The Alpine Betrayal Read Free Page B

month. I can take a plane.” His voice dropped a notch. “If you can advance me the price of a ticket.”
    “So why are you working? I thought you made big bucks in Alaska.”
    “I got tuition, room and board, you know—I didn’t count on having to pay for an airline ticket.” He sounded faintly indignant, as if it were my fault that Alaska was so spread out.
    “I’ll see what I can do.” I didn’t have the remotest notion how much it cost to fly from Ketchikan to Fairbanks. It appeared I’d have to dip into savings. At least I still had some, thanks to a fluke of an inheritance that had allowed me to buy both
The Advocate
and my green Jaguar. Still, it crossed my mind that this was one of those times when it would have been nice to have Adam’s father around, instead of off raising his own kids and taking care of his nutty wife.
    “Thanks, Mom.” My son spoke as if the ticket purchase was a
fait accompli
. “Hey, I just talked to some guy who’s leaving for Seattle this afternoon and then going on to Alpine. Curtis Graff. You know him? He works here in the cannery as a foreman.”
    The name rang a bell, but it was off-key. “Cody Graff I know. At least I know who he is. His name just came up a few minutes ago.” There was no point in boring Adam with details. “How old is Curtis?”
    “Oh—thirty, maybe. He went to Alpine High, worked in the woods, was a volunteer fireman, and went out with the daughter of the guy who owns the Texaco station.”
    Adam’s thorough account amazed me. Usually, I was lucky to get the last name of his acquaintances. But I still couldn’t place Curtis Graff, unless he was Cody’s brother. Vida would know. “What’s he bringing down?” I inquired. Surely Adam couldn’t pass up the chance to have somebody hand-carry videos that were six weeks overdue, a brokenCD player, or a torn jacket that only Mother could mend.
    “Nothing,” my son replied, sounding affronted. “I just thought it was kind of strange that there was somebody else up here from Alpine. It’s not exactly the big city.”
    “True,” I agreed, thinking wistfully of the metropolitan vitality I still missed since moving to Alpine. But my years on
The Oregonian
in Portland and my upbringing in Seattle seemed far away. I had committed my bank account to
The Advocate
and my soul to Alpine. My heart was another matter.
    We chatted briefly of mundane concerns before Adam announced he had to race off and help somebody fix an outboard motor. I turned my attention back to the other phone messages, the mail, and the print order for the weekly press run in Monroe. It was after one o’clock when I realized I’d skipped lunch. I said as much to Vida, who had already consumed her diet special of cottage cheese, carrot and celery sticks, and a hard-boiled egg.
    “You eat alone too much,” she announced, depositing two wedding stories with accompanying pictures on my desk. “I’ll come with you. I could use a cup of hot tea.”
    “Good.” I started to sign the print order just as Carla returned, bubbling like a brook.
    “Dani Marsh isn’t much taller than I am,” Carla declared, dancing into my office. “She’s in terrific shape though, works out for two hours a day, and drinks nothing but cabbage extract. Her skin is
amazing!
But you ought to see Matt Tabor! What a hunk! He’s six-two, with the greenest eyes ever, and muscles that ripple and bulge and—”
    Happily, the phone rang, cutting short Carla’s bicep recital. The mayor, Fuzzy Baugh, was on the line, his native New Orleans drawl characteristically unctuous. He wanted to make sure we included an article about the celebrity bartenders who were going to be on duty at the Icicle Creek Tavern during Loggerama. He and Doc Dewey Senior; Dr. Starr, the dentist; and Sheriff Milo Dodge would make up the star-studded cast of mixologists, unless they got luckyand enticed somebody from the movie crew to take part. That struck me as dubious, since the