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Having put her glasses and hat back on, Vida started the car. “So what did you want to tell me?” I inquired.

“Oh!” For once, Vida seemed to have lost track of her thought processes. “Two things, which Billy is reporting to Milo even as we speak. I hope. First, that area up at the end of the logging road is nothing more than a party place for all sorts of disreputable creatures, many of them teenagers.”

My guess appeared to be on track. “And some of them bikers?”

Vida hesitated, braking for the arterial onto Front Street. “Perhaps. The crew I saw was mostly made up of fifteen-to-twenty-year-olds. Liquor. Drugs. Heaven only knows what else. Milo must clean them out. It's a catastrophe. No wonder we've had so much crime this summer!”

“Did you recognize them as locals?”

“Generally, no.” Vida frowned at the slashing windshield wipers. “Maybe four or five, out of twenty. One of them was a Lucci. Another was a Gustavson.” Vida's mouth turned down. The Gustavsons were somehow related to her, as were so many of Alpine's residents.

“Mike O'Toole must have known about it,” I mused.

“It's a wonder nobody's found out about the place until now.”

There were no empty parking places near the Fury, so Vida stopped in the middle of Front Street. “They've probably had lookouts posted along the road. I'm quite sure that some of the hikers who've had difficulties encountered them in that area. But of course Milo had no specific reason to search there. Until now.”

Vehicles were beginning to line up behind Vida. Someone honked. Vida scowled. “If you move your Jaguar, I can pull in next to that dreadful O'Toole car. I hope they throw the book at Mike. Such an instigator! Showing off, of course.”

I opened the passenger door, then tried to ignore another blast on somebody's horn. “Two, Vida. You said two things. What was the other?”

Vida's mouth set in a tight line. “While I was chasing … ah … encouraging Roger to come along with Grams, I stumbled upon something rather interesting.” Her gray eyes gleamed behind the big glasses. “A satin shoe, a sling-back wedgie. Doesn't that beat all?”

The horns kept honking. But I was oblivious to the cacophony as I got out of the Buick. Ursula's shoe. Halfway up Mount Sawyer. In a teenage party place. What did it mean?

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

I got into my Jag just as a large man got out of the car behind Vida and began shouting at her. Vida rolled down her window and told him to go get the sheriff. She waved a gloved hand in the direction of Milo's headquarters. As I drove away I noticed that the man's car had Montana plates. He didn't know Vida. He also didn't know what he was in for. But he must have guessed. The man from Montana was in retreat when I saw the last of him in my rearview mirror.

T
HAT NIGHT, AS
the storm passed over Alpine and headed west into the Puget Sound basin, I ate dinner alone at home. Milo had phoned me not long after I got in the house. He said he and his deputies had requested some state troopers and were heading up Mount Sawyer. I called Carla, who had returned from Seattle only a few minutes earlier. She expressed mild excitement over taking pictures of possible criminals.

“Just remember, if they're under eighteen, we can't show them,” I cautioned my reporter. “Vida says some are older, and I saw four bikers coming down the mountain today. They had to be legal and then some.”

“Bikers make good pictures,” Carla remarked. The visual side of journalism always intrigues her far more than the written word. And with good reason—she is a much better photographer than she is a writer. “Hey— where's Marilynn? Was she at the picnic?”

I kept my Labor Day account brief. “The emergency room got hectic. I'm sure your roommate was pulled in for extra duty. Say,” I added almost as an afterthought, “do you know a guy from Seattle named Murray Felton?”

Carla hesitated. “I don't think so. Should I?”

“Not necessarily. But he knows you. He's a TV reporter who was nosing around town about Ursula Randall's drowning.”

“Who's Ursula Randall?” Carla sounded characteristically bewildered.

I'd forgotten that Carla had left town before the tragedy. Again, I tried to keep my recap short. “It's going to be a tricky story,” I pointed out. “It may have been an accident, it may not.”

“Gee,” Carla said in a downcast tone, “you had some excitement around here for once. All I did was go to Bumbershoot. There were some good bands, though.”

I felt a brief pang for city life. The only time I'd attended the Labor Day festival at the Seattle Center was six years ago, when Adam and I had gone together. He, too, had enjoyed the bands. I'd settled for a couple of literary readings and great quantities of Vietnamese food.

