The Alpine Traitor (18 page)

“Andy,” Milo replied. “Andy Andersen, a college kid. His dad, Kent, works in the Sears catalog office. He’s inside, recovering from what happened.”

I looked at Heather. “Is your dad here?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking rather pale. “He got here a few minutes ago. He’s trying to reassure our guests that this kind of thing has never happened here before. Naturally, some of them are thinking about checking out.”

“Can’t blame them,” Jack Mullins said in his usual flippant style. “First the Tall Timber Motel, now the ski lodge. Makes Alpine look like Destination Death.”

Heather shot Jack a dirty look. “That’s not funny.”

“Hell, no,” Jack retorted. “Even less funny to the dead guy at the motel and poor Walsh fighting for his life. Loosen up, Heather. Life’s just a bunch of crap. Worse, if you’re married to my wife.”

Heather appeared shocked but didn’t respond. Milo and I were used to Jack’s caustic remarks about Nina Mullins, who had always struck me as a kind and pleasant woman. Either she was a saint or she had a sense of humor that put her husband’s comments in perspective.

I turned my attention to Milo. “Has that area in the trees been searched?”

“Dustin didn’t find anything, but we’ll give it another look.” He ambled over in that direction. I followed him. “See?” he said, pointing to the ground just beyond the parking lot. “No underbrush to trample. I guess they clear it out regularly to protect any wandering guests from nettles or devil’s club or anything else that might be a nuisance. Not enough rain lately, and all these big trees protect the dirt. Oh, there are some partial footprints, but too damned many to give us anything. I called in the state patrol just to make sure, though. They should be here pretty soon.”

“No witnesses?”

Milo shook his head. “Just the Andersen kid, who heard the shots. Two, just like the guy at the motel. Leo had his back turned, so he probably didn’t see anything.”

I winced. “Poor Leo!” With great effort, I tried to push him into the back of my mind. “Who’s been questioned at the lodge?”

The sheriff regarded me with an ironic expression. “You mean how many of your Cavanaugh crew have an alibi?”

“Yes.” I looked Milo straight in the eye. “Who else?”

He shrugged. “Ed Bronsky? He’s got a motive for shooting Leo.”

“Get real. Ed was always just one small step ahead of even a dead man when it came to hard work.”

Milo didn’t comment. He looked thoughtful as he watched Jack walk toward the lodge with Heather. “So,” the sheriff finally said, “you think Leo knows something you don’t?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I replied. “You know Leo—he’s pretty open when it comes to his past life. Over the years, he’s talked about working on Tom’s papers in California. But he really never knew Tom’s kids except for seeing them once in a while. The last time was when they were in their early teens. I suspect that Tom was a bit guarded when it came to his family problems, especially Sandra’s mental health.”

“Probably,” Milo said. “If Leo pulls through, maybe he can tell us why he was shot. That is, if this is tied in to the motel murder.”

“It must be,” I asserted. “We can’t have two homicidal maniacs on the loose.”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Milo murmured and heaved a sigh. “I’d better go talk to that bunch myself.” The sheriff must have seen the spark in my eyes. “No, Emma, you can’t come with me. Don’t even think about it. This is official business stuff.”

I knew he was right. I’d have to rely on Milo’s interrogative abilities, which, I had to admit, weren’t all that bad. He might conduct an investigation by the book, but he had a certain amount of instinct about people after his years in law enforcement. “Okay,” I conceded. “I have to call Curtis anyway.”

The sheriff loped off to the lodge. I felt somewhat uneasy about standing alone in the parking lot where Leo had been shot, so I got into my car and phoned Curtis. He didn’t pick up. I got his usual glib recording that he might be working or partying or “Who can tell with the Mayne Man?”

Idiot,
I thought but left a terse message to call me. Not that it mattered whether Curtis took the photographs tonight or tomorrow as long as we couldn’t use them in this week’s edition, but he had to learn that a journalist’s life isn’t strictly nine to five.

Next, I took my chances with Bree Kendall and dialed the hospital’s emergency number.

“No word yet,” she snapped when I asked if Leo was out of surgery. I thanked her and hung up. It was, I mused, unfortunate that Bree was not only too old for Curtis but dating a CPA from out of town. Otherwise, I felt they’d make a perfect match, being different kinds of jackasses.

