The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  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.”

  Doe nodded. “It’s the strangest case I’ve been on. It makes me wonder if this Kelsey woman is really Kelsey.”

  “True enough,” I agreed. “But now you’ll have to get one of those Cavanaughs in here.”

  Jack made a disgusted noise. “Oh, sure. But how will we know if they’re lying their heads off?”

  “You can sort through all that,” I said. “What bothers me is why these people seem to be impersonating each other. Or whatever they’re doing.” I recounted Josh and Ginger Roth’s apparent subterfuge. “I’m assuming there’s a connection between that pair—if they ever were a pair—and this other bunch. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  An older man I vaguely recognized entered the sheriff’s headquarters and held up his hands. “I surrender. I’ve just killed a mama black bear.”

  Doe looked crushed. Jack swore quietly. “Oh, man. How the hell did you do that, Gus?” he asked the newcomer.

  “With my .30-.30 Winchester,” the man called Gus replied. “I only meant to scare her off, but she came at me. No bluff, like they do sometimes. I saw the two cubs afterwards. Do whatever you need to do. I feel like crap.”

  Jack sighed. “Come on around here, sit down, fill out some forms. Jeez, Gus, that’s rough.”

  “What about those cubs?” Gus said. “That’s what really gets me. They probably haven’t learned what to eat or how to find a den.”

  Jack had led the shooter to the far end of the counter. Doe’s dark eyes followed the two men. She seemed on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe,” she said to me, “that the state licenses five hundred permits every year to hunters for certain parts of the state where they can kill those bears in the spring. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “I suppose the numbers have to be thinned in certain areas or the animals will starve,” I said, feeling a bit sorry for the dead bear, the cubs—and Gus. The irony didn’t escape me, however. No one in town had seemed unduly disturbed by Dylan Platte’s death. If he were Dylan Platte. But whoever the murdered man was, he hadn’t lived in Alpine. Strangers didn’t seem to count. Local bears did.

  I turned as another newcomer arrived. To my surprise, it was Curtis Mayne. He looked equally surprised to see me.

  “Whoa!” Curtis exclaimed and grinned. “Did I just flunk the trust test with my employer?”

  I smiled wanly. “This is more of a social call,” I lied. “I was coming back from lunch.” Why, I asked myself, do I feel a need to make excuses to Curtis? “In fact,” I went on, though with reluctance, “I was about to go back to the office. Jack and Doe have some news for you.”

  “All right!” Curtis’s grin grew even wider. “Start dishing,” he said to Doe, who looked wary.

  I left. It wasn’t easy, but I had to force myself to keep some distance and allow Curtis to justify my hiring of him. By the time I got back to the newsroom, Vida was hanging up the phone.

  “Ella is doing as well as can be expected,” she announced. “I’ll drop in to see her at the hospital after work.” Vida peered at me through her big glasses. “What’s wrong? You look like a pickle.”

  “I’m trying to figure out if we’re in a pickle,” I replied, leaning on her desk as I regaled her with what was going on at the sheriff’s headquarters.

  “Well now,” she said, taking in the tale of two Dylans far more calmly than I’d expected, “that’s most intriguing. And you just walked away. My, my!”

  “What else could I do? It’s Curtis’s story, and he actually showed up. Besides,” I added, “I didn’t know how long Milo was going to interview this second Dylan. We’ve got a front page to fill before tomorrow’s deadline.”

  “And I still have to do ‘Scene Around Town,’” Vida said, frowning. “I’ve been very lax about my snippets of town gossip this week. Surely you have something for me?”

  Off the top of my head, all I could think of was the local gathering in Old Mill Park that I’d seen while eating lunch. Unfortunately, although I’d recognized several of the people by sight, I wasn’t sure of their full names. “Oh,” I said suddenly, “Gus Somebody-or-Other just shot a bear.”

  “Really?” Vida tapped her pencil on the desk. “That’s probably a brief article. “Gus who? Gus Lindquist from the A-frame off Disappointment Avenue?”

  I grimaced. “I think so. I’ll check with Jack Mullins.”

  Back in my cubbyhole, I called the deputy before I forgot about the incident. My brain seemed to be operating on overload. All those questions of who really was who weighed me down.

  Lori was back on duty and transferred me immediately to Jack. “No charges filed against Gus Lindquist,” he said. “Self-defense. Gus insisted on seeing what he can do about those cubs. If he can find them, I figure they’ll be his new family pets.”

  “That’s a story in itself,” I remarked. “Thanks, Jack.”

  “That it?”

  “Ah…yes.” I grimaced as I exerted supreme self-control.

  “You sure?”

  I caught the taunting note in Jack’s voice and sighed. “I have to let Curtis try his hand at a big story. I’m not thrilled about his performance so far, but backing off is the only way I can show any faith in his ability.”

  “You’re the boss,” Jack said.

  “Is Curtis still at headquarters?” I inquired.

  “He’s talking to Dodge even as we speak,” Jack replied.

