The Alpine Traitor (9 page)

I was walking by the sheriff’s office when Doe Jameson, the county’s only female deputy, came out. “Ms. Lord,” she called to me, “got a minute?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m headed for the sandwich place. Want to join me?”

Doe peered beyond me toward Alpine Way and the mall. I wondered if she were visualizing the display cases to figure out if she could resist temptation. A solid and also stolid young woman in her late twenties, Doe was part Native American and had a no-nonsense manner that bordered on being abrasive.

“No, thanks,” she said, “but I’ll walk to the mall with you. I have to buy some summer socks at Barton’s Bootery.”

We crossed at the corner of Second and Front, walking past the forest service and the post office. Doe didn’t speak again until we’d almost reached the end of the block.

“I just took a call from the Associated Press in Seattle,” she said. “Dodge had already left for lunch, so I had to field the questions.” She shuddered. “I don’t like doing that. I shouldn’t be the official spokesperson for the sheriff’s office.”

“What questions?” I asked as we waited for a truckload of shingles to turn the corner from First to Front Street.

“About the Platte homicide,” Doe replied. “Usually the Seattle media pays no attention to anything that happens up here. Oh, they might run a small story in one of the papers or even mention whatever is happening on the TV news, but they almost never contact us.”

“Who called you?” I had a feeling that I already knew.

“His name is Fisher,” Doe said, confirming my suspicion. “He mentioned that it might be a developing story for their wire service because it might involve the local weekly newspaper. He’d gotten a call from some organization that wanted information.”

“Organization?” We’d reached Alpine Way, where we had to wait for one of the town’s three stoplights. “Did he say which one?”

Doe frowned. “Washington State Newspaper Publishers…Alliance? Association? Assembly? It begins with an
A
.”

“Association,” I said. “I belong to it.” We hurried across the street and turned up past Old Mill Park to the mall. “Gossip doesn’t just travel fast in small towns,” I murmured. “It invades every industry. Damn!”

Doe shot me a sidelong glance as we crossed Park Street. “Should I tell this Fisher to call you?”

“No!” I barked and immediately was remorseful. “Sorry.” Seeing the surprise on Doe’s usually stoic face, I tried to smile. “Cooperate with him. It’s a legitimate story for the wire service. Somebody at the WNPA must have recognized Platte’s name. I don’t know how, but of course there’d be some interest in his murder, even if it’s just insider stuff.” I’d been talking too fast, trying not to expose my wrath at Rolf for going behind my back. Doe and I stopped at the mall’s parking lot. “What did you tell…Fisher?” I almost gagged on his name.

“Just the facts we’ve given you,” Doe replied, still looking put off by my outburst. “Won’t he call you for the details?”

Trying to act nonchalant, I shrugged. “Maybe. All I can say is what I told Dodge. I wasn’t interested in any offer, no matter how lucrative. And I never met the victim. As far as the sale of the
Advocate
is concerned, it’s a nonstory.”

“Okay,” Doe said. “If he should call back, I’ll send him to you.”

“Sure.” I hoped my expression was noncommittal.

We parted company then. She headed off to Barton’s Bootery, and I went into Pie-In-The-Sky. The café was busy, and I had to stand in line. While I waited, I wondered if the sandwich menu listed gall on rye with a side of bitter almonds. That was what I’d like to send Rolf. Instead, when my turn came, I ordered the turkey breast on white bread with lettuce and mayo. I felt like a turkey. Maybe I looked like one, too.

Feeling sorry for myself, I walked back to Old Mill Park and sat down at one of the vacant picnic tables. Several people of all ages were enjoying the warm day. A half-dozen young boys were kicking a soccer ball. An elderly couple holding hands were looking up at the statue of the town founder and former mill owner Carl Clemans. A trio of teenagers swooped up and down the recently installed skateboard ramp. There were a few loners like me, drinking coffee from plastic cups or eating their noon meals out of foam cartons or paper bags. An old woman tossed bread crusts at the robins and sparrows and cedar waxwings. Abruptly, the birds all scattered as a Steller’s jay sailed out of a tall cedar, uttered its harsh, guttural cry, and claimed the bounty for its own.

I regarded the jay with a wary eye, but the bird was busy devouring the old woman’s bread. Halfway through my sandwich, I saw a vaguely familiar figure walking toward me. It wasn’t until he was about six feet away that I recognized Ed’s real estate agent, Snorty Wenzel.

“Emma Lord,” Snorty said in greeting. “I see you’re enjoying the sunshine. Mind if I join you?”

