The Alpine Christmas Read Free

decided, was work. It was Tuesday, after all, and our deadline for the weekly edition of
The Advocate
. Despite a sagging economy and Ed Bronsky’s best efforts to discourage advertisers, we were putting out a thirty-six-page paper, crammed with holiday specials. It was a good thing, since we were running light on real news. This was the season for Vida to shine, with plenty of party coverage, charity functions, and how-to holiday articles. I’d allotted her six pages this week, but of course they were all inside. The front page was unusually bland; Carla’s lead story recounted the city council’s decision to allow a ten-foot plastic Santa Claus to tower over Old Mill Park.
    “It will blow away,” said council president and ski lodge manager Henry Bardeen.
    “It will detract from the memorial to our town’s founder, Carl Clemans,” said council secretary and apparel-shop owner Francine Wells.
    “It will be the target of every snowballer and potshot artist in town,” said council member and building contractor Arnold Nyquist.
    “It will be an appropriate seasonal reminder, and a compromise in response to criticism of the manger scene that has stood in Old Mill Park every Christmas since 1946,” saidMayor Fuzzy Baugh. “Let it not be said that the City of Alpine is insensitive to those who do not share basic Christian beliefs. No matter how misguided, these fine folks still vote.” Fuzzy was your basic Baptist.
    He was also a savvy politician, but his quote needed pruning. I was about to exercise my editor’s pencil when the phone rang. It was Milo Dodge. He didn’t sound excited so much as disturbed.
    “Emma, can you come over for a minute?”
    I started to fabricate an excuse, then realized that Milo’s office might have heat, and said I could. The Skykomish County Sheriff’s office was only two blocks away, after all. “Shall I pick up some doughnuts?” The Upper Crust Bakery had recently moved into the space formerly occupied by the hobby and toy shop, which had graduated to the Alpine Mall. The town’s original source of baked goods had dried up three years earlier when its current owner had left Alpine to dry out and had never come back. The Upper Crust was owned by a pair of upstarts from Seattle who had a yen for the wide open spaces—and cheap real estate prices. Their baked goods were fabulous.
    But Milo declined. “Just come over, quick as you can,” he said, then hastily added a word of warning: “Be careful—it’s slippery out there.”
    I agreed not to turn cartwheels on Front Street. After putting on my car coat, I trudged over to the bakery, which was closed. No heat, I supposed. No ovens, no doughnuts. The marzipan reindeer in the window display looked as if they were seeking shelter in the gingerbread house. Next door, Parker’s Pharmacy was open, but I noticed that the clerks were wearing heavy sweaters and the fluorescent lighting had taken on a jaundiced tinge. Across the street, the Burger Barn was completely dark.
    Luckily, Milo isn’t afraid of space heaters. He had a large one going full tilt next to his desk. I sat down opposite himand cozied up to the glowing coils. Milo asked Bill Blatt to bring me a cup of coffee.
    “At least the lights work,” I noted, though they gave an ominous flicker even as I spoke. “What happened?”
    Milo thought I meant him, rather than the PUD. He shook his head slowly, incredulously. “Emma, it was the damnedest thing. I hit the river above Anthracite Creek, six miles down the highway. I got there just before first light. Jack Mullins got a twelve-pounder in that hole Saturday morning,” he went on, referring to another of his deputies. “Within the first fifteen minutes, I had a couple of bumps. I was sure it was going to be my lucky day.”
    Milo paused as Bill Blatt brought my coffee. I could visualize the scene, the river rushing among big boulders, the leaden sky overhead, the freezing air, the wind cutting to the bone, the snow