The Alpine Yeoman (11 page)

Mitch showed up shortly before eleven-thirty. “Some kind of virus,” he said, standing in my doorway and shrugging out of his jacket. “Doc Dewey told us there isn’t much he can do. It just has to run its course.”

I nodded. “How is she feeling otherwise?”

Mitch brightened a bit. “Better, I think. She’s been weaving more lately and has taken a couple of orders. Of course, she’s fretting about the virus keeping her from finishing the projects on time. I hope she’s feeling good by the weekend. We plan on driving to Monroe to see Troy.”

The subject of the Laskeys’ imprisoned son was touchy, so I merely said I hoped they could do that. I followed up by telling Mitch that Vida was doing background on the alleged runaways. If there was more to it, he’d take over the hard news. I’d already zapped him the items from the sheriff’s log.

I suddenly remembered to ask about the sports car driver who might or might not still be alive in Monroe’s hospital.

“I checked while I was waiting for Brenda at the clinic,” Mitch replied. “He’s been upgraded to stable. Maybe he’ll make it.”

“Good,” I said, not admitting that Milo hadn’t known—or cared. For the sheriff, the accident victim was just another non-local who didn’t understand the hazards of driving on Highway 2.

A few minutes later, Milo called me. “You won’t believe
this,” he said, “but your idiot neighbor Laverne Nelson filed a complaint about the noise from the construction going on at your house.”

“What?” I shrieked. Before he could respond, I kept talking: “In case you’ve forgotten, that’s
our
house, you jackass!”

“That’s my point,” he said in a relatively calm voice. “Apparently, the wife and mother of the tree poachers, arsonists, and perps of some other felonies has been on the lam, so she doesn’t know you’re Mrs. Dodge. Her complaint is only against Emma Lord.”

“Crap,” I said, holding my head with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone. “What do I … what do
we
do now?”

“Not a damned thing,” Milo replied. “But I wanted to warn you in case she shows up when I’m not around. You gave the deposition about the two younger Nelson kids trying to burn down the house in December. Meanwhile, I’m sending Gould to enlighten Mrs. Nelson. This is right up his alley. Dwight’s complete lack of tact is a plus in this situation. He enjoys badgering people. I think the daughter-in-law and her kid are probably living in the house, too. Mrs. Nelson reported that her grandchild couldn’t nap because of the noise.”

“I wonder if Laverne and the other two have been holed up with her cousin in Index,” I said. “Any word on when the two younger kids who started the carport fire will get out?”

“Next March,” my husband replied. “Doyle and the oldest son each got a year in Walla Walla, but they still have a hearing on reimbursing the county for cutting down those maples in the first place. You watch out for yourself when you go home, Emma. I mean it.”

“I will,” I promised. “Are you going to be late?”

I heard him sigh. “You know I can’t be sure. Let’s hope not.”

Leo was standing in the doorway. “Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

My ad manager chuckled. “I assume that was your better half. I’m not used to thinking of you as a wife.”

I laughed. “I’m not, either, never having been one until lately. On the other hand, I feel as if Milo and I have been together forever.”

“You have,” Leo said seriously. “That’s why you’ll make it. No surprises. Would he mind if you ate lunch with your aging ad manager?”

“He’s never minded,” I said, looking around Leo to see if Vida was at her desk. She was nowhere in sight, and her coat was gone. “You choose. Not that we have a lot of options.”

“How about driving down to Skykomish, to the Cascadia? I’d like a change of menus.”

“Sounds good. I haven’t been there in ages.”

“Shall we?” Leo asked, making as if he were offering his arm.

It was a quarter to twelve. “Why not? It
is
Wednesday.”

We took Leo’s Toyota, which was even older than my Honda. The sun now shone almost overhead as we crossed the rusting green truss bridge over the Skykomish River before reaching Highway 2.

“It definitely feels like spring,” Leo remarked as we passed the road to Alpine Falls. “I can’t complain about rain this year.”

“I can,” I said. “I’m a native. Not getting rain is bothersome.”

Leo grinned. “Tell me that when we haven’t had any in June.”

“I know,” I admitted. “June can be wetter than May some years. But they’re talking drought east of the mountains.”

