Free The Alpine Christmas by Mary Daheim Page A

said in a serious voice, “I’m not sure
publicity
would suit your purpose. That only calls attention to this sort of thing and invites more trouble. As long as there’s no damage to your …”
    “Not yet,” bristled Oscar, taking a briar pipe out of his lumber jacket. “Not to the Marmot, I mean. But damage, yes, oh, yes, we’ve had plenty of that. Theft, vandalism, passion pits—what next? Where does it end when there’s no police protection in this town?”
    Oscar Nyquist was shaking his pipe. He had gotten very red in the face, which in his case meant all over his skull as well. His jaw jutted, and there were deep furrows in his forehead. Fleetingly, I wondered if he were about to have a stroke, like Father Fitz.
    “Wait a minute,” I urged, keeping calm. “Back up a bit. I heard about the theft and some of the vandalism. That’s happened mostly to your son, Arnie, right?” I saw Oscar give a jerky nod. “What’s this passion pit business? That’s news to me. Are you talking about necking in the movie theatre?” I phrased the question in the old-fashioned terms Oscar understood.
    “Sheesh!” breathed Oscar, arching his eyebrows far up into his dome. He settled down enough to extract an oilskinpouch of tobacco from his jacket. “Not in
my
theatre, you don’t. I still got ushers, remember? But I can’t say exactly in mixed company,” he murmured, lowering his voice as well as his head. “It’s the new bowling alley site. Immoral acts. You know what I mean? My son has proof of it. That’s not all, either.” His voice began to rise again. “Somebody punctured the tires of two of Arnie’s construction trucks. And then there’s that Peeping Tom at my grandson’s place.”
    “Has all this been reported to Sheriff Dodge?” I asked, still trying to keep my tone mild.
    “Why bother?” exploded Oscar. “I tell you, he hasn’t done anything! Oh, Arnie went to see him about the break-in the other day, but this new stuff—what’s the use? That’s why I’m here.”
    A single knock sounded on my door. I called out.
    Travis Nyquist poked his head in. His words were for his grandfather: “Popsy, what did I tell you?” Travis’s blue eyes narrowed slightly, distorting his otherwise appealing, all-American face.
    Oscar turned slightly, then banged the desk again. “You’re soft, boy! This is persecution, I tell you!”
    Travis, however, stood firm, if slightly unbalanced on his new walking cast. “For Bridget’s sake, Popsy. Come on, she asked nicely, didn’t she?”
    “Nyaaah!” Oscar made a scornful gesture, taking a swipe at the framed Sigma Delta Chi Award from my days at
The Oregonian
. “She’s a baby, still wet behind the ears.…” But he caught the warning stare from Travis and began to simmer down. “Okay, okay, but those tires—do you know what they cost?”
    “The tires don’t bother me,” agreed Travis, his face regaining its usual pleasant aspect. “Just remember what you promised.” He winked, then closed the door.
    “Maybe,” I suggested, having racked my brain for a way out of this awkward situation, “what we need to do is look into the matter of the sheriff’s office. That’s what you’re reallycomplaining about, right?” I saw Oscar give a little shudder that passed for assent. “Perhaps I could assign one of my staff to investigate how the sheriff handles complaints. We might do a series, you know, in-depth, and in the process, goad Dodge and his deputies into taking complaints such as yours more seriously.” It sounded exemplary, even though I had absolutely no intention of following through. Over the years, however, I have learned that most unreasonable requests made to journalists can be put off by the promise of
in-depth
. The average layman is impressed by the idea, and when nothing comes of it, the explanation is easy:
in-depth
takes time. Most people’s attention span is only slightly longer than that of a bug’s, so eventually the crisis