The Alpine Betrayal by Mary Daheim Page B

ignored my existence. Indeed, Matt Tabor seemed to be ignoring the entire occasion. His handsome face looked blotchy, and even at a distance, his eyes seemed unfocused. I thought again about seeing Patti Marsh in the custom-built car. If it belonged to Matt, her presence there seemed very peculiar.
    Having suffered through shaving hunks of wood with an axe, log-rolling on a makeshift pond at midfield, and numerous bouts with chain saws, I decided to leave after the Standing Block Chop competition. Kneeling on the dry grass with my camera at the ready, I watched as ten contestants, including Cody Graff, confronted three-foot blocks of wood set in four-legged iron stands on blocks of concrete.
    As Harvey Adcock blew his horn to start the competition, I kept my eye on Cody Graff. Like most of his rivals, he was bare to the waist. The muscles of his back and upper arms rippled as he flailed away at the block of wood. His narrow shoulders prevented him from having a physique as imposing as several of the other young men, but he seemed to wield his axe with great authority. I glanced up into the crowd to see if I could find Marje Blatt. She was probably on hand to watch her fiancé, but I couldn’t pick her out in the stands.
    It was while my back was turned that the axe flew past me. It sailed within two feet of my head and landed with a loud thud at the feet of Dani Marsh. The onlookers uttered a collective gasp. I let out a little cry of my own and whirled around. Cody Graff was standing with his empty hands at his side, while his malevolent expression was fixed on the trio of Hollywood visitors.
    Harvey Adcock, Jack Blackwell, and Henry Bardeen were out on the field. The other contestants were still hacking away, though all eyes in the audience were glued on Cody or his axe. Matt Tabor was yelling obscenities, while Reid Hampton picked up the sharp-edged tool and shot a furious look at Cody Graff. Dani Marsh was on her feet, shifting nervously in front of her folding chair.
    I moved closer to Harvey, who was now talking to Cody. Harvey seemed very earnest, but I couldn’t make out his words without crossing the sideline marker. Cody was shrugging, then nodding. Jack Blackwell retrieved the axe from Reid Hampton, but he didn’t give it back to Cody. Instead, Cody jogged off the field, his head down, his face impassive.
    I grabbed Harvey as he came over to where I was standing. “What happened? My back was turned.”
    Harvey, who is no taller than I am, looked at me with troubled green eyes. “Cody says it was an accident. The axe slipped.” His graying eyebrows lifted slightly.
    “What do you think?” I asked as the crowd began to settle back into the rhythm of the contest.
    Harvey shook his balding head. “I can’t say, Emma. It just seems odd that the axe landed right in front of Dani and her friends.” With one of his typically quicksilver movements, Harvey started down the sidelines. “The heat’s over. I’ve got to go be an official.”
    It seemed to me that there was more news—if you define the concept as public interest—in the flying axe than in any further description of the competition. I headed off the field and under the stands to try to find Cody. But by the time I reached the cramped, dank-smelling area that was used mostly for halftime pep talks during football season, Cody was nowhere to be seen. Having come this far, I kept going, out the back way, and into the dirt parking lot.
    Cody Graff and Marje Blatt were getting into his pickup truck. They drove away without seeing me.
    Two nights in a barroom were two too many for my taste, but Carla and Ginny insisted I join them at the Icicle Creek Tavern to take part in the Celebrity Bartender festivities.
    “Doc Dewey’s on hand for the first two hours,” said Carla as we drove in my Jaguar out Mill Street to the edge of town.
    At least we would avoid Fuzzy Baugh and his civic-minded libations. I pulled into the parking lot which was only half