for that matter. But the sun was behind me, the shadows weren't overwhelming, and I was careful about framing and focus. The only distraction was caused by Blake and Stan, who were posting a sign that they had removed from the Range Rover. Signaling to Skye that I had finished, I turned to read the message on what appeared to be professionally printed tagboard:
HOT SPRINGS CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. PRIVATE PROPERTY—PLEASE DO NOT USE TRAIL. THANK YOU.
“Great,” Skye muttered. “VineFan not only wants to screw up the environment, it wants to prevent other people from enjoying the natural wonders.”
Ever the fence-straddler, I tried to keep the peace. “But the intention is to let everybody have access to the springs. There are plenty of people who could never hike that trail.”
Skye sniffed in derision. “Sure, everybody who can afford their price. You call that magnanimity?” She paused, but didn't wait for my response, which would have been lame at best. “Have you shot those two yet?”
I explained that I had, up at the hot springs.
Skye gave me an ironic half smile. “Good. It's a wonder somebody else doesn't shoot that big-mouthed Fannucci. With a gun. He's tempting Fate.”
As it turned out, both Blake and Stan were tempting much more.
The Californians dropped Skye off at the Burger Barn, then drove me up to my house on Fir Street. The short ride back to Alpine had been quiet, though the tension in the car was palpable. After Skye got out, Blake had made a remark about her narrow-minded tenacity. Stan had merely shaken his head. I kept my mouth shut.
It was going on four o'clock when I returned home, too late to start any major weekend projects. I got out the new laptop I'd bought recently and wrote a letter to my old friend from
The Oregonian
, Mavis Marley Fulkerston. The laptop had maxed out one of my two major credit cards, but I hoped the expense would be tax deductible.
Except for the anticipated arrival of Adam and Ben, the news from my end was thin. A retired journalist, Mavis always appreciated anecdotes about life on a small-town weekly. Or so she assured me. But Mavis is basically a very kind person.
I was recounting our first batch of personals when the phone rang. It was Leo, sounding vaguely sheepish.
“I screwed up, babe,” he said without preface. “Del-phine and I are supposed to go to a cocktail party tonight at the Melvilles'. I guess Scott asked me because I'm a fellow California exile. Plus, he liked the ad I put together for him when he first came to town. Anyway, I got the dates mixed up and told Delphine it was next Saturday. She can't go tonight because she's giving a wedding shower for her niece. Could you fill in?”
Coming off the bench for Delphine Corson didn't strike me as very appealing. On the other hand, my Saturday night was open. “What's the occasion?” I thought I might as well hedge a bit before succumbing.
Leo's voice brightened somewhat. “The Melvilles bought a split-level in the Icicle Creek development. Pretty mundane, typical tract housing. Naturally, Scott wants to remodel. This is the kickoff. Once they start tearing the place apart, he and Beverly won't be able to entertain for a while.”
I knew the house; it was three doors down from Milo Dodge's uninspired but comfortable residence. Maybe Scott would drink a lot of white wine and reveal juicy tidbits about the hot springs project. It was shaping up into the year's biggest news story. I'd be foolish to ignore an opportunity to elicit some usable quotes from the resort's architect.
Leo sounded more relieved than elated when I agreed to go with him. “It's sort of a buffet,” he explained, “so you'll be able to stuff yourself.”
My ad manager knew me well enough to recognize that I had a hearty appetite. Luckily, I also had metabolism that kept me relatively slim. I might not be physically fit, but at least I didn't resemble a butter tub.
Cocktail parties, as opposed to keggers and
HOT SPRINGS CLOSED FOR RENOVATION. PRIVATE PROPERTY—PLEASE DO NOT USE TRAIL. THANK YOU.
“Great,” Skye muttered. “VineFan not only wants to screw up the environment, it wants to prevent other people from enjoying the natural wonders.”
Ever the fence-straddler, I tried to keep the peace. “But the intention is to let everybody have access to the springs. There are plenty of people who could never hike that trail.”
Skye sniffed in derision. “Sure, everybody who can afford their price. You call that magnanimity?” She paused, but didn't wait for my response, which would have been lame at best. “Have you shot those two yet?”
I explained that I had, up at the hot springs.
Skye gave me an ironic half smile. “Good. It's a wonder somebody else doesn't shoot that big-mouthed Fannucci. With a gun. He's tempting Fate.”
As it turned out, both Blake and Stan were tempting much more.
The Californians dropped Skye off at the Burger Barn, then drove me up to my house on Fir Street. The short ride back to Alpine had been quiet, though the tension in the car was palpable. After Skye got out, Blake had made a remark about her narrow-minded tenacity. Stan had merely shaken his head. I kept my mouth shut.
It was going on four o'clock when I returned home, too late to start any major weekend projects. I got out the new laptop I'd bought recently and wrote a letter to my old friend from
The Oregonian
, Mavis Marley Fulkerston. The laptop had maxed out one of my two major credit cards, but I hoped the expense would be tax deductible.
Except for the anticipated arrival of Adam and Ben, the news from my end was thin. A retired journalist, Mavis always appreciated anecdotes about life on a small-town weekly. Or so she assured me. But Mavis is basically a very kind person.
I was recounting our first batch of personals when the phone rang. It was Leo, sounding vaguely sheepish.
“I screwed up, babe,” he said without preface. “Del-phine and I are supposed to go to a cocktail party tonight at the Melvilles'. I guess Scott asked me because I'm a fellow California exile. Plus, he liked the ad I put together for him when he first came to town. Anyway, I got the dates mixed up and told Delphine it was next Saturday. She can't go tonight because she's giving a wedding shower for her niece. Could you fill in?”
Coming off the bench for Delphine Corson didn't strike me as very appealing. On the other hand, my Saturday night was open. “What's the occasion?” I thought I might as well hedge a bit before succumbing.
Leo's voice brightened somewhat. “The Melvilles bought a split-level in the Icicle Creek development. Pretty mundane, typical tract housing. Naturally, Scott wants to remodel. This is the kickoff. Once they start tearing the place apart, he and Beverly won't be able to entertain for a while.”
I knew the house; it was three doors down from Milo Dodge's uninspired but comfortable residence. Maybe Scott would drink a lot of white wine and reveal juicy tidbits about the hot springs project. It was shaping up into the year's biggest news story. I'd be foolish to ignore an opportunity to elicit some usable quotes from the resort's architect.
Leo sounded more relieved than elated when I agreed to go with him. “It's sort of a buffet,” he explained, “so you'll be able to stuff yourself.”
My ad manager knew me well enough to recognize that I had a hearty appetite. Luckily, I also had metabolism that kept me relatively slim. I might not be physically fit, but at least I didn't resemble a butter tub.
Cocktail parties, as opposed to keggers and
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