The Alpine Recluse Read Online Free PDF

infuriating gesture that indicated extreme disgust. “Such a trio of ninnies! It’s a wonder they ever accomplish anything! Not,” she added, putting her glasses back on, “that I don’t think Ed is out of his mind.”
    I had to put my own mind on our deadline. I’d already written my weekly editorial, a less-than-sterling piece about the need for arterial stop signs at the intersection of Spruce Street, Foothill Road, and Highway 187—or, as it was better known, the Icicle Creek Road. The high school’s main entrance faced Foothill Road, and in the past three years teenagers driving their cars out of the student parking lot had caused a rash of accidents. Fortunately, no one had been killed or seriously injured, but it was only a matter of time. I’d hoped that the stop signs would be installed before classes started after Labor Day, but Mayor Fuzzy Baugh was dragging his feet. Progress came slowly to Alpine—if at all.
    I had the basics for the fire story, so I began writing the first few paragraphs. Any gaps could be filled in later after I heard from Milo.
    The phone rang about ten minutes later. I guessed it was the sheriff—but it wasn’t.
    “Are you dead?” Rolf Fisher asked. “If so, where do I send flowers? And is it proper to wear my yarmulke to a Catholic funeral?”
    “I’ve never seen you wear it yet,” I replied. “You aren’t Orthodox, are you?”
    “I’m very unorthodox, as you should know by now,” Rolf responded, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not religious in my own way. Can you come down this weekend? I’ll show you my yarmulke if you show me your rosary.”
    “I tried to call you last night,” I said. “You didn’t answer.”
    “That’s because some moron hit a utility pole with his SUV,” Rolf said. “My home phone’s still not working. You didn’t answer my question.”
    “Oh.” I paused to double-check my calendar, though I don’t know why. I knew it was empty. “When’s the concert? Friday or Saturday?”
    “Saturday,” he answered. “But come Friday anyway. We can go someplace really grand for dinner. There are a clutch of new restaurants I haven’t tried. In fact, there are even more old ones I’ve never been to. I don’t get out much.”
    I smiled into the receiver. I could picture Rolf, lounging in his chair at his desk, looking dark and lean and alarmingly attractive. “I hate driving in Friday-night traffic,” I said. “But maybe I can make the sacrifice. At least your condo is air-conditioned.”
    “We’ll heat it up in any event,” he responded. “Oh, darn the world and all its worries! Here comes breaking news out of yet another place I can’t pronounce. I’ll talk to you before Friday.” Rolf rang off.
    However earth-shaking the big news might be in Seattle, it wouldn’t get into the
Advocate
—unless it had a local connection. While we subscribed to the AP wire service, we used its material only if there was a Skykomish County angle. Sometimes, when we needed to fill space, it was a stretch. A logging story, an environmental piece, state and national parks—all could somehow be tied in to our readers’ interests if we could get a local comment. Otherwise, SkyCo residents got their news from the outside world via TV, radio, the Internet, and the daily newspapers. The
Advocate
’s audience cared more about one of Grace Grundle’s cats getting lost in Old Mill Park than a man-eating tiger on the prowl in Calcutta.
    “I’m fighting an uphill battle,” Vida announced from the doorway. “I may be losing. I wonder if I should.”
    It was unlike Vida to surrender on any issue. “What is it?” I asked.
    “It’s Elsie Overholt at the Alpine retirement home.” Vida paused, sticking a couple of loose hairpins into her scattered gray curls. “She’s pestering me again about writing that column.”
    “You mean the old-timers’ thing?”
    Vida nodded. “Elsie’s ninety-five if she’s a day, and I must admit, she has all her