Alpine Gamble by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online

asked, trying to sound interested.
    Ed waved a hand, the raincoat falling open to reveal the newly acquired cellular phone he kept hooked to his very large belt. “HoUenberg. The L.A. guys. The hotsprings. I've been taking a straw poll around town. People talk to me. They trust me. I'm telling you, Emma, this Windy Mountain spa idea is a disaster. Haven't you been getting outraged calls and letters?”
    I had, but no more than usual. My inconclusive article in Wednesday's paper had rung no loud alarm bells. A half-dozen subscribers had phoned so far, damning California influence. The letters that had arrived in the morning mail contained only two protesting the Windy Mountain project. One was from Darla Puckett, who was old enough to recall the original hotel at Scenic, and who lamented the possibility of “a modernistic monstrosity which would deface the natural beauty of Skykomish County.” The other was anonymous, rambling, and addressed me as Dear Poop-Head. The response would heat up next week when we ran the story about the pending sale.
    I fought the urge to light a cigarette. “The project means jobs, Ed. Have you got something against people working?
Other
people, that is?” I kept a straight face.
    Ed took me seriously, which is more than he ever did when I was his boss. “No, of course not. In fact…” He lowered his big, balding head, snuffled a bit, and cleared his throat. “You and I don't always see eye-to-eye.” Ed's brown spaniel eyes were fraught with meaning. Or so I supposed, since they were also watery and bloodshot. “Last fall, the Chamber vote, the murder hunt idea. You were on the other side.”
    Ed's harebrained scheme to turn a homicide investigation into a commercial game for gain had appalled me, as well as several other members of the Chamber of Commerce. I'd spoken out against the wacky, tasteless plan, which subsequently had been voted down. Obviously, Ed hadn't quite forgiven me for my alleged betrayal.
    'The killer was caught and convicted, as you know,”
    I said calmly. “Let's forget all that. What's on your mind?”
    Ed rubbed at his reddened nose. “Well—it's like this: the basic idea about the hot springs is fine. It's been real nice of Leonard and those doctors before him to let people use the pools for free. Of course I never knew the doctors—they weren't from around here—and Leonard does it to help get votes. But now we've got these Californians with their big bucks and big ideas. It's not Alpine, Emma, and you know it.”
    “Which doesn't mean it's bad,” I pointed out, still staying calm.
    Ed's expression said otherwise. “It's not appropriate. Now, I've never hiked up to the springs myself,” he admitted while I bit my Up to keep from laughing out loud at the mental image of tubby old Ed clambering up the side of Spark Plug Mountain, “but I've got a good idea of where they're located on the map. Building a big resort up there is going to be impossible. Look here.” The chair groaned as Ed struggled to his feet and went over to the U.S. Forest Service map I kept on the wall. “See, here's Scenic on Highway 2, the Burlington Northern railroad bridge, then the old dirt drive into what used to be a hotel, and here's the washed-out gravel road that goes as far as the power lines.” Ed ground his thumbnail into the map. Up close he smelled like Vicks VapoRub and cherry cough drops, “From there, you start a steep two-mile hike that's mostly uphill. Look how that baby climbs!”
    While the trail wasn't marked on the map, I could get a general idea of what Ed meant. The terrain rose steadily, from the three-thousand-foot level, which was the approximate altitude of Alpine, to well over four thousand feet.
    Ed smacked the map with his fist. “That's mountain goat country—literally. There isn't enough flat landto build a parking lot, let alone tennis courts and a golf course. What do these guys think this is—Palm Springs?”
    Ed, Shirley, and the five litde