The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  Vida had overheard me and tromped into my office. “Well?”

  “Leo’s improving,” I said.

  “Good.”

  I noticed a gleam in her gray eyes. “What’s with you? Is that smugness I see or,” I added, lowering my voice, “a plot to get rid of Ed?”

  She sat down and all but simpered. “I did some research this afternoon. Not easy, I assure you. I simply couldn’t follow all of your Internet instructions, so I went to the library and asked Edna Mae Dalrymple to help me with their computer. Edna Mae seems so terribly dizzy sometimes, but she’s actually very efficient as long as you don’t take her out of her element.”

  “I know,” I agreed, trying not to sound impatient. “And?”

  “And,” Vida said, squaring her broad shoulders and projecting her imposing bust, “I learned something about Sophia Cavanaugh.”

  “You did? What was it?”

  Vida leaned forward. “She’s from New York, and her maiden name is Volos.”

  My mouth dropped open. “As in Maxim Volos, motel murder victim?”

  Vida nodded, her thick gray curls flopping every which way. “Her brother. Do you think Milo knows?”

  “No.” I paused. “Or if he does, he isn’t telling us.”

  “True.” Vida frowned. “It’s the sort of thing he’d keep to himself, as it isn’t something a law enforcement person would put on a warrant.”

  “Sophia doesn’t act heartbroken,” I remarked. “Is that because…?”

  Vida shrugged. “We can look at this several ways. First, a conspiracy involving Sophia and Maxim. Second, the entire Cavanaugh ménage including Maxim was conspiring together, but something went terribly wrong. Or third, Maxim was some sort of loose cannon, on the outs with his sister and the rest of the Cavanaughs.” She grimaced. “Unfortunately, this gets very complicated to pass along to Milo.”

  “We’ll have to,” I insisted, standing up. “Now. Let’s walk down to his office.”

  “He’s not there.” Vida frowned. “I just called. Lori told me he left ten minutes ago to go fishing.”

  “Damn!” I sank back into my chair. “What’s wrong with him? He shouldn’t take off early in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  For once, Vida failed to rebuke me for using what she considered vulgar language. “I suspect that fishing helps him think things through. All that solitude and just the river and the trees. Very soothing when it comes to inner reflection.”

  “I know, I know,” I said, annoyed. “But we’re finally getting somewhere and the sheriff’s off chasing trout God only knows where. He probably has his cell phone turned off.” I had a sudden thought of my own. “Milo’s not fishing.”

  Vida looked taken aback. “What?”

  “It’s too early, the sun’s still on the river,” I explained. “I should’ve realized that when he told me he might go out this afternoon. So what’s he up to?”

  Vida looked thoughtful. “Dare we hope he’s following up on his lines of inquiry?”

  “We wish,” I said. “What would he be doing that he couldn’t do from his office?”

  “A good point,” Vida noted. “Interviews, I suppose. Witnesses, suspects. But why make it a secret?”

  We were both silent for a few moments, lost in our own ruminations. “Leo,” I finally said. “If he’s awake off and on, maybe Milo’s at his bedside.”

  Vida was skeptical. “Not his sort of thing. But someone should be there. Shall I?”

  “Go ahead,” I urged. “If Leo’s lucid, he may be able to tell us something helpful.”

  Vida looked at her Bulova watch, with its slim gold band and rectangular face. It had been a tenth wedding anniversary present from her husband, Ernest, and she swore it had never had to be repaired. “It’s twenty to five. I won’t be back here today, of course.”

  “Of course. Good luck,” I said as she rose and went out to the newsroom.

  I sat in my chair for the next five minutes wondering about Sophia Volos Cavanaugh and her late brother, Maxim. Sophia certainly hadn’t behaved like a grieving sister when I saw her. Obviously, she—and maybe the rest of the nefarious crew—had something to hide. But if Maxim had been part of the plot to buy the Advocate, why had he been killed? And why was he impersonating not only Dylan Platte but the allegedly fictitious Josh Roth? None of it made sense.

  At five to five, Ed stuck his head—and his paunch—in my doorway. “I’m taking off for the day. See you tomorrow.” He smacked his fist into his palm. “Revenue City, here I come! Hubba hubba!”

  “Right, Ed.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

  As soon as he’d toddled out the door, I went into the newsroom. Curtis still hadn’t returned. His camera and tape recorder were sitting on a carton of printer cartridges by his desk. I was puzzled. Wherever he’d gone, apparently he wasn’t pursuing a story. I began to worry.

  In the front office, Ginny was gathering up her belongings. I asked if Curtis had told her where he was going.