“Maybe it’s all a plot to keep me in Alpine instead of going back to sunny Southern California,” he said as we passed the Skykomish Ranger Station. “I’ve never quite adjusted to those endless weeks of gray skies.”

“Stop reminding me that you’re going to retire in the not-so-distant future,” I retorted. “Take a few days for your birthday in May and go see your grandson. What’s his name? I forget.”

“Austin.” Leo made a face. “Liza and I weren’t pleased. All I can think of is Texas, and she bitches because she never heard of a Saint Austin. What kind of nickname do you give the kid? Aussie? Tinny?”

“Don’t ask me. I’ll never be a grandmother.”

“Yes, you will,” Leo said. “A step-grandmother, anyway. One of Milo’s kids is bound to produce some offspring.”

I nodded faintly. “His son, Bran, and his girlfriend are talking marriage, maybe in the fall.”

Traffic was fairly light as we wound our way along what was also known as the Stevens Pass Highway, with its glimpses of the green-colored Sky rippling and rushing westward. I missed the little waterfalls that usually trickled down the steep rocks on the northern side of the road. The snowpack at the higher elevations had already diminished.

Leo slowed to turn off for the bridge that led back over the Sky and into the little community that bore the river’s name. Like Alpine, Skykomish had its own Railroad Avenue. The town’s history was rooted in the building of the Great Northern Railway when one of the surveying engineers, John Maloney, homesteaded on the site in 1892. First called Maloney’s Landing, the original depot had been a boxcar on a siding. The town grew, but even as Carl Clemans’s mill produced the timber for the new Cascade tunnel, the die was cast not only for Alpine, but for Skykomish. The railroad had been Clemans’s
major customer. When the tunnel was finished, he was forced to close his mill. Skykomish endured as a railroad town until 1956, when diesel engines replaced the old electric trains. The town’s usefulness was over. Only some two hundred people remained, determined to preserve the spot as a historic landmark.

One of those landmarks was the venerable Cascadia Hotel, with its café and lounge. The bar didn’t open during the week until after five, so Leo and I sat in the dining area. The menu was far more extensive than the Burger Barn’s—and more inventive than the Venison Inn’s. Leo chose the Maloney chicken sandwich, and I asked for the Great Northern hamburger dip.

“Why,” I said, after coffee was poured for us, “do I think you have a reason for coming here other than that it’s a nice change of pace?”

Leo’s leathery face crinkled with amused irony. “The Duchess—what else? As you’ve noticed, she’s off her feed again. Any idea why?”

“I assume it’s Roger,” I replied. “I’m not sure he’s volunteering at RestHaven anymore. I always thought he did that only to be within the proximity of the buxom Ainsley.”

“Maybe the romance is kaput,” Leo suggested. “What does Ainsley do there? I assume she’s not their consulting brain surgeon.”

“She’s an aide in the rehab wing, working for Jennifer Hood, the RN in charge of the unit.”

Leo frowned. “Weren’t there some rumors about Nurse Hood going around a while ago?”

I laughed. “Yes. Remember when Jack Blackwell kept reporting that someone was trying to kill him?” I saw Leo nod, and continued. “It turned out that Jennifer was Jack’s first wife, years ago in California. She’d never quite gotten over him, despite his inclination to beat up on the women in his life.
According to Milo, Jack dropped the charges because he was embarrassed. For all I know, he’s still seeing Jennifer when Patti Marsh isn’t looking.”

“He’s a strange guy,” Leo said, but paused as our side salads arrived. “I haven’t dealt with him much over the years, because he runs a standing ad. When I have met with him, he’s all business. If we had two more county commissioners like him, we might not be stalled in SkyCo.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You haven’t read this week’s
Advocate
.”

“Ah! I plead guilty. Sorry. I’ve been too busy this morning seeking revenue to keep said
Advocate
in the black. I gather you have a plan.”

“Incredibly enough, it’s Mayor Baugh’s plan. Or his wife’s. But it’s a good one.”

Leo looked bemused. “I’ll check it out when we get back to the office. I take it there’s nothing in this plan that’d set Vida on her ear?”

