Free Alpine Gamble by Mary Daheim Page A

question directly, but with what I assumed was professional detachment. “That's the tentative plan,” he said, pushing an unruly lock of dark blond hair off his forehead. “Full services for mind and body. Herbal wraps, aromatherapy, massage, mud soaks, waxing, swimming pool, full gym—the works. There'll be diet and exercise consultants, dermatologists, hair restoration, maybe even physical
and
behavioral therapists. Blake and Stan are going first-class.” Scott's tone remained matter-of-fact.
    Judging from my host's own muscular build, he was already keeping fit, at least in body. Still, I couldn't help but be impressed by the plans for Windy Mountain. I also couldn't help but wonder where all the money was coming from. 'They're flying to L.A. Tuesday to arrange the financing,” I noted. “Suddenly that fifteen-million-dollar price tag doesn't sound so high after all. Do you think they can swing it?”
    Scott shrugged. “They've put together big projects in the past. They're major players.”
    They were also absent. I asked Scott if he expected them to drop by.
    “Not tonight,” he answered in what I was getting to know as his studied detachment. Scott's manner didn't gibe with his boyish good looks. “They're doing dinner with somebody.”
    I made a guess. “Leonard Hollenberg?”
    Scott shrugged again. “Could be. I'm the architect, not the social secretary.”
    The response seemed to dismiss me, but the awkward moment was broken by Scott's wife, Beverly, who held out her hand. “I don't believe we've met officially. I'm Bev Melville.”
    I shook her hand, vaguely in awe of her long, straight blonde hair, tall, trim figure, and astonishing big blue eyes. If the hair was bleached, it was recently done, and while the cut was simple, I knew it was deceptively expensive. Somehow, I didn't think she'd gotten it locally at Stella's Styling Salon.
    “I hear you have a log house,” Beverly began as her husband drifted away to join Ed Bronsky and Harvey Adcock. “I'm envious. But logs wouldn't work in this setting. Scott says we're going to have to blend in.”
    “Blending in is required in a small town,” I said, putting my empty hors d'oeuvres plate down on a smalldrum table. “At least it is if you want to get along with the locals.”
    Briefly, Beverly's expression was rueful. But when she spoke, her voice was enthusiastic. “We do, definitely. Why else move to a remote area? Except to avoid all the Big City problems, of course.”
    “Small towns have problems of their own,” I pointed out. “Blending in is just one of them. But you're right, there are advantages.”
    Again there was a brief pause before Beverly responded. “Ironic, isn't it? People like us move to get away from urban ills, then try to make over our new backwater into what forced us to leave in the first place. Is that progress, Ms. Lord?”
    Since I was probably no more than eight or ten years older than Beverly, I insisted that she call me Emma. Otherwise, I was starting to feel like Grandma Moses. “Don't ask me what progress is,” I said, noting Janet Driggers zeroing in on us. “What's important for Alpine is putting food on the table. Given the timber industry crisis, the town's in danger of dying.”
    “Dying?” Janet's voice was perky. “Anybody doing it here? Tell Al—we could use the money. There hasn't been a funeral in Alpine since the first week of May.”
    I smiled at Janet's comment, but Beverly didn't. “This party may be dying. I feel a lot of negative energy. What about you?”
    Janet blinked her false eyelashes at Beverly. “I tried to feel your husband, but he backed into the garlic dip. I thought Californians were more adventurous.”
    Obviously, Beverly didn't know Janet well enough to realize that she was teasing. Maybe. After almost five years, I wasn't sure I knew Janet that well, either.
    “I mean,” Beverly said, clearing her throat and looking vaguely uncomfortable, “that some of our