The Alpine Traitor (12 page)

Mary Jane didn’t answer right away. “Hang on,” she said at last. “Dick’s in the garage. I’ll ask him. Or do you really want to know?”

“It’d be helpful if your husband had a chance to size up this guy,” I explained. “He’s a John Doe at present, and that stymies a murder investigation.”

“Okay.” Mary Jane didn’t sound enthusiastic. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

Five minutes passed before I heard Mary Jane or any sound at the other end of the line. She’d apparently pressed the mute button so that I couldn’t listen to her conversation with Dick.

“He did swing by the motel that afternoon,” Mary Jane informed me. “But he didn’t see the guy from California.”

“So he didn’t leave his business card?”

“No.”

I realized that Mary Jane’s usual candor was missing. “Gosh,” I said, feigning shock, “does he think the victim was already dead?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Mary Jane said, now sounding downright defensive.

“I’m trying to piece together the sequence of events Friday afternoon,” I said, sounding bewildered, which wasn’t hard to do. “Time of death isn’t always exact. I thought maybe Dick saw something or somebody suspicious and decided to get out of there. You know how we sometimes have these strange feelings that can creep us out.”

“Dick’s not like that,” Mary Jane replied, her voice resuming its familiar dry tone. “My husband isn’t imaginative. Hammer and nails, saw and boards—that’s his métier.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” I said, “since that’s what makes Dick so good at what he does for a living.” I paused, wondering how far I could press my developing friendship with Mary Jane. The road to real camaraderie had been rocky for me in Alpine. I didn’t want to ruin a growing sense of trust between us. “That,” I said, taking the plunge, “would indicate Dick definitely saw something very real that put him off.”

Mary Jane uttered a big sigh. “Oh, damn, Emma, you’re putting me in the middle! I told Dick I wouldn’t say anything to anybody. It’s all too stupid anyway.”

“What is?”

Another sigh from Mary Jane. “Look. It’s not a big deal, I’m sure of it. And unlike most people in this town—remembering that we’re latecomers to Alpine—I don’t flap my jaws about things that can be misconstrued. I’m not going to start now. Oh, I realize you’re only doing your job, but I have to draw the line. I won’t break my word to Dick.”

I was disappointed, but I understood. “That’s okay, Mary Jane,” I said resignedly. “I’d probably do the same in your place. But if Dick ever decides what he saw might help nail a killer, he ought to talk to the sheriff, not to me.”

“I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “I actually mentioned that to him already, but then we agreed that it…Never mind. I’d better shut up. He’s coming inside, and I don’t want him to think I blew it.”

I hung up and sat on the sofa trying to think what—or maybe who—Dick Bourgette had seen at the Tall Timber. It could have been anyone, including our pastor, Dennis Kelly; Mayor Fuzzy Baugh; or even Averill Fairbanks, our resident UFO freak, who thought he’d seen a space pod land on top of the motel’s neon sign.

I phoned Vida again and told her about the call from Mary Jane Bourgette. “She refused to tell me what or who Dick saw at the motel.”

“Nonsense!” Vida exclaimed. “How could she be so reticent when it comes to a murder investigation?”

“She called whatever he saw ‘stupid,’” I said, “implying that she didn’t see any way that it was connected to the homicide. I figure the Bourgettes are protecting someone. Mary Jane didn’t want to start a rumor that would lead to gossip racing all over town.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” Vida was utterly exasperated. “Did she believe you’d put whatever it was in the paper? How ridiculous!”

“Probably,” I agreed, “but it does make me want to eliminate possibilities. Are you certain either you or Leo didn’t notice anything when you went to the motel?”

“Of course,” Vida declared. “We’d have said so. When Dylan didn’t respond to our knock, we left. Both of us had better fish to fry that afternoon.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to call Snorty now.”

“Very well.” Vida sounded prickly. “By the way, did I tell you I had three-way calling on my phone?”

“If you did, I forgot. Are you suggesting that you call me back and then dial Snorty’s number so you can listen in?”

“What harm would it do?”

“None, I guess.”
As long as you keep your mouth shut.

“Good. I’ll hang up now.”

“Please do.”

My phone rang fifteen seconds later. “I have Snorty’s number,” Vida said. “I’m dialing it now. Be ready.”

To our mutual annoyance, we got Snorty’s recording. “Snorty Wenzel here, glad you called, but I’m unavailable at the moment.” A faint snort followed. “Our real estate firm has got just the right home for you in the right place at the right price.” Another faint snort. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, so please leave your name and number.” Snort, snort. “If you’re calling to order Play Hard to Get, my special fast-acting vitamin supplement for men, give me your name and address so I can mail you a free trial supply. Discretion is my middle name. Wait for the beep.” Snort, beep, click.

“Oh, good grief!” Vida shrieked after quickly disconnecting. “He’s also a quack?”

“I suppose,” I mused, “there’s a story in that somewhere, but I don’t think I want to go near it.”

“I should hope not!” She paused. “You didn’t leave your name and number.”

“That’s because I don’t want him to call me at home,” I replied. “I’ll try again from work tomorrow.”

After I’d hung up, I contemplated my next move. Tomorrow was Tuesday, our deadline. Although I didn’t want to do it, I felt compelled to interview whichever Cavanaughs I could run down before they left town. Unless Milo had some solid evidence, I assumed he couldn’t order any of them to stay in Alpine. I was certain that the entire clan would probably head back to California as soon as possible. In fact, I was surprised they hadn’t already gone.

Or had they? Feeling panicky, I called the ski lodge. The young man named Carlos who was working his way through the community college answered.

“The Plattes and the Cavanaughs are still here,” he informed me, “but Mr. Platte told Mr. Bardeen they’d be checking out early Thursday morning.”

“Are they at the lodge right now?” I asked.

“They’re finishing dinner in the Viking Lounge,” Carlos replied. “Do you want to leave them a message?”

“Um…no. Thanks, Carlos. I think I’ll drop by to pay them a visit.”

I hadn’t yet changed out of my work clothes. It was going on nine, not the usual hour for me to still be out and about in Alpine on a work night. But I didn’t want to change my mind about meeting Tom’s children. I applied fresh lipstick, ran a brush through my hair, heard Stella’s voice saying, “That didn’t help much, Emma,” and grabbed my purse.

Eight minutes later, I was entering the ski lodge lobby. Carlos recognized me from behind the front desk and nodded toward the restaurant area.

Only a handful of diners were still seated amidst the ersatz greenery and stone statues of Norse gods and goddesses. I spotted the Cavanaugh group immediately, only because they were the youngest guests in the lounge. I stopped halfway to their table, virtually lurking behind an artificial tree trunk. Kelsey’s appearance had improved since I last saw her, though she still looked wan.

One of the men had slicked-down black hair; the other man’s brown hair was in a ponytail. Recalling Milo’s description, I figured he must be Graham. Despite his coloring, he, like Kelsey, seemed to take after his mother rather than his father. I assumed the woman with the mass of black curls was Graham’s wife, Sophia. Taking a deep breath, I approached their table. Except for the dark-haired man, whose back was turned, the others all stared at me. Nobody spoke.

“I’m Emma Lord,” I said, gazing at Kelsey. “Remember me?”

Kelsey pressed her lips together. Finally, she nodded. “Yes. Hello.”

The ponytailed man half-rose from his chair and put out a hand. “I’m Graham Cavanaugh. Would you like me to pull up a chair for you?”

The gesture was unexpected. “That would be nice,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks.”

The other man also offered his hand. “I’m Dylan Platte.” He chuckled as he clasped my hand in a very firm grip. “Dylan Platte, alive and well. My pleasure.” He waved a hand at the young woman with the raven curls. “My sister-in-law, Sophia Cavanaugh.”

Sophia nodded and smiled. She was more striking than beautiful, with strong features and sea green eyes that seemed to bore into me. “I didn’t get to Alpine until this afternoon,” she said in a husky voice. “I’m a writer who had a deadline. You know how that is.”

