The Alpine Betrayal by Mary Daheim Page A

I, too, can strike California gold.
    It was busier than usual Thursday, with all the Loggerama doings. I filled in for Carla at the Miss Alpine pageant rehearsal in the high school gym, stopped by the football field to catch the trials for the timber sports competition, and checked out the parade floats being assembled in an empty warehouse by the river.
    Since I was afoot, I was hot and tired by the time I dropped off four rolls of film at Bayard’s Picture-Perfect Photo Studio, where we do most of our developing work. Buddy Bayard is efficient, competent, and contrary. He will argue any issue, any time, choosing any side you’re not on. I cut my stay at his studio short and dragged myself the last two blocks along Front Street to the
Advocate
office.
    Vida was already gone, leaving a note atop a pile of copy. Ed was going over an ad with Francine Wells for Francine’s Fine Apparel. Francine was set on buying half a page to show the first of her new fall line; Ed was determined to cut the ad by half.
    I stopped at his desk, greeted Francine, and admired the sketches she’d brought along. “Terrific separates,” I gushed, wondering how anyone could contemplate woolens in July. “What are the colors this season?”
    Francine brightened; Ed blanched. No doubt he had visions of Francine wanting a special four-color insert. But before Francine could respond, a tall, lean young man with sun-streaked blond hair came through the door, carrying a bouquet of tiger lilies, gladioli, and asparagus fern. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.
    “Excuse me,” he said in a soft, diffident voice. “Could someone tell me where I could find the movie people?”
    My first reaction was that the film crew probably preferred not to be found. But perhaps this self-effacing young man had a reason for going to the location shoot, such as delivering his flowers. “Do you have some connection with the company?” I asked, making an effort to sound friendly.
    “Hey,” said Ed, looking up from Francine’s ad dummy, “aren’t you Curtis Graff?” He rose awkwardly from his chair, lumbering across the room to shake the newcomer’s hand. “I remember you from the fire department. You rescued a couple of kids from a burning house out on Burl Creek Road.”
    Curtis Graff smiled in a modest manner. “I had help.” His smile grew wider. “I don’t think those kids wanted to come out, though. They’d been playing with matches and were more afraid of their parents than the fire.”
    I backed off, allowing Curtis and Ed to get reacquainted. Francine sidled up to me, her carefully styled hair and her white sleeveless dress somehow keeping unruffled in the heat of the day. “He’s better-looking than Cody,” she whispered. “Maybe Dani should have married him instead.”
    Francine was right. The weaknesses in Cody Graff’s features weren’t evident in those of his older brother. Perhaps it was a matter of character. Curtis Graff struck me as more serious, with a touch of melancholy. At any rate, he didn’t look as if he were prone to pouting.
    “I just got in from Alaska,” Curtis was saying. “I’m staying with some friends.” He turned to me and his dark blond eyebrows lifted. “Say—are you Adam Lord’smother? He asked me to have you send him a few things when I go back up north.”
    “Surprise, surprise,” I murmured. “Just let me know what and when. Are you looking for anyone in particular with the movie or did you just want to watch the filming?”
    Curtis, who was wearing knee-length shorts and a T-shirt, shifted from one foot to the other. “I know someone who’s making the movie. I just didn’t know how to get hold of anybody. Do they stay around here at night?”
    “They’re all up at the ski lodge,” I said without further hesitation. The movie company’s lodgings were no secret. Indeed, a lot of locals—and maybe a few tourists, too—had probably made their way by now to the