The Alpine Fury (3 page)

Larry had the grace to look embarrassed. “I know that, Emma. But he’s new in town. His account here was activated just three months ago. Already he’s had six NSF checks. We believe in personal banking, Emma. He claims to be poor at math, yet he must handle business transactions for the newspaper. I suspect
he’s simply careless. We try to help our customers, not hinder them. How do you think Leo would feel about a proxy arrangement?”

I frowned at Larry. “Proxy? By whom? Me?” The thought was appalling. I had enough trouble keeping my own books straight. I, too, was poor at math.

But Larry chuckled and shook his head. “No, no. I mean we handle his money. Manage it, I should say. Automatic deposits and withdrawals. We don’t advertise the service, but we do offer it. Most banks and credit unions do. The fee is nominal—much less than he’s paying for NSF charges. Of course, we waived the first three.”

Leo’s money matters weren’t my affair. I started to say so, then realized I wasn’t entirely correct. If Leo ended up in rough financial waters, his job performance could be affected. According to Vida, he already had other personal problems.

“I’ll ask him,” I finally replied. “Do you really do this for other customers?”

“Of course.” Larry’s expression became guarded. “Several, in fact. Naturally, I can’t name names.”

Naturally, I thought, mentally cataloguing likely candidates. Crazy Eights Neffel, local loony, sprang to mind.

Larry, meanwhile, had turned philosophical. “Most people don’t realize it, but banking’s a sacred trust. Yes, we want to make money—we have to in order to meet payroll and turn a profit—but our major concern is our customers. You know that ad we’ve been running?”

I nodded. I was well acquainted with the recent series, which showed a picture of a locked safe. The slogan, inspired by Leo, was
Your Money is Safe with Us
.

“It’s not just a catch phrase,” Larry said, very serious. “Our family and the bank are part of Alpine. We
both go way back. I was five years old the first time Grandpa brought me in here.” Larry gestured at the lobby, as solemn as a tourist guide pointing out the treasures of the Vatican. “It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. All the marble and wood and brass. In a way, I never changed my mind.” His slight smile was diffident. “I grew up knowing I’d work here someday. And all the while, Grandpa and Dad kept reminding me that we had a responsibility to the town. As far as I’m concerned, friends and neighbors are the same as customers and investors. We care about them. That’s why we want to help Leo.”

The little speech had been pretty, and I couldn’t deny that Larry was sincere. If he fancied himself born with a silver dollar in his mouth, there was no harm in it. Somebody had to run the Bank of Alpine, and it might as well be a Petersen. It always had been, and probably always would.

I rose, thanking Larry for his concern. Then, in one of my rare and usually futile attempts to one-up Vida, I asked about Bob Lambrecht. Larry’s face closed as tight as a bank vault door.

“Now, Emma, Bob’s visit is strictly confidential. Milo Dodge can tell you more than I can.”

“Can or will?” I gave Larry my most ironic smile.

He chuckled again, a dry, mirthless sound. “Bob’s not here to make news. I can assure you of that.”

I wasn’t assured. I’m still surprised by people’s opinion of what’s newsworthy. Fifteen years ago, I covered a four-alarm fire at a Portland warehouse. The owner insisted that the story shouldn’t run in
The Oregonian
because the warehouse was empty, and besides, he was insured. When we ran the article and a photo, he threatened to sue us for invasion of privacy. I kept waiting for him to be arrested on charges of arson and insurance
fraud. It turned out that he was honest. But he sure was dim, at least when it came to news.

Since it was payday for many Alpiners, all three tellers were on duty. I stood in line behind Polly Patricelli, a fellow parishioner at St. Mildred’s. Polly is small, with a wrinkled face and badly fitted dentures. She acknowledged me with a smile that dislodged her upper plate.

“I’m getting used to him,” she whispered. “Are you?”

“What?” Andy Cederberg, the bank’s manager and loan officer, had just left his desk behind the mahogany rail. I assumed that Polly referred to Andy, but I couldn’t think why. He’d worked at the bank for years.

“Father Kelly,” Polly said, still whispering, still not in control of her teeth. “You know what I mean. His
color.”

Dennis Kelly was black, not yet forty, and extremely personable. In an age when good priests were as hard to find as buried treasure, the parishioners at St. Mildred’s were very lucky to get Father Kelly. Had he not been a Tacoma native surplussed from a recently closed seminary in California, we might still be suffering through haphazard liturgies performed by Sister Mary Joan and Buzzy O’Toole.