“Not that I can think of. I’ll stick with Roger being the cause of her current mood. I’d ask her about him, but it’s hard to do without showing my disgust.”

Our entrées were delivered. “Let me tackle that one,” Leo said. “I assume she’s still pissed at Milo, Rosie Bourgette, and Judge Diane.”

“She is. Maybe,” I suggested, “Dippy, as he’s called, is two and he’s probably a handful for Amy and Ted, who’ve both reached middle age. They celebrated the kid’s birthday this week. It should come as no surprise that I don’t think Roger takes fatherhood seriously.”

Leo snorted. “Did that kid ever take anything seriously except drinking, eating, and doing drugs?”

“He did seem interested in acting at one point, but that requires
effort and study and focus. None of those things suit Roger very well.”

Leo looked unusually solemn. “Here’s how I see it in the office. Mitch is up and down with his wife’s breakdown and a son in prison. Amanda will be around for another couple of months before she has the baby. With Vida often being a prima donna, the newsroom is not always a pleasant place. You know that, if only from when she makes some crack about the sheriff. Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate what you’ve done to get me out of my drunken stupor. Working on the
Advocate
has been good. But the ups and downs of the past few months are turning me sour. Santa Maria’s looking better and better all the time.”

I set down the French fry I’d been about to put in my mouth. “Oh, Leo, I hate to hear that!”

He shrugged. “I have to be honest with you. I’d
like
to stay on for another year or so. Frankly, I’m still not sure if Liza wants me back on a permanent basis. But if she does …” He raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “I may be gone when I turn sixty-two in May.”

We lived in an era where newspapers were an endangered species, just like the loggers and the spotted owls. The food at the Cascadia was very good, but my appetite was ruined. Worse yet, Leo’s defection could ruin the
Advocate
.

M
Y AD MANAGER APOLOGIZED PROFUSELY FOR UPSETTING
me. I tried to put on a blasé face. He knew me better, though. Of course, I couldn’t blame him for wanting to reunite with his family. But after the disaster that had been Ed Bronsky, Leo had single-handedly turned the newspaper from borderline red into solid black.

“Damn,” Leo said, shaking his head and gazing at a hand-painted wooden train on the nearest wall. “I swear I didn’t intend to dump all that on you now. I only wanted to find out what was up with Vida.”

I nodded faintly. “What’s up with Vida is often what’s up with the
Advocate
. I’m the editor and publisher, but most people think she’s in charge, just as she exerts her influence on the town itself. She not only loves Alpine, but considers it her fiefdom.” I managed a small smile. “She reminds me of the Dame of Sark, who ruled over the small island in the English Channel. Even when the Germans occupied it, they were forced to respect her. As I recall, she also wore some amazing hats.”

“Good thing we Californians who’ve invaded Alpine keep a fairly low profile,” Leo said.

Our conversation turned to less depressing subjects. I managed to eat a bit more food, though I still felt glum. I didn’t like contemplating life without Leo.

Back at work, I had a message from Edna Mae Dalrymple, the town’s head librarian. Maybe she’d already seen the
Advocate
and was calling to cheer or jeer. But the first words out of her mouth pertained instead to our bridge club.

“Emma, dear,” she chirped in her birdlike voice, “we are muddled about which night we play, even if it’s only twice a month. It’s very confusing since we switched dates the first of the year. Anyway, it
is
this evening at my house. But we forgot that Charlene Vickers and Darlene Adcock have other commitments. Can you play?”

During January, when the night was switched to a Tuesday, I’d bowed out, and not just because it was our deadline. Certain members weren’t numbered among my fans. After what Milo and I had gone through in late December, I didn’t feel like putting up with their intrusive and often snarky comments. I’d played bridge once in February, substituting for one of my detractors, high school gym teacher Linda Grant. In March, the members had become so mixed up that they’d met only once—on another Tuesday. Again I’d begged off. They’d switched to Thursday in early April, but the hostess, Mary Jane Bourgette, had called at the last minute to say their dishwasher had flooded the kitchen. When no one leaped into the breach, the get-together was canceled. As I was trying to think of a viable excuse, I saw Fuzzy Baugh in the doorway. I told Edna Mae I’d play. I’d have to wait until the mayor left to kick myself.