The Alpine Xanadu (8 page)

“We’ve been stalled for years,” I said. “The voters keep turning down every ballot measure for improvements, including school levies. They’re just too damned thrifty.”

Vida made her entrance. “Emma! Language, please!”

“Good morning to you, too,” I retorted. “We have muffins. They’re not fattening.”

“I’ve already breakfasted,” she said, removing her tweed winter coat before adjusting the
chapeau du jour
, which was a remarkably ugly taupe-and-red striped fedora. Apparently not in a chatty mood, she sat down and began going through her in-basket. The rest of us drifted to our respective desks and got to work, too. I remembered Mayor Baugh was coming at eleven and wondered why. Fuzzy rarely had anything newsworthy to say, though he could run on about trivialities.

When Mitch returned from his morning rounds, he had the sheriff’s statement. Wayne’s death was being investigated as a possible accident. Milo was hedging his bets. I called him after ten to ask if he knew if Rosemary Bourgette was announcing Holly’s imminent release.

“I haven’t talked to her yet,” he said. “I had Todd Wilson in here looking at Eriks’s safety equipment. It all looked fine to him. He doubted there were any live wires in the van. His guess is lightning.”

“Nothing from you about”—I lowered my voice—“foul play?”

“I don’t have proof it wasn’t a freak thing. I may send the body to Snohomish County to let their fancy equipment have a go. I hate doing it on a weekend. They’ll have a dozen stiffs piled up. We’ll be last in line.”

“Poor you,” I said, meaning it.

“I’m used to it.” He hung up on me. Some things never changed.

I’d just put the phone down when Vida came into my office, looking like a dill pickle. “Well!” she huffed. “The least you could do is let me announce your engagement if you’re planning to get married so soon.”

I gaped at her but hastily recovered. Of course Vida would hear about Milo picking up the marriage license application. The county auditor was another relative, her late husband’s niece, Eleanor Runkel Jessup. “We’re not,” I said.

She sat down, still sour. “Why did Milo request the application?”

I sighed. “He happened to be in the courthouse and …” I paused, wondering if Vida’s tardiness had been caused by a visit to Rosemary Bourgette. “I guess he thought I should know what one looks like. As you may recall, I’ve never been married before.”

“Then you have no immediate plans?”

I shook my head, and felt like saying that we didn’t even have sheets. “If we do, I’ll let you know. I’d want you to be a witness.”

Vida’s face softened. “Would you? That’s very … flattering. But isn’t it time to at least put the engagement in the paper?”

“Let me check with Milo,” I said. “You know we didn’t want it made public those first few weeks after we’d attracted so much attention by almost getting killed. We were going nuts coping with so much at once.”

“True. But let me know,” she said, standing up. “It would be lovely to have a photo of you two for my page this week.”

“Hey,” I said, “how come Dr. Woo wasn’t on after your show?”

“Oh!” Vida adjusted her glasses. “Spencer told me he felt it would be inappropriate with someone dying so close to the facility. He didn’t want Wayne’s death to detract from the grand opening.”

I was puzzled. “That doesn’t make sense. Wayne’s still dead.”

Vida shrugged her broad shoulders. “I gather it was more of an
internal thing. Something about disturbing patients and staff. A distraction, perhaps. You know the Chinese are very superstitious.”

“Dr. Woo was born in San Francisco,” I pointed out.

“Oh? Well … family traditions, you know. Very strong among the Chinese. Very admirable, in my opinion.”

I merely smiled—and called Milo again as soon as she left.

“What now?” he barked.

I relayed Vida’s request, including the picture idea.

“I thought she’d already put it in the paper,” Milo said.

“No. I told her to wait. Damn it, don’t you ever
read
the
Advocate
?”

“Yeah, sure, but you know how busy I’ve been. Sometimes I only get a chance to skim it.”

I gritted my teeth to keep the argument from escalating. “Just answer the question, Sheriff.”

“Hell,” he said, “she can run the announcement, but forget about the photo. That means spending a couple of hours and big bucks at Buddy Bayard’s studio. Do you really want to do that right now?”

“No, but if I didn’t mention it to you, Vida would pitch a fit.”

“She would. Hey, Scott Melville’s due in about five minutes to talk about the addition to the house. We’re going to add another bathroom.”

