The Alpine Pursuit Read Online Free PDF

parked in the lot. I pulled in across from Ed’s Range Rover. He used to have two Mercedes sedans but had traded one in for the Rover the previous fall. Ed claimed that he and Shirley wanted a different kind of vehicle, but my theory was that the Bronskys had trashed the other Mercedes so thoroughly that no one in the overweight family could fit inside. It was easier to sell it than to clean it.
    Discreetly, I made my way into the auditorium and stood about halfway down the side aisle. A dozen people milled around onstage, while another dozen sat in the first and second rows. The set was a diner, complete with a view into the kitchen, a half-dozen stools at the counter, and four tables with a requisite number of chairs. A green neon sign above the open kitchen spelled out EMERALD CAFÉ . The floor was yellow. I was beginning to get the idea.
    I’d only been in the theater twice, for the O’Neill play and for commencement. The seats were covered in serviceable red fabric and fairly comfortable. There was a small balcony and a much smaller orchestra pit. Dark blue draperies had been hung on the walls and the curtain matched the red seats. The ambience was simple but serviceable.
    I recognized most of the people who were involved in the production. My not-so-good neighbor, Destiny Parsons, had her long prematurely gray hair haphazardly tucked into a bun. Hans Berenger’s tall, thin frame looked as rigid as ever, and his comb-over didn’t enhance his appearance. Rita Patricelli paced nervously at one side of the stage. Deputy Dustin Fong stood off to the other side, looking as if he wished he were somewhere else. Mayor Baugh, who appeared to be campaigning, was shaking hands with several of the other participants, including Dr. Jim Medved, the Reverend Poole, Coach Rip Ridley, and Clea Bhuj, the head of the Humanities Division, who had the lead role of Dorothy Oz. I barely knew Clea, a dark-haired woman who was inclined to wear large quantities of gold bangles and, upon occasion, a sari.
    “A Who’s Who of Alpine,” murmured a mellow voice behind me.
    I gave a start, then turned to face Spencer Fleetwood. “You scared me. I was concentrating on who really is who—in the play.”
    “It’s more like a Whose Zoo,” Spence said, still in his soft, mellow radio mode. “How were you spared? I’m not sure how I got roped into this.”
    “You’ve got the voice to be the narrator,” I replied. “I have no dramatic talent.”
    Spence chuckled. There had been a time when I’d thought of him as my archenemy. There had also been a time—though brief—when I thought he was the incarnation of evil. And though we remained rivals, we’d called a truce. In fact, we had tried some joint promotional ventures, including an on-line Web site that had begun to show dividends for both the
Advocate
and KSKY.
    “I’d rather see you playing the waitress part than Rita,” Spence remarked. “You’re a lot better-looking, and she can’t act, either.”
    “Who can in this bunch?” I inquired, not immune to the compliment but unwilling to acknowledge it.
    “Well . . .” Spence studied the figures both onstage and in the front rows. Like most radio personalities, he knew a few things about drama. “Clea’s not too bad, though she doesn’t project well. If Nat Cardenas would let go a little, he’d be okay. At least he knows his lines. Fuzzy, of course, hams it up, but that’s not all bad, because he’ll get some laughs, intentional and otherwise. The best of the bunch is Rey Fernandez. It’s not just because he looks the part of an itinerant worker, but he’s actually got some talent.”
    I didn’t know Rey Fernandez. He was an older student who’d enrolled at SCC for fall quarter. I could spot him easily, however, if only because I knew the others. Rey was maybe thirty, average height, but with a muscular build and a dark mustache that gave him a rakish look.
    “I should introduce myself,” I noted. “By the way,