In the rearview mirror I saw a middle-aged couple coming out of the lodge and heading for a nearby car with Oregon plates. Apparently the lodge’s guests weren’t being ordered to stay put. It wasn’t fair to inconvenience the innocent. I hoped the Cavanaughs wouldn’t be allowed that kind of freedom. In my mind, at least one and maybe all of them were suspects.

My cell phone rang. Maybe it was Curtis, finally getting around to checking his messages. Instead, it was Vida, and she was in a dither. “Good heavens!” she shrieked into my ear. “Leo! I can hardly believe it!”

“You know?”

“Of course.” She paused for breath. “My nephew Billy was called back on duty an hour or so after he left the radio station. Milo is suddenly shorthanded. Where are you? What do you know? Who shot Leo? Is he out of surgery?”

I informed Vida that I was in the ski lodge parking lot and knew just as much as she did. “The good part,” I pointed out, “is that an excellent surgeon from New York happened to be staying at the lodge and is assisting Doc Dewey.”

“David Weinberg?” Vida said. “Yes, I had my niece Marje look him up in her AMA directory. She assured me he’s outstanding, judging from his medical credentials. Oh, I hope so!”

As usual, Vida knew more than I did, having relatives well-placed in the sheriff’s and the clinic’s offices. “Milo’s questioning the Cavanaughs,” I said. “I think I’ll go inside and nose around, though I don’t know what I expect to learn before he’s finished.”

“There’s always something to learn,” Vida declared. “In fact, I’ll join you. Meet me in the lobby by the statue of Leif Eriksson.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “By the way, bring your camera. I can’t get hold of Curtis.”

“Oh, for!—” Vida stopped herself. “Fine, I’m on my way.”

A family of four pulled into the lot as I got out of my car. They spotted the crime scene tape and stopped their SUV. A moment later, they reversed and left. I supposed I couldn’t blame them. If they were tourists looking for overnight lodging, I felt like telling them they might want to skip the Tall Timber Motel as well and keep going until they got to Leavenworth.

It was almost dark as I walked into the lobby. Heather and Carlos were both behind the desk, apparently catching up on paperwork. A young couple pushed their sleeping infant’s stroller out of the recently added coffee shop and headed for the elevator. One of the custodians—I recalled that he was known as Swede—was sweeping up some debris by the pay phones. Two older men were seated in comfortable armchairs, chatting in a subdued manner. Everything might have seemed normal to the casual observer. But a few clusters of people were standing around looking anxious and wary, as if they sought company to ward off the threat of more havoc.

There was no sign of Milo, Jack, or any of the Cavanaughs. I approached Heather, smiling at both her and Carlos. “Where’s the inquisition?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

Heather pointed to the hallway that led to the meeting rooms. “They’re in the Tonga Room. Sheriff Dodge also has some people waiting with Jack next door in Valhalla.”

I glanced at Carlos, who had stopped what he was doing to listen to us. “Did either of you see Leo come into the lodge?”

Heather shook her head, but Carlos nodded. “He got here around six-thirty and wanted to know if any of the Platte or Cavanaugh party were around. I told him that I thought Mrs. Cavanaugh was still in the Viking Lounge, where she’d met Mrs. Runkel. Mr. Walsh thanked me and went off to the bar. I already told Deputy Fong that. He took notes.”

According to Milo, Dustin’s notes were not only always precise, but they were very legible. “So he joined Mrs. Cavanaugh there?”

Carlos nodded again. “Brianna said he sat down with her. Then, after she’d served them, Mr. Cavanaugh went into the bar, but he came back out a few minutes later.”

Mr. Cavanaugh.
The name conjured up Tom, not Graham. “I see,” I said absently, wishing that this situation didn’t bring back so many painful memories. “Did Graham Cavanaugh leave the lodge or go back to his room?”

Carlos frowned. “I don’t know. I had to answer the phone and didn’t notice.”

I knew, of course, that he’d left—if not then, a few minutes later—because he’d showed up at my house shortly after Vida’s program was over. “How long did Leo stay in the bar with Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

Carlos looked at Heather. “What did Brianna say? Half an hour, forty-five minutes?”

Heather frowned. “I think so.”

“Where’s Brianna now?” I asked.

“In the bar,” Heather replied.

“Maybe I should talk to her,” I said. “Are you very busy in there?”

