The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes, I did,” I replied. “Her line was busy. She usually spends the hour or two after her show talking to people who call to offer ideas or criticism, or want their five minutes of fame in an interview.”

  Before Milo could respond, his cell phone rang. He took it out of his shirt pocket. “Dodge,” he said.

  Bree had finally turned around. “Would you please take your cell outside? We don’t permit them inside the hospital.”

  Milo lifted his chin above the phone and glowered at her. “I don’t see any fancy equipment in here except you. Keep it down or the cell you’re talking about’ll be the one I put you in.” He spoke again to his caller. “Go ahead, Dustman. I’m about to arrest somebody for interfering with a law enforcement officer.”

  I discreetly looked in Bree’s direction. Her fair skin had turned pink, and her piercing blue eyes were narrowed. But she kept her mouth shut. Unfortunately, the toddler with the cough began to hack his way into a hysterical crying jag. His mother tried to soothe him, but he wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t, stop.

  “Shit!” Milo bellowed and headed for the exit. “I can’t hear a…”

  I followed him outside, although I moved far enough away so as not to appear to be eavesdropping. I was, of course. I couldn’t help it unless I went across the street. From Milo’s end of the conversation, I surmised that Dustin and Jack had finished up at the ski lodge.

  However, I was only half-right. After clicking off his phone, the sheriff waved at me. “I’m heading out. Jack’s still at the lodge, but Dustin got called in on a possible break-in by Cass Pond. My car’s around front by the Clemans Building.”

  “Hey,” I yelled, “can I tag along?”

  “What for?” Milo called back.

  “What do you think? It’s my job.”

  For once, Milo didn’t argue. “Okay. You can’t do anything around here except worry yourself into a knot. It’s better to keep busy.”

  I went off in the opposite direction to my Honda. I followed Milo’s Grand Cherokee after catching up with him at the arterial on Alpine Way. He turned left, and so did I, making a right onto Tonga Road, which led to the lodge. Twilight was settling in over the mountains, and lights were on in some of the rooms, as well as the lobby and the parking lot.

  The first thing I saw was Leo’s Toyota Celica hitched up to Cal Vickers’s tow truck. Cal, who owns the local Texaco station, was at the wheel, carefully hauling the car over the lot’s speed bumps. I waved to him as he passed by. Pulling into a vacant space not far from where Leo’s car had been parked, I spotted Jack Mullins talking to Heather Bardeen Bavich. Milo had parked in the loading zone and was coming toward his deputy and Heather.

  Seeing the crime scene tape already stretched over a large swath of the parking lot and into the trees beyond, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t asked Curtis to take a picture. In fact, I hadn’t thought about Curtis at all.

  Hurriedly, I called Kip. “The news is better about Leo,” I said. “His surgery is being performed by Doc Dewey and a world-class surgeon from New York. I don’t know when he’ll be out of the OR, but I’m at the ski lodge now with the sheriff. If I asked Curtis to take a picture, would we have any room for it?”

  “Oh, boy!” Kip sounded frazzled. “I mean, that’s great about Leo—if it all turns out okay. But a photo? I honestly don’t know where I’d put it. I assume you want at least two columns. Is it worth pulling anything we’ve already got?”

  “I assume you mean Fuzzy’s wood carving,” I said, gazing around the lot to consider possible angles. “I wouldn’t mind dumping that until next week, but a photo of Jack Mullins scratching his ass in front of a bunch of parked cars maybe isn’t worth the trouble. I’ll call Curtis now and get him up here. We can always run it next week.”

  Kip agreed that was the best way to handle the late-breaking news. I clicked off and went over to where Milo was crouching on the ground. There was no chalk outline where Leo had fallen, but marks had been made by the deputies to show the position of his body. A dark, still-wet patch of blood on the pavement provided a grim reminder of the shooting. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, I forced myself to look away.

  The sheriff stood up. “Walsh’s car was parked in this third spot from the end of the row,” he explained. “The shooter probably stood behind those trees.” Milo pointed to the second-growth Douglas fir and western cedar that surrounded the ski lodge complex. “The two end slots in this row were empty, according to the valet who heard the shots and found Leo.”