  “No,” she answered. “I was on the phone when he left. He just waved.”

  I glanced out into the street. Curtis’s car was nowhere in sight. When I went back inside, Kip was talking to Ginny. I interrupted and asked if he knew where Curtis had gone.

  “I haven’t seen him since before lunch,” Kip said. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll call him,” I said and went back in my cubbyhole.

  There was no answer except for the message that “the customer at this number is not currently available.” I remembered then that Curtis had lost his cell phone at the ski lodge. Maybe he’d gone there to find it.

  My new reporter had lingered outside after he heard about the shooting. Had he seen something or someone that he didn’t realize was dangerous to know? Maybe, I thought, with a rush of fear, before he could find his phone, someone had found Curtis.

  EIGHTEEN

  I CALLED THE SKI LODGE, ASKING FOR HENRY BARDEEN. WHEN he came on the line, I tried to keep my tone light. “You haven’t seen my new reporter, Curtis Mayne, in the last hour or so, have you?”

  “No,” Henry replied, “but I spent most of that time in my office. I was just about to go home. Do you want me to ask around?”

  “If you would,” I said and tried to remember the name of the waitress who had holed up with Curtis in the storeroom or wherever the hell they’d been doing God knows what. “He knows one of your coffee shop waitresses. Her name begins with a B—”

  “Don’t they all?” Henry said with that dry humor that was seldom in evidence, at least when guests were present. “The coffee shop, you say? Bernadette or Brenda?”

  “Brenda. Thanks, Henry. I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Shall I call you back at the newspaper or at home?”

  “Home,” I said. “It’s quitting time for me, too.”

  After hanging up, I grabbed my purse and headed out to the car, locking the office door behind me. Curtis had a key if he needed to get in. Driving home, I took a detour, crossing Alpine Way and turning onto Railroad Avenue, heading west to Ptarmigan Tract, where Curtis was temporarily bunking with Oren and Sunny Rhodes. Except for Oren’s pickup, there were no other vehicles parked in front of the split-level house. Both Rhodeses were probably working at the Venison Inn. As for Curtis, he was still among the missing.

  I got home shortly before five-thirty. Two messages were waiting on my answering machine. The first was from Rolf Fisher. “Wednesday, five-oh-six p.m.,” he said, imitating a recording. “Just missed you. Must be nice to be your own boss. Got your cub reporter’s pic of the cubs from the current edition. We’re running it on the wire, so this Mayne kid’s already on his way to fame and fortune. Be sure to let him know. Until later.”

  I wished I could let Curtis know. But his whereabouts were a mystery. Of course, it was possible that he’d simply gone to a bar or a tavern or even someone else’s home. I kept trying to tell myself he might be out in that famous secluded spot on Cass Pond making like a mink with Brenda
or Bernadette or Brianna or Sweet Betsy from Pike. He was not my son, he was an employee and presumably a grown-up.

  So was Leo. Definitely grown up, and able to take care of himself, though he’d done a poor job of it. I sighed wearily and listened to my second message.

  Mary Jane Bourgette’s recorded voice sounded uncharacteristically tentative. “Hi, Emma, it’s Mary Jane. Just had a chance to sit down and read the Advocate. It doesn’t sound like much progress has been made on finding the killer. We’re so sorry about Leo, by the way. Anything we can do now or when he gets out of the hospital? Dick just got home from work, and we talked about you know what. Call me when you can. It’s nothing important, really, but we decided you were right when you said every little bit helps. Give me a buzz when you have time. Thanks.”

  It took me a few seconds to remember what she meant by “you know what,” but finally I recalled that Dick had seen someone at the Tall Timber Motel on the afternoon of the murder but that neither Bourgette had been willing to say who, lest they start ugly rumors. Mary Jane’s message had come through at five-twenty-five, so I immediately called her back. She answered on the second ring.

  “Oh, hi,” she said in her usual outgoing manner. “Do you want to talk to Dick? He’s right here, popping the top on a Bud Light.”

  Dick came on the line. “I got to thinking,” he said, sounding apologetic, “that when we moved here and were building the diner, we got involved right off the bat with a homicide when that body was found on the construction site. Don’t try to kid me, I know you had a big role in solving that case. You even put yourself at risk to catch the killer. So I figured we owed you one—not that it’s probably much help.”

  “Every detail’s a help in these investigations,” I said. “Maybe you should be talking to the sheriff.”

  “No, no,” Dick insisted. “Really, it’s very minor, and from what I know about Dodge, he’d probably blow me off. I wouldn’t blame him. Anyway, the person I saