The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Surely,” I said, and not without sympathy, “other family members will rally around her now that she’s home.”

  “They’ll have to,” Vida said grimly. “I simply cannot devote my life to caring for Ella.” She glanced around the newsroom. “Where’s Ed? Don’t tell me he’s out soliciting advertisers.”

  “I won’t tell you that because he isn’t,” I replied irritably. “He’s lunching with Snorty Wenzel. I hope it’s some kind of business, because he’s been gone for over an hour and a half. Maybe the house sale is actually going through.”

  Vida sniffed with disdain. “More fools than sense. Moving to Alpine is understandable. Buying Ed’s house is not.”

  “Let’s face it,” I pointed out. “That house would cost six or seven times as much in California. It can be altered into something tasteful.”

  Vida looked dubious. I informed her I was going to get fish and chips from the Burger Barn, having struck out with Kelsey—and, in a different way, with Leo.

  “Kelsey is mental,” Vida declared. “A pity. As for Leo, he was sleeping when I was there, too. Maybe that’s all for the best. If he can’t smoke in the hospital, he may quit. That would be something good to come out of this nightmare.”

  “Speaking of which…” I murmured as Ed bustled into the newsroom.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” he exclaimed, waving his hand-tooled leather briefcase. “It’s a done deal. We sold the house. Woo-woo!”

  “Great,” I said as Vida glowered at Ed. “Did you get your price?”

  Ed had waddled over to Leo’s desk. “Almost,” he replied, lowering both his voice and his head. “Nothing but the formalities and legal mumbo jumbo now.” He opened the briefcase. “The offer and all that is right—” He stopped, removing a take-out menu from Itsa Bitsa Pizza. “That’s not it.” He stuffed the menu back into the briefcase and took out several other sheets of paper, one at a time. “Got to call Marisa Foxx. She’ll know what to do with these hotshot San Francisco attorneys.” He picked up the receiver and paused, stubby finger on one of the buttons. “You got her number handy?” he asked me.

  “Not off the top of my head,” I replied. “Try the phone book.”

  “Oh. Yeah, right.”

  I left for the Burger Barn. I didn’t want to listen to Ed torturing Marisa. When I returned fifteen minutes later, he was on the phone, but he wasn’t talking to a lawyer. It was obvious that Shirley was on the other end of the line.

  “Furniture and all,” Ed was saying. “Gosh, Shirl, where would we put all that stuff in our new place? It’s expensive to store it.”

  I went to Vida’s desk. “Did he get hold of Marisa?” I whispered.

  Vida shook her head. “She was busy.”

  Ginny appeared in the newsroom doorway. “Ms. Foxx is on your other line, Ed.”

  “Hey,” he said into the phone, giving Ginny a thumbs-up gesture, “gotta dash. Later, Shirl, okay?”

  Cradling my bag of fish and chips, I went to the coffee table to get a couple of napkins. Ed delivered his big news to Marisa. I tried to tune him out as I headed back into my cubbyhole. “Names?” he responded. “Uh…Bowels and somebody-other-else.”

  I stopped in my tracks.

  “Oh,” Ed said, “you’re right. It’s Bowles. Sorry about that. When can we get together?”

  I waited by the door of my office, reaching into the Burger Barn bag and taking out a couple of French fries.

  “Not until then?” Ed said, disappointed. “It shouldn’t take long.” He paused; I waited some more. “Okay, Tuesday, ten o’clock. Sounds swell. Bye.”

  Going back to Leo’s desk, I kept my late lunch close to my chest, fearing that Ed might try to steal it. “Bowles, Mercier and…Fitzsimmons?” I said, unsure of the newer senior partner’s name.

  Ed nodded. “How’d you guess?”

  “It isn’t a guess,” I replied as Vida turned in our direction. “That’s the firm that handled Tom’s business and personal affairs.”

  Ed shrugged. “Makes sense. Keeps it all in the family.”

  “True.”

  And at last, something else was beginning to make sense, a sense that caused me to lose my appetite all over again.

  SEVENTEEN

  CURTIS CAME BACK A LITTLE AFTER THREE, LOOKING DISAPPOINTED. “No luck,” he said, and I realized his woeful expression was genuine. “The cubs didn’t show, neither did the Bear Whisper guy. Dodge was pretty pissed off.”

