The Alpine Traitor (4 page)

“I’ll put this in the evidence room,” he said. “You aren’t going to consider selling, are you?”

“Of course not.” I made a face. “But their tactics are unsettling. I suppose it’s only natural that Tom’s children might be a little strange, given their mother’s mental and emotional instability.”

Milo opened the gate in the counter. “I’ll walk you out.”

I shot him a puzzled glance. “Okay.”

On the sidewalk, he stopped just out of viewing range from his office. “That note—you sure it’s Tom’s handwriting?”

Every once in a while Milo shows an unexpected sensitivity. “It looks like it,” I said glumly. “His penmanship was deplorable but distinctive.”

Milo nodded once. “Still, it’d be easy to change a number.”

That hadn’t occurred to me. I realized what the sheriff was trying to say and smiled wanly. “You mean Tom wrote that before I knew him.”

“Maybe.” Milo shrugged. “Do you know when he got married?”

“In 1970,” I replied. “A year or so before I met him when I was an intern at
The Seattle Times.
”

“So,” he said, keeping an eye on what might have been an unsecured load on a pickup truck that was moving along Front Street, “changing a 7 to a 9 wouldn’t be hard.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Thanks.” In another uncharacteristic gesture, I stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Have a good weekend. Catch some trout.”

“I’ll try.” The sheriff patted my shoulder awkwardly before loping over to his Grand Cherokee. Before crossing the street at the corner, I turned around to see him pulling away from the curb. The weird ga-goo-ga siren that he’d bought online sounded as he drove south on Front Street. Apparently he’d decided to stop the pickup. The driver’s weekend was off to a bad start.

Fifteen minutes later I was driving my Honda west on Highway 2 with the windows down, sniffing the evergreen air and catching glimpses of the Skykomish River as it narrowed and tumbled over the rapids near the road. My spirits began to lift as they often did when I could see a slim but lively waterfall cascading over the rocky face of the foothills that lined the route. Moss and lichen, ferns and foliage all spoke to me of the mountain forests. Soothing, no matter what the season.

Traffic was growing heavier, typical for a Friday in June. I eased up on the gas pedal, dropping to forty miles an hour. I’d just passed Sunset Falls and the turnoff to Index when my cell phone rang. I refused to answer on this winding stretch of dangerous road. Another six miles and I’d be able to pull over at Gold Bar. Whoever was calling could wait.

Just beyond the next bridge over the Sky, I slowed even more as a big RV loomed ahead. Maybe I’d wait until Sultan. Having skipped lunch, I was starving, and a hamburger and fries sounded good. It was ten to five. I had plenty of time to get to Seattle before seven—if traffic wasn’t tied up too badly in the suburbs. As much as I love the city, its transportation system is a mess.

When I was a child, back in the fifties, my parents were among those who were opposed to any kind of—gasp!—“California-style” freeway. Along with many others, they believed that if a freeway
had
to be built, it should not be anywhere near the city. Later, when wiser heads prevailed and the route was destined to go straight through Seattle itself, Mom and Dad sided with those who thought it should be hidden under plantings of trees and shrubs and flowers and vines. I remember thinking that might be rather pretty. But it was too expensive, and I-5 began to creep through the town, asphalt and concrete bared for all the world to see—except for Freeway Park, which was built on top of it, complete with the requisite flora and even a waterfall.

I was still musing on the past when I drove off the highway at Sultan to the Loggers Inn on Main Street. I was getting out of the car when my cell phone rang again.

“Damn!” I said under my breath, having forgotten that the cursed thing had rung while I was on the road. I got back in the car, dug out the cell, and answered on the fourth ring.

“Where are you?” Milo asked in an irritated tone.

“Sultan,” I replied. “In the parking lot of the Loggers Inn.”

“Your buyout troubles may be over,” he said. “Dylan Platte’s dead.”

FOUR

I
WAS STUNNED.
“D
EAD?”
I
REPEATED STUPIDLY.
“H
OW?”

“How dead? Dead—as in not alive,” Milo said, still sounding irked. “He was shot twice in the chest. Minnie Harris found him in his motel room.”

I leaned back against the car seat. “He was murdered? Or was it suicide?”

“Let’s say suspicious. No weapon at the scene.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well…” The sheriff’s voice dropped a notch. “That’s the problem. You’re going to have to say something, because you’re the only one who knows much about this guy.”