“Well…yes.” Heather grimaced. “Word about the shooting got out, and everybody seemed to want to be with other people. Safety in numbers, my dad told me. Of course, a few of the guests refuse to leave their rooms. It’s…scary.”

A sudden thought came to me. “Has Spencer Fleetwood been here?”

“No,” Heather said. “Mrs. Runkel mentioned that he was leaving town right after her program. He had to go somewhere on business because he’s expanding the station’s power or whatever you call it.”

“Ah, yes. He told me about that.” Ever since Rey Fernandez had quit KSKY for greener—and richer—pastures, Spence had been forced to hire students from the community college. No doubt he was having his own problems with the younger generation. I sympathized. It appeared that whoever had been left in charge hadn’t been paying attention to the police scanner. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll talk to Brianna. If Mrs. Runkel comes in, tell her where I am.”

Heather looked startled. “Mrs. Runkel is coming back to the bar?”

I smiled. “Once she gets started, there’s no stopping her.”

Heather looked shocked; Carlos seemed bemused. I left them and went into the Viking Lounge, where I found the blond and buxom Brianna working at the register. The bar was filled almost to capacity. One of the dining room waitresses had been brought in to help serve the anxious customers. There was, however, no sign of the Cavanaugh Gang.

“Excuse me,” I said apologetically to Brianna. “I know you’ve already talked to one of the deputies, but I need to find out exactly what happened, since Mr. Walsh is one of my employees.”

Brianna’s blue eyes widened. “I know.” Her voice was very soft, almost like a child’s. “Isn’t it awful? He’s such a nice man, too. What’s going on around here? I’m totally terrified. I don’t want to go outside alone after I finish my shift, so my boyfriend is coming to get me.”

“The sheriff will probably leave someone to protect everybody at the lodge,” I assured her, even though I had no idea if Milo would in fact put his sparse manpower on an all-night watch. “Can you tell me exactly what happened after Mr. Walsh arrived in the bar?”

She sighed. “It seemed so…normal. He came in and started for the bar, and then I guess he saw Mrs. Cavanaugh and went over to her table. She was just leaving. Mrs. Runkel had left a few minutes before that. Anyway, he sat down, and I went to get his order. Mrs. Cavanaugh said at first that she didn’t want another drink, but she changed her mind before I walked away.” Brianna paused. “Do you need to know the time?”

I inferred that Brianna had already been asked that question by Dustin Fong. “Yes,” I said, “if you can remember.”

She uttered a short laugh. “Of course I can. I always watch the clock. I’m taking a full load of classes at the college, and I get tired in the evenings, especially since I know I have to go home and study for another couple of hours. Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Cavanaugh talked for about twenty minutes, and then Mr. Cavanaugh came in, but he didn’t stay long. In fact, he didn’t sit down, so I figured he wasn’t going to order a drink.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know. He came to see me. What happened next?”

“A little after seven I asked Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Cavanaugh if they wanted another drink. He said yes, she said she’d wait—the rest of her party was going to meet in the lobby later on and go to Le Gourmand to have dinner. After another few minutes, she got up and left. That was around seven-twenty. Mr. Walsh went to the restroom—you know there’s one off the King Olav Restaurant—and when he came back, Jake and Buzzy O’Toole had come into the bar. It was Buzzy’s birthday, and his brother was buying him a drink. Leo invited them to join him at his table, and he bought Buzzy a drink later, about a quarter to eight. Mr. Walsh was sort of nursing his along, and after he finished, he left. That was a couple of minutes before eight. The O’Tooles didn’t leave until after they heard about the shooting. They were both really upset.”

“Yes,” I said, “I would think so. Leo has gotten to know them quite well because Jake’s Grocery Basket is a big advertiser for us. I take it you didn’t see any of the other members of the Cavanaugh party in the bar after Sophia took off?”

“You mean Mr. and Mrs. Platte?” Brianna shook her head. “No. Not tonight. I mean, not until much later, after Mr. Walsh was shot. They all found out about it when they came to the lobby to leave for dinner. I guess they had a late reservation. People from California seem to eat later than the rest of us.”

“Sometimes,” I murmured. My mind had gone back to Leo, lying helpless in the parking lot. Shock and fear were being displaced by anger.

My mood must have been contagious. Brianna suddenly clenched her plump fists and looked as if she might cry. “Oh, Ms. Lord, who’d do such an awful thing to Mr. Walsh? He’s such a really nice man.”

