Free The Alpine Christmas by Mary Daheim

concerned Alexander Pantages, famed West Coast theatre entrepreneur. When the great man took his final curtain call in 1936, Oscar wanted to pay homage to a fellow impresario. Either out of respect for this icon or vanity for himself, Oscar was compelled to cover his half-bald head. His neighbor, Millard O’Toole, had butchered a cow that very morning. In a fit of inspiration, Oscar had cut off enough hide to make a toupee. It didn’t match his remaining hair; it didn’t fit his large head; and it wouldn’t stay put—but Oscar wore it anyway. He drove off to Seattle in his Model-A Ford feeling respectable and looking ridiculous. When he bent over Pantages’s coffin, the makeshift hairpiece fell off. Humiliated, Oscar left it there, and all Alpine assumed that the famed impresario was spending eternity with a little bit of local lore.
    At eighty-two, Oscar had long since become completely bald. He was still a big man, an inch taller than his son Arnie, and probably thirty pounds heavier. On Thursday morning, he lumbered into the
Advocate
office behind his grandson, Travis, who had graduated to a walking cast, but still leaned on a pair of metal crutches.
    “I want publicity!” boomed Oscar, standing in the middle of the room and somehow making the walls suddenly appearto close in on all of us. Ed looked up from his copy of the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
. Ginny pivoted in the act of handing me some phone messages. Carla jumped so violently that she spilled latte on her desk. And Vida gave the newcomer a tight-lipped glare.
    “Oscar, you old fool,” she railed, “how many times do I have to tell you—and fifty other idiots in this town—that we don’t do
publicity
. We do news or ads. After sixty years of running that movie theatre, you ought to know the difference. Either get yourself arrested or plunk out some money. Which is it you want?” She stopped long enough to cock her head to one side and smile warmly at Travis. “You’re up and about, I see. How’s your leg?”
    “Dr. Flake put the walking cast on this morning and it feels …”
    “Like hell!” interrupted Oscar, barging in front of his grandson. “If I say publicity, I
mean
publicity! Isn’t this a newspaper? Isn’t it printed for the public?”
    “Oooooh …!” Vida whipped off her glasses and frantically rubbed at her eyes, the telltale gesture that indicated she was highly agitated. “I give up! Emma, you deal with this crazy old coot. He’s impossible!”
    So far, my dealings with Oscar Nyquist had been limited. Ed handled his weekly ads; Ginny did the billing; Carla had written a little news story the previous spring when a new Dolby sound system had been installed; and Vida, of course, covered any social events connected with the Nyquists. I knew Oscar only by sight—and sound, since his presence in the office was always unmistakable. To get my further acquaintance off on the right foot, I invited Oscar and his grandson into my inner office. Travis, however, demurred and sat down at Carla’s desk. With a shrug, I followed Oscar and closed the door. It wouldn’t prevent the others from hearing him, but at least it might muffle the roar.
    “Have you seen my marquee?” he demanded, sitting across from me with his elbows on my desk.
    “I saw it yesterday, I guess. You have your special annual showing of
It’s A Wonderful Life
. I’d like to see it again.…”
    “Today!” He pounded on the desktop, rattling objects and shivering timbers. “Yesterday I was showing
It’s A Wonderful Life
, this morning I’m showing
It’s A Wonderful File
! Who’s the culprit, I ask you? Who’s persecuting the Nyquists? That stupid sheriff of ours does nothing! We want you to help us. It’s your duty, right?”
    My brain was still dealing with the switch of letters on the marquee. It was simple enough, no doubt the nocturnal effort of some kids. It was also kind of funny, but I didn’t dare say so to Oscar.
    “Frankly, Mr. Nyquist,” I