The Alpine Traitor Part 15

"By the way," I said casually, "have you talked to Buck about his interest in buying a condo in Alpine?"

"I haven't spoken to him since Sat.u.r.day," Vida replied, somewhat strained. "I'm certain that Mrs. Hines has confused Buck with someone else."

That struck me as highly unlikely, but I held the thought. "You realize," I said, "I'm pulling Curtis off of the homicide story except maybe for sidebars."

"You have no choice," Vida declared. "Your conflict of interest ended when the murdered man turned out to be someone other than a Cavanaugh kinsman. The entire Advocate issue could be a hoax."

"That seems pointless," I said. "He must have some connection to the Cavanaughs or he wouldn't know about the family, the newspapers, and me. And what about that bracelet and note?"

"A front man, perhaps," Vida murmured. "I must admit, it's very puzzling." She paused. "Are you going to call this Snorty tonight?"

"Yes."

"Why not see him in person?"

"I don't know where he is."

"You've met him," Vida said. "Didn't you say he came into the front office to place an ad?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't there at the time," Vida said. "He wouldn't know me. I could be a stranger. I could be"-she paused again-"from somewhere other than Alpine." Obviously, the mere idea of living elsewhere disturbed her. "I might tell him that I'd heard the purchase of the Bronsky house wasn't going through and that I was interested in seeing it."

"But Ed and s.h.i.+rley know you," I pointed out.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "but I'd ask to look at it only from the outside, perhaps have him drive me around town."

I turned her plot over in my mind. "No," I said firmly, "I don't like it for several reasons. Snorty may not in fact hold the key, as you put it, except, of course, to the Bronsky house. And while you may not have met the man, that doesn't mean he wouldn't know who you were even if you used an a.s.sumed name. Let's face it-you are well-known in Alpine, and any number of people, including Ed and s.h.i.+rley, may have pointed you out to Snorty."

"My hats," she muttered. "Well now. You do have a point. Still..."

"No," I repeated. "A simple phone call, which I'll make in the next half-hour. I'll let you know if he has anything of interest to say."

I heard her sigh. "If you insist."

"I do."

I checked Snorty's number in his one-column, three-inch ad. "Win with Wenzel! Flexible Mortgages! Dream Homes Our Specialty! Creative Financing! Act Now!!!" ran the copy. Leo must have cringed when he put that one together. The featured home of the week-in very small print with no photo-was described as "Three glorious rooms with river view, natural landscaping, and small outbuilding needs your TLC." I deciphered that as somebody's abandoned cabin and privy in the woods so close to the Skykomish that the next spate of high water would wash the whole mess all the way to Puget Sound.

Before I could dial Snorty's number, my phone rang. Somewhat to my surprise, Mary Jane Bourgette's brisk voice greeted me.

"I'm glad I caught you at home," she said. "This is just a reminder about the parish potluck picnic this Thursday at Old Mill Park. You're a salad or fresh fruit."

I had forgotten, despite the announcement from the pulpit at Sunday Ma.s.s, the notice in the bulletin-and the small article we'd run in the Advocate along with a listing in the Alpine events calendar. "Oh-sure, six o'clock, right?"

"Five-thirty," Mary Jane said dryly. "With school out, we're having the Teen Club set up so we can get an early start in case it rains."

I knew Mary Jane well enough to admit I was slightly addled, especially since I could tell from her voice she'd already figured that out for herself. "Too much going on," I said by way of explanation.

"The murder at the motel," Mary Jane said. "You must feel a lot of pressure when we have something like that happen around here."

"That's true," I admitted, well aware that Mary Jane had given me the perfect opening to ask a nagging little question. "Say, when I talked to d.i.c.k about our repair projects last week, he mentioned planning to stop by the Tall Timber to drop off a business card for the man we thought was Dylan Platte. Did he meet the guy or decide to wait?"

Mary Jane didn't answer right away. "Hang on," she said at last. "d.i.c.k'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 pa.s.sed before I heard Mary Jane or any sound at the other end of the line. She'd apparently pressed the mute b.u.t.ton so that I couldn't listen to her conversation with d.i.c.k.

"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 d.i.c.k 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."

"d.i.c.k'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 metier."

"Yes, I can understand that," I said, "since that's what makes d.i.c.k so good at what he does for a living." I paused, wondering how far I could press my developing friends.h.i.+p 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 d.i.c.k definitely saw something very real that put him off."

Mary Jane uttered a big sigh. "Oh, d.a.m.n, Emma, you're putting me in the middle! I told d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k."

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 d.i.c.k 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-d.i.c.k 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 s.p.a.ce 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 d.i.c.k 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 p.r.i.c.kly. "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 a.s.sumed 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 finis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.ds and G.o.ddesses. 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 a.s.sumed the woman with the ma.s.s 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. n.o.body spoke.

"I'm Emma Lord," I said, gazing at Kelsey. "Remember me?"

Kelsey pressed her lips together. Finally, she nodded. "Yes. h.e.l.lo."

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 a.s.sume 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 bombsh.e.l.l 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.