Free Alpine Icon by Mary Daheim Page B

one. It should be ready by the time the votes are in on the new members.”
    “And what is the gist of it?” The small office had grown very warm. If Our Lady of Mount Carmel wasn't breaking a sweat, I certainly was.
    “Basically the goals I've already outlined.” Ronnie picked up a ballpoint pen and tapped at the blotter on her desk. “However, the long-term objective is to give the school more input in financial matters. Virtually all of St. Mildred's finances are now in the hands of the pastor, with occasional advice from the parish council. That simply won't do as we head for the twenty-first century.”
    Heading for the door was what I had in mind. I stood up and forced a thin smile. “Is Father Kelly helping you formulate the new mission statement?” I asked.
    Ronnie raised her unplucked eyebrows and regarded me as if I'd asked whether a fox was going to baby-sit the henhouse. “The pastor prefers not to get too deeply involved in the school. After all, he hasn't had much experience in elementary education.”
    It was useless to point out that Dennis Kelly had taught in a seminary before his appointment to St. Mildred's. Indeed, I had the impression that it was useless to argueany point with Veronica Wenzler-Greene. Her agenda was clear. She was empire building. St. Mildred's Parochial School was her territory. Ronnie ruled.
    And in all the conversation about Catholic education, one thing had been missing: neither of us had mentioned God.
    God help us.
    “I flunked,” I declared upon entering the news office. “Ronnie is just as bad as Ursula Randall, except in a different way.”
    Vida and Leo both looked up; Carla wasn't at her desk.
    “Oh, dear,” Vida said.
    “Shit,” Leo remarked.
    “Watch your language,” Vida snapped, then turned back to me. “Perhaps we have a second chance. Ursula wants to see you.”
    The low, slanting roof of
The Advocate
tends to trap the heat. I felt the perspiration dripping down my back. I also felt my hackles rising. “So? When is she coming in?”
    “She's not.” Vida wiggled her eyebrows. “She would like you to drop by around three. She promised lemonade.”
    “Damn!” I whirled around, childishly throwing my purse against Carla's desk. “What is this, a command performance?”
    “So it appears.” Vida's expression was bland. “Ginny tried to explain that Ursula ought to come down to the office. But Ursula doesn't seem to care for suggestions.”
    “Okay, okay.” I sighed, retrieving my purse. “I'll go see the wretched bitch.” Catching Vida's sharp look of disapproval, I waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry. This isn't a good day. How do I find her house in The Pines?”
    Vida gave me explicit directions. Fifteen minutes later, after checking my phone messages, I drove off to the development of upscale homes between the mall and theski lodge. The house that Ursula had purchased was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and bore about as much resemblance to French Provincial architecture as a dandelion does to a daisy. Still, it was handsome by Alpine standards, and there was evidence of recent expensive landscaping in the ornamental evergreens and late-summer flowers.
    The interior, however, was more imposing. It appeared that Ursula had moved her furnishings lock, stock, and baroque from her previous home in Seattle. The large living room was filled with antiques, mostly from the seventeenth century, ornate, overdone, and oppressive. The angels that adorned each side of the white brick fireplace could have come from an Austrian church.
    “What do you think?” Ursula asked, sinking onto a stark white sofa. “My brothers are aghast.” She laughed in her husky, almost hoarse manner.
    “Jake and Buzzy?” I said, not merely stalling for time, but somehow unable to comprehend that Ursula was also an O'Toole. For all their flaws, both men seemed firmly rooted in the rocky soil of Alpine.
    “Ostentatious, that's what Jake calls it,” Ursula said with amusement.