  Vida glared at Curtis. “Please! Could you not use such crude language?”

  “Huh?” he stared at her. “Oh. Sorry.” He frowned. “What’s wrong with ‘pissed off’ anyway?”

  Vida made a face. “If you don’t know, you’re beyond help.”

  Seemingly perplexed, Curtis shook his head. “Okay, whatever.”

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to keep the peace, “we’ll get another chance at the cubs. We can’t print anything for a week.”

  Curtis nodded and held up his copy of the Advocate, pointing to his picture of the cubs. “Not bad, though, huh?”

  “Very nice,” I said and headed back to my desk to avoid listening to Vida, who was now on the phone and apparently haranguing one of Ella’s other relatives.

  I’d barely sat down when Ginny buzzed me on the intercom, a method of communicating with me that she’d rarely used until she got pregnant again. “What,” she asked, “do you want me to do with all these ideas for improvements?”

  It took me a few seconds to realize what she was talking about. So much had happened since I’d written my editorial asking readers to make suggestions for improving the county and the town that I’d put my half-assed effort in the back of my mind. “Oh. Yes,” I said. “Don’t connect them to me if they call. Just take down the name and the idea, okay?”

  “Okay.” Ginny sounded unenthusiastic. “We’ve already had four calls. Donna Wickstrom suggested an August outdoor art show on Front Street, Evan Singer thinks we should have a film festival in January at the Whistling Marmot Movie Theatre, Reverend Poole wants to know if there’s countywide support for him to hold a Baptist Bible camp for children in Old Mill Park during the summer, and Nell Blatt wants Vida to leave town.”

  I figured Vida had already talked to Nell about Ella. “Just write it all down for me, okay?” I said.

  “Okay.” I could hear Ginny sigh over the intercom before she clicked off.

  For the past hour I’d been arguing with myself about calling the Cavanaugh family’s law firm in San Francisco. I knew that lawyers are notoriously reticent about discussing their clients—and justifiably so. But my curiosity was driving me crazy. What was worse, I represented the press. And, of course, I had a vested—possibly even adversarial—interest in the Cavanaughs. I didn’t really believe I could learn anything helpful from Mr. Bowles, Mr. Mercier, or the relative newcomer, Mr. or perhaps Ms. Fitzsimmons.

  I had two other options: Milo and Marisa. The sheriff would scoff at me; Marisa might balk at the idea. Scoff or balk. I tapped my foot and tried to make up my mind.

  Marisa won—or lost, depending upon her perspective. I got up and closed my door. This was one of those rare occasions when I didn’t want to be overheard. Luckily, Marisa was available.

  “You heard from Ed,” I began. “I’m sorry about that, but I couldn’t stop him.”

  “It’s fine,” Marisa responded. “He’s not my only client who’s a…challenge.”

  “I suppose not,” I remarked and then voiced my concerns.

  After listening without comment to my rather rambling recital, Marisa spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “So you think that Mr. Vitani’s murder may somehow be linked to Mr. Cavanaugh’s estate. That’s an intriguing idea.”

  “You don’t think I’m nuts?”

  “I have to examine the facts,” Marisa said after a pause. “Mr. Cavanaugh is killed—please excuse me for stating it so baldly—shortly before his marriage to you. It’s possible that he’d made arrangements with Mr. Vitani to alter his will
so that, in the event of his death, you wouldn’t be excluded from the estate. Did he ever talk to you about that?”

  “No,” I said. “We hadn’t yet gotten to the point of discussing money or business. We were waiting for Adam to be ordained so he and my brother, Ben, could concelebrate our marriage. Tom was always generous to me, within limits. He appreciated the fact that I didn’t want to be seen as a kept woman. I even insisted that I pay him for the Lexus he bought after my old Jaguar was ruined. The amount was minimal, and after he died, I sold the car. It was too painful to keep it.”

  “I understand.” There was sympathy in Marisa’s voice. “Then there never was any provision for you as far as you knew.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed. “Although Tom did give me that letter with all of his contacts, including the law firm.”

  “But you never followed up?”

