The Alpine Traitor Part 7

"He stopped by around two or so," Milo replied. "He asked if there was anything new going on with the Platte homicide, and I told him not yet, so he left. That was fine with me."

I frowned, questioning my judgment about what I'd perceived as my new reporter's aggressiveness. "Okay," I said, trying to sound casual. "This is his first big a.s.signment. I'm monitoring his progress."

"What's the rush?" Milo asked. "You've got plenty of time to get a story in the Wednesday paper."

Like many other readers, the sheriff didn't seem to understand the process of news gathering. Get facts, type them up, print in newspaper. Their concept was as simple as that, with no need for background information, dealing with uncooperative or deceptive sources, or trying to find the unvarnished truth rather than glib whitewash.

"I want Curtis to get a head start," I said, using an explanation that even Milo could understand. "He's new to the business. I a.s.sume you still don't have any fresh information?"

"Nope. That's why I'm not at work." He yawned loudly enough that I could hear him at my end. "Just watching Band of Brothers. Again."

"Good series," I said and quickly moved on. "Have you found out anything on the bracelet and note I got in the mail?"

"Nope," Milo repeated. "That has to go to the lab in Everett. You know we can't afford expensive equipment here in SkyCo."

I wasn't surprised that our county lab's expertise couldn't handle the job. I changed the subject. "What about Dylan's wife, Kelsey? Have you talked to her?"

"Not since she got here," Milo replied.

I stifled the urge to scream at the sheriff. "Kelsey's in Alpine?" I finally said, keeping my voice down.

"She got here late this afternoon," Milo said. "She's at the ski lodge. I'll see her tomorrow."

"Is Graham Cavanaugh coming, too?" I asked.

"Graham? Oh-the brother. I don't know. I'll find out when I see Mrs. Platte." Milo yawned again.

"Okay." I still managed to sound unruffled. "Thanks."

Milo hung up. I sat on the sofa with the receiver in my hand and considered my next move. I didn't want to meet Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte. It was bound to be an emotional roller coaster-for both of us. The grieving widow, the orphaned daughter-and the woman who almost married her father.

But I couldn't avoid Kelsey. I finally put the handset back in its base, grabbed my purse, pulled on my linen summer jacket, and drove to the ski lodge to face a stranger who had nearly become the daughter I'd never had.

SIX.

HENRY BARDEEN, THE MANAGER OF THE SKI LODGE, WAS IN the lobby by the dining room entrance, talking to Mayor Fuzzy Baugh and his wife, Irene. Judging from the furtive look Henry gave me, I figured they were talking about me.

"Emma," Henry said, putting out a hand. "You haven't graced us with your presence lately. How are you?"

"My social life's a bit dull," I said, nodding at the Baughs.

Irene, a tall, still handsome woman in her seventies, smiled. "We were just leaving. It's lovely to see you, Emma. It's a shame you don't golf. We could use some fresh blood at the country club."

"Yes," I said, sufficiently tactful not to mention that the clubhouse was an army surplus Quonset hut left over from World War Two and the food came out of a vending machine. "I'm not very athletic."

"Neither are the rest of us," Irene said graciously. "So nice to see you. Come, Fuzzy, we must get home in time to feed Huey."

Huey was a bull terrier, named for Huey Long in honor of the Baughs' Louisiana roots.

Fuzzy, as ever, was subdued in his wife's presence. "My, yes, sugar," the mayor said to his wife. "Wonderful repast, Henry. Good night, Emma."

Henry turned to me as soon as the Baughs walked away. "Are you here for dinner?"

"No," I replied. "I ate earlier at home. I'm calling on one of your guests, a Mrs. Platte."

A hint of color crept onto Henry's usually pale face. "You mean..." He'd lowered his voice and was glancing around the lobby. A young couple occupied the Adirondack chairs by the fireplace, but they weren't in hearing range. "...The woman whose husband was killed yesterday?"

I nodded solemnly. "Yes."