“Oh, yes,” I agreed. “Tomorrow is ours for the
Advocate.
”

Graham had brought the extra chair. I sat down between him and Sophia. “Amazing,” he said, settling back into his own seat. “We’d just decided to set up a meeting with you for tomorrow evening. You read our minds.”

“I did?” I said in surprise.

Dylan Platte put aside the folder that apparently contained the dinner bill. “We were about to leave, but may I suggest a round of after-dinner drinks? I assume you’ve already eaten, Ms. Lord.”

“Yes.” I felt stupid. Dylan’s voice had a grating quality, not at all like that of the person who had claimed to be him during our phone call. My gaze kept flitting from Graham to Kelsey and back again. I simply couldn’t see much of Tom in either of his children, except perhaps for their blue eyes. Graham was about six feet, almost as tall as his father, but his build was slighter. Maybe, I thought, I didn’t want them to resemble Tom. Maybe I had a problem with Tom having had children by someone else. It was only Adam who had inherited his father’s chiseled profile and strong build. My sole contribution was the color of my son’s brown eyes.

“Then,” Dylan said after signaling for their server, “you want to talk business.”

“Business?” I echoed.

“The purchase of your newspaper,” he responded, looking as if he thought perhaps I wasn’t the local publisher but the village idiot.

The server, one of the lodge’s several blond and often buxom girls of Scandinavian extraction, arrived to take our orders. I asked for a Drambuie straight up. Suddenly I felt as if I needed a stiff drink.

Graham spoke up after the waitress left. “It’s understandable,” he said in a kindly voice, “that you’d think the man who called you last week was part of a hoax. The sheriff explained to me that this poor devil who was killed had contacted you about buying the
Advocate.
We’ve tossed that bombshell around the past day or so and can’t figure out who he is or why he made the offer. All we can suggest is that he must’ve been someone who’d gotten wind of our proposal and decided to act on his own. I can’t think why.”

Dylan smirked. “Hey, Graham, you of all people know why. Business is a cutthroat world, now more than ever.”

Graham was unabashed. “You can’t blame me for thinking that people who still love newspapers have to have higher standards. My dad always taught me that’s the way it should be.”

My dad.
I could barely keep from cringing.

“Such an absurd stunt,” Sophia declared. “It’s a wonder it didn’t get him killed.”

I was confused. My brain didn’t seem to be functioning. Maybe I didn’t need a drink as much as to stick my head under an ice-cold water tap. All the memories, good, bad, and horrendous, weighed me down. I felt so close to Tom and yet even further away, as if these four people had erected some kind of wall between us. “Excuse me,” I said, sounding like Emma the Meek and Humble. “He
was
killed. What do you mean?”

Dylan waved a slender hand. “Of course. But it had to be some sort of shakedown or a robbery, a hooker, a vagrant. Who in this town would want him dead?” He paused for a scant second. “Unless,” he said with a crooked smile, “it would be you, Ms. Lord.”

ELEVEN

I
TRIED TO PRETEND THAT
D
YLAN
P
LATTE’S REMARK WAS A
joke, but my laugh was hollow. “I haven’t gotten to the point where I have to create my own headlines,” I said.

Graham’s smile was deceiving. His blue eyes were hard as glacier ice. “That’s not entirely true, is it? You had quite a big story when my father was shot in front of your eyes.”

I gasped. “That’s a terrible thing to say! It ruined my life!”

Graham slowly shook his head. “Did you ever think what it did to us?”

Before I could respond, our waitress delivered the round of drinks. Only Kelsey had abstained from an alcoholic beverage. She’d ordered a Diet Coke and stared warily at her soda, as if she suspected I’d had it spiked with arsenic.

I started to lift the small flutelike glass of Drambuie but realized that my hands were shaking. “I never knew you. How could I understand…what you felt?” My voice cracked.

Sophia swirled her brandy snifter with a languid hand. “I gather my father-in-law wasn’t anxious for his children to meet you. Unfortunately, I didn’t know Mr. Cavanaugh. He died before I met Graham.”