“Father Kelly is a miracle,” I asserted. “He’s well organized, frankly devout, and his homilies aren’t bad.” At least, I thought to myself, they didn’t take place in a time warp as did those of our previous pastor. I had tended to tune out Father Fitzgerald whenever he began railing against bootleg gin and the Axis powers.

Now Polly’s lower plate jutted. “He’s nice enough,” she mumbled. “But he’s still
colored.”

“I think it’s a permanent condition.” My retort was a
trifle testy. Polly, however, didn’t notice. She was being beckoned by Christie Johnston at window number two. Denise Petersen, Larry’s daughter, was still waiting on Harvey Adcock. Maybe the hardware and sporting goods store owner had to dig deep into his reserves to pay for his refrigeration repair.

Rick Erlandson finally finished with a woman I recognized only vaguely. Apparently she didn’t recognize me at all. We exchanged the faintest of nods as I approached Rick’s window.

Rick is in his mid-twenties, and has let his unfortunate orange punk-rocker hair grow out into a normal style. Or more normal, I should say, since his head featured hair only in a close-cropped circular cut. He looked as if he were wearing a brown doily. Such reactions on my part make me feel older than forty-two and stodgier than Vida.

Rick was glum. Usually he’s friendly; always he’s sincere. His greeting was polite, but there was only fleeting eye contact. Wordlessly he cashed my check, made the separate deposits into savings and checking, then handed me my eighty dollars in cash.

“Thanks, Ms. Lord. Have a nice day.” Rick looked over my shoulder. “Next, please.”

Delphine Corson of Posies Unlimited greeted us both in her breezy manner. I darted a glance back at Rick. He was still glum.

On my way out, I saw Marvin Petersen, the current family patriarch, speaking to Linda Lindahl, his daughter and the resident bookkeeper. I intended to wave, but noted their serious expressions. I took one last look around the lobby—Andy Cederberg and Larry Petersen had both gone to lunch. Denise Petersen was closing her teller’s window. Rick and Christie were still busy
with customers. Marvin and Linda had now disappeared behind closed doors. With a shrug, I left the bank.

I could never have guessed that one of the people I’d just seen would be dead before the next payday.

C
ARLA AND
G
INNY
occupied a booth for two at the Venison Eat Inn and Take-Out. Judging from their sour faces, they didn’t want company. My perverse streak compelled me to greet them. They reacted as if I’d rung a bell, announcing a virulent strain of leprosy.

“Well?” I demanded, leaning on the booth’s high back. “Didn’t you get paid today? That should cheer you up.”

Carla eyed me with disdain. “What’s money compared to love?” She looked at Ginny. “It’s totally nothing. Right, Gin?”

Ginny gave a dispirited nod. Rick Erlandson’s glum face was fresh in my memory. He and Ginny had been dating for several months, though I didn’t think they were very serious. Maybe I was wrong.

“Carla’s going to the bank for me,” Ginny said in a listless voice. “I refuse to go there. Under the circumstances.”

“Which are?” I sighed, impatient with the vagaries of youth. Having an office manager who wouldn’t set foot in the local financial institution was going to be a problem.

Ginny turned away; Carla was aghast. “I can’t believe you don’t know! Rick dumped Ginny! For Denise
Petersen! Emma, where have you
been
the last two days?”

“At home,” I answered truthfully. I’d spent the weekend getting both house and yard ready for winter. Awkwardly I patted Ginny’s thin shoulder. “I’m sorry. Maybe Rick’s going through a phase.”

“He’s going through it with Denise.” Ginny’s voice was bitter and her cheeks were pink. “She got tired of waiting tables at the Icicle Creek Tavern, and came to work at the bank a month ago when Alyssa Carlson quit to have a baby. Denise thinks she’s hot because she’s a teller! Easy for her, with Dad and Granddad running the place. Now she thinks she can get the hook up with Rick. I hate her—she was such a bitch in high school, especially junior year!”

Never had I heard Ginny make such an impassioned speech. Nor had I ever seen her so angry. Mentally I kicked myself for butting in on my miserable female staffers. Out loud, I apologized. Carla and Ginny seemed indifferent. I was trying to make a gracious exit when I felt a big hand on my shoulder.

“Lasagna special’s damned good,” said Sheriff Milo Dodge. He spun a toothpick out of the corner of his wide mouth.

“It’s left over from yesterday’s Sunday dinner special,” I retorted. “I saw it on the sign outside.”

