Mary Daheim - The Alpine Traitor

CONTENTS

ONE

A BEAUTIFUL BLONDE WITH A FIGURE THAT VENUS DE MILO wouldve envied walked into my office, sat down on the other side of my desk, crossed her long legs, removed her big, expensive sunglasses, and offered an appealing smile. I need your help, she said. Im in big trouble.

What kind of trouble? I asked.

She ran her tongue over her full, crimson lips. Its tricky, she said, her voice dropping a notch. I dont know where to turn. A lilting laugh broke out somewhere in her skimpy red tees deep cleavage. Youll probably think Im an idiot.

Had I been a macho private eye with a gun under my jacket and a fifth of Scotch in the drawer, I might have told her she was this idiots delight. But since Im also female, the come-hither act flopped. Indeed, at that moment, I was a middle-aged mother and newspaper publisher in a small town with egg salad on my lower lip.

I grabbed the paper napkin from the Grocery Baskets deli and wiped my mouth. Sorry, I apologized, the words covering various flaws, including the egg salad, my lack of a flattering response, and not knowing my visitors name. We havent met.

Oh! She laughed in a disarming manner. Im Ginger Roth. My husband, Josh, and I just moved to Alpine. I love the setting here, with all the mountains and trees. Im from Phoenix.

This is quite a change for you, I remarked, resisting the urge to gobble a couple of potato chips and cursing my staff for abandoning The Alpine Advocate office during lunch hour. How can I help you?

Well. This time Gingers smile was self-deprecating. A friend of mine asked me to talk to you about your newspaper.

Okay, I said. How does that get you in trouble?

She grew serious. My friends getting an M.A. at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Shes focusing her thesis on weekly newspapers, so when she found out Josh and I were moving to Alpine, she asked me to talk to the local publisher. Ginger grimaced. I dont know zip about journalism, so I havent a clue how to go about it.

Your friend didnt give you a list of questions or topics?

Ginger shook her head, the golden, shoulder-length strands glinting in the afternoon light. She told me to get an introduction first, and see if youd be willing to cooperate.

I shrugged. No problem. Find out the specifics, and then we can set up a time to talk about whatever she wants to know. Is she planning to go into the print media when she finishes her degree?

Im not sure, Ginger replied, her green eyes roaming around the low-ceilinged room. She worked in an art gallery before going to grad school.

Newspapers are dinosaurs, I pointed out. Major metropolitan dailies are losing circulation hand over fist. In some ways, small town papers are more viable because theyre so localized. I struggle to make ends meet, but owning a newspaper that serves around six thousand readers is better than going out of business in a big city.

Wow. Ginger didnt sound terribly interested. In fact, she looked bored. Ill pass that along, she said vaguely, handing me a slip of paper with her cell phone number. Id better go. Ill let you know when Ive got those questions. She smiled again, not quite so delightfully, and sashayed out of my office, through the newsroom, and, presumably, onto Front Street. I took another bite of my sandwich.

Two minutes later, my House & Home editor, Vida Runkel, tromped into the newsroom and made a beeline to my office cubbyhole.

Who was that blond girl? she demanded. Ive never seen her before.

Thats what I was going to ask you, I said. Youre the one who keeps track of newcomers. Howd she slip under your usually efficient radar?

She lives in Alpine? Vida scowled from under the brim of her daisy-covered straw hat. Whats her name?

Ginger Roth, husband is Josh. I popped a potato chip into my mouth. Thats all I know except shes got a friend at the University of Arizona whos doing a thesis on newspapers.

Thats it? Vida was clearly disappointed. Whats wrong with you?

I was trying to eat my lunch, I said. She arrived unannounced.

That was no excuse in Vidas eyes. You dont know her address or where she or her husband work?

I tossed the empty chip bag into the wastebasket. Okay, so I was derelict in my duty. Ill put Curtis on the story.

Curtis! Vida spoke our new reporters name with disdain. Hes been here two weeks. He wont know where to start.

He has to learn his way around town, I pointed out. Hes not a bad photographer. The photo spread we ran today on the Summer Solstice Festival was quite good, especially Curtiss kiddie parade shots.

Perhaps, Vida allowed, though he chose some of the homeliest children in town. Not at all representative of Alpines youngsters. Im afraid its going to take a long time for him to fit in.

I thought back some fourteen years to my first days as editor and publisher of the Advocate. Fitting in, as Vida put it, wasnt easy for newcomers in a small town. It had taken years and years before I felt generally accepted. One of the biggest hurdles for me was the barrage of names and places, which had thrown me for a loop. Unlike in my reporters job on The Oregonian in Portland, I had to do far more than learn my beat. In a small town, a journalist has to recognize at least half the population on sight. Curtis Mayne was a green graduate from the University of Washington in Seattle, where hed grown up half a mile from the campus.

Curtis knows as much about Alpine as a pig does about war, Vida declared. Ill do it. Really, I cant think this Ginger person moved here and I havent heard about it.

I, too, found that hard to believe. Vidas extensive grapevine usually kept her apprised of every new face, every marital spat, every bounced check, every illness, and everything in between. Her brain was a sponge; her memory, prodigious. And woe to the Alpiner who didnt pass on the latest tidbits.

Im off, she announced, abruptly leaving my office in her typical splayfooted manner. I assumed she was going to track down Ginger Roth.

It was a mild Wednesday in late June. The weekly edition of the Advocate was on the streets, the front porches, and in the newspaper boxes. My staffall six of us, including our ad manager, Leo Walsh; our office manager, Ginny Erlandson; and our production chief, Kip MacDufftook a bit of a breather after the paper came out. Wednesday was catch-up day, with time to think about what wed do for the next issue. Id eaten in so I could go through my files to find inspiration for a fresh, pertinent editorial. Id gotten stale lately, and hadnt even managed to get my usual spate of Dear Moron letters of protest. I was in grave danger of boring my readers to death.

Hey, Emma, Kip said, leaning against the doorjamb a few minutes after Vidas departure. Weve got a problem.

Oh? I put aside some articles Id been perusing about recent state legislation passed during the last session in Olympia. What?

Kip is just over thirty, and got his training on the job. He is unflappable and seems able to solve any and all problems that arise in the back shop, which to me, in this high-tech age, might as well be a foreign land with an exotic language I dont understand. I came of age in the era of cold press and shipping the newspaper mock-ups to an out-of-town printer. Now we could use computer programs and publish the paper on-site. It sounded simple, and it wasexcept for fuddy-duddies like me who didnt understand the process.