"She asked not to be disturbed," Henry said, barely above a whisper. His usual self-effacing manner was far different from that of his brother, Buck, an intrepid retired air force colonel who had been Vida's social companion for several years. "Mrs. Platte seems very distraught," Henry murmured.

"Did she come alone?" I inquired, wondering where Kelsey's brother, Graham, fit in this mix.

"Yes, very brave of her," Henry replied. "Heather offered to keep her company, but Mrs. Platte insisted that she preferred to be alone."

Heather Bardeen Bavich was Henry's daughter, who worked as her father's a.s.sistant. She had been married for several years and had a small child but still put in long hours at the lodge.

I hesitated, trying to figure out what was the best approach to take with Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte. I couldn't s.h.i.+rk my professional responsibilities because of personal concerns. And I was curious.

"Henry," I said, speaking almost as softly as he had, "this young woman is Tom Cavanaugh's daughter. I feel I have some kind of obligation to see her."

Henry looked stricken. "Oh! Emma, I..." Any color he'd had in his face drained away. "I didn't know.... You mean...What was her husband doing here?"

"It's a long story," I said, realizing that neither Milo nor Spencer had leaked the reason for Dylan's presence in Alpine. I hated having to be grateful to them, but they had a thank-you coming. "I've never formally met Kelsey," I admitted, "but I can't pretend I don't know who she is."

Henry looked thoughtful. "I could send her a note. Or you could."

"Well..." I was afraid Kelsey would refuse to see me, no matter how tactfully Henry or I composed the missive. "Would it upset you if I went to her room and explained who I am?"

Henry grimaced. "If you didn't tell her you talked to me, I suppose I could turn a blind eye. But," he quickly added, "she'll know somebody gave her your room number."

"No." I spoke emphatically, causing Henry to give me a curious look. "You have three suites here, and it's June, so chances are all of them aren't taken, but Kelsey's rich-she'd want a suite. Let's see if I can guess. If I'm right, don't say a word and don't watch me go to the elevator."

He considered my idea for several seconds. "All right. Go ahead. In fact, don't even tell me what you're guessing."

"Fair enough." I smiled at Henry and went to the two elevators in the lobby, one for guests, the other for service. I pressed the b.u.t.ton for the third floor, which was the highest in the lodge and where all three suites were located. There was the King Magnus Suite, the Queen Margrethe Suite, and the Prince Haakon Suite. I went straight to the Margrethe and rapped the bra.s.s knocker three times.

I waited, wondering how long it would take for Kelsey to peer through the peephole and decide if I looked like a crook. A full minute pa.s.sed-I'd checked my watch. A few seconds later, I heard a tentative voice say, "Yes?"

"Ms. Lord," I announced. My voice seemed to echo along the empty corridor, with its Norwegian hooked rugs and framed photos of skiers tackling the slopes around Stevens Pa.s.s.

I was about to give up when the door opened a couple of inches, the chain still in the guard. A familiar pair of blue eyes stared out at me from a pale face framed by long fair hair.

"Yes?" Kelsey repeated, more softly this time.

"You know who I am?" I asked, also very quietly.

"Yes." She bit her lip. "You're the newspaperwoman."

The newspaperwoman. Not her father's fiancee, not his bride to be, not even a friend of the family. I felt something very like a brick sink in my stomach. But what was I expecting? That Kelsey would throw herself into my arms and sob her heart out for missing out on having me as a stepmother? No. Still, her response was so impersonal that I felt as if I'd played no part in her father's life.

"May I come in?" I asked stiltedly.

Kelsey looked uncertain. From what I could see of her, she seemed to exude a waiflike air, a slim, fine-boned young woman devoid of makeup and, except for her blue eyes, bearing no resemblance to Tom. Sandra's child, I thought and wondered if she had also inherited her mother's unstable mental condition.

Thin fingers with very short nails coped awkwardly with the chain. "Please." Kelsey stepped aside to let me enter. "It'd be better if you waited until Graham was here," she said, sinking gracelessly into an armchair.