“Go ahead,” I said, even though I didn’t mean it. “Have a seat.”

Snorty sat down a couple of feet away from me on the wooden picnic table bench. He was a stocky man of indiscriminate age with a rather wizened face that would have suited an ex-prizefighter. His thinning hair appeared to be dyed, a curious color that I recalled from Adam’s Crayola box as burnt sienna.

“Looks like Ed’s had a little glitch in his real estate plans,” Snorty remarked, opening his battered faux alligator briefcase and taking out what appeared to be a ham and cheese sandwich. “Not to worry, though. I’ve got people lined up to buy that drop-dead gorgeous villa.” He took a big bite of his sandwich—and snorted. Twice.

“Great,” I said, noticing that Snorty’s round nose actually looked like a pig’s snout. “So why is Ed threatening a lawsuit?”

Snorty chuckled. “Oh, you know Ed! Always figuring out the angles. Covering all the bases. Pretty shrewd, that’s Ed.”

I couldn’t look Snorty in the eye. It was just as well because he’d taken another bite of his ham and cheese—and snorted a couple of more times. “Had you met Dylan Platte?” I asked, watching the jay fly off and perch atop the old mill building that now housed Alpine’s museum.

“A couple of times,” Snorty replied, still chewing lustily. “Played some golf with him just to get acquainted. I was supposed to meet him at the villa around seven Friday night. Fact is, I went there and he didn’t show. Ed and Shirley and the kids were just finishing dinner.” He paused to take a bag of Fritos out of his briefcase. Munch, crunch, snort. “Want some?” he asked, holding the bag out to me. I declined. “Anyways, Ed and Shirley asked me to come in. They were having what they call ‘the dessert course.’ Classy, that’s Ed and Shirley. So we all tied in to these terrific Dairy Queen Blizzards.” Snorty licked his lips. Unfortunately, he didn’t lap up the bit of Frito on his chin. “Just after seven-thirty I called Platte’s cell number,” he continued. “No answer, so I phoned the motel office and Mrs. Harris gave me the gruesome news.” Snorty shook his head. “I couldn’t believe it. Neither could Ed and Shirley.” He stopped speaking and reached again into his briefcase, this time removing a plastic bag filled with chocolate chip cookies that looked store-bought.

“Have you spoken to Platte’s widow?” I inquired.

“No,” Snorty replied with a cookie halfway to his mouth. “She’s pretty upset, I heard.” He shrugged. “Who knows? She may still want to buy the villa.” He bit into the cookie. And snorted.

I’d finished my sandwich. “Good luck,” I said, standing up and brushing some crumbs off my slacks. “I’d better get back to work.”

“Me, too,” Snorty said. “When I finish here.” He saluted me before delving once more into his briefcase and coming up with a bottle of juice. As I walked away, I wondered if there was anything in that case besides food and drink. Clearly, Snorty and Ed were well-matched.

As I walked in front of the sheriff’s office, I paused, wondering whether I should see if Milo was in. His Grand Cherokee was parked in its usual spot. I decided to pay him a visit.

Doe Jameson, apparently having completed her purchase of summer socks, was behind the counter, sipping from a bottle of cranberry juice. “Is Dodge available?” I asked.

Doe shook her head. “He’s interrogating a suspect.”

I was startled. “In the Platte case?”

“Yes.” Her face remained expressionless.

“Who?”

Doe frowned. “I’m not sure I should say. Sorry.”

“If,” I pointed out, leaning my elbows on the counter, “the sheriff is questioning someone, it’s official. Therefore, you can give me the name.”

Before Doe could respond, Jack Mullins appeared from the corridor that led to the restrooms. “Hey, how’s Lois Lane today? Waiting for the mild-mannered sheriff to change his clothes in a phone booth and turn into Superdude?”

“Milo’s not exactly mild-mannered,” I pointed out. “I’m trying to get the name of his suspect out of Deputy Jameson, but she enjoys a secret.”

Jack put an arm around Doe’s broad shoulders. She winced but didn’t move. “Hey, Doe,” Jack coaxed, “give this newspaper lady a break. Tell her who Dodge has on the hot seat.”

Doe looked uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Jack removed his arm and nodded. “You bet.” He hesitated, staring at me. “Or is this a test? I thought your cub reporter, Jimmy Olsen, was covering the Platte case.”

“He is—allegedly,” I replied in a weary voice. “But he’s still operating with training wheels.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.” He turned back to Doe. “Out with it, darlin’.”