“Oh, good Lord!” I cried. “I’m a person of interest?”

“Yes. Come on, Emma. You know the drill. Get your butt back here ASAP.”

It was tempting to lash out at Milo and tell him I thought
he’d
shot Dylan Platte just to screw up my weekend with Rolf Fisher. But the sheriff, who always went by the book, was right. Even if I’d never met the victim, at least I’d spoken with him and knew the details about his next of kin. What was worse, I had a motive for wanting Dylan dead. That thought sent a shiver up my spine.

“Give me an hour to get back to Alpine,” I said, hunger pains still gnawing at my stomach.

“You don’t need an hour. Didn’t I say ASAP? Point your car east and drive. Nobody’s going home early tonight.” Milo obviously wasn’t in an accommodating mood.

“You’re a real jackass,” I snapped. “I’ll see you when I see you.” I hung up and immediately dialed Rolf’s number at the Associated Press. It was after five, but he might still be in the office near Elliott Bay.

He wasn’t. He’d left fifteen minutes earlier, according to the honey-voiced female on the other end of the line. I tried his cell, knowing that he usually walked to his lower Queen Anne Hill condo. I got his voice mail, so I didn’t leave a message but called his home phone. This time I got a wrong number. Someone with a heavy Eastern European accent informed me that there was no “R-r-a-a-w-f” at that number. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. Still no answer, just his voice mail.

“I’m sorry,” I said earnestly, “
really
sorry, but I got as far as Sultan before the sheriff called me to say that”—did I want to unload the whole story into thin air?—“that there’s been an emergency and I have to go back to Alpine. Maybe I can come down tomorrow. Call me.”

I had to wait a minute or so to get back on Highway 2. Eastbound traffic was increasing with vehicles from the more heavily populated western side of the state headed over Stevens Pass. It was officially summer, and vacationers were on the move.

Driving thirty-five miles an hour on a narrow two-lane mountain road with sharp curves and slow-moving traffic keeps me alert but still allows my mind to think about other things. As I was passing Gold Bar again, the impact of Dylan Platte’s murder began to sink in.

A random killing, maybe. A drug-addled thief who burst in on Dylan to steal the motel’s TV or the occupant’s wallet? A greedy hooker Dylan had hired to while away the afternoon? A drug deal gone bad? A jealous husband with a case of mistaken identity for his wife’s lover?

Milo hadn’t mentioned any details. Dylan hadn’t been in Alpine long enough—that I knew of—to have made enemies.
Except,
I thought glumly,
me.

Just before six o’clock, I turned off Highway 2 and crossed the bridge into Alpine. Traffic on Front Street was mercifully sparse. The local commute lasted about fifteen minutes and rarely went on after five-thirty. I was able to park on the diagonal just three spaces down from Milo’s Grand Cherokee. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I could smell the grease from the Burger Barn’s grill across the street. My stomach was growling as I entered the sheriff’s headquarters.

“Don’t say it,” Milo growled from behind the counter.

“I can’t help it,” I retorted. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Milo said. “Your usual gripe about serious crimes happening way ahead of when the paper comes out.”

“In other words,” I said, dumping my big handbag on top of the sheriff’s log, “Spencer Fleetwood has already been here.”

“He’s in my office, ready to do the live six o’clock news broadcast.” Milo looked smug. “Got to go. He’s interviewing me.” The sheriff turned on his heel and headed for his sanctuary.

Lori was eyeing me with sympathy. “Can I get you some takeout?”

“I can get it myself,” I said, snatching up my handbag. “Tell your boss if he wants me, he can find me hiding in a booth at the Burger Barn.”

Lori rose partway from her chair. “You’d better not. I think Dodge mentioned that if you got here before six, Mr. Fleet-wood would want to interview you, too. You know—after a commercial break.”

“Tell him he can find me in…Madagascar.” I stomped out the door.

I must have been plagued by bad luck, because the first person I saw upon entering the Burger Barn was Ed Bronsky. He was no longer slinging patties behind the service counter but apparently had just arrived as a customer.

“Emma!” he exclaimed, looking up from a long piece of paper that I assumed was a list of his family’s take-out orders. “What’s this about Platte?”