"When is your brother arriving?" I asked, sitting down un-bidden on the sofa. As I recalled, the suite had a sitting room, two bedrooms, and two baths. I could see an open suitcase on the floor in the nearest bedroom. Kelsey was barefoot. A pair of Juicy Couture brown suede and gold snake sandals lay not far from the sofa. A pale yellow cashmere cardigan was draped over the back of the chair where Kelsey had sat down. She wore what I a.s.sumed were designer jeans, a honey-colored tee, and a diamond ring with a marquis-cut stone as big as a cat's eye.

"Graham will be here tomorrow," she said, picking up a bottle of water from the side table by her chair. "He's coming from New York."

"He lives there?"

"No. He's boating with some friends at Glen Cove." She drew farther back in the armchair and tucked her feet under her bottom. I sensed that she was wary of me. I didn't blame her.

"I see." I hoped I looked sympathetic. "I'm terribly sorry for what's happened to your husband. I never got to meet him."

Her gaze was off into s.p.a.ce. "No?"

"We were trying to set up a meeting," I said.

"Yes."

There was an uncomfortable pause. At least it was uncomfortable for me. Kelsey was staring up into the exposed pine beams of the cathedral ceiling. There was no sign of recent tears, but probably she was beyond that by now.

"It's very brave of you to come to Alpine," I finally said.

Kelsey shrugged.

"I'm sorry we have to meet in these circ.u.mstances."

Kelsey nodded.

I was running out of plat.i.tudes-even if they were true-and I wondered how I could get her to talk. "Would you like to see a doctor?"

She blinked several times. "A doctor? Why? I'm not sick."

"You're in shock, I think."

"I don't believe in medical doctors," she said. "Natural remedies are best."

If that was what she was using, Mother Nature had struck out. Or perhaps Kelsey preferred cocaine or some other illegal substances for medicating. Yet her eyes seemed as clear as they were dry. I tried another query. "Do you have any...plans?"

"Plans?" She finally looked at me again. "You mean for the funeral?"

"That, of course, and with regard to your move."

She shook her head. "Dylan did all the planning. I'm not very organized."

Getting two entire sentences out of Kelsey felt like a small victory. "Do you and Dylan have children?"

She shook her head again. "We talked about it, but..." Her voice trailed off.

I recalled Tom telling me, some years earlier, that Kelsey had gotten pregnant by the boyfriend she was living with. Maybe she'd miscarried. Maybe she'd had an abortion. Maybe she'd given the baby up for adoption. Maybe she'd forgotten that she'd ever had a baby. Of course I realized that she was probably still in a state of shock. Her husband had been dead for only a little more than twenty-four hours. "You live in San Francisco?"

Kelsey nodded yet again.

Another long silence hovered over us. Did I dare mention Tom? Not yet. Kelsey seemed very fragile. Perhaps she'd inherited her mother's emotional instability after all. Still, I reminded myself, she was Tom's daughter. Although I could make little physical connection between the two, I wanted to help her. So many what-ifs raced through my mind.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Kelsey looked at me curiously. "In what way?"

"Have you eaten since you arrived in Alpine?"

She took another swig from her water bottle. "No. I couldn't."

"You can't starve yourself," I pointed out. "You need to keep up your strength." More plat.i.tudes. I was a walking compendium of cliches.

She shook her head. Again.

"Do you know anyone in town? That is, have you had personal contact with anybody here?"

Another head shake. "Dylan did all that."

I felt like asking her why she'd bothered to make the trip. Was she planning to sit in the ski lodge suite until the county released Dylan's body? "Who notified you about Dylan?"

"A man," she replied. "I think he was from the sheriff's office."

"That was Deputy Fong," I said. "Would you like to talk to him?"

"Why?"

"To learn the details," I said. "To find out how to...make arrangements."

"Graham can do that when he gets here." She swallowed more water before standing up and crossing the room to open the doors of a rustic armoire that held the television and the bar setup. "Do you want to watch TV?"

"Ah...no, thanks." I also stood up. "I should be going."

With the remote control in one hand, Kelsey studied the TV program guide. "Sat.u.r.days are bad nights for good shows. You don't get HBO here?"