyper, I guess.”

“You came to talk to her about a loan, isn't that so?”

Buzzy didn't exactly blush, but his face changed color. “We would have paid her back. When we could.” There was a defensive note in his voice.

“I'm sure you would,” I said soothingly. “Was she agreeable?”

“Yeah.” Buzzy nodded with unexpected vigor. “I think she liked being able to be a big shot like that.”

“So you celebrated with a drink or two?” I was on thin ice, but had to ask.

Buzzy, however, shook his head. “Heck, no. If I was going to show up … at home, I wouldn't want to have liquor on my breath. Laura was mad enough as it was.”