I’d almost forgotten that Dylan Platte was the prospective buyer for Casa de Bronska. “I just got back in town,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”

“It’s terrible!” Ed’s chins quivered in agitation. “Snorty Wenzel called me half an hour ago with the news. What are we going to do?”

“Buy some burgers?” I had long ago stopped being dismayed by Ed’s self-absorption.

He didn’t appreciate my flippant remark. “I’m serious,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’ll have to start all over. I can’t imagine Mrs. Platte’ll want to buy the house now.”

“Probably not,” I agreed, noting that the Burger Barn was getting busy and the take-out line was growing long. “I gather you never met Dylan Platte?”

Ed shook his head. “Snorty thought he was coming over tonight. I guess Platte had driven by our villa. According to Snorty, he—Platte, I mean—was really excited about it.” He uttered a little grunt that might have been a laugh. “Who wouldn’t be?”

“In alphabetical order?”

“What?”

“All in good order,” I hedged. “I mean, given time, you’ll get another buyer.”

“Well…maybe,” Ed conceded after a pause. “Now we probably won’t be able to buy that new place we like so much.”

“Where is it?” I asked, inching toward an empty stool at the counter.

“Great location,” Ed asserted, regaining some of his usual bravado. “Close to the golf course, real quiet, not so much garden maintenance, and a nice cozy feeling.” He suddenly noticed the take-out line. “Oh, gee, I’d better get going. Say,” he said, digging into the pocket of his forty-eight-inches-at-the-waist summer slacks, “you got a spare twenty? I must’ve left my wallet on the credenza.”

I hesitated, always loath to enable Ed’s tightfistedness when it came to necessities such as food but readiness to squander his inheritance on Venetian chandeliers and faux Louis Quatorze chairs with legs that couldn’t support half his weight.

“Okay,” I finally said, getting out my wallet. “You’re sure a twenty is enough?”

“Got a ten to go with it?”

I handed over thirty dollars. “Pay me back Monday,” I said in a stern voice.

“Oh, sure, no problemo. See you.”

“Yes.” I’d see Ed all right, he was unavoidable. He wouldn’t have the thirty bucks, of course, but we both knew that.

I’d just sat down at the counter when I felt a tap on my arm.

“Sorry, Ms. Lord,” Lori Cobb said with a pained expression on her pale face. “Sheriff Dodge wants to see you. ‘Pronto,’ as he put it.”

I sighed. “The man has a way with words,” I muttered. “Would you mind getting me a burger and fries with a Pepsi?” I took out my wallet again and handed Lori two fives and four ones. “That ought to cover it. If there’s any left over, I’ll have a small salad with blue cheese dressing. Thanks.”

I hopped off the stool and made my way outside. When I reached the sheriff’s office, Milo and Spencer were chatting behind the counter. Mr. Radio saw me and shook his head in mock reproach.

“You missed your big chance to be a star,” he said.

I glared at Spence—and then at Milo. “Gosh, I’ll bet you and the sheriff would’ve been a hard act to follow. Which one of you was Edgar Bergen and which one was Mortimer Snerd?”

Spence turned to Milo. “She’s bitter. Ignore her.” He patted Milo on the shoulder. “Thanks, big fella. Keep me posted.” Mr. Radio collected his equipment and strolled out of the office.

“Male bonding,” I remarked, going through the counter’s gate. “I hate it. You two better not have mentioned my name on the air.”

“We didn’t,” Milo said. “You know damned well I wouldn’t do that this early in a homicide investigation.”

“Yeah, right, sure,” I grumbled as he led the way into his private office. The room smelled of cigarette smoke. I could imagine Mr. Law Man and Mr. Radio puffing their heads off while they got buddy-buddy over the microphone.

“Ever consider airing this place out?” I asked as I sat down in front of Milo’s desk.

“Why?” he shot back. “It reminds me of home.”

I didn’t respond.

“Okay,” the sheriff said, flipping to a fresh sheet of legal-size lined yellow paper, “when did you first know of Dylan Platte?”

“I already told you,” I said, my more perverse side showing front and center. “Why don’t you pay attention?”

“Man,” Milo said, “you sure are a pain in the ass when you’re hungry. Why didn’t you eat lunch?”

“Because,” I said, trying to remain civil, “Dylan called me around noon, just as I was going out the door.”

