The Alpine Traitor Part 10

"Did Graham's wife come with him?"

Heather paused. "I don't know. Carlos was working the front desk last night. You know-the cute guy from the college who wants to go into hotel management."

I didn't know Carlos. "Look," I said to Heather, "I know I'm prying, but that's my job. I'm also trying to be a hands-on boss with a new reporter. Has Curtis talked to Mrs. Platte or her brother?"

"Curtis?" Heather sounded puzzled. "Oh-the one who took Scott's place. Gosh, I'm sorry Scott moved away. He was real eye candy. Every time he came to the lodge all the girls started having the wildest fantasies!"

"Yes, Scott was a dream walking," I said, wondering if his replacement was going to become a nightmare. "But what about Curtis?"

"I'm not sure," Heather said. "I spent most of the morning in the office. Dad told me Ed Bronsky stopped in to see Mrs. Platte yesterday, but she refused to let him in. I guess Ed got all p.i.s.sy about it."

"That sounds like Ed." I backtracked to my previous question. "Did Graham Cavanaugh register for two people?"

"I'll have to check. Can you hang on?"

"Sure." I was trying to be patient. In fact, I realized that if Alpine weren't a small town and I was calling a stranger who worked at a big city hotel I'd never get any personal information about guests. One of the benefits of life in SkyCo was that everybody knew everybody and had a tendency to band together against strangers.

"Yes," Heather said, sounding as pleased as if she'd found a pearl in one of the ski lodge's Quilcene oysters, "Mr. and Mrs. Graham Cavanaugh, and their home address is on Clay Street in San Francisco."

"Thanks, Heather," I said and plunged ahead. "Could you ask Graham to call me at the Advocate?"

"Sure. I'll put your request in his voice message box."

I thanked Heather again. I knew I was interfering with Curtis's a.s.signment, but after all, Graham was Tom's son, my son's half brother. At least that was my excuse.

The phone rang soon as I'd hung up. Dustin Fong's polite voice was at the other end. "I've got some information for Curtis," he said, "but Sheriff Dodge thought I should let you know in case Curtis isn't in."

"He isn't," I responded. "Have you seen him today?"

"Yes," Dustin answered, "he was here a little before nine. I haven't seen him since, though."

"Go ahead," I said. "What's new?"

"We got the preliminary report back from the Everett ME," Dustin replied. "The victim was killed with two shots from a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. One bullet severed a major artery near the heart, and the other went into his left lung. Death wasn't necessarily instantaneous."

"But no weapon was found at the scene, right?"

"Right. We may have the full report by the end of the day."

"Good," I said. "You'll let us know?"

"Sure." Dustin paused. "Should we call you or Curtis?"

"Either of us," I said, somewhat grudgingly. "By the way, was there any sign of a struggle?"

"No," the deputy answered. "The sheriff and Sam Heppner responded to the call from Mrs. Harris."

"You didn't see the crime scene for yourself?"

"No." Dustin sounded apologetic. "I've only seen the pictures Sam took. Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the unit, and as far as I know, the victim didn't have any marks on him except for the gunshot wounds. He was lying on the floor between the bed and the desk."

I tried to visualize the scene. I hadn't been in any of the Tall Timber rooms in years, but my recollection was that they were standard fare-one or two double beds, desk with TV and telephone, a small table, two chairs, an open s.p.a.ce for hanging clothes, and the usual bathroom accommodations, with tub or shower.

"Not much room to maneuver," I remarked.

"Pardon?" Dustin said.

"The lack of s.p.a.ce in a typical motel room," I explained. "If someone pulls a gun on you and your back is to the door, where do you go?"

"Oh-I see what you mean." The deputy was probably nodding. Of all the employees in the sheriff's office, Dustin had the best people skills by far. "I'll let you-or Curtis-hear of anything else we learn today," he added.

I thanked him and hung up. By the time I'd dashed off a couple of brief page one stories about street resurfacing and annual maintenance of the high school's football field, it was time for lunch. Vida had already left, Leo was out on his rounds, and Curtis was still AWOL. Maybe I was misjudging him. I hoped so. Not only was his learning curve steep but it could be perilous on his new a.s.signment.

The sun had come out, so I decided to walk the six blocks to Pie-In-The-Sky Cafe at the Alpine Mall. They had the best sandwiches in town, although the Grocery Basket's deli featured an excellent tuna salad-but only on Fridays. As the owner and my fellow paris.h.i.+oner, Jake O'Toole, put it in his verbose, malapropian style, "Most discernible people only eat the fruits de mer on Friday, Vatican dictums slackening the rules for fasting and abstinence notwithholding."

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 a.s.sociated 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 s.h.i.+ngles 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. "Was.h.i.+ngton State Newspaper Publishers...Alliance? a.s.sociation? a.s.sembly? It begins with an A."

"a.s.sociation," 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. d.a.m.n!"

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 cafe 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 suns.h.i.+ne. 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 l.u.s.tily. "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 s.h.i.+rley and the kids were just finis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+rley asked me to come in. They were having what they call *the dessert course.' Cla.s.sy, that's Ed and s.h.i.+rley. 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 s.h.i.+rley." 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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.

MY 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."