  “Who’s the kid and where is he now?” I asked, nodding at Jack and Heather as they walked toward us.

  “Andy,” Milo replied. “Andy Andersen, a college kid. His dad, Kent, works in the Sears catalog office. He’s inside, recovering from what happened.”

  I looked at Heather. “Is your dad here?”

  “Yes,” she answered, looking rather pale. “He got here a few minutes ago. He’s trying to reassure our guests that this kind of thing has never happened here before. Naturally, some of them are thinking about checking out.”

  “Can’t blame them,” Jack Mullins said in his usual flippant style. “First the Tall Timber Motel, now the ski lodge. Makes Alpine look like Destination Death.”

  Heather shot Jack a dirty look. “That’s not funny.”

  “Hell, no,” Jack retorted. “Even less funny to the dead guy at the motel and poor Walsh fighting for his life. Loosen up, Heather. Life’s just a bunch of crap. Worse, if you’re married to my wife.”

  Heather appeared shocked but didn’t respond. Milo and I were used to Jack’s caustic remarks about Nina Mullins, who had always struck me as a kind and pleasant woman. Either she was a saint or she had a sense of humor that put her husband’s comments in perspective.

  I turned my attention to Milo. “Has that area in the trees been searched?”

  “Dustin didn’t find anything, but we’ll give it another look.” He ambled over in that direction. I followed him. “See?” he said, pointing to the ground just beyond the parking lot. “No underbrush to trample. I guess they clear it out regularly to protect any wandering guests from nettles or devil’s club or anything else that might be a nuisance. Not enough rain lately, and all these big trees protect the dirt. Oh, there are some partial footprints, but too damned many to give us anything. I called in the state patrol just to make sure, though. They should be here pretty soon.”

  “No witnesses?”

  Milo shook his head. “Just the Andersen kid, who heard the shots. Two, just like the guy at the motel. Leo had his back turned, so he probably didn’t see anything.”

  I winced. “Poor Leo!” With great effort, I tried to push him into the back of my mind. “Who’s been questioned at the lodge?”

  The sheriff regarded me with an ironic expression. “You mean how many of your Cavanaugh crew have an alibi?”

  “Yes.” I looked Milo straight in the eye. “Who else?”

  He shrugged. “Ed Bronsky? He’s got a motive for shooting Leo.”

  “Get real. Ed was always just one small step ahead of even a dead man when it came to hard work.”

  Milo didn’t comment. He looked thoughtful as he watched Jack walk toward the lodge with Heather. “So,” the sheriff finally said, “you think Leo knows something you don’t?”

  “I honestly have no idea,” I replied. “You know Leo—he’s pretty open when it comes to his past life. Over the years, he’s talked about working on Tom’s papers in California. But he really never knew Tom’s kids except for seeing them once in a while. The last time was when they were in their early teens. I suspect that Tom was a bit guarded when it came to his family problems, especially Sandra’s mental health.”

  “Probably,” Milo said. “If Leo pulls through, maybe he can tell us why he was shot. That is, if this is tied in to the motel murder.”

  “It must be,” I asserted. “We can’t have two homicidal maniacs on the loose.”

  “Doesn’t seem likely,�
� Milo murmured and heaved a sigh. “I’d better go talk to that bunch myself.” The sheriff must have seen the spark in my eyes. “No, Emma, you can’t come with me. Don’t even think about it. This is official business stuff.”

  I knew he was right. I’d have to rely on Milo’s interrogative abilities, which, I had to admit, weren’t all that bad. He might conduct an investigation by the book, but he had a certain amount of instinct about people after his years in law enforcement. “Okay,” I conceded. “I have to call Curtis anyway.”

  The sheriff loped off to the lodge. I felt somewhat uneasy about standing alone in the parking lot where Leo had been shot, so I got into my car and phoned Curtis. He didn’t pick up. I got his usual glib recording that he might be working or partying or “Who can tell with the Mayne Man?”

  Idiot, I thought but left a terse message to call me. Not that it mattered whether Curtis took the photographs tonight or tomorrow as long as we couldn’t use them in this week’s edition, but he had to learn that a journalist’s life isn’t strictly nine to five.

  Next, I took my chances with Bree Kendall and dialed the hospital’s emergency number.