Doe winced again but looked me straight in the eye. “We shouldn’t say this is a suspect so early on in the investigation.” Even though there were only the three of us in the front part of the office, she lowered her husky voice. “His name is Dylan Platte.”

EIGHT

M
Y FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT MY HEARING HAD GONE.
But I could tell from Jack’s puckish expression and Doe’s somber face that I’d heard the name correctly.

“Okay,” I said at last, trying to unscramble my brain, “either there are two Dylan Plattes or the victim was somebody else.”

“You’re a genius,” Jack declared, his eyes twinkling and his tone droll. “I picked this guy up for speeding just this side of the county line. California driver’s license. The photo matched the speeder. Imagine my surprise!”

“Hold on,” I said, wanting to make sure I understood. “Didn’t the victim have a California driver’s license, too?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack replied. “But those things are easy to forge. In fact, I think there’s someplace on the Internet that can make up one for you if you want to be somebody else for a change. You know those Californians—they’re like chameleons, always wanting to try on a different skin.”

I was still confused. “So how do you know which one is the real Platte and which one is the phony?”

“That’s what Dodge is trying to find out now,” Jack said. “If we have to, we can run their fingerprints through the database and hope that at least one of them is a match.”

“What,” I asked, “did this Dylan have to say for himself when you pulled him over?”

“Not much,” Jack answered. “He agreed that he’d been speeding but said it was a habit he’d acquired driving Highway 1 in California, which, I guess, is even trickier than Highway 2 up here.”

My next question was so obvious that I wondered why I hadn’t yet asked it: “Can’t Kelsey Platte come down to identify her husband?”

Jack made a face. “We couldn’t get her to make a positive ID on the victim. She absolutely refused. We want her brother to do it, but so far he hasn’t showed. What’s his name? Graham?”

“Yes.” I rubbed at my forehead. “This is all very weird. I don’t know what to make of it, let alone print in the
Advocate.
”

Doe nodded. “It’s the strangest case I’ve been on. It makes me wonder if this Kelsey woman is really Kelsey.”

“True enough,” I agreed. “But now you’ll have to get one of those Cavanaughs in here.”

Jack made a disgusted noise. “Oh, sure. But how will we know if they’re lying their heads off?”

“You can sort through all that,” I said. “What bothers me is why these people seem to be impersonating each other. Or whatever they’re doing.” I recounted Josh and Ginger Roth’s apparent subterfuge. “I’m assuming there’s a connection between that pair—if they ever were a pair—and this other bunch. It can’t be a coincidence.”

An older man I vaguely recognized entered the sheriff’s headquarters and held up his hands. “I surrender. I’ve just killed a mama black bear.”

Doe looked crushed. Jack swore quietly. “Oh, man. How the hell did you do that, Gus?” he asked the newcomer.

“With my .30-.30 Winchester,” the man called Gus replied. “I only meant to scare her off, but she came at me. No bluff, like they do sometimes. I saw the two cubs afterwards. Do whatever you need to do. I feel like crap.”

Jack sighed. “Come on around here, sit down, fill out some forms. Jeez, Gus, that’s rough.”

“What about those cubs?” Gus said. “That’s what really gets me. They probably haven’t learned what to eat or how to find a den.”

Jack had led the shooter to the far end of the counter. Doe’s dark eyes followed the two men. She seemed on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe,” she said to me, “that the state licenses five hundred permits every year to hunters for certain parts of the state where they can kill those bears in the spring. It doesn’t seem right.”

“I suppose the numbers have to be thinned in certain areas or the animals will starve,” I said, feeling a bit sorry for the dead bear, the cubs—and Gus. The irony didn’t escape me, however. No one in town had seemed unduly disturbed by Dylan Platte’s death.
If
he were Dylan Platte. But whoever the murdered man was, he hadn’t lived in Alpine. Strangers didn’t seem to count. Local bears did.

I turned as another newcomer arrived. To my surprise, it was Curtis Mayne. He looked equally surprised to see me.

“Whoa!” Curtis exclaimed and grinned. “Did I just flunk the trust test with my employer?”

I smiled wanly. “This is more of a social call,” I lied. “I was coming back from lunch.”
Why,
I asked myself,
do I feel a need to make excuses to Curtis?
“In fact,” I went on, though with reluctance, “I was about to go back to the office. Jack and Doe have some news for you.”

“All
right
!” Curtis’s grin grew even wider. “Start dishing,” he said to Doe, who looked wary.

I left. It wasn’t easy, but I had to force myself to keep some distance and allow Curtis to justify my hiring of him. By the time I got back to the newsroom, Vida was hanging up the phone.

