The Alpine Pursuit Read Online Free PDF Page B

how’s Roger doing?”
    Spence’s hawklike features grew enigmatic. “That depends.”
    “On what?” I asked, fruitlessly scanning the auditorium for my favorite future candidate for the FBI’s Most Wanted list.
    Spence winced. “I hate to say it, but the kid may have talent. He’s undisciplined, of course.”
    “You’re telling me,” I murmured, as the cast appeared to be assembling for the rehearsal’s start. “How come they’re not in costume? Or are they?”
    “Some of the wardrobe got held up by the snow,” Spence replied as we moved closer to the front. “Several characters—like Ed and Dustin—can wear their own clothes. It saves on production costs. Excuse me, Emma. I have to get up on that stool at the side of the stage and become the narrator.”
    A certain amount of scrambling for places ensued. The curtain closed, the houselights dimmed, and Destiny Parsons strode into the orchestra pit. A spotlight lurched around the front of the stage, apparently trying to find Spence. Finally, he was revealed, sitting on the stool, reading from a large green- and gold-covered book, and wearing his usual garb of slacks, open shirt, and V-necked cashmere sweater.
    “There once was a small town called Evergreen,” Spence began in his mellifluous voice, “a close-knit community high on a mountainside and deep in the forest.”
    So far, so good. I sat in the second row, three seats from the aisle. The rest of the auditorium was deserted. Or so I thought until I heard a voice in my ear:
    “Goodness!” Vida exclaimed. “I thought I was going to be late. Buck called from Palm Springs. He talked my ear off.”
    Buck Bardeen was Vida’s longtime companion. He spent part of the winter in the California desert, where he golfed and got together with his children and grandchildren. Vida and Buck had been through some rough turf recently but appeared to have made up. While Vida might interrogate everybody else about their personal lives, she was reticent when it came to her own.
    “I didn’t know you were coming,” I said under my breath, hoping Vida would take the hint and tone down her customary stage whisper, which probably could be heard out in the parking lot.
    Holding on to her faux sable pillbox, she plopped down next to me. “I didn’t want to miss Roger in rehearsal,” she said, still loud enough to block out Spence’s narration and evoke a sharp “Shush!” from Destiny Parsons.
    “Twaddle,” Vida responded, though she did drop her voice. “The curtain’s not even up yet.”
    The words were barely out of her mouth when Spence stopped reading. The spotlight on him went down, and the curtain rose slowly, revealing Hans Berenger in the kitchen, an unlighted cigar in his mouth, a spatula in his left hand, and a chef’s hat covering his comb-over. Rita Patricelli was trying to look harried—and not doing a bad job of it, since she often seemed that way at the Chamber of Commerce. Rita was taking orders from Fuzzy Baugh and Jim Medved, who sat at a table to the left of the stage. Two of the counter stools were occupied by Ed and Rip. They had their backs to the house, and their backsides were pretty amazing. Coach Ridley’s rear was part muscle, since he had played pro football for the Chicago Bears. Ed, however, was just plain fat, since the only muscle he seemed to exercise was his mouth.
    The opening line belonged to Fuzzy, who laid it on thick with his original Louisiana accent.
    “Ah don’t know ’bout this new bidness, Dane,” he declared. “Evahgreen sure can use some ec-o-nom-ic in-put, but more timbah cuttin’ isn’t the way.”
    “Oh, good grief!” Vida gasped, fortunately to herself.
    “You’re right, Leroy,” our town veterinarian responded. “I’ve fought against any kind of development that . . .” Jim stopped. “That would . . .” He stopped again, looking helplessly at Destiny. “I’m sorry. I blanked on what comes next.”
    “ ‘. . . development that would hurt