The Alpine Xanadu Read Online Free PDF Page B

SkyCo. God knows we need it. It’s a wonder we’ve got streets for people to drive on.”
    “Damned budget,” Dwight muttered, moving behind the counter on his way to the coffee urn. “I haven’t had a raise in three years.”
    On that glum note, I decided to leave before Dwight turned his ire on me. He seemed to have trouble deciding if I was the best thing that had ever happened to Milo or the worst. Maybe I should ask him to write a letter to Mavis explaining how herculean the sheriff appeared to his staff.
    Out on the sidewalk, I was tempted to walk to the courthouse to see if I could find Milo. But that was a bad idea. Would I have done that if we weren’t engaged? Maybe. I was never good aboutboundaries. Breaking them is part of a journalist’s job. But I refrained.
    All was well at the office. I went back to my Honda and drove toward River Road, site of the former Casa de Bronska. Turning off Front Street, I had to stop at Railroad Avenue for an eastbound Burlington Northern Santa Fe freight lumbering through town. After the barrier lifted, I was across the tracks on River Road, past Milo’s house in the Icicle Creek development, over the Icicle Creek bridge, beyond the golf course, and finally turning onto the drive leading to RestHaven. Gone were Ed’s gilded lions, which had always looked more like Bert Lahr in
The Wizard of Oz
than the kings of an African jungle. Gone, too, was much of the so-called Italian rose garden, which had succumbed to lack of care. The only recognizable thing about the Bronskys’ ill-advised attempt at grandeur was the building’s basic exterior. And even that was mercifully changed, the pink stucco having been replaced with a dull but less garish pale green.
    Despite the wait for the BNSF train, I was three minutes early. The young woman at the desk in what Ed had called “the Atican” informed me there’d be a short wait, as Dr. Reed was still with a patient. I took a seat in a comfortable armchair, admiring the changes that local architect Scott Melville had made in converting the ostentatious home into a usable yet attractive facility. The atrium had never lived up to its name, only going up a single floor, but the open area that had been the living and dining rooms along with a den was now a functional reception area with offices leading at angles from the front desk. Nor was there a single Burger Barn wrapper, empty Fritos bag, or Twinkies box in sight.
    At 10:35, I was ushered into Rosalie Reed’s office.
    “So sorry about the late start,” Dr. Reed said, holding out her hand. “We’re still rushing to get ready for the grand opening. Please sit down. I’m afraid I can only give you about twenty minutes. Dr. Woo has called a staff meeting for eleven.”
    “That should be fine,” I said, seating myself in an armchair covered in serviceable but handsome blue fabric. Pen poised, I opened my notebook. Unlike Vida, I couldn’t rely on a prodigious memory, nor did I trust tape recorders. “You had a practice for many years in Bellevue,” I began. “Why did you take a job here, in a more remote part of the region?”
    Dr. Reed smiled, though her sharp dark eyes didn’t seem to get the message. “I wanted a new challenge, I’d known Dr. Woo as a colleague in the Los Angeles area, and I’m a firm believer in change. It helps us grow.”
    “Very sound,” I murmured, scribbling as fast as I could. “I understand you have a son. Did he move to Alpine, too?”
    “No,” she replied. “He started his first year this fall at UCLA. He wants to specialize in genetics. And,” she went on, “my husband is retired. He had his own practice for many years.” She patted her smooth, dark hair in what struck me as a congratulatory gesture.
    My next queries focused on what I knew would produce psychobabble responses about services, philosophies, and patient protocol. But I had to ask, if only to show I’d done my homework. Most of the
Advocate
’s subscribers would have