  “No,” I said bleakly. “I never thought about it. I was too shattered to even remember I had the letter.”

  “Of course,” Marisa said. “But let’s say that, if Tom had changed his will, then there was a motive for the Vitani murder. Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of thing the police—or even Mr. Vitani’s coworkers—might know. This is where legal practitioners play things so close to the chest that it can be detrimental. I’ll be frank—I’m not sure how I could go about talking to anyone in the firm.”

  “Or,” I suggested, “you mean that the only people who knew what Tom intended are both dead?”

  “Yes,” Marisa agreed—and then contradicted herself. “No, actually. Assuming your theory’s right, someone else knew, probably the killer or an associate.”

  It was encouraging to have Marisa basically endorse my theory, but I felt helpless. “Then it wouldn’t do any good to press the sheriff about making inquiries at the law firm?”

  “That’s right,” Marisa admitted. “It’d be tricky in any event. The Vitani case is outside his jurisdiction, he hasn’t charged anyone with the Volos homicide or the attempt on Leo’s life, and he can’t tie the two murders together except on the flimsiest of pretexts. As I understand it, Dodge isn’t keen on conjecture.”

  “That’s the truth,” I said ruefully. “And I completely botched it in my attempt to cut Kelsey loose from the herd. Our lunch was a debacle.”

  “That poor child,” Marisa murmured. “It sounds as if she’s being severely manipulated, virtually brainwashed.”

  “Exactly,” I said, ignoring the red light on my second line. “In some deluded moment, I thought I could help her, and thus help solve this whole mess. Delusions of grandeur on my part is more like it.”

  “That’s part of your job,” Marisa said. “Crusading for truth and justice.”

  “I call it filling up the front page. Thanks, Marisa, I appreciate—” I stopped as someone pounded on my closed door. “Got to run. I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up. “What is it?” I asked impatiently.

  “Visitor,” Ginny’s muffled voice responded.

  “Okay, open the door,” I said wearily.

  Ginny was cowering behind an angry Dylan Platte. “Sorry,” she mumbled and slunk back out through the newsroom.

  Dylan leaned on my desk, looming over me. “What the hell kind of stunt was that you pulled with my wife? Hasn’t she got enough problems without you abandoning her at that third-rate diner? How did you think she’d get back to the lodge, you thoughtless bitch?”

  My initial reaction was to hurl insults right back at him. But that wouldn’t do any good. Besides, I felt a twinge of guilt. “Stop shouting and sit down,” I said coldly. “Please.”

  Dylan, who had narrowed his eyes and looked fairly dangerous, froze for an instant—then yanked out one of my chairs and sat. “Well?” he demanded, still glaring at me.

  “What,” I asked with a calm I certainly didn’t feel, “are these other problems your wife has?”

  Dylan flung a hand in the air. “Both parents dead, an unstable mother, a misguided train wreck of a father, a kid to raise on her own until I came along—not to mention being told that I’d been murdered. We came here to find some peace and quiet, and now…this.” He slammed his hand down on my desk. “To tell us her father intended to marry you! I don’t believe it.”

  I glanced out into the empty newsroom. My entire staff seemed suddenly to have deserted me. I felt vulnerable, if not frightened. “I’m very sorry I walked out on Kelsey,” I said, trying hard to keep eye contact with Dylan. “Frankly, I found it virtually impossible to carry on a conversation with her. Are you certain she’s not on medication or other kinds of drugs?”

  “Of course!” Dylan retorted indignantly in the voice that rasped on my ears like sandpaper.

  “Maybe she should be,” I said. “She’s clearly suffering from an emotional disorder. You know that her mother was highly unstable. It’s very likely that Kelsey inherited some of those flawed genes.” I noticed that he was about to interrupt, but I held up my hands. “Hey, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Is it possible that this latest turn of events, including the erroneous report of your death, may have sent her over the edge?”

  “Kelsey’s fine,” he asserted, still belligerent. “Yes, yes, I know she’s gone through plenty of bad stuff, but she’s tougher than you think.”