“Ella is doing as well as can be expected,” she announced. “I’ll drop in to see her at the hospital after work.” Vida peered at me through her big glasses. “What’s wrong? You look like a pickle.”

“I’m trying to figure out if
we’re
in a pickle,” I replied, leaning on her desk as I regaled her with what was going on at the sheriff’s headquarters.

“Well now,” she said, taking in the tale of two Dylans far more calmly than I’d expected, “that’s most intriguing. And you just walked away. My, my!”

“What else could I do? It’s Curtis’s story, and he actually showed up. Besides,” I added, “I didn’t know how long Milo was going to interview this second Dylan. We’ve got a front page to fill before tomorrow’s deadline.”

“And I still have to do ‘Scene Around Town,’” Vida said, frowning. “I’ve been very lax about my snippets of town gossip this week. Surely you have something for me?”

Off the top of my head, all I could think of was the local gathering in Old Mill Park that I’d seen while eating lunch. Unfortunately, although I’d recognized several of the people by sight, I wasn’t sure of their full names. “Oh,” I said suddenly, “Gus Somebody-or-Other just shot a bear.”

“Really?” Vida tapped her pencil on the desk. “That’s probably a brief article. “Gus who? Gus Lindquist from the A-frame off Disappointment Avenue?”

I grimaced. “I think so. I’ll check with Jack Mullins.”

Back in my cubbyhole, I called the deputy before I forgot about the incident. My brain seemed to be operating on overload. All those questions of who really was who weighed me down.

Lori was back on duty and transferred me immediately to Jack. “No charges filed against Gus Lindquist,” he said. “Self-defense. Gus insisted on seeing what he can do about those cubs. If he can find them, I figure they’ll be his new family pets.”

“That’s a story in itself,” I remarked. “Thanks, Jack.”

“That it?”

“Ah…yes.” I grimaced as I exerted supreme self-control.

“You sure?”

I caught the taunting note in Jack’s voice and sighed. “I have to let Curtis try his hand at a big story. I’m not thrilled about his performance so far, but backing off is the only way I can show any faith in his ability.”

“You’re the boss,” Jack said.

“Is Curtis still at headquarters?” I inquired.

“He’s talking to Dodge even as we speak,” Jack replied.

I shut my eyes tight, battling with the urge to ask if Dylan Platte II was still there, too. “Okay. I’ll talk to Curtis when he comes back.”

I hung up just as Vida left the newsroom. Leo came in a couple of minutes later, looking worried and heading straight into my cubbyhole. “I just ran into Dick Bourgette,” he said, standing in front of my desk. “He’s a stand-up guy, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” I replied, regarding my ad manager with curiosity. “The whole family is first-rate. Why do you ask? Is it something to do with our roof project?”

“No.” Leo hesitated, his weathered face still etched with concern. “We got to talking in front of the post office, and he mentioned that he was going to the Tall Timber Motel to see Minnie and Mel Harris about doing some repairs on the room where Platte was shot. Dick and one of his sons did quite a bit of work on the motel in the off-season.”

I nodded. “I remember. The usual wear and tear after the tourists leave.”

“Right. Anyway, he let something slip about ‘you go to see a fellow in his prime, and then he’s dead.’ I asked what he meant, and Dick got flustered and tried to make a joke of it. It bothered me. That’s not like him.”

I was puzzled, too. “The only thing I can think of is Dick told me something about dropping by the motel to drop off a business card in case the Plattes wanted to renovate the Bronsky house.”

“So why get flustered?” Leo shook his head. “Don’t think I’m suspicious of Bourgette. I’m not, as far as Platte’s murder is concerned, but his attitude was damned odd. Did he see something or somebody he doesn’t want to mention?”

“Maybe he saw Platte,” I said. “But Platte may not be Platte.”

“What?”

I explained what I’d learned at the sheriff’s office. Leo looked bemused. “I suppose everybody’s blaming all the evils of the world on us poor Californians.”

I smiled grimly. “It’s part of the locals’ birthright around here.”

Beyond Leo, I saw Curtis enter the newsroom. He had an iPod in his ear and was doing a little dance step as he approached his desk.

“Here’s the once and future reporter now,” I murmured. “I’d better talk to him.”

“I’ll eavesdrop,” Leo said, leading the way out of my cubbyhole.

Curtis saw me and yanked the iPod plug from his ear. “Truth or dare?” he said, looking pleased with himself.

“Truth is good,” I said. “It’s what journalists always seek.”