“What?”
I shrieked. “This isn’t the Taj Mahal, you dolt!”

“Stop fussing. Got to check my notes for Melville.” He hung up.

I knew that Vida and Leo had heard me, but I didn’t care. I held my head and wondered how in hell we were going to pay for a larger bedroom, a workshop, and now a second bathroom.

A few minutes later Leo strolled in. “Ahem. Trouble in paradise?”

I looked up from the mail Amanda had dropped off. “The sheriff’s turning the once-small attached workshop into a palace.”

Leo chuckled. “Hey, as a veteran of the child support wars, I can testify that even my income rose perceptibly when our kids hit eighteen. Milo isn’t making starvation wages. His kids have been off the dole for years. Don’t you know his annual salary? It’s a matter of public record.”

“I
don’t
know,” I admitted. “I’ve never checked.”

Leo’s weathered face fell. “You’re kidding!”

“No. My reporters have always handled budgets. I never look at what other people earn. I got into that habit on the
Oregonian
. It always infuriated me when I saw some worthless civil servant who was being charged with embezzlement and was already making at least four times what I earned as a journalist. It’s a crime that newspaper people don’t get paid enough. Teachers are in the same boat. You know all that. It’s so unfair.”

“It’s also useless to stew about it,” Leo said, leaning on the back of one of my visitor’s chairs. “But if you asked your future husband, I’ll bet he’d tell you
he
makes at least three times what you do.”

I stared at my ad manager. “He does? You don’t know that.”

“Actually, I do. I checked it out last fall for our Labor Day special.”

“Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know.”

Leo guffawed. “Emma, you must be the only woman in the world who doesn’t want to know what her other half earns. You’re unreal.”

“I don’t care,” I said stubbornly. “If Milo tells me, that’s fine. If he doesn’t, that’s fine, too. I’m not marrying him for his money.”

“Gosh,” Leo said in mock disappointment, “and I thought that’s why you never let me make a serious pass at you. I’m one of the few men around here whose salary you do know because you’re paying it.”

“And it’s not enough,” I said, and meant it.

Leo straightened up and grinned. “I’ll survive. As for Dodge, if
it’s not his money, then it must be love. I never thought it’d happen.”

I smiled wanly. “Neither did I.”

Mayor Fuzzy Baugh arrived at exactly eleven. I hadn’t seen him up close for some time and noticed he looked older, even a bit haggard. His dyed red hair had lost any luster it once had. The sparkle in his green eyes had dimmed. In fact, his eyes looked a trifle murky.

“Emma darlin’,” he said, the Louisiana accent in place before kissing my hand. “Love becomes you.”

“Thank you. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked.

He gestured at the door. “May I?”

“Close the door? Yes, go ahead.”

After ensuring our privacy, Fuzzy sat down and grew serious. “You recall that last month I attended the annual state conference of mayors for towns with under ten thousand people.”

I nodded. “We did an article on it.” It was a rather informal affair, more cronyism than politics. There was, however, some beneficial exchange of ideas along with the backslapping.

“A fine article it was, sugar. But,” he went on, “one thing that rankled was our homicide rate. Now, I know some of the people who met their Maker before their time weren’t residents of this fine town or county. That brings up how we count heads. We’ve got just under four thousand folks within what we unofficially call the city limits and almost as many in the county. You know Alpine has never been incorporated.” He paused, apparently waiting for me to say something.

“The commissioners rule,” I said, unsure of what I should say.

The mayor nodded. “I won’t criticize those men who’ve given us long years of service, but Alf Cobb is dead, and Engebretsen and Hollenberg are even older than I am.” He uttered a self-deprecating chuckle. “Maybe we should rethink our government. This isn’t for
publication, but Irene feels it’s time for me to take it easy, travel some, go back to the bayou and put our feet in that fertile black Delta soil. Isn’t your brother there now?”

“Yes, in Mississippi.”

“Then he’d understand. We don’t need a mayor and three commissioners. We’re strapped for funds. What this county and town need is a professional
manager
. We’d save salaries and election costs.”

I was stunned at Fuzzy’s perspicacity. It was possibly the best idea the mayor had ever had. “It makes sense,” I said. “It should’ve been done years ago, back when the timber industry tanked in the eighties.”