At seven thirty-five I was about to check back with Milo when the phone rang in my hand. It was Ed Bronsky, sounding as gloomy as in days of advertising yore.

“I'm delivering used clothes at the battered women's shelter,” Ed announced, his voice low as well as sepulchral. “Holiday or not, Monday's my usual volunteer day to fetch and carry.” A note of martyrdom also crept into his tone. Or maybe it was virtue. “Delia Lucci's here. What do we do about
thatT

Puzzled, I blinked at the receiver. “What do you mean? Is Delia helping out on the wrong day?”

“No!” Ed barked the word, then again lowered his voice. “She checked in. Luce came home from the hospital and threatened to kill her.”

“Jeez!” I cried. “What's going on in this town? Everybody seems to have gone nuts at once.”

“I know,” Ed replied, very subdued. “It's like somebody pulled a cork out of a bottle.” He paused, and I heard him take in a quick little breath. “Say! That's not bad! I should have used a phrase like that in the book. Maybe I can add it when I do the revisions—if there are any, of course.”

The last thing I wanted was to get Ed sidetracked, especially about his autobiography. “Did Luce beat Delia? Or just threaten her? How come they released him from the hospital so soon?”

“They release everybody too soon these days,” Ed said, reverting to gloom. “Last spring, when my back went out, they wouldn't let me stay—”

“What did you mean about us doing … whatever?” I interrupted. I recalled Ed's back problem, which had been caused by his attempt to dance with a thirty-pound ham. “About Delia, was it?”

Another short intake of breath, then a whisper. “I'll be right over. Debra Barton can cover for me.” Before I could say a word, Ed clicked off.

Wanting to inform Milo of Ed's imminent arrival and thus avoid a potentially awkward situation, I dialed the sheriff's number. He was out, apparently still up on Mount Sawyer. The thought of Milo facing a bunch of irate bikers and juiced teenagers made me uneasy. Of course the sheriff laid his life on the line every day. It was part of the job description, even in a rural area like Skykomish County. We had been friends for a long time; since becoming lovers, my apprehension level for him had increased.

Five minutes later Ed came puffing into my living room. “I don't suppose you have a spare sandwich? I haven't eaten since three o'clock.”

That probably meant five or six, but I used the rest of the tuna to meet Ed's request. He also accepted a bottle of beer. “It's like this,” he began, sitting at my kitchen table. “Luce didn't hit Delia, as far as I know. But he made really scary threats, so she left and brought two of the kids with her. Now, here's the problem—Luce is on the parish council, and when word gets out that his wife is in the shelter, how's that going to look for us at St. Mildred's? Haven't we had enough bad press already?”

My initial reaction was that we weren't image makers.

But I felt a need to help Father Den. “It's not a news story,” I hedged. “We never run names of people who go to the shelter. You know that.”

Ed waved a beefy hand. “Sure, sure. But you know how people talk. The vote will be announced tomorrow on the school-board election. Everybody in town is watching St. Mildred's. I say we impeach Luce.”

I gave a little start. “Is that legal?”

Ed grew indignant. “It's got to be. If you can impeach the president of the United States, you should be able to impeach some creep on the parish council.”

“You'd have to check the bylaws and talk to Father Den and—”

“Den's not here. We've got to move fast. I say we call a meeting tonight. We can hold it at our house, unless Monica Vancich will let us into the rectory. She's got a key.”

“Hold it, Ed,” I cautioned. “You can't act without the pastor. The parish council is a consultative body, remember? And you're not on it.”

“I should be,” Ed said, very serious despite the hunk of tuna plastered to his chin. “I could let them appoint me to Luce's place.”

“Ed …”

“You'll cover the story, right?” He took a big gulp of beer; the tuna fell in his lap; Ed didn't notice. “Think you could get some decent pictures?”

Ed knew I wasn't any great shakes as a photographer. “I could—no, Ed,” I interrupted myself, “this is a terrible idea. If you call this maverick meeting—and you've no authority to do so—you'll have the chancery all over you. Father Den will be angry. So will half the parish.”

Ed finished his sandwich, took a last swig of beer, and stood up. “No, my mind's made up. I'm calling Jake right now. Mind if I use your phone?”

I threw up my hands. “Go ahead. Jake's going to tell
you the same thing I'm trying to get through your … head.”