“Aha!” Curtis grinned. “But one person’s truth may not be another person’s, right?”

“Curtis…” I leaned a hand on the edge of his desk. “Just say it.”

“Two dudes named Dylan Platte—or so it seems.” Curtis paused, obviously enjoying his little game. “One dead, one alive. The wizards in Sacramento stared into Dumbledore’s Mirror of Erised and saw the real Dylan behind Door Number Two. Driver’s license picture matches the guy who was flying his broomstick over the speed limit.”

“You read Harry Potter,” I remarked, slightly surprised that anyone under fifty read anything resembling a real book.

Curtis shrugged. “I’ve seen the movies,” he said, bursting my bubble. “Anyway, the guy on the slab is now a John Doe.”

“What about Mrs. Platte?” I asked.

“She’s thrilled to pieces,” Curtis replied, “and can’t wait for the resurrected Mr. Platte to join her in making big whoop-de-do in her fancy suite.”

“Kelsey hasn’t come down from the lodge?” I asked in surprise.

Curtis shook his head. “I imagine she’s tossing rose petals all over the marital bed, awaiting his arrival.”

“What about Graham?” I inquired.

“Graham?” Curtis looked blank. “Oh—the brother? No clue. I’ll interview all of them, of course,” he added hastily. “They need time to absorb the shock.”

Leo was sitting at his desk, shaking his head. “Why,” he muttered, “do I think I’m too old for all this?”

“Don’t feel bad,” I said. “I can’t figure out this bunch, either. You’d think Kelsey would rush right into Dylan’s arms.” I had a sudden thought. “The picture…let me take another look.” I scurried over to the back-shop door and called to Kip, asking him to give me the photo of Kelsey and Dylan at Lake Tahoe.

“Did you see this allegedly real Dylan?” I asked Curtis, showing him the picture.

“Just a glimpse,” Curtis said. “Not up close. He was going from the interrogation room to the men’s can down the hall.”

“So you didn’t talk to him?”

“Not yet. I will,” my reporter responded, on the defensive.

“ASAP,” I insisted. “Kelsey and Graham, too, and Mrs. Graham—that is, Sophia Cavanaugh. Now.”

“Hey,” Curtis said, looking offended, “I have to give them all some time. I’m not a ghoul.”

“This isn’t being a ghoul,” I pointed out. “They should be elated, and therefore talkative. Get your butt up to the ski lodge, okay?”

Curtis sighed. “Sure, sure, I’m on my way.” He stalked out of the newsroom.

Leo was lighting a cigarette. “You shouldn’t have to kick his ass to get him to cover this kind of story.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I glanced at Vida’s empty desk. “Now where did
she
go?”

“I saw her on my way in,” Leo answered after expelling a couple of smoke rings. “She had an interview with somebody at the retirement home, and then she was meeting a woman from Everett named…Hines? Yeah, Hines about Pines Villa, that’s it.”

“I forgot,” I admitted. “Vida’s trying to find out about Josh and Ginger Roth, who claimed to be living at Pines Villa, which this Mrs. Hines now owns.”

Leo held up his hands. “Don’t tell me anything more.”

My phone rang. I hurried back into my office and picked up the receiver.

“Caught your killer yet?” my brother asked.

I sank into my chair. “No. Where are you?”

“In my temporary office at my temporary Cleveland parish where I’m serving temporarily,” he replied. “It’s after five here, and I’m about to wrap it up for the day. What’s happening in one of my former temporary parishes?”

Ben was referring to his six-month posting at St. Mildred’s in Alpine a couple of years back, when he’d filled in for Dennis Kelly, who had gone on sabbatical. “It’s so confusing that I’m not sure I can explain it to you,” I said.

“Then don’t,” Ben said. “Send me an e-mail when you get it sorted out. No arrests, I gather?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to Adam?”

“No.”

“You didn’t?” Ben sounded surprised. “How come?”

“It was less awkward to e-mail him,” I replied.

“And?”

I hesitated. “He didn’t sound exactly concerned about his mother’s predicament.”

“Ouch! I hear the wounding of maternal pride.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Hey, give the kid a break,” Ben said. “You’ve never walked in his mukluks. Can you imagine what it’s like to live in such a remote part of the world and just try to keep your head straight? Hell, I remember when you first moved to Alpine. You made it sound as if you were living on Saturn. Bitch, bitch, bitch, that’s what you did for the first year or two. A small town eighty-odd miles from a big city isn’t Siberia. And by the way, Adam’s got a flock to tend, and not just minister to their spiritual needs.”