“That,” I said slowly, “is what I want to find out.”

FIFTEEN

V
IDA MARCHED THROUGH THE LOBBY JUST AS
I
WAS
coming out of the bar. “Good grief,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice, “I just saw where it happened.” She shuddered in an exaggerated manner. “So gruesome, and right here in Alpine! A terrible day, and still no word on Leo. He’s not out of surgery yet.”

The handful of people in the lobby—including Heather and Carlos behind the desk—were trying not to stare at Vida. At least, I thought, nobody had started to scream or run off in a panic.

I steered Vida over to the luggage room door and I hoped out of earshot. “Did you get a picture?”

“Yes, several,” she replied, “but they aren’t very dramatic. No sign of Leo’s car. No people to include.”

“Cal Vickers towed Leo’s Toyota away,” I said. Briefly, I recounted what the lodge employees had told me. “We have a solid idea of the time line. It doesn’t seem that any of the Cavanaugh bunch has an alibi.”

Vida nodded. “They’ll provide alibis for each other, of course, but that won’t hold any water.” She sighed. “Poor Leo. Why was he shot?”

“Maybe,” I said hopefully, “he can tell us.”

“He knows something,” Vida declared. “Something he may not realize, that makes these awful people afraid of him. Generally, I find conspiracy theories to be so much hokum, but perhaps this is an exception. They seem like a tight little circle.”

“They
are
family, remember,” I noted dryly.

“Yes, yes,” Vida responded, “but Californians aren’t always the wholesome variety from my point of view. The trick, I think, would be to cut one from the herd.”

I regarded Vida with interest. “You’re right. I nominate Kelsey. She strikes me as very vulnerable.”

“Then do it,” Vida said. “You’ve met her. You could have been her stepmother. But of course you must be careful. She may be unhinged like her mother. She may even be dangerous.”

“I realize that.” I paused, trying to figure out an angle to get Kelsey alone. “I have some photos that Tom took when he was here. A couple of them are in Leavenworth when we went over there to do the Bavarian village setting. I’ll say I want to give her some copies.” I paused again, considering my options. “Breakfast tomorrow at the diner. I have to find the pictures first. I couldn’t bear to look at them for a long time, so I put them away…I’m not sure where. Adam’s old room, maybe.”

“The diner is a good choice.” Vida nodded several times. “Much safer to meet in public. You must insist she come alone.”

I went to the front desk. “Heather, could you please ring Mrs. Platte’s room? I’d like to talk to her or give her a message.”

Heather rang Kelsey’s suite. “No answer,” she said, hanging up. “I think Mrs. Platte is with the others in the Valhalla Room waiting to speak to Sheriff Dodge.”

“Oh. Of course. I should’ve thought of that. I’ll leave a note,” I said. “Tell her it’s important and I’d appreciate a call this evening. I’ll be up until at least eleven.”

Vida was pacing the lobby. “Well?” she asked as I approached her.

I explained how I’d had to leave a message for Kelsey. “I’m not sure I can do much more here, and I have to find those pictures,” I went on. “Do you want to stay and see if there’s any information we can use? That is, if Milo can tell you.”

“He’d better,” Vida said in a steely voice. “Yes, you run along. I’ll hold down the fort.”

I was a block from home when my cell phone rang, so I let it ring twice more while I pulled into my driveway. Elvis Sung’s voice came through loud, clear, and encouraging. “Leo’s out of surgery and in the ICU. His chances look good. He lost a great deal of blood and he’s very weak, but Doc Dewey and Dr. Weinberg are optimistic.”

“Thank God,” I said. “And thanks for letting me know. I’ll spread the word so you can get back to your patients.”

I called Kip as soon as I went inside. He, too, was vastly relieved and ready to insert another couple of lines into the front-page bulletin. “That was worth waiting for,” he said. “I may get out of here before midnight.”

I wished him well and phoned Vida. She was elated, saying she’d pass on the news to Milo. “I wonder how soon Leo will be able to talk.”

“Tomorrow, maybe,” I said. “Anything going on at the lodge since I left?”

“Hardly,” Vida replied. “You’ve only been gone ten minutes, though I just saw Dylan Platte go into the Tonga Room.”

“Who came out?”

“One of the female guests I didn’t recognize,” Vida informed me. “I assume she’s the last of the witnesses, though what she may have seen or heard, I certainly don’t know. The employees have all been interviewed. Milo must have saved the Cavanaugh group for last. Making them squirm, I hope.”