The hostility that surrounded me stiffened my backbone. I was tempted to retaliate with my own hurtful words, but escalating the situation seemed foolish. I’d only reinforce the conflict of interest that I’d felt from the start.

“Look,” I said, folding my hands in an effort to steady them, “I don’t want to go to war over any of this. Let’s get one thing straight once and for all. I am
not
selling the
Advocate
to you or to anyone else.”

Graham leaned back in his chair. “Well. I guess that concludes our meeting.”

I was finally able to pick up my glass without spilling any of the liquor. “So I assume you won’t be moving here after all,” I said, looking at both Dylan and Kelsey. She turned away from me and gazed questioningly at her husband.

“Oh, I think we probably will,” Dylan said, taking Kelsey’s hand in his. “We’re going to go through the house tomorrow. Apparently, the present owners want to do some fixing up before they show it to us.”

I could imagine the disarray at Casa de Bronska. A shovel and a match would probably have been the best way to clean up Ed and Shirley’s vulgar mansion. What I couldn’t imagine was Kelsey and Dylan’s move to Alpine.

“Why?” I asked, not bothering to disguise my incredulity.

“Change,” Dylan replied easily. “The Bay Area is obsolete, overcrowded and overpriced. We want some room to roam. A house like the Bronskys’ costs a fortune in San Francisco. The Bronskys are asking 1.1 mil, but we figure they’ll take 850 and kiss our feet in gratitude. I’m told the place needs work.”

Work.
Not a word Ed had ever understood. “Good luck,” I said, focusing on my drink instead of the company I was keeping. The silence that followed seemed uncomfortable to me—but I sensed that no one else felt that way. They were enjoying themselves at my expense. Except, perhaps, for Kelsey, who struck me as being withdrawn from the others even though her husband still held her hand. “I’m going now,” I announced and took a last, fiery sip of Drambuie. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Of course,” Graham said softly.

I got up with my usual lack of grace, though at least I didn’t drop anything, trip, or walk into a wall. I heard a woman’s throaty laugh—Sophia’s, I was sure—as I moved out of the dining area. As soon as I got into the Honda, I regretted my hasty retreat. There were dozens of questions I wanted to ask that foursome, and not just about the allegedly unknown murder victim. Did Kelsey and Dylan have children? What about the child she’d been expecting before she got married? Had she and Graham sold Tom’s condo on Nob Hill in San Francisco or the house in Pacific Heights? What were their memories of their father? Or their mother? Had Tom talked to them about the marriage we were planning before he was killed? Did they know or care about their half brother, Adam?

I sat in the parking lot for several minutes, watching the sky darken as night descended over the mountains. Just before I was about to turn the key in the ignition, I was startled by a tap on the window of the passenger door. Anxiously, I looked to see who was trying to get my attention.

“Open up, Emma,” Leo called, looking a bit sheepish.

I unlocked the door. My ad manager scooted inside. “I was afraid you’d already left,” he said.

“You were at the lodge?” I asked, still feeling unnerved.

He nodded. “I was spying from the bar. I wanted to see what those Cavanaugh kids looked like now that they’re grown up. You came in just before I was going to leave. They didn’t recognize me, of course. But then I wasn’t trying to be seen.”

“Carlos should have told me you were there when I talked to him at the front desk,” I said.

“Carlos is fairly new on the job. He doesn’t recognize me.” Leo rolled down the window and took out his cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

“No,” I said, opening my own window halfway. “What did you think?”

Leo lighted his cigarette before he answered. “I don’t know. Graham’s changed the most, gone from gawky boy to manly man. Kelsey seems to have lost her bounce.”

“She bounced?”

“She was what I’d call perky,” he said. “Graham was more reticent, sometimes a little surly. But he was at that awkward age, between twelve and twenty. Frankly, I’m not even sure how old those kids were when I last saw them. A permanent alcoholic haze will do that to a fellow.” Leo shifted in his seat to look at me more closely. “Are you okay? I had the feeling your get-together wasn’t a bundle of fun.”