“I know,” Milo said. “I had it last night, too. Bob Lambrecht and I ate here after we got back from fishing.”

Carla and Ginny were again absorbed in their misery. Casually I stepped across the aisle to a booth that had just been vacated. I asked Milo if he’d finished his lunch. He had, but was waiting for Honoria Whitman, his ladylove from Startup, a few miles west on Highway 2.

“I took the day off,” Milo said, arranging his lanky frame across from me in the booth. “I’ve still got vacation time coming. If I don’t use it, I lose it. Honoria and I are going to Lake Wenatchee to have dinner at the Cougar Inn.”

I nodded, approving both the choice of restaurant and Honoria. She and Milo had been seeing each other for over a year. I, however, hadn’t seen Honoria for several months.

“How’s she doing?” I inquired, glancing at the menu I knew by heart.

“Great.” Milo’s face didn’t match his words. His hazel eyes were fixed somewhere to the right of my shoulder as he ground away at the toothpick. “She got her wheelchair fixed.”

I hadn’t known it was broken. The wheelchair was necessitated by Honoria’s late husband, who had pushed her down a flight of stairs in one of his more macho moods. Honoria’s brother had moods of his own, and in the course of one, had fatally shot his sister’s husband. The Whitman family saga wasn’t pretty, but somehow Honoria had emerged with soul, if not body, intact.

“Anything new with Honoria’s pottery?” I asked, wishing Milo would stop twirling his toothpick. It was a new habit, and not very edifying. “Didn’t she have a big show in Everett last month?”

“Huh?” He ran a hand through his graying sandy hair. “Oh, right. Good deal for her. She sold a bunch of brown stuff.”

Milo’s interest in Honoria’s pottery was limited. I often wondered what they talked about. Fishing, maybe. It was always a safe topic with the sheriff. I returned to it, for reasons of my own.

“You and Bob Lambrecht have any luck?” I posed
the question after my waitress had poured coffee for both of us and allowed me to order a crab omelette.

Milo’s long face grew longer. He’d finally dumped the toothpick and was fidgeting with the salt and pepper shakers. “No, just a couple of bumps. I felt sorry for Bob. He doesn’t get a chance to go fishing much. Price of success, I guess. And city living.” Milo shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe anyone would choose to live anywhere other than Alpine.

“Bob’s still in town,” I remarked. “Are you going to hit the river again tomorrow?”

Milo sipped his coffee. He had put the salt and pepper shakers aside, and now that we weren’t talking about Honoria, he seemed more relaxed. “No, Bob’s due back at work. He’ll drive home this afternoon, I guess.”

“Really?” I widened my brown eyes, hoping to look guileless. “I would have thought he’d have gone home yesterday. Did he stay over on business?”

The sheriff and I have no history of intimacy, yet we know each other well. Next to Vida, Milo is my best friend in Alpine. Thus, my efforts at subtlety are not always successful. Milo may seem obtuse—sometimes he is—but under that laconic exterior lurks the lawman’s keen perception of the human race. At least when he is on the job. Occasionally I get the impression that he removes his insight along with his uniform.

Milo was in civvies, but my subterfuge failed anyway. “Jeez, Emma, why don’t you flat out ask me about Bob? He went to see Marv Petersen this morning. You’ve heard rumors about a Seattle bank coming in here.”

“I have,” I admitted. “But they don’t make sense. Alpine isn’t that big, the economy’s down, and if the locals
want to take their money elsewhere, they can go to four different banks between Sultan and Snohomish. I smell buyout, Milo. Am I right?”

But Milo merely shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Bob and I didn’t talk business. He came up here to get away from all that corporate bullshit.”

I tried to believe Milo. He seemed to have convinced himself. But Bob Lambrecht’s financial worries would intrigue Milo about as much as Honoria Whitman’s brown stuff. Both topics were beyond Milo’s usual range.

Yet his square jaw had dropped a trifle. “A buyout? Hell, that would turn this town upside down!” Obviously the enormity of my suggestion was a little late sinking in.

I hadn’t noticed Carla and Ginny leave. Their table was now occupied by Scooter Hutchins of Hutchins Interiors and Decor. The overeager young man who joined Scooter was fondling a smart attaché case. A salesman, I figured, as Milo and I nodded at Scooter.

“Hey! It’s after twelve-thirty!” Milo put a big hand over his watch as if hiding the time could change it. “Honoria should be out front. See you, Emma.” Clumsily he unfolded himself from the booth and loped away.