The Alpine Betrayal by Mary Daheim

young women who followed her didn’t seem to mind in the least.
    Milo squeezed my elbow. “You could do that,” he remarked, more seriously than I would have wished. “You have a nice chest, Emma.”
    It was the first personal observation Milo had ever directed at me in the two years I had known him. I didn’t know whether to slug him or smile in gratitude. Deciding that he meant well, but couldn’t help being an inarticulate boob, I settled for a noncommittal shrug. Then I realizedthat
boob
was probably inappropriate. I had to stifle a laugh, lest I encourage Carla to further mayhem.
    There were twelve contestants in all, and either by accident or design, Vida was last—but certainly not least. She stomped up the stairs to Johnny Cash’s classic “Ring of Fire,” her head held high, her glasses almost at the end of her nose. She wore a pair of dark gray slacks I’d seen fifty times at work, but her T-shirt was a sight to behold: Vida’s impressive bust was adorned with the front page of
The Advocate’s
Loggerama edition, and in each hand she held a small pennant. The left said SUBSCRIBE NOW !; the right said READ BOOKS ! Carla jumped onto the table and lead the applause. Naturally, I joined in. Vida sailed off the bar and down the ramp at the far end to join her fellow contestants in the men’s room, which was temporarily off-limits. I noticed that Patti Marsh was no longer seated at the first-row table. Maybe she was having regrets about not having taken part in the competition.
    I was never sure who the official judges were, though when I had gone in, I had assumed them to be Abe’s favorite local drunks. Whoever they were, they deliberated for over five minutes before announcing that the winner was Vida Runkel. Amid a thunderous ovation, marred by only a few boos, Vida reappeared, still waving her little flags and thrusting her bosom in various directions. Jack Blackwell shoved the microphone in her face.
    “Thank you,” Vida said after the crowd had begun to quiet down. “The judges’ decision proves that older is better. Abe Loomis’s idea to hold this contest proves that he’s dumb as a rope, but we all knew that before there ever was a Loggerama.” She pushed her glasses back up on her nose and gave Abe a flinty look. “The fact that you’re all here proves that you’re no smarter than Abe. That doesn’t say much for Alpine. So two weeks from tonight, at this same time and same place, I want to see all of you back here. Your ticket in the door is a book. The drinks will be on me.” Vida pasted the microphone on Jack’s chest and moved majestically toward the ladies’ room.
    The crowd had gone very quiet, but as she made her exit, more applause began to break out. Carla had climbed down from the tabletop, but was now back up on her chair, shrieking and clapping. “I’m going to read
War and Peace!”
she yelled after Vida. “I cheated and rented the movie for Russian lit at UW! Oh, yeah, Vida! Go, go,
go!”
    Vida went. I had hoped she’d exchange her wet T-shirt for one of her more modest—if gaudy—blouses and join us, but she didn’t. Apparently, Vida had had enough of Mugs Ahoy. I had, too, and it didn’t take Milo more than half an hour to realize it, especially after I asked him four times to take me home.
    Sheriff or not, Milo had been forced to park his Cherokee Chief two blocks away, in back of the Clemans Building. As we walked along Pine Street with the night air feeling like a tonic, Milo remarked that Vida had certainly been a good sport. I agreed. He said he felt that her challenge about reading books was very appropriate. I said I thought so, too. He allowed that it had been a while since he’d read anything except newspapers. I told him he was missing a lot.
    “I used to read more,” he said, pulling out from the curb. “Of course I have to go over loads of stuff at work. Some days I get sick of words.” Stopping at the Pine Street arterial across from the Alpine