I laughed weakly. “True. I don’t know what I expected, but they put me on the defensive from the start.”

“Not surprising. It seems that Dylan Platte is the little group’s driving force.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “He
seems
to be, but Graham’s no slouch, and his wife, Sophia, strikes me as fairly tough. Kelsey’s the only one who doesn’t quite fit in. I have to admit, I wonder if she’s inherited some bad genes from Sandra.”

“It’s possible.” Leo tapped ash into the small tray under the dashboard. “Did they badger you about selling the paper?”

“They tried.” I shrugged. “I told them to forget it.”

“They won’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a feeling they’re in this for the long haul,” Leo said. “The waitress who was serving them—Britney, Brandy, Brianna, whatever—told me she’d overheard them talking about moving to Alpine. I assume that means Ed still has a buyer.”

I sighed. “Dylan insists they’re going ahead with the deal.” I turned to look Leo in the eye. “Do they think they can wear me down with a war of attrition?”

“That’s my guess,” he replied. “I suppose Dylan and Kelsey figure that if they’re living here and they keep upping the ante, eventually you’ll give in. You’re not at retirement age, of course, but down the road, in a couple of years, you might start thinking about it.”

I made a face. “Not likely. What would I do with myself? The only close relatives I have are Adam and Ben. Neither of them is around here and probably never will be. I won’t ever have grandchildren. I’m not a joiner. I have no intentions of writing the Great American Novel. My whole life is the
Advocate.
” I clapped my hand to my forehead. “Oh, God! That makes me sound pathetic!”

Leo grinned. “That’s probably what they’re counting on. Then they can rescue you and be heroes. Hey,” he said, tugging on the sleeve of my cardigan, “don’t ever let the bastards see you sweat.”

I smiled at Leo. “I’m not sweating. But that whole encounter temporarily unhinged me. I thought I was doing okay, putting Tom into some quiet corner of my mind after all this time. Then his kids come along and…” I made a helpless gesture.

“Neither of them is much like Tom,” Leo remarked. “If you didn’t know who they were, you’d never guess they were related. Kelsey looks kind of like her mother, but Graham doesn’t take after either of his parents.”

“Adam doesn’t look like me,” I pointed out.

“No, he doesn’t. He’s mostly Tom.” Leo took another puff off his cigarette and shook his head. “My kids look like both their mother and me, though the gene pool actually improved. You never can tell what goes into a kid’s makeup. Throwbacks, sometimes.” He opened the passenger door. “I’d better let you get home. Tomorrow’s deadline day. You’ll need all your strength.”

“You will, too,” I said. “Thanks, Leo.”

“Sure.” He patted my back and got out of the car but leaned down before shutting the door. “Hey, just remember Walsh’s Famous Maxim—‘Things can always get worse.’”

I laughed. Sort of. “I know.”

Of course Leo was right.

I didn’t call Vida after I returned from the ski lodge. I was too tired, and couldn’t cope with a rehash of my unsettling encounter with what I was beginning to think of as the Cavanaugh Gang.

By the time I got to the office at a couple of minutes before eight the next morning, I felt better despite a series of chaotic dreams, none of which I could remember after I woke up. That was probably for the best. Real life seemed harrowing enough.

Kip was already on hand, but Ginny hadn’t yet arrived to start the coffeemaker. “I can do it,” Kip said. “Is she sick?”

“Not that I know of,” I replied. “She’s just…pregnant.”

Kip laughed. “I’d forgotten what she was like the other times.”

“She wasn’t quite as bad,” I said, “but she didn’t already have two other kids making demands on her time and energy.”

Just as Kip was about to measure out the coffee, Vida entered the newsroom. “Think, think, think! I need four more ‘Scene Around Town’ items. Emma, Kip—what have you got for me?”

Kip held up a hand. “Norm Carlson went out yesterday looking for those two cubs that lost Mama Bear. No luck, but he told his dairy truck drivers to get an early start on their routes so they could help him search the woods near Gus Lindquist’s place on Disappointment Avenue.”