But Jake succumbed to Ed's badgering. I had forgotten how my former ad manager could—upon rare occasion—steamroll over prospective advertisers. The parish-council president would try to get the other four members rounded up by nine o'clock. If Luce had any idea what was going on, he might refuse to show, Jake cautioned. On the other hand, they didn't dare leave him out.

Ed was looking very smug as he hitched up his pants. “I have clout, see,” he declared. “I've been a Eucharistic minister for five years, I give a ton of money, I volunteer all the time. Father Den couldn't get along without me. I might as well be the associate pastor—if we had one. There's only one thing,” he added, a touch of gloom returning.

“What?” I inquired, feeling helpless in the face of Ed's dogged determination to undermine our church. Or so I viewed his backhanded, illegal, and just plain stupid attempt at a parish coup.

Ed gave a shake of his head. “This should go in the last chapter of the book. Do you suppose I ought to write an epilogue?”

To my amazement, all five members of the parish council were assembled in the rectory parlor by nine o'clock. Ed and I were the only outsiders. I still hadn't heard from Milo, which increased my apprehension level.

At least Jake didn't try to impress us with big words. Apparently we were too small a group. The setting was informal, with everyone seated on an eclectic collection of chairs and the aging, sagging sofa. Jake tried to give himself an aura of officialdom by pulling a side chair into the middle of the room and using a chipped and scratched mahogany coffee table as his forum.

True to my observer's calling, I kept to the back of the
room, standing next to an old-fashioned Victrola that had been Father Kiernan Fitzgerald's pride and joy. Directly opposite me, Monica Vancich was perched on an old cut-velvet armchair. I gathered it had taken some cajolery on Jake's part to get Monica to let us into the rectory. Even as we stood on the steps and the small porch, the parish secretary and director of religious education had expressed grave doubts as she fiddled with the key. Now her gray eyes darted around the parlor, from tense Jake to wary Luce, to the alert if suspicious Francine Wells, and finally to the guarded countenance of Brendan Shaw.

“We're meeting tonight in emergency session,” Jake finally said, then looked over to where I stood with camera in hand. “Emma, I'm not sure this is a public meeting.”

“It either is or it isn't,” I responded. “You decide.”

Apparently fearing ejection, Ed spoke up from the mohair armchair favored by Father Fitz during his long pastoral tenure. “A secret meeting looks bad, Jake. We'd better go public with this baby.”

Jake's expression grew pained. “It's not a
secret
meeting, it's
private.
There's a difference.”

“No, there's not,” Ed countered. “A meeting's either open or closed. What'll it be, Jake? I'm with Emma.”

Church politics make strange bedfellows, I mused, and waited for Jake's decision. “Well … the results have to be made public, I suppose.” Again, he looked at me. “You'll handle this fair and square, right?”

I nodded. Jake smoothed his wavy hair and cleared his throat. “Okay—we're assembled here to consider the matter of one of our members' … um … conduct. Does anybody know if the bylaws provide for … what's the word?” Jake looked vaguely miserable as words, even the wrong ones, failed him.

“Censure,” Francine snapped. “Spit it out, Jake.” She turned on the sofa to Luce, who was at her left. “You've been tearing up the town today. First you got into a fight
with Bill Daley. Then you sent poor Delia to the shelter. What's wrong with you, Luce? If you ask me, you're nothing but a damned bully.”

Nobody could accuse Francine of not laying it on the line. Luce, however, didn't roar back as expected. He had a bandage on his head and another on his forearm. I had noticed that he'd been limping badly when he arrived at the rectory.

“Listen up, Francine,” he said, more in self-defense than belligerence. “Daley pissed me off today. He starts in on how everybody should be one big happy family, black and white and yellow and red, all intermarryin', and havin' these butterscotch and hopscotch and whatever kind of kids, and when I told him he was full of it, he got all huffy. Well, I know that deep down Bill Daley's prejudiced, too. He made a big deal about askin' Father Den to play golf with him here in Alpine, but when Father said somethin' about goin' over to Everett to play, Bill had about ten excuses. Now, whaddaya think of that?”

“I think,” Francine said archly, “that you still haven't explained why you tried to punch out Bill Daley.”

“Awww!” Luce threw his hands up in the air. “You don't listen, Francine! You're just like Delia, always hearin' what you wanna hear and nothin' else!”