Free The Alpine Uproar by Mary Daheim Page A

names?”
    “The
mish
,” I explained, “is a Native American name around here for ‘river,’ as in Snohomish, Skykomish, Stillaguamish, Duwamish, and so forth. Hold off interviewing Jica Weaver. The sheriff should talk to her first. In fact, I’m going to stop by his office on my way to lunch and see if he’s recovered from whatever he was doing last night.”
    I tried to keep my tone neutral. Obviously, I failed. Vida gave me a sharp look. “With Delphine?”
    To save face, I shrugged. “Whoever.”
    Vida didn’t quite manage to conceal a smirk, but turned to her keyboard. “It’s never too soon to suggest items for ‘Scene,’” she reminded us. “I
will
use Rick’s minor car mishap, but without names. Nervous fathers-to-be have a certain charm. As usual, I’ll put the baby’s birth on my page. I trust that the child will have a name by press time.”
    “Say,” I said, having a sudden thought, “getting back to Jica Weaver, did any of you listen to KSKY this morning?”
    “I did,” Leo replied. “I wanted to check on a co-op ad we did with them for the Columbus Day sale at Stuart’s Sight and Sound. Why?”
    “Jica Weaver was going to the station last night to proclaim Berentsen’s innocence. Maybe Fleetwood wasn’t there or he felt like I did about going public with something as flimsy as a girlfriend’s opinion.”
    “I’ll ask him,” Leo said. “I’m going to KSKY later.” He glanced at Vida. “A cooking store in Monroe wants to be one of your sponsors. You don’t want your
real
employer to lose out on that, Duchess.”
    “Certainly not,” Vida asserted. “A cooking store.” Her tone turned musing. “My, my, that’s good news.” In an instant, she whipped off her glasses to glare at Leo. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
    “I didn’t know it until a few minutes ago,” Leo said. “Spence sent me an FYI e-mail. You got one, too.”
    “Oh.” Taken aback, Vida blinked rapidly. Having held out for a long time on using a computer, she often forgot that it had uses beyond typing up news copy.
    “That’s some kind of bright spot,” I said. “I don’t see how Fleetwood could turn us down.” I looked at Vida, who had put her glasses back on. “If he did, you could threaten to quit and KSKY’s ratings would plummet.”
    “Perhaps,” Vida said with an inclination of her head. “I try to bring a certain amount of local lore and neighborliness to my program.”
    Vida’s Cupboard
had been an instant hit when she began her fifteen-minute weekly broadcast three years earlier. It usually aired live on Wednesdays, but this week she’d insisted that Spence move the show to Tuesday because of the conflict with the Presbyterian Harvest Home supper. It was a testimonial to her popularity that Mr. Radio had complied. It also gave her the opportunity to remind her brethren about the potluck. When I first learned of the original offer for Vida to do the program, I’d had qualms, but my House & Home editor had vowed never to use material better suited to the
Advocate
. Naturally, she’d kept her word. The show featured interviews with local residents, helpful hints on gardening, and reminders of upcoming events in Alpine. The irony of the cooking store advertisement didn’telude me. Although Vida ran recipes and other food-related advice on her page, she never applied any of the information to herself, relying instead on her family’s time-honored concoctions and methods. Unfortunately, her ancestors were reputed to have been the worst cooks in Skykomish County’s history. If the Detroit bar actually served gopher as Mitch claimed, it probably wouldn’t taste worse than most of Vida’s culinary efforts.
    Glancing at the clock, I noticed it was going on twelve. “I’m heading out to check in with the sheriff,” I said, ignoring what I figured was Vida’s intrigued expression. “I’m running out of ways to write another editorial begging the state to do something