The Alpine Traitor (8 page)

“Whoa!” I cried, waving a hand to shut him up. “Are you writing a movie treatment or a news story? Skip the useless crap and give me the facts you’ve got so far.”

Curtis frowned. “That’s what I was doing. You got something against creativity?”

“Yes.” I nodded vigorously. “Don’t they teach you how to write a who-what-when-where-why-and-how story anymore in journalism school?”

“I told you,” Curtis said doggedly, “readers don’t want that tired old stuff. They want excitement, entertainment. TV has made them eyewitnesses to events. Newspaper reporters have to make it personal to make it real.”

“Not our readers,” I said. “Not
my
readers. Come on, let’s hear what you
know.
”

Curtis looked pained, as if I’d asked him to give me one of his kidneys. “Dylan Platte, thirty-five, of San Francisco, California, was shot and killed sometime between noon and five o’clock last Friday afternoon at the Tall Timber Motel. Details aren’t available until Sheriff Milo Dodge gets the results from the Snohomish County medical examiner’s office. Platte was reportedly in Alpine on business and was making an offer to buy
The Alpine Advocate
from editor and publisher Emma Lord.”

I waited. But Curtis didn’t say another word. “And?” I finally coaxed.

“And?” He looked puzzled.

“I knew that Friday night,” I said calmly. “What did you find out over the weekend?”

Curtis wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I told you—I got a feel for the story. I talked to Dodge, but he didn’t have much to say. I went to the motel and looked around. You know, to see the setting.”

I nodded. “Did you talk to the Harrises?”

“The owners?” Curtis finally looked at me again. “Just Mrs. Harris. Her husband was at the other motel. But she didn’t want to say anything because she had guests checking out. Trying not to let on what happened, I guess. Bad for business.”

“What about Graham?” I asked.

Curtis’s expression was blank. “Graham?”

“Graham Cavanaugh,” I said, trying to be patient. “Kelsey Platte’s brother. Dylan’s brother-in-law.” I considered making shadow puppets to better explain the connection but decided a family tree would be more appropriate. “Tom Cavanaugh’s children are Kelsey and Graham. Dylan is married to Kelsey. Graham’s wife is Sophia. Graham was scheduled to arrive in Alpine yesterday. Did you try to contact Kelsey Platte at the ski lodge?”

“I called, but whoever answered told me Mrs. Platte wasn’t taking calls or seeing visitors.”

I didn’t know whether or not to tell Curtis that I’d managed to meet with Kelsey. I didn’t want to rub it in for fear of ruining whatever now seemed to be his slim chances of covering the story. On the other hand, he had to learn that reporters can’t take no for an answer.

I was still mulling when Vida burst into the newsroom and headed straight for my office, oblivious to the one-on-one talk I was having with Curtis.

“You won’t believe this,” she announced in a trumpetlike tone. “My sister-in-law Ella has had a stroke. Or a fit. Or something.” Vida leaned against the back of the vacant visitor’s chair next to Curtis. “Her neighbor at Pines Villa, Myra Koenig, called me about an hour ago and said Ella had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I checked with the emergency room, and learned I couldn’t do anything until Doc Dewey had seen her, so I decided to go to Pines Villa and have Myra let me in to gather up some things Ella needs if she stays in the hospital overnight, which I suspect she will.” Vida paused for breath. “While I was there,” she went on, “I went to Ginger and Josh Roth’s unit. No one responded. I asked Myra if she knew them. You’ll never guess what she said.”

“What?” I asked after Vida paused for dramatic effect.

“That unit has been vacant for weeks. Ginger and Josh Roth apparently don’t exist.”

SEVEN

“W
HAT DO YOU MEAN?”
I
DEMANDED.
“I
MET
G
INGER
R
OTH
in this very office!”

“Yes, yes,” Vida retorted. “But that doesn’t mean she ever lived at Pines Villa. Or that her real name is Ginger Roth.”

Curtis scrambled up from the chair. “I’ll put my notes together,” he murmured and dashed out of my cubbyhole.

I held my head. “Sit, Vida. Let me absorb this a little more slowly.”

“There’s nothing to absorb,” she asserted. “You were tricked.”