Fuzzy shrugged. “Change isn’t easy here. Out of the mainstream.” He narrowed his eyes slightly. “That’s where you come in. You have great power here. You should exert it more often.” He smiled, and I caught a hint of his former sparkle. “You also have a personal stake in this. Think what it would do for your much-respected future mate.”

“Does Milo know about this?”

Fuzzy shook his head. “Nobody knows except you and Irene. If you need facts and figures about places where this has been done, I can get them to you. Bainbridge Island is one example, though they incorporated only the island itself, but it’s a mighty big chunk of property.”

“Can I tell Milo about it?”

The mayor scratched at his temple. “I’d rather meet with him and the commissioners first. I wanted to secure your support now. You’re as smart as you are comely, darlin’, and I value your powers of persuasion.”

“You overestimate my influence,” I said frankly. “When was the last time I used my so-called clout to get a levy or a bond issue passed?”

“This is different. We’re talking saving money, not spending it.”

“But it’s still a huge change. Our residents balk at change.”

“That,” Fuzzy said, standing up, though not as easily as he once did, “is why I’m counting on you to change their minds before we change our government.”

Naturally, Vida wanted to know why Fuzzy and I had held a private meeting. For once I kept my counsel. She was annoyed, but I tried to soothe her by telling her to write up the engagement announcement. The vetoed photo, however, set her off again. “What’s wrong with you two? You’re both rather nice-looking. Milo’s aged well. He looks better now than when he was young. You’ve held up nicely, too.”

“Thanks, Vida, but I think most people know what we look like. As I recall, when you thought Milo and I were acting like lovesick teenagers in public, you were quick to point out that we had very high profiles.”

“All the more reason for readers to want to see what you look like when you’re not groping each other in the middle of Front Street.”

“We never—” Mercifully, her phone rang. I fled to the front office to see if Amanda had made out the mid-month paychecks.

She had just finished. “Did I gather,” she said, looking somewhat embarrassed, “that Wayne Eriks tried to come on to you, too?”

I sighed. “Yes, about a year and a half ago. He didn’t get very far. How about you?”

Amanda made a face. “It was just before I started working here last fall. He was doing something with the transformer box on a pole across the street. I’d been watching
Oprah
and the TV went out, so I saw the truck and went outside to ask if he’d screwed up the reception. I’d seen him around before but never really talked to him. He said he didn’t think so, but maybe he should check his
computer in the truck. He went inside the van, then asked me to come take a look—he couldn’t tell which cable went to which house. I started to get in and realized we don’t have cable, we’ve got a dish like everybody else around here. He grabbed me, saying I was the only dish he cared about. It started to get ugly—he was a strong guy—until Marlowe Whipp pulled up in his mail truck. I ran like a deer. Marlowe thought I was chasing him to get our mail.” She laughed. “It was all so dumb, and I almost reported Eriks to the PUD, but then I remembered his son-in-law’s murder and thought maybe it’d unhinged him.”

“That dish bit was the same line he pulled on me,” I said. “I suppose it worked in bars and restaurants, too.”

Amanda shrugged. “I’m sorry he’s dead, but there was something creepy about him—the van, too. At least it
felt
creepy. Maybe I’m nuts.”

“I wonder,” I said, “if Wayne used the van with women who were more willing. I lucked out—it happened to me on a Saturday in my office, right after Tim was killed. That seemed crass.”

Amanda frowned. “Makes you wonder about Tiff, doesn’t it? Why would she want to move in with Jack Blackwell? In fact, why would Jack want a toddler in his house? Or is she leaving the child with her mother? Maybe Cookie would like the company now that Wayne’s dead.”

“I don’t know what’s going on or even when the funeral will be.” I nodded in Vida’s direction. “But we’ll be brought up to speed as soon as the real source of news puts her ear to the ground.”

“Oh, yes,” Amanda agreed. “How does she do it?”

“Sources, most of whom are related to her in oh-so-many ways,” I replied, seeing Spencer Fleetwood in the doorway. “Mr. Radio,” I said in greeting, but he put a finger to his lips and motioned for me to join him. After exchanging puzzled looks with Amanda, I stepped to the threshold. “Are you the new James Bond?”

“No,” Spence said, keeping his mellifluous voice down. “Is Vida around? I don’t want her to see me.”