“Why did he call you?”

“I thought at first he was returning my call to the motel to talk to him about buying the Bronskys’ hideous boondoggle. But I’m not sure if he got the—”

“Hold it.” Milo put a big hand up in the air. “Platte was buying Ed and Shirley’s place? Was he crazy?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Can I finish?”

The sheriff nodded as he lit a cigarette and offered one to me. I declined. “Anyway, Dylan phoned me because he and his wife—Tom’s daughter, Kelsey—have taken over Tom’s newspaper empire with Tom’s son, Graham, and his wife, and wanted to add the
Advocate
to their—”

“I know that part,” Milo interrupted. “When did he ask to meet with you?”

“After work,” I said. “I told him I was going out of town. He all but ignored my protests and insisted it had to be this evening because he was flying back to San Francisco on Sunday.”

“Mrs. Platte wasn’t with him, right?”

“So I gathered. How did Dylan register?”

“Alone,” Milo said. “He arrived Thursday, according to Minnie Harris. No reservation, just showed up in the early afternoon.”

“How did Minnie describe him?”

Milo glared at me. “I’m asking the questions here. How’d Platte react when you kept telling him you couldn’t meet tonight?”

“As if I hadn’t spoken. Just kept hammering at me about getting together on his terms, selling the paper to him—them—and so forth. A total self-centered jerk. Furthermore,” I added, “he told me not to call him because he wouldn’t be in.”

“In where?” Milo asked. “The motel?”

I nodded. “When I told Vida about him, she insisted on going over to the Tall Timber. Leo went there, too.”

Milo scowled. “I didn’t know Vida and Leo got into the act. I’ll have to talk to them. What happened when they went to the motel?”

“Dylan didn’t—” My cell phone rang. “Sorry, but I’ve got to see who this is.”

“Let them wait,” Milo ordered, but I’d already taken out my cell and recognized Rolf’s home phone number.

I ignored the sheriff’s glare. “Rolf,” I said, “I’m being interrogated by Milo Dodge.”

“Is that what you two always called it?” he responded. “Cute. Who gets to wear the handcuffs?”

I turned away to avoid Milo’s annoyed expression. “I’m serious. There’s been a murder. It’s a long story, but it involves somebody who wanted to buy the
Advocate
. I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”

“I’ve nowhere to go, no one to enjoy my passionate embrace. What should I do to while away the hours?”

“You’ve got your dog.”

“Even my dog can’t compensate for your absence, although his brown eyes and clinging paws remind me of you.” He sighed loudly. “As you will. Maybe I’ll jump off my balcony. Or phone the hooker service.”

I never knew when Rolf was teasing me. “I have to go.”

There was a pause. “You said this victim wanted to buy the
Advocate
?” Rolf’s tone had become serious.

“Yes.” I glanced at Milo, who was stubbing out his cigarette as if he wanted to burn a hole in the ashtray. “I promise to call you as soon as I can.”

Rolf resumed his characteristic banter. “What if this is the last phone call you’re allowed to make before he arrests you?”

“Good-bye, Rolf.” I hung up.

Milo shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know what you see in that guy. He’s a real bullshitter, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you,” I retorted.

A tap-tap-tap on the door caught the sheriff’s attention. “Yeah?” he called out.

Lori entered, bearing my meal. “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t ask if you wanted something, sir.”

“Not now.” Enviously, he watched me remove the items from the white paper bag with the red barn logo. “Maybe I’ll eat some of Emma’s salad.”

“I could get you one of your own,” Lori offered, putting my change of a quarter and three pennies on the desk. “Or go to the Venison Inn. They have a nice shrimp and crab Louis special on Fridays.”

“Later,” Milo said. “Thanks.”

“You really are watching what you eat,” I remarked after Lori left. “That’s good.”

“Like hell it is,” Milo grumbled. “Ever since I had my gallbladder out I’m supposed to stay away from grease. Who wants to live forever without a thick steak or a double cheese-burger?”

I tried to look sympathetic. “Don’t you feel better since you had the surgery?”

The sheriff made a face. “I don’t have those damned chest pains anymore, but as long as I know I’m not having a heart attack, I’d almost put up with them if I could eat what I like all the time.” He took his eyes off my burger and looked at his notes. “Okay, so what about Vida and Leo at the motel?”