The Alpine Betrayal Read Online Free

Icicle Creek Tavern makes Mugs Ahoy look like the Polo Lounge. Located at the edge of town, the rival watering hole is famous for its Saturday night brawls which usually involve raucous loggers hurling each other through the windows. I frankly couldn’t imagine Fuzzy or any of our other more dignified citizens having a beer at the place, let alone serving the rough-and-tumble clientele. But this was Loggerama, and apparently a truce was in effect.
    I was still listening to the mayor’s long-winded description of how he planned to give civic-minded names to his libations
(citizen schooner, mayor’s mug, political pitcher
—I didn’t take notes) when Ed Bronsky staggered in, looking as if he’d been attacked by wild beasts.
    “Inserts!” he wailed, clutching at the doorjamb. “In color! Every week! It’s worse than I expected!”
    Inwardly, I was elated. Enough color inserts might pay for Adam’s ticket from Ketchikan to Fairbanks. But between Fuzzy yammering about his Beer à la Baugh, the star-struck Carla still twittering to Vida, and Ed now threatening to have an aneurism over Safeway’s advertising temerity, I was anxious to escape. Hastily, I shoved the print order at Vida to sign for me while I relented and took down the dates and times that the various so-called celebrities would be at the Icicle Creek Tavern. At last I was able to hang up, console Ed, listen to Carla, and get out the door before some other obstacle rolled my way.
    “Burger Barn,” I said, feeling the full impact of the sun overhead.
The Advocate
wasn’t air-conditioned, but its proximity to the Skykomish River gave an illusion of cold water and fresh air. Outside, I could see the dry foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Even the evergreens seemed to droop. To the north, Mount Baldy was bare of snow, with wild heather blazing under the blank blue sky. The forest fire danger was extreme, and all logging operations had been curtailed. After over a month without rain, we nativeswere beginning to feel as if our own roots were drying up and withering our souls.
    The Burger Barn is both restaurant and drive-in, located two blocks west on Front Street, across from Parker’s Pharmacy, once owned by the wayward Durwood. Fleetingly, I wondered how he was managing in jail. In Alpine, the county prison consists of six cells in the building that houses the sheriff’s office. Usually, the only inhabitants are drunk drivers, transients, and the occasional spouse batterer. Durwood probably had the place to himself. I mentioned the fact to Vida, who snorted loudly.
    “He’ll probably ask to stay an extra day. Dot Parker talks like a cement mixer. Non-stop, just grinding her jaws away.” She took a stutter step, then waved, a windmill gesture that might have stopped traffic had there been more than three cars on Front Street. “Marje! Yoo-hoo!”
    At the entrance to the Burger Barn, Vida’s niece, Marje Blatt, returned the wave. She was accompanied by a lanky young man wearing cutoffs and a tank top. As coincidence would have it, he was Marje’s fiancé, Cody Graff. Introductions were made, but before I could inquire about Curtis Graff, Vida whisked us inside the Burger Barn.
    “We might as well sit together,” said Vida, heading for an empty booth that looked out toward the bank across the street. “I’m just having tea.”
    Marje and Cody looked a little reluctant, but docilely sat down. “I’m on my lunch hour,” said Marje. She was in her mid-twenties, with short auburn hair, bright blue eyes, and a piquant face. Unlike her more casual counterparts in many big city medical offices, Marje wore a crisp white uniform. She scanned the menu as if it were an X-ray. “Why am I looking at this?” she asked, pitching the single plastic-encased sheet behind the napkin holder. “I’m having the Cobb salad.”
    The waitress, a pudgy middle-aged woman named Jessie Lott, stood with order pad in hand, blowing wisps of hair off her damp forehead. Cody