“Not to mention hungry,” I noted. “They were supposed to have dinner at Le Gourmand this evening.”

“It serves them right for missing it. Starving them into submission might be an excellent idea.”

I didn’t argue. After hanging up, I went into Adam’s old room, which had, over the years, become something of a storage area. Having only a carport and no basement, I lacked space for items I wanted to get out of the way but still save on the vague premise that someday I might need them. Although it was after ten o’clock, I was wide awake and knew I wouldn’t go to sleep for a long time. The nightmare of Leo’s shooting had made me feel wired and edgy. I decided I might as well use the time to find the photos of Tom, and also try to cull out some of the useless junk. Armed with a couple of big garbage bags, I went to work.

The first to go were Adam’s old skis. He’d bought new ones before his assignment in Alaska. Out also were two pairs of well-worn tennis shoes, a bunch of unmatched socks, my old hair dryer, my portable typewriter, and three
World Almanac
s dating back to the nineties. Half an hour later I found the pictures in a Nordstrom gift box with some other photos that had been taken during the last decade.

It was painful to sort through the disorganized pictures, and not just because of seeing Tom’s smiling face and twinkling blue eyes. There was Adam, a carefree college student, veering from campus to campus and major to major. Ben, ten years younger, a few pounds lighter, back in the days when he was stationed in Tuba City, Arizona. And me, arm in arm with Tom, strolling the streets of Leavenworth with all the ersatz Bavarian shopfronts in the background. I looked so happy. So did he.
Oh my God,
I thought,
what a blessing that we can’t see into the future.
Life hadn’t treated us kindly. But then it seldom does.

I decided on three shots of Tom, none of them including me. Two were from Leavenworth, and one was from the picnic area by Deception Falls. I had the negatives, so I could make copies for myself.

Suddenly I was overcome with fatigue. I made a slapdash attempt at putting everything back into order. I returned the rest of the photos to the Nordstrom box. As I was shoving it onto a closet shelf, I dislodged a letter-size envelope that fell at my feet. Picking it up, I saw Tom’s typed name and the address of the condo he’d bought after Sandra’s death.

I remembered that it was a list of all the numbers I might need to know in case of an emergency. Tom had given it to me a year or so before he died. When he’d been killed, I was in such a state of collapse that I didn’t remember getting it from him, let alone where I’d stashed it. Leo and Milo had handled the initial calls to the family while I languished in the hospital overnight. I set the envelope aside and hurriedly finished putting things away and hauling the garbage out to the carport.

It was going on eleven when I sat down on the sofa, staring dumbly at the envelope. Reluctantly, I opened it. Except for Tom’s note at the top, the rest was typed.

“Emma,” he’d scrawled in his large, almost illegible handwriting. “Just in case—this is a copy of the info I’ve given to Graham and Kelsey. Hope you never need it.”

The names and addresses included his family doctor, Charles Burke; the law firm that represented both his personal and business interests, Bowles, Vitani & Mercier; his financial adviser, Kenneth West; his four accounts at the California Avenue branch of Bank of America; his pastor at the Old Cathedral of St. Mary of the Immaculate Conception; and the names, addresses, and phone numbers for all of the newspapers he owned. If I’d ever studied the list, I didn’t recall anything about it. I certainly didn’t need it now. But just as I was about to put it in the trash, I stopped. It was a link to Tom, and I had damned few of those. I’d keep it, at least for now.

By eleven o’clock, Kelsey hadn’t called and neither had Curtis. The younger generation seemed hell-bent on trying my patience. A quarter of an hour later I was about to crawl into bed when the phone rang. To my surprise, the caller was Dylan Platte.

“Sorry to bother you so late,” he said in his grating voice, “but I understand you wanted to talk to my wife. She’s exhausted and has gone to bed.”

“Is there any chance she could meet me for breakfast tomorrow around eight at the diner off of Alpine Way?”

“I doubt it,” Dylan said. “She’s been through a terrible ordeal the past few days, and she needs to regain her strength. I expect her to sleep in. She should after all that’s happened.”

He had a valid argument. Maybe lunch would work as well. “Could you please have her phone me tomorrow morning at the office? I have some things concerning her father that I think she might want.”

“What things?” Dylan demanded sharply.

