Free The Alpine Xanadu by Mary Daheim Page A

ever
read
the
Advocate
?”
    “Yeah, sure, but you know how busy I’ve been. Sometimes I only get a chance to skim it.”
    I gritted my teeth to keep the argument from escalating. “Just answer the question, Sheriff.”
    “Hell,” he said, “she can run the announcement, but forget about the photo. That means spending a couple of hours and big bucks at Buddy Bayard’s studio. Do you really want to do that right now?”
    “No, but if I didn’t mention it to you, Vida would pitch a fit.”
    “She would. Hey, Scott Melville’s due in about five minutes to talk about the addition to the house. We’re going to add another bathroom.”
    “What?”
I shrieked. “This isn’t the Taj Mahal, you dolt!”
    “Stop fussing. Got to check my notes for Melville.” He hung up.
    I knew that Vida and Leo had heard me, but I didn’t care. I held my head and wondered how in hell we were going to pay for a larger bedroom, a workshop, and now a second bathroom.
    A few minutes later Leo strolled in. “Ahem. Trouble in paradise?”
    I looked up from the mail Amanda had dropped off. “The sheriff’s turning the once-small attached workshop into a palace.”
    Leo chuckled. “Hey, as a veteran of the child support wars, I can testify that even my income rose perceptibly when our kids hit eighteen. Milo isn’t making starvation wages. His kids have been off the dole for years. Don’t you know his annual salary? It’s a matter of public record.”
    “I
don’t
know,” I admitted. “I’ve never checked.”
    Leo’s weathered face fell. “You’re kidding!”
    “No. My reporters have always handled budgets. I never look at what other people earn. I got into that habit on the
Oregonian
. It always infuriated me when I saw some worthless civil servant who was being charged with embezzlement and was already making at least four times what I earned as a journalist. It’s a crime that newspaper people don’t get paid enough. Teachers are in the same boat. You know all that. It’s so unfair.”
    “It’s also useless to stew about it,” Leo said, leaning on the back of one of my visitor’s chairs. “But if you asked your future husband, I’ll bet he’d tell you
he
makes at least three times what you do.”
    I stared at my ad manager. “He does? You don’t know that.”
    “Actually, I do. I checked it out last fall for our Labor Day special.”
    “Keep it to yourself. I don’t want to know.”
    Leo guffawed. “Emma, you must be the only woman in the world who doesn’t want to know what her other half earns. You’re unreal.”
    “I don’t care,” I said stubbornly. “If Milo tells me, that’s fine. If he doesn’t, that’s fine, too. I’m not marrying him for his money.”
    “Gosh,” Leo said in mock disappointment, “and I thought that’s why you never let me make a serious pass at you. I’m one of the few men around here whose salary you do know because you’re paying it.”
    “And it’s not enough,” I said, and meant it.
    Leo straightened up and grinned. “I’ll survive. As for Dodge, ifit’s not his money, then it must be love. I never thought it’d happen.”
    I smiled wanly. “Neither did I.”
    Mayor Fuzzy Baugh arrived at exactly eleven. I hadn’t seen him up close for some time and noticed he looked older, even a bit haggard. His dyed red hair had lost any luster it once had. The sparkle in his green eyes had dimmed. In fact, his eyes looked a trifle murky.
    “Emma darlin’,” he said, the Louisiana accent in place before kissing my hand. “Love becomes you.”
    “Thank you. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked.
    He gestured at the door. “May I?”
    “Close the door? Yes, go ahead.”
    After ensuring our privacy, Fuzzy sat down and grew serious. “You recall that last month I attended the annual state conference of mayors for towns with under ten thousand people.”
    I nodded. “We did an article on it.” It was a rather informal affair, more cronyism than politics.