  “Basically sound,” I murmured.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Never mind.” It dawned on me that there was a method to his particular kind of madness. No doubt Kelsey, as well as Graham, would have to sign off on any legal papers involving their father’s newspaper empire. If one or the other of the siblings could be proved incompetent, the gravy train for Dylan—and Sophia—would come to a grinding halt. I kept my hands in my lap so that Dylan couldn’t see they were trembling. “I’ve apologized. Now what?”

  Dylan leaned back in the chair. “We wait.”

  “For what? My demise?”

  His smile struck me as sinister. “Your decision to retire.”

  “I’m nowhere near that.”

  “You will be.” He stretched and yawned, his black muscle shirt revealing taut biceps. He suddenly switched gears. “Hey,” he said, almost pleasantly, “nobody wants to work forever. In the meantime, Kelsey and I’ll be chillin’ in that Alpine villa with the heavenly view.”

  “So you really are buying the Bronsky house,” I said, trying to convince myself that I was merely interviewing a newcomer to town. “Do you plan on renovations?”

  Dylan chuckled. “Oh, yes. The basic structure is good, the decor is abominable. But that kind of a property…Well, it goes without saying that it’s a virtual steal compared to California.”

  “And you won’t mind living eighty-five miles from a big city?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’ll be good, especially for Kelsey.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “That may be true.” The transition into a normal conversation was having a calming effect on me. “As long as living in the town where her father was killed doesn’t upset her.”

  Dylan chuckled again. “You don’t have a plaque marking the spot, do you?” He noticed my stricken expression and sobered. “Sorry. I keep forgetting, he was your fiancé.”

  The words were uttered with a hint of sarcasm. I didn’t respond but waited for him to resume speaking.

  “It’s harder for Kelsey to be in the places where she knew her father,” he explained. “She has no memories of Alpine because she’s never been here before. In many ways, my wife’s very good at blocking out unpleasantness.”

  “I noticed,” I said, recalling my first meeting with the young woman who hadn’t quite seemed capable of taking in her husband’s alleged death. “We’ll want to do a story about the house sale and your move here, of course. Let us know when the deal is closed.” Not that Dylan would need to tell me—Ed would be trumpeting his self-styled coup from one end of Front Street to the other.

  But Dylan was shaking his head. “No, that’s not necessary. Or desirable. We want peace and quiet. No drum
rolls, no fanfare.”

  I tried to smile. “But it is news,” I pointed out. “In a small town, everybody is interested in their neighbors. There’s no anonymity. Gossip and curiosity are standard pastimes.”

  He stood up, smiling enigmatically. “I’m sure that’s true. But I have to put my foot down. For Kelsey’s sake, you see. We simply want to be left alone.”

  Although he spoke lightly, that grating voice and those piercing eyes made the request sound like a threat.

  Ed returned around four-fifteen. “Golly,” he said, chomping on a Nut Goodie, “I’d forgotten how fun it is to go out there and meet the merchants. But once I started on my route, everything came back to me, just like riding a bicycle. I didn’t skip a—Oops!” He frantically reached for the rest of the Nut Goodie, which had fallen out of his hand and landed on his paunch.

  “Did you sell any ads?” I inquired as Vida frowned at Ed, who was shoving the rest of the candy into his mouth.

  “Nawfet,” he said, chewing hurriedly.

  I couldn’t understand him. “What?”

  He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his pudgy hand. “Not yet. This was what I call reconnoitering. Have to see the strengths and weaknesses in how Leo has handled the job in my absence.”

  “Absence?” Vida yelped. “Good grief, you’ve been gone for ten years!”

  “You know what I mean,” Ed asserted, looking away from Vida’s baleful glance. “Anyways, it felt good.” He pointed to Curtis’s empty desk. “How’s this new kid doing?”

  “Too early to tell,” I admitted, wondering where, in fact, our reporter had spent the last hour or so. “I’m going to phone the hospital to check on Leo.”

  “Tell him not to rush back,” Ed called to me as I went into my cubbyhole.

  I heard a faint growling sound from Vida but ignored both of my staffers. It seemed like old times—bad old times, with Vida and Ed sharing space.

  I was put through to Debbie Murchison, who was in the middle of changing shifts. “Mr. Walsh is doing as well as can be expected. He’s been conscious off and on this last hour or so. I’m sorry, but I must dash. We’re going over charts.”