  I shut my eyes tight, battling with the urge to ask if Dylan Platte II was still there, too. “Okay. I’ll talk to Curtis when he comes back.”

  I hung up just as Vida left the newsroom. Leo came in a couple of minutes later, looking worried and heading straight into my cubbyhole. “I just ran into Dick Bourgette,” he said, standing in front of my desk. “He’s a stand-up guy, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I replied, regarding my ad manager with curiosity. “The whole family is first-rate. Why do you ask? Is it something to do with our roof project?”

  “No.” Leo hesitated, his weathered
face still etched with concern. “We got to talking in front of the post office, and he mentioned that he was going to the Tall Timber Motel to see Minnie and Mel Harris about doing some repairs on the room where Platte was shot. Dick and one of his sons did quite a bit of work on the motel in the off-season.”

  I nodded. “I remember. The usual wear and tear after the tourists leave.”

  “Right. Anyway, he let something slip about ‘you go to see a fellow in his prime, and then he’s dead.’ I asked what he meant, and Dick got flustered and tried to make a joke of it. It bothered me. That’s not like him.”

  I was puzzled, too. “The only thing I can think of is Dick told me something about dropping by the motel to drop off a business card in case the Plattes wanted to renovate the Bronsky house.”

  “So why get flustered?” Leo shook his head. “Don’t think I’m suspicious of Bourgette. I’m not, as far as Platte’s murder is concerned, but his attitude was damned odd. Did he see something or somebody he doesn’t want to mention?”

  “Maybe he saw Platte,” I said. “But Platte may not be Platte.”

  “What?”

  I explained what I’d learned at the sheriff’s office. Leo looked bemused. “I suppose everybody’s blaming all the evils of the world on us poor Californians.”

  I smiled grimly. “It’s part of the locals’ birthright around here.”

  Beyond Leo, I saw Curtis enter the newsroom. He had an iPod in his ear and was doing a little dance step as he approached his desk.

  “Here’s the once and future reporter now,” I murmured. “I’d better talk to him.”

  “I’ll eavesdrop,” Leo said, leading the way out of my cubbyhole.

  Curtis saw me and yanked the iPod plug from his ear. “Truth or dare?” he said, looking pleased with himself.

  “Truth is good,” I said. “It’s what journalists always seek.”

  “Aha!” Curtis grinned. “But one person’s truth may not be another person’s, right?”

  “Curtis…” I leaned a hand on the edge of his desk. “Just say it.”

  “Two dudes named Dylan Platte—or so it seems.” Curtis paused, obviously enjoying his little game. “One dead, one alive. The wizards in Sacramento stared into Dumbledore’s Mirror of Erised and saw the real Dylan behind Door Number Two. Driver’s license picture matches the guy who was flying his broomstick over the speed limit.”

  “You read Harry Potter,” I remarked, slightly surprised that anyone under fifty read anything resembling a real book.

  Curtis shrugged. “I’ve seen the movies,” he said, bursting my bubble. “Anyway, the guy on the slab is now a John Doe.”

  “What about Mrs. Platte?” I asked.

  “She’s thrilled to pieces,” Curtis replied, “and can’t wait for the resurrected Mr. Platte to join her in making big whoop-de-do in her fancy suite.”

  “Kelsey hasn’t come down from the lodge?” I asked in surprise.

  Curtis shook his head. “I imagine she’s tossing rose petals all over the marital bed, awaiting his arrival.”

  “What about Graham?” I inquired.

  “Graham?” Curtis looked blank. “Oh—the brother? No clue. I’ll interview all of them, of course,” he added hastily. “They need time to absorb the shock.”

  Leo was sitting at his desk, shaking his head. “Why,” he muttered, “do I think I’m too old for all this?”

  “Don’t feel bad,” I said. “I can’t figure out this bunch, either. You’d think Kelsey would rush right into Dylan’s arms.” I had a sudden thought. “The picture…let me take another look.” I scurried over to the back-shop door and called to Kip, asking him to give me the photo of Kelsey and Dylan at Lake Tahoe.

  “Did you see this allegedly real Dylan?” I asked Curtis, showing him the picture.

  “Just a glimpse,” Curtis said. “Not up close. He was going from the interrogation room to the men’s can down the hall.”

  “So you didn’t talk to him?”

  “Not yet. I will,” my reporter responded, on the defensive.

  “ASAP,” I insisted. “Kelsey and Graham, too, and Mrs. Graham—that is, Sophia Cavanaugh. Now.”

  “Hey,” Curtis said, looking offended, “I have to give them all some time. I’m not a ghoul.”

  “This isn’t being a ghoul,” I pointed out. “They should be elated, and therefore talkative. Get your butt up to the ski lodge, okay?”

  Curtis sighed. “Sure, sure, I’m on my way.” He stalked out of the newsroom.

  Leo was lighting a cigarette. “You shouldn’t have to kick his ass to get him to cover this kind of story.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I glanced at Vida’s empty desk. “Now where did she go?”

