The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Not since he left about eight-fifteen,” she answered in a doleful voice. She sat up straight in her chair and pressed a hand to her back. “I don’t remember hurting this much the other two times, at least not this early on.”

  “Can you take anything for it?” I asked.

  Ginny shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You never know how pills can hurt the baby.”

  I didn’t argue. A lot of things had changed in obstetrical practice since I’d had Adam, thirty-odd years earlier. I made no further comment on the subject. “Did Curtis say if he was going anywhere except to the bakery?”

  “No.” Ginny shifted around in the chair and made some grunting noises. “Do you want him to see you when he gets back?”

  “Yes. Please,” I added and went back to my office.

  Kip had come into the newsroom from the back shop. “What happened to the bakery stuff?” he asked, sounding disappointed. “Is the Upper Crust closed today?”

  “The runner du jour hasn’t run back with the goodies,” I replied. “Curtis forgot, and he hasn’t shown up since he went to the bakery. What do you make of him, Kip?”

  “Too soon to tell,” Kip replied and grinned. “He makes me feel old, though.”

  I smiled. Kip had started working for the paper in his early teens as a delivery boy. After he graduated from high school, he’d taken over the job of driving the weekly edition to the printer’s in Monroe. Later, when I finally decided to enter the late twentieth century, he’d had enough computer savvy to manage the whole operation on-site. Now in his thirties and married with two small children, Kip had proved himself a reliable and knowledgeable employee. Some time ago I’d told him that if I ever sold the paper, he’d be at the top of my list as a potential buyer. It suddenly dawned on me that he might have seen the Cavanaugh offer as a threat to his own future as well as to mine.

  “I hope you didn’t spend the weekend worrying about the Advocate being sold,” I said. “As I told everybody last week, I’ve no intention of packing it in just yet. When I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Kip grew somber. “Thanks. But you know how it is these days,” he went on, stroking his neatly trimmed auburn goatee, a gesture that was a sign of anxiety. “These big whales swim around gobbling up all the little fish in the sea. They make offers that nobody can refuse.”

  “I never even asked what the offer would be,” I assured him.

  He nodded. “Maybe now it doesn’t matter. If this Dylan Platte was the main man, the rest of them may be scared off.”

  I was slightly taken aback. “You think Dylan was murdered to prevent the acquisition of the paper?”

  “Well…no,” he finally said. “But what happened to him might change their minds, especially since…” He sighed. “Alpine can’t have good memories for the Cavanaugh kids.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I agreed.

  “Sorry.” Kip looked embarrassed. “I mean, I didn’t want to bring up what must be rough on you, too.”

  “My hide’s thicker than it used to be,” I said grimly. I needed no external stimuli to remember how Tom had died at my feet.

  Kip looked as if he’d like to believe me. “It still seems like a bummer that those Cavanaughs wanted to buy the Advocate. Do you know if they own any other papers in Washington?”

  “Platte told me Alpine was going to be their foothold in this part of the world.”

  Kip shrugged. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He shrugged again. “I don’t know exactly. It just…strikes me as…wrong.” Kip gave me an uncertain smile. “Hard to understand people sometimes, isn’t it?”

  I laughed ruefully and shook my head. “You bet it is.”

  “I know I’m a small town boy,” Kip said, “so I guess I don’t understand people wanting to get richer and richer. How many fancy cars and big houses and expensive clothes and Swiss watches does anybody really need? You can only drive one car at a time and wear one shirt. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “I suppose,” I replied thoughtfully, “that it depends on how big the hole is inside the person. Everybody has one, and we tend to stuff it with whatever we think will fill it up—cars, houses, jewelry, food, booze, drugs, whatever. Of course it never works, because it’s a spiritual void.”

  Kip looked at me as if he thought I, too, might be a little peculiar. “Oh—yeah, right,” he said. Like Milo, Kip dealt only with what he could see and hear and touch.

  An hour later, Curtis finally showed up, clutching a pink bakery bag. “Better late than never,” he announced in the breezy manner that was beginning to irritate me. “I got it all—glazed doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, three kinds of Danish.”

  Vida was still gone, but Leo had returned and Ginny was making more coffee.

  “No elephant ears?” Ginny said in a disappointed voice. “I don’t know why, but I’ve had a craving for elephant ears this whole pregnancy.”

  Curtis cocked his head to one side. “Maybe your kid’s going to be the size of an elephant. Better watch it. Doc Louie might need a crane to deliver him.”

  “His name is Dewey,” Ginny snapped. “If you must know, I’m very careful about my diet. But sometimes I have these natural cravings, which must mean I’m lacking something in my regular foods.” Ginny did a fairly good imitation of flouncing from the newsroom without bothering to check out the baked goods.

  “Touchy, touchy,” Curtis murmured. “Remind me never to get married.”

  Leo chuckled. “Getting married isn’t the problem. Staying married is the hard part.”

  Curtis had left the bakery bag on the table without putting the items on the tray. I quickly did the task for him, handed Leo a blackberry Danish, and grabbed a glazed doughnut for myself. “Come into my office,” I said to my new reporter.

  “Sure.” He followed me into the cubbyhole. “What’s up?”

  “That’s my question,” I said, sitting down at my desk. “What took you so long? Were you working on the Platte story?”

  Curtis sprawled in one of my visitors’ chairs. “I decided I might as well check the police log while I was out. Nothing big. The usual weekend traffic stuff and a couple of minor accidents.”

  “What about the homicide?”

  “The sheriff was in a meeting,” Curtis replied. “Guess he has a staff get-together on Mondays.”

  “That’s news to me,” I said. “Milo hates meetings.” I leaned closer and fixed my eyes on Curtis. “What the hell were you doing for the past hour and a half?”

  He winced. “How can I put it?” He paused and stared off into space. “I was getting my bearings. Finding my groove. You know—trying to get a feel for this place. It’s pretty weird, this small town atmosphere. I need some time to make it real.”

  “It is real,” I retorted. “Get a grip, Curtis. You’ve got a murder story to cover, and we’ve got a deadline tomorrow afternoon. Forget acclimating and do the job.”

  Curtis looked offended. “That’s what I’m saying. I can’t do the job unless I feel as if I’m part of this town. It’s like…culture shock. A time warp. You know what I mean, like how in old movies everything looks grainy and not quite in focus. I have to adjust.”

  It was useless to argue the obvious with him. “Okay,” I said, trying not to sound as aggravated as I felt, “how’s the story shaping up?”

  Curtis held up his hands as if he were measuring something. “A stranger comes to town. Wise in the ways of the big city’s mean streets. But he’s out of his element. The forest, the mountains, the rivers—to him they seem menacing. But he has a goal, a plan, an offer to make that can’t be refused. And then Fate steps—”

  “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

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” I DEMANDED. “I MET GINGER ROTH 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.”