“The sentimental variety,” I said, wondering what he expected. “Thanks for getting back to me. Good night.” I disconnected, not wanting to give Dylan an opportunity to probe further.

The phone rang again almost immediately. “I’m home,” Vida announced. “You weren’t in bed, were you?”

“Not quite,” I said. “Anything new?”

“Not anything startling,” she replied, sounding testy. “Milo finished up with the Cavanaughs shortly before ten-thirty. They’d insisted on having room service bring them their dinner in the Valhalla Room. Henry Bardeen was much put out but forced to do their bidding. I’m afraid Henry’s out of his depth with these people. I’d like to see them try to boss Buck around. That would be a far different kettle of fish.”

“Buck’s military background would serve him well,” I remarked, wondering as I always did who bossed whom in Vida’s relationship with the retired air force colonel.

“Having failed to elicit much from Milo, who can be so annoyingly tight-lipped,” Vida went on, “I left and stopped by the hospital. Leo is still in ICU, but they said his condition had been upgraded from grim to mediocre.”

“I don’t believe that’s medical terminology,” I pointed out.

“Of course not,” Vida huffed, “but it’s much more understandable. All this ‘serious,’ ‘unsatisfactory,’ ‘satisfactory,’ and ‘fair,’ is gibberish. I also peeked in on Ella. She was awake and watching television. That’s the worst thing for her. She should be up and doing, especially since she’s probably being discharged tomorrow. Really, people don’t use good sense. I sometimes wonder if I shouldn’t write an advice column, though most readers wouldn’t have sense enough to do what I suggest.”

“Actually,” I said, “that’s not a bad idea. Are you serious?”

Vida hesitated. “Well…it
has
occurred to me now and then. I’ll think about it. Now I’m going to bed.”

Before she could hang up, I told her about Dylan’s call.

“Typical,” Vida said. “No spunk, a younger version of Ella. Whoever got the ridiculous idea that human beings were evolving into a better species?”

She hung up before I could deny ever having made such a statement.

I didn’t get to sleep right away. I was still worried about Leo and upset over all the memories that had been stirred up during the past week. I finally dozed off around one a.m. and didn’t wake up until ten after eight. I’d forgotten to set the alarm. It was a good thing that Kelsey hadn’t been able to meet me for breakfast.

I didn’t bother to eat or even make coffee but phoned the office while I was getting dressed to tell Ginny I’d be in by eight-thirty.

“Who is this?” she demanded, almost in a whisper.

I was puzzled. “It’s me, Emma. What’s wrong?”

“Emma who?”

The question exasperated me. “Emma Lord, your boss, the one who signs your paycheck.”

“What’s the name of your son?”

“Ginny!” I shouted. “It’s Adam, of course. Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” she replied in a more normal tone. “But you can’t be too careful around here after what’s happened, especially to Leo. I’m screening all calls until the killer is caught.”

“I see. Okay, fine, I’m on my way. Speaking of Leo, is there any news?”

“Vida says he had a decent night,” Ginny replied, then added darkly, “one of us could be next.”

“Thanks for getting my day off to a happy start,” I retorted and hung up. It wasn’t until I was pulling out of the driveway that I realized Ginny might have a point. What if Leo had been shot because he had some knowledge that might identify the motel victim’s killer? What if the killer was some sort of maniac who thought the only way to get hold of the newspaper was to knock off the staff one by one? It seemed too farfetched, but I could almost understand Ginny’s fears.

“Sorry, Ginny,” I said upon entering the front door. “No coffee yet. I thought I was still dreaming.”

“A bad dream,” she said morosely. “Here’s a real one. Ed’s here.”

“What?”

She gestured toward the newsroom. “He got here just a couple of minutes ago. He’d heard about Leo and offered to fill in. We do need the help, of course. It’s just weird having him…”

I didn’t wait for her to finish the sentence but burst through the door. Sure enough, Ed was at the coffee table, chomping on a cinnamon roll. Vida was glaring at him from behind her desk, and Curtis had his face hidden behind
The Seattle Times.

“G’monyema,” Ed greeted me with his mouthful. A trickle of butter ran off his chin. Or chins, to be precise.

“Good morning,” I responded. “You’re here to…work?” I could hardly get the word out.

Ed swallowed. “You bet. Seems like old times, doesn’t it?” He popped the last chunk of cinnamon roll in his mouth and chewed lustily.