I thought back to the previous Wednesday, when the lovely Ginger had parked her shapely carcass in the same chair where Vida was now sitting. “It was a bit odd,” I admitted. “She was doing research—supposedly—for a friend in Arizona who was working on an advanced journalism or communications degree. Ginger was quite vague, but in retrospect, it could’ve been an act. At the time, I was reminded of the beautiful but dumb blonde cliché from the movies.”

“What if,” Vida said with a frown of concentration, “she was actually studying you and the newspaper operation for the Cavanaughs?”

“That makes sense,” I agreed, “but why the subterfuge?”

“Why not? To find out what you’re like. To survey the premises. To get the upper hand. These Californians are very sharp when it comes to business practices.”

Vida’s rationale made some sense. “Is that the unit where Scott and Tamara Chamoud lived before they moved?”

She nodded. “The last I heard, they thought they’d sublet it to a retired couple from Everett, but I don’t know if the deal fell through. We should call Scott and ask him. If it was still vacant, there’s no reason that these devious Californians couldn’t have simply slipped a card with the names of Ginger and Josh Roth into the building’s directory. It’s right there by the main entrance.”

I nodded. “I’ll call Scott. Of course, just because these people never lived at Pines Villa doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

Vida rose from the chair. “True. But it all sounds rather theatrical to me. Hollywood, you might say.”

“San Francisco,” I pointed out. “That’s the Cavanaugh family’s base of operations.”

Vida shrugged. “It’s still California. I believe I’ll call that woman in Everett who owns Pines Villa. I may have her name somewhere.”

I had Scott’s new number in my Rolodex. He and Tamara had found a rental house in Burien, just south of Seattle, where prices were somewhat lower than in the rest of the city. Tamara had signed a teaching contract at Highline Community College, and Scott was trying his hand at freelance photography, working out of their home.

Tamara—or Tammy, as Scott called her—answered on the third ring. “Emma!” she exclaimed. “How nice to hear from you! Scott told me that someone had been killed over the weekend in Alpine. He saw a small article in
The Seattle Times’
Northwest news wrap-up.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, “that’s true. In fact, it’s a long story. Want to be bored?”

“Why not?” Tamara laughed. “I don’t start teaching until fall quarter, and that doesn’t begin for almost three months. I’ve been revising my lesson plans, and I’m already bored.”

When I’d finished my account of the Dylan Platte homicide, Tamara was aghast. “Those Cavanaugh kids wanted to buy you out? That’s dreadful! They sound like vultures.”

“I only met them once,” I said. “I didn’t even know until now that this Dylan Platte existed.”

“Still…” Tamara paused. “I can’t wait to tell Scott. He’s out taking some pictures for his portfolio. It was raining a little when we got up, but it’s clearing off now. How’s your new reporter working out?”

“Let’s say that it’s early days,” I replied reluctantly. “Let’s also say that I wish your husband were still working here.”

“I get it,” Tamara said. “Oh, Emma, I hope Scott can make a go of his freelancing. Things are pretty tight these days. Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing.”

“You’ll be fine,” I said encouragingly. “It takes time, and Scott’s a very good photographer.” I had a sudden idea. “Have him call Rolf Fisher at AP. Maybe he can give Scott some leads or even buy a photo from him.”

“Rolf Fisher? Isn’t he the guy you’ve been seeing?”

“On and off,” I replied but didn’t add that, at the moment, the relationship seemed more off than on. “I’ve got a question for you—did you sublet your apartment?”

“No,” Tamara answered, sounding a bit grim. “That’s one of the reasons we’re in a financial hole. We’re paying rent for two places because our lease doesn’t run out until October first. The couple who planned on retiring in Alpine changed their minds and decided to move to Ocean Shores. I guess they prefer waves to mountains. Do you know somebody who’s interested?”

“Unfortunately, no,” I said and then explained about Ginger and Josh Roth.

“That is so weird,” Tamara declared. “I don’t suppose they were like…squatters?”

“I suspect they never got inside the building. But Vida’s going to check with the owner. Is it still that woman in Everett?”

“Mrs. Hines? Yes, as far as I know. Do you want her number?”

I said I thought Vida might have it but to give it to me just in case.