  “No word yet,” she snapped when I asked if Leo was out of surgery. I thanked her and hung up. It was, I mused, unfortunate that Bree was not only too old for Curtis but dating a CPA from out of town. Otherwise, I felt they’d make a perfect match, being different kinds of jackasses.

  In the rearview mirror I saw a middle-aged couple coming out of the lodge and heading for a nearby car with Oregon plates. Apparently the lodge’s guests weren’t being ordered to stay put. It wasn’t fair to inconvenience the innocent. I hoped the Cavanaughs wouldn’t be allowed that kind of freedom. In my mind, at least one and maybe all of them were suspects.

  My cell phone rang. Maybe it was Curtis, finally getting around to checking his messages. Instead, it was Vida, and she was in a dither. “Good heavens!” she shrieked into my ear. “Leo! I can hardly believe it!”

  “You know?”

  “Of course.” She paused for breath. “My nephew Billy was called back on duty an hour or so after he left the radio station. Milo is suddenly shorthanded. Where are you? What do you know? Who shot Leo? Is he out of surgery?”

  I informed Vida that I was in the ski lodge parking lot and knew just as much as she did. “The good part,” I pointed out, “is that an excellent surgeon from New York happened to be staying at the lodge and is assisting Doc Dewey.”

  “David Weinberg?” Vida said. “Yes, I had my niece Marje look him up in her AMA directory. She assured me he’s outstanding, judging from his medical credentials. Oh, I hope so!”

  As usual, Vida knew more than I did, having relatives well-placed in the sheriff’s and the clinic’s offices. “Milo’s questioning the Cavanaughs,” I said. “I think I’ll go inside and nose around, though I don’t know what I expect to learn before he’s finished.”

  “There’s always something to learn,” Vida declared. “In fact, I’ll join you. Meet me in the lobby by the statue of Leif Eriksson.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “By the way, bring your camera. I can’t get hold of Curtis.”

  “Oh, for!—” Vida stopped herself. “Fine, I’m on my way.”

  A family of four pulled into the lot as I got out of my car. They spotted the crime scene tape and stopped their SUV. A moment later, they reversed and left. I supposed I couldn’t blame them. If they were tourists looking for overnight lodging, I felt like telling them they might want to skip the Tall Timber Motel as well and keep going until they got to Leavenworth.

  It was almost dark as I walked into the lobby. Heather and Carlos were both behind the desk, apparently catching up on paperwork. A young couple pushed their sleeping infant’s stroller out of the recently added coffee shop and headed for the elevator. One of the custodians—I recalled that he was known as Swede—was sweeping up some debris by the pay phones. Two older men were seated in comfortable armchairs, chatting in a subdued manner. Everything might have seemed normal to the casual observer. But a few clusters of people were standing around looking anxious and wary, as if they sought company to ward off the threat of more havoc.

  There was no sign of Milo, Jack, or any of the Cavanaughs. I approached Heather, smiling at both her and Carlos. “Where’s the inquisition?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

  Heather pointed to the hallway that led to the meeting rooms. “They’re in the Tonga Room. Sheriff Dodge also has some people waiting with Jack next door in Valhalla.”

  I glanced at Carlos, who had stopped what he was doing to listen to us. “Did either of you see Leo come into the lodge?”

  Heather shook her head, but Carlos nodded. “He got here around six-thirty and wanted to know if any of the Platte or Cavanaugh party were around. I told him that I thought Mrs. Cavanaugh was still in the Viking Lounge, where she’d met Mrs. Runkel. Mr. Walsh thanked me and went off to the bar. I already told Deputy Fong that. He took notes.”

  According to Milo, Dustin’s notes were not only always precise, but they were very legible. “So he joined Mrs. Cavanaugh there?”

  Carlos nodded again. “Brianna said he sat down with her. Then, after she’d served them, Mr. Cavanaugh went into the bar, but he came back out a few minutes later.”

  Mr. Cavanaugh. The name conjured up Tom, not Graham. “I see,” I said absently, wishing that this situation didn’t bring back so many painful memories. “Did Graham Cavanaugh leave the lodge or go back to his room?”

  Carlos frowned. “I don’t know. I had to answer the phone and didn’t notice.”