“Excellent,” Vida declared, then looked at me. “Or is it a small story?”

“Yes,” I said, “but there’s no reason you can’t put it in ‘Scene’ as well. I wouldn’t list all the searchers for fear of leaving someone out and making them mad at us. There’s bound to be more than Norm and his Sky Dairy employees around here, given the number of people who love animals.”

“Very true,” Vida agreed. “Now you give me an item for ‘Scene.’”

My mind was blank. All I could think of was the Cavanaugh Gang. It suddenly dawned on me that, if they had been anybody else, I’d toss the tidbit into Vida’s hat—which, this morning, was a white and purple striped turban. “Bay Area visitors at the ski lodge enjoying dinner while taking a respite from house hunting in Alpine.”

Vida gaped at me. “What?”

“I saw them last night,” I said. “I got home too late to call you.”

“Nonsense! You know I stay up past eleven! How late could you possibly have been?”

Kip wisely decided to withdraw and retreated into the back shop. “Frankly,” I said, looking Vida straight in the eye, “I was too damned worn out and frazzled.”

Her ire evaporated. “Truly? Were they unbearably rude?”

“Smug’s more like it,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about it later. And yes, Kelsey and Dylan still plan to buy Ed’s house.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” Vida cried, throwing her hands up in the air. “Smug indeed! ‘Stupid’ describes them better.”

“Maybe,” I murmured. “Here’s Leo with the bakery goods. Ask him what he thought about the Cavanaugh Gang.” I greeted my ad manager and hurried into my cubbyhole.

Several minutes later, as I was going into the newsroom to pour my coffee, Ginny plodded through the door. “Sorry,” she said in a forlorn voice. “Our hot-water heater blew up.”

“Good,” Vida said, swinging around to her keyboard. “That goes in ‘Scene.’ Let me see…‘Expectant parents run out of hot water for their two youngsters who—’”

“Don’t,” Ginny pleaded. “We never mention our staff in ‘Scene.’”

“I’m not using your names,” Vida responded. “It’ll be one of my little teases.”

Shoulders drooping even more, Ginny surrendered. “Really, Emma, I’m sorry I was late. I’ve already checked the calls. You have one from a Mr. Weasel.” She took a slip of memo paper out of the pocket of her baggy cardigan. “Here’s his number.”

“Thanks. I think his name is Wenzel.” I glanced at the clock above the coffee and bakery table. It was eight-thirty. “Anybody seen Curtis?”

Leo looked up from the Grocery Basket layout on his computer screen. “Yes, I saw his beater pulling out of Cal’s Texaco when I stopped to get gas just before eight.”

“Then where the hell is he?” I demanded.

Vida swiveled around in her chair. “Emma, please! Watch your language. You’re out of control this morning.”

For once, I ignored her comment. “Ginny,” I said before our office manager could escape to the sanctuary of the front office, “did your husband have anything more to say about the man who came into the bank and called himself Josh Roth?”

“Not really,” Ginny responded. “The only reason Rick talked to him was because Jodie—that’s the new teller—thought a manager had to sign off on a traveler’s check from out of state.”

“Did you show Rick the picture we’re running of the dead guy?”

“No.” Ginny looked puzzled. “Why should I?”

Ginny is fairly smart and usually very efficient, but she has no imagination. “To make sure the guy on the driver’s license is the same one who Rick saw at the bank. Why don’t—” I stopped. Asking Ginny to go to the bank now would get her off to an even later start in the workday. “I’ll have Curtis do it when he gets in.”

Ginny nodded. “The bank doesn’t open until nine-thirty, you know.” She slouched out of the newsroom.

“I’ll go to the bank,” Vida volunteered. “I must get a money order for some bulbs I’ll plant after Labor Day. They’re twenty percent off now in the catalog I like, but they don’t take checks and I refuse to give out my credit card numbers to anyone unless I know them personally.”

“Okay,” I said, knowing that Vida was using the bulb purchase as an excuse to talk to Rick. Little by little, Curtis was losing his grip on any part of the homicide coverage, but he had no one to blame but himself.