Free Alpine Gamble by Mary Daheim Page B

guestsmdon't seem very pleased to be here. I have the distinct impression that we may have invited some foxes into the henhouse.”
    “No foxes here, except your old man,” Janet declared. “Fuzzy Baugh's a jackal, Ed Bronsky is a hog, and the vicar's some kind of rare but homely bird. As for—”
    “I think,” I interrupted in what I hoped was a polite voice, “Beverly means that some of the guests are sort of … at odds with the spa project.” Noting my hostess's grateful look, I continued. “Ed's pissed because he didn't think of it first. Cal Vickers is anti-outside intervention. So is Harvey Adcock, I imagine, though he's too well-mannered to say so out loud. Fuzzy Baugh has to straddle the fence, but he's very good at that or he wouldn't keep getting reelected mayor. I don't know about Coach Ridley and Dixie. The vicar always keeps an open mind. How does Al feel?”
    Janet lifted one almost-bare shoulder. “Al doesn't give a rat's ass. What he'd really like to see is a new nursing home, with some residents from outside of Alpine. These Lutherans here in Alpine come from hardy Scandinavian stock that lives forever. No wonder business is bad. If I didn't work part-time at the travel agency, we'd be close to broke.”
    Given that Driggers' Mortuary was the only game in town when it came to death, I tended to be skeptical. But I wasn't going to argue with Janet. There was never any point—I knew that from playing bridge with her. Instead of continuing the discussion, I sunk to uncharted depths by grabbing Ed Bronksy and cutting loose.
    “Nice party,” I said noncommittally, wincing as Ed popped a puff pastry square into his mouth and let a dribble of mushroom cream sauce trickle down his chin. Or chins, in Ed's case.
    “Inferior wine,” Ed remarked, still chewing, still dribbling. “I've read up lately. Not that I like wine all that much, but I feel it's my place to know what to buy when Shirley and I entertain.”
    Never having been to a Bronsky party that didn't feature wienies on a stick and beer out of a can, I let Ed's pompous statement pass. “I have no palate,” I admitted, my gaze wandering away from Ed, who was finally using a wrinkled napkin to cleanse himself. Across the room, near the closed flowered drapes that I guessed had come with the house, Scott Melville appeared to be arguing with Cal Vickers and Rip Ridley. The Texaco owner and the football coach both seemed heated; the architect retained his cool demeanor.
    “You have to acquire a taste, as well as knowledge,” Ed said in a confidential tone. “I'm thinking of buying by the case. Not that I need to worry about saving money, but practicing economy is a habit that dies hard.”
    The practice had been a necessity before Ed inherited his fortune. One of his saving ways had been to send the Bronsky Christmas cards through the office mail. He'd also stocked up on home office supplies at my expense. I'd finally called him on the carpet for charging six gallons of paint to
The Advocate.
Ed had insisted that his residential work space should be a business expenditure. For me. But since Ed didn't work very hard when he was on the job, I doubted that he ever put in much extra time at home.
    “Dirt cheap,” Ed was saying, even as my mind wandered down memory lane and over to the contentious trio by the drapes. “Ask Fuzzy.”
    Obviously, I'd lost the train of Ed's conversation. “Fuzzy? Ask him what?”
    Ed looked exasperated. “Emma, have you been drinking too much cheap wine?
You're
fuzzy.” Hechuckled heartily at his own joke. “I'm talking about Melville's quote for this stupid resort deal. Fuzzy Baugh gets to see all the bids for building projects. Fuzzy and I have gotten kind of tight lately.” Ed paused, puffing out his chest, his stomach, and his cummerbund. “You know, movers and shakers have to hang together. We played golf today. Fuzzy said that Melville's quote came in dirt cheap.”
    Now Ed had my full attention.