  I knew, of course, that he’d left—if not then, a few minutes later—because he’d showed up at my house shortly after Vida’s program was over. “How long did Leo stay in the bar with Mrs. Cavanaugh?”

  Carlos looked at Heather. “What did Brianna say? Half an hour, forty-five minutes?”

  Heather frowned. “I think so.”

  “Where’s Brianna now?” I asked.

  “In the bar,” Heather replied.

  “Maybe I should talk to her,” I said. “Are you very busy in there?”

  “Well…yes.” Heather grimaced. “Word about the shooting got out, and everybody seemed to want to be with other people. Safety in numbers, my dad told me. Of course, a few of the guests refuse to leave their rooms. It’s…scary.”

  A sudden thought came to me. “Has Spencer Fleetwood been here?”

  “No,” Heather said. “Mrs. Runkel mentioned that he was leaving town right after her program. He had to go somewhere on business because he’s expanding the station’s power or whatever you call it.”

  “Ah, yes. He told me about that.” Ever since Rey Fernandez had quit KSKY for greener—and richer—pastures, Spence had been forced to hire students from the community college. No doubt he was having his own problems with the younger generation. I sympathized. It appeared that whoever had been left in charge hadn’t been paying attention to the police scanner. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll talk to Brianna. If Mrs. Runkel comes in, tell her where I am.”

  Heather looked startled. “Mrs. Runkel is coming back to the bar?”

  I smiled. “Once she gets started, there’s no stopping her.”

  Heather looked shocked; Carlos seemed bemused. I left them and went into the Viking Lounge, where I found the blond and buxom Brianna working at the register. The bar was filled almost to capacity. One of the dining room waitresses had been brought in to help serve the anxious customers. There was, however, no sign of the Cavanaugh Gang.

  “Excuse me,” I said apologetically to Brianna. “I know you’ve already talked to one of the deputies, but I need to find out exactly what happened, since Mr. Walsh is one of my employees.”

  Brianna’s blue eyes widened. “I know.” Her voice was very soft, almost like a child’s. “Isn’t it awful? He’s such a nice man, too. What’s going on around here? I’m totally terrified. I don’t want to go outside alone after I finish my shift, so my boyfriend is coming to get me.”<
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  “The sheriff will probably leave someone to protect everybody at the lodge,” I assured her, even though I had no idea if Milo would in fact put his sparse manpower on an all-night watch. “Can you tell me exactly what happened after Mr. Walsh arrived in the bar?”

  She sighed. “It seemed so…normal. He came in and started for the bar, and then I guess he saw Mrs. Cavanaugh and went over to her table. She was just leaving. Mrs. Runkel had left a few minutes before that. Anyway, he sat down, and I went to get his order. Mrs. Cavanaugh said at first that she didn’t want another drink, but she changed her mind before I walked away.” Brianna paused. “Do you need to know the time?”

  I inferred that Brianna had already been asked that question by Dustin Fong. “Yes,” I said, “if you can remember.”

  She uttered a short laugh. “Of course I can. I always watch the clock. I’m taking a full load of classes at the college, and I get tired in the evenings, especially since I know I have to go home and study for another couple of hours. Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Cavanaugh talked for about twenty minutes, and then Mr. Cavanaugh came in, but he didn’t stay long. In fact, he didn’t sit down, so I figured he wasn’t going to order a drink.”

  I nodded. “Yes, I know. He came to see me. What happened next?”

  “A little after seven I asked Mr. Walsh and Mrs. Cavanaugh if they wanted another drink. He said yes, she said she’d wait—the rest of her party was going to meet in the lobby later on and go to Le Gourmand to have dinner. After another few minutes, she got up and left. That was around seven-twenty. Mr. Walsh went to the restroom—you know there’s one off the King Olav Restaurant—and when he came back, Jake and Buzzy O’Toole had come into the bar. It was Buzzy’s birthday, and his brother was buying him a drink. Leo invited them to join him at his table, and he bought Buzzy a drink later, about a quarter to eight. Mr. Walsh was sort of nursing his along, and after he finished, he left. That was a couple of minutes before eight. The O’Tooles didn’t leave until after they heard about the shooting. They were both really upset.”