Free Alpine Gamble by Mary Daheim

roll-up-your-shirtsleeves drinking bouts, are rare in Alpine. The occasion sent me scurrying to my closet. I decided on a gauzy wraparound blouse and striped skirt with a side slit, an outfit I'd carefully chosen for my meeting with Tom Cavanaugh at Lake Chelan the previous June. The ensemble had given me confidence, though I suspected that Tom wouldn't have remembered if I'd been wearing designer sportswear or a Seahawks uniform. Not that Tom couldn't be observant when it came to clothes—but so overcome were we both by our long-awaited reunion that removing garments had been far more important than admiring them.
    A year later the separates looked a bit shopworn. Maybe I did, too. But when Leo picked me up shortly after seven, he actually complimented my appearance.
    “You look sharp, babe. Too sophisticated for the yokels. Won't they be wearing their bowling team shirts and those pants with shiny butts?”
    “Not all of them,” I said lightly. “Not Scott and Beverly Melville. Not you.” My tight little smile was intended to flatter Leo's summer-weight sports coat and neatly pressed slacks. He didn't wear a tie, of course, but his yellow shirt suited his coloring. As I got into his secondhand Toyota, it occurred to me that we made a very presentable couple. At least for Alpine.
    The Icicle Creek development is on the east side of town, between the railroad tracks, the golf course, and the older, grander homes of First Hill. The more expensive residences sit between Icicle Creek and the fairway. The houses closer to the train tracks are more modest. Like Milo Dodge, the Melvilles were somewhere in the middle, on the opposite side of the creek from the golf course, but sufficiently removed from the Burlington Northern route so that their foundation wouldn't wobble when a big freight rumbled through town.
    The house itself had a temporary look, no doubt due to its imminent renovation. The Melvilles also seemed transitory. Maybe it was Beverly's cliche Malibu blonde appearance or Scott's practiced charm. They struck me as people who were passing through, checking out the ambience, poised to move on to the next sensation. It was possible that I was being unfair. First impressions are often inaccurate.
    The assembled guests, most of whom I already knew, were gathered in the dining and living rooms. They were a curious crew, seemingly chosen to represent segments of Alpine life: Mayor Fuzzy Baugh and his wife Irene; high school coach Rip Ridley and his spouse Dixie; Cal and Charlene Vickers; Harvey and Darlene Adcock, who owned the hardware and sporting goods store; the Episcopal vicar, Regis Bartleby, and Mrs.Bartleby, whose first name eluded me; and the local undertaker, Al Driggers, with his ribald wife, Janet. Last but not least were Ed and Shirley Bronsky. Ed wore a cummerbund, and given his girth, all he needed was a fez to look like Sydney Greenstreet in
Casablanca
, Shirley, in blue and green chiffon edged with matching feathers, resembled Greenstreet's parrot.
    “Great spread,” Leo remarked, forking up seafood beignets, tartar sauce, and an onion tart.
    “The food? Or Shirley Bronsky's behind? Now that she's rich, why doesn't she join a health club and work out?” Feeling mean-minded, I shoved a chunk of mozzarella-covered bruschetta into my mouth.
    Leo, however, ignored my snide comment. “I wonder,” he said, trying to juggle his wine in one hand and his appetizer plate in the other, “if Windy Mountain will offer exercise equipment? Have you asked?”
    “No,” I retorted, vaguely irked that Leo should remind me how to do my job, “but I'm going to right now.”
    I had caught Scott Melville's eye over Charlene Vick-ers's padded periwinkle-blue shoulder. My host met me halfway, by a pair of armless damask chairs that probably would cost me a month's take-home wages. Scott smiled, revealing dimples in both cheeks and chin, more dimples than the law allowed, even in southern California.
    He answered my