  “I saw her on my way in,” Leo answered after expelling a couple of smoke rings. “She had an interview with somebody at the retirement home, and then she was meeting a woman from Everett named…Hines? Yeah, Hines about Pines Villa, that’s it.”

  “I forgot,” I admitted. “Vida’s trying to find out about Josh and Ginger Roth, who claimed to be living at Pines Villa, which this Mrs. Hines now owns.”

  Leo held up his hands. “Don’t tell me anything more.”

  My phone rang. I hurried back into my office and picked up the receiver.

  “Caught your killer yet?” my brother asked.

  I sank into my chair. “No. Where are you?”

  “In my temporary office at my temporary Cleveland parish where I’m serving temporarily,” he replied. “It’s after five here, and I’m about to wrap it up for the day. What’s happening in one of my former temporary parishes?”

  Ben was referring to his six-month posting at St. Mildred’s in Alpine a couple of years back, when he’d filled in for Dennis Kelly, who had gone on sabbatical. “It’s so confusing that I’m not sure I can explain it to you,” I said.

  “Then don’t,” Ben said. “Send me an e-mail when you get it sorted out. No arrests, I gather?”

  “No.”

  “Did you talk to Adam?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t?” Ben sounded surprised. “How come?”

  “It was less awkward to e-mail him,” I replied.

  “And?”

  I hesitated. “He didn’t sound exactly concerned about his mother’s predicament.”

  “Ouch! I hear the wounding of maternal pride.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Hey, give the kid a break,” Ben said. “You’ve never walked in his mukluks. Can you imagine what it’s like to live in such a remote part of the world and just try to keep your head straight? Hell, I remember when you first moved to Alpine. You made it sound as if you were living on Saturn. Bitch, bitch, bitch, that’s what you did for the first year or two. A small town eighty-odd miles from a big city isn’t Siberia. And by the way, Adam’s got a flock to tend, and not just minister to their spiritual needs.”

  My brother was raising my hackles. He’d had plenty of practice over the past half century. “Does that mean he has to forget he’s got a mother?”

  “Of course not.” Ben sounded exasperated. “It means he has priorities. You’re not at death’s door, you’ve got a roof over your head, you’re fully employed, and whatever’s going on with Tom’s kids may be a pain in the ass, but in the long run it’s not going to ruin your life. Maybe you’re feeling guilty because you never had a chance to be a stepmother to these poor misguided wretches. If so, that’s stupid. It’s not your fault that you and Tom didn’t get married.”

  “I don’t feel anything toward this Cavanaugh bunch,” I declared.

  Ben chuckled. “Maybe that’s the problem. They’re orphans. They’re pitiful. That upsets you because, whatever else they may be, they’re an extension of Tom.”

  I looked up to see Leo going out of the office. He’d probably overheard part of the conversation and felt a need to make himself scarce. At least Leo knew the Cavanaugh family. Maybe Ben had sunk his teeth into a kernel of truth.
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br />   I sighed. “Look,” I said, “I really don’t want to argue with you. I’ve got a paper to put out. Will you be around this evening?”

  “After the parish council meeting,” Ben replied. “I should be done about six, six-thirty your time.”

  “I’ll call you at the rectory, okay?”

  “Probably,” Ben replied, “unless I’m temporarily out.”

  “Right.” I hung up.

  I sat staring at the computer monitor, trying to put some passion into my editorial on resurfacing Railroad Avenue. The street paralleled the train tracks and ran in back of the Advocate office. We used it only for loading the newspapers and for large deliveries. Except for the one remaining mill west of the Sky River bridge, most of the industry—a relative term—covered the nine blocks from Alpine Way to the Icicle Creek Road. These businesses included a couple of small warehouses, all the public utilities, a used car lot, a trucking facility, a public storage building, and the department of motor vehicles. Heavy loads and hard weather chewed up the road almost on an annual basis. The potholes and ruts were three years old, due to lack of funds. A cardinal rule for editorial writing was to make people care by enflaming enough passion to goad them into action. The problem was that I didn’t care. Living at the edge of the forest forced me to accept the occasional bump or dip or crack or washout. I seldom drove on Railroad Avenue. If Fuzzy Baugh had any spare cash in his wall safe—which he kept behind a much-retouched portrait of himself in city hall—it could be put to better use.

  Off the top of my head, I couldn’t think of a worthy project. I still felt overwhelmed by the events of the past few days. Then inspiration struck: Why not let our readers tell us where they wanted their tax dollars spent?

  I was off the hook, tapping out two hundred and fifty words to fill the editorial space and fudging a bit by listing general topics, such as education, parks, tourism, and sidewalks.

  Relieved of my weekly burden, I got out a magnifying glass and studied the photo of Kelsey and Dylan Platte. Not that it did me much good. The smiling young woman didn’t bear much resemblance to the hapless wraith I’d visited at the ski lodge. I’d never met either of the men who’d claimed to be Dylan Platte, so there was no basis for comparison.