Part 16 (1/2)

”The feathers you wore in Seattle were a bit winterlike,” I said.

Vida harrumphed. ”More than just that, apparently.”

”What do you mean?” I asked.

”Did you notice that disreputable man with the beard who approached me at the bus stop on Aurora?”

I said I did. ”Did he ask for money?”

”No.” Vida lowered her voice. ”He offered it. Fifty dollars, but I had to wear the hat. Can you imagine?” She had actually gone pale.

I put a hand over my mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. ”No!” I exclaimed, eyes wide. ”He must have been... drunk.” Or crazy or blind or the kinkiest man in western Was.h.i.+ngton. ”What did you say?”

”I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself,” Vida replied. ”I can't think when I've been so insulted.”

Regarding Vida with a keen eye, I wondered. Deep down, I suspected she'd been thrilled. But she made no further comment and began going through her in-basket. ”Goodness, such a bunch of nonsense. There must be a dozen different recipe mailings in here, not to mention all the other unnewsworthy releases from businesses and organizations that have nothing to do with Alpine.”

”I get them, too,” I said, and waited some more.

”There were three weddings over the weekend,” she continued. ”Diane Skylstad's bridal gown was orange. Why? I wonder. Oh,” she continued, reading from the standard wedding release we provided, ”her groom went to Oregon State. He wore a black tuxedo. Beaver colors, it says here.” She paused while I fought my impatience. ”Beverly Iverson accompanied herself on the piccolo while she came down the aisle singing *You Are the Wind Beneath My Bings.' ”

”That should be wings,” I interrupted. ”It's a typo. Vida...”

”The Petersen-Huff nuptials took place in a hot-air balloon at Snohomish,” Vida broke in, scribbling the correction. ”Talk about wind-the Petersens have enough hot air to fly an airplane. Not to mention the Huffs. The name says it all.”

”Very cute,” I remarked, my curiosity at the bursting point. ”Vida, where have you been?”

She glanced up from the handwritten piece of paper she was perusing. ”Nowhere in particular,” she said, but avoided my gaze. ”You wouldn't think people would get married on Easter weekend, would you?”

”Vida...”

”What?” Finally, she stared at me through her big gla.s.ses.

”Don't you want to know all the details about last night?”

”Last night?” The faintest and most uncharacteristic of blushes emerged on her cheeks. ”Did I miss something?” I could swear I heard her groan.

”Yes,” I said. ”Where were you?”

”Oooh...” She whipped off her gla.s.ses and began to rub her eyes in that fierce fas.h.i.+on that always drives me nuts. ”I was with Buck. We spent a very leisurely evening.”

”That sounds... nice,” I said, keeping a straight face. While Vida would use every means short of thumbscrews to elicit the most personal information from others, she is a clam when it comes to revealing details of her own private life. Unlike many nosy people I've known, there is no mutual exchange of intimate affairs. In Alpine, it's understood that my House and Home editor takes no prisoners on the battlefield of gossip.

”All right,” she said, putting her gla.s.ses back on and blinking several times, ”tell me what I somehow missed last night.”

Scott Chamoud and Kip MacDuff arrived together, so I waited until they'd settled in with coffee and the doughnuts that I'd picked up at the Upper Crust Bakery. Ginny came in with more phone messages, and Leo showed up just after I began my account.

”Wow!” Scott exclaimed after I'd finished. ”I leave town, and everything blows up.”

”It's all yours now,” I said, ”though you'll need background from Vida on the Harquist-O'Neill feud.”

”You keeping the sheriff for yourself?” Leo asked with a bland expression on his craggy face.

”No,” I said with a hard stare for my ad manager. ”I have to go back to Seattle tomorrow. There's no point in me staying with any of the stories just before deadline.”

”You can't go back to Seattle,” Leo said. ”We've got lunch with Spencer Fleetwood tomorrow.”

I'd forgotten. ”Can we put it off until Friday?” I asked, feeling stupid.

”I'll check with Fleetwood,” Leo replied, but he didn't look pleased.

Throughout this exchange, Vida had remained silent. At last she spoke, her bust thrust out, her mangoes bobbing: ”It was bound to come to this. The Harquists and the O'Neills have been building toward a showdown for years.”

Leo turned in his swivel chair. ”Aren't family feuds kind of dated, even in Alpine? This isn't Albania, d.u.c.h.ess.”

Vida glared at Leo. ”Really, what do you know about it? You're still a newcomer. At least the Harquists and the O'Neills take some pride in family honor. I find it rather heartwarming.”

”Sicily,” Leo said. ”It's more like Sicilian families, having a ritual bloodbath.”

”Not at all,” Vida a.s.serted. ”Everyone involved is fair-complected. The O'Neills are mostly redheaded, and the Harquists are very blond. Of course Cap is bald now, but...”

I left Vida and Leo to their argument and retired to my cubbyhole. The workday commenced. I called the hospital to check on Milo and was put through to his room.

”I'm stuck here until tomorrow,” he complained. ”I argued with Doc about it, but I lost. Now I have to run this whole Harquist-O'Neill mess from here. It's d.a.m.ned aggravating.”

Milo was never one to delegate. I sympathized, then asked how he was going to manage when he went home. Surely he'd have to stay off his foot for a few days.

”That's another thing,” he said, still grumpy. ”Doc wants me to keep off of it until next week. h.e.l.l, it's not that big a deal. I shot myself in the foot once when I was a kid.”

”But you're going to need some help,” I pointed out. ”I talked to Jeannie last night at the hospital, and it sounded as if she's going out of town for a few days.” I couldn't resist putting the needle into Milo.

”Right,” the sheriff responded. ”You have to give seven days' notice at the place where we had our reservations. The deadline pa.s.sed last Sat.u.r.day. Janet Driggers tried to wheedle an exception, but no luck. They're sticklers in Sun Valley.”

So Milo was making excuses for his youthful sweetheart. ”Goodness,” I said, ”you wouldn't want to be out two or three hundred dollars just because you got shot in the line of duty.”

”What does that crack mean?” Milo snapped.

I was silently chortling. ”Get well, cowboy. I'll bring you a tuna ca.s.serole when you get home.” Milo hated tuna ca.s.serole. I hung up, still chortling.

Vida and I ate at the Venison Inn, where she listened in relative silence to my adventures the previous day in Seattle.

”I'm actually relieved that I didn't have to go to those seedy bars,” she admitted. ”However, I can't help but wonder if things might have gone more smoothly with Darryl Lindholm had I been there.”

I bristled a bit. ”How? You couldn't have avoided mentioning Kendra.”

”Perhaps you should have inquired about Carol first,” Vida said, taking a bite from her Reuben sandwich.

”Why?” I shot back. ”I was trying to add a positive note to what was otherwise an extremely negative conversation. Mr. Rapp said that Darryl, Carol, and Kendra looked happy together, like a family. I thought that mentioning Kendra would make him feel better.”

”Apparently not,” Vida murmured, looking faintly smug. ”Oh, well. I'll call on him tomorrow.”