Vida not only had found Mrs. Hines’s number but was talking to her on the phone when I came out of my cubbyhole after my chat with Tamara.

“Yes,” she was saying into the receiver while showing me a scribbled note with the landlady’s name, number, and address, “I’d very much enjoy a cup of tea. Shall we say three o’clock at the diner? Lovely. I’ll see you then.” Vida hung up and smiled triumphantly. “By chance,” she said with her Cheshire cat grin, “Mrs. Hines is coming to Alpine this afternoon to consult with Dick Bourgette about the possibility of converting Pines Villa. She seemed quite intrigued when I told her about the Roths using the address as camouflage. I got the impression that she enjoys a mystery. We’re having tea after her meeting with Dick.” Vida became somber. “Of course I realize that I may be treading on Curtis’s toes. I’d be the last person to interfere with his assignment.”

I kept a straight face. “We don’t know that there’s any connection between Ginger and Josh Roth and the Platte homicide,” I pointed out. “After all, you wanted to interview them for a newcomer feature.”

Vida nodded once. “That’s so.”

“Then go ahead and talk to Mrs. Hines,” I said and filled her in on my conversation with Tamara. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was going on eleven. “I hope Curtis found out if Graham Cavanaugh arrived in town.”

“Surely,” Vida said, “Curtis can do at least that much in a single morning.”

The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. But before I could comment, Ginny entered the newsroom carrying an envelope with the ski lodge logo. “Heather Bardeen Bavich sent this to you, Emma,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a little extra time this noon? I want to go home and have a nap. I hardly slept a wink last night.”

I hesitated. “Would you rather leave early? We don’t have many front office visitors after four-thirty.”

Ginny toyed with a long strand of her luxuriant red hair. “Well…if I can stay awake that long.”

“Okay,” I said. “Drink some more coffee.”

“Caffeine isn’t good for the baby,” she said. “I’ll just force myself to stay alert.” Shoulders slumping, Ginny trudged out of the newsroom.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” Vida exclaimed after Ginny left. “Where’s her gumption? She’s worse this time than she was with the other two. And all this nonsense about what you can and can’t eat! I’m very disappointed with Doc Dewey for giving in to these current fads.”

“I don’t think they’re all fads,” I pointed out. “It’s always better to err on the side of caution.”

“Oh, piffle!” Vida yanked off her glasses and rubbed fiercely at her eyes, a sure sign that she was annoyed. I swear I could hear her eyeballs squeak. “Moderation is always wise. But these days, the medical practitioners seem to have abandoned common sense.”

I decided to forgo an argument. Opening the envelope from Heather, I saw a note and a small photograph. “Emma,” the note read, “this is the only photo Mrs. Platte had. It was taken last winter at Lake Tahoe.”

The wallet-size color picture showed a man and a woman in ski togs, posing under a snow-covered pine tree. There was no identification or date on the back. “Let me borrow your magnifying glass,” I said to Vida. “This is allegedly Mr. and Mrs. Platte.”

Vida got the magnifying glass out of a desk drawer. “Let me see when you’re done,” she said.

I peered at the photo. Kelsey was barely recognizable, probably because she was smiling and looked relatively animated. Her appearance was far different from that of the young woman I’d talked to at the ski lodge. The dark-haired man was also smiling. He appeared to be about six inches taller than his wife and could have qualified as handsome. “Here,” I said, handing over the photo and the magnifying glass.

“A rather nice-looking couple,” she said after a long pause. “A shame, of course. They look very happy here. But then you never know, do you?”

“No,” I agreed as she handed the photo back to me. “I hope Kip can enlarge this and still keep it in sharp focus.”

Back in my office, I called Heather at the ski lodge to thank her for sending the picture.

“No problem,” she said. “Dad left me a note about it. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Platte. She seems totally out of it.”

“Did her brother get in yesterday?” I asked.

“Yes,” Heather replied. “Late last night. I haven’t seen him yet. He’s staying in the suite with Mrs. Platte.”

“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 pissy 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 assignment, 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 space 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 space 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 assignment.

The sun had come out, so I decided to walk the six blocks to Pie-In-The-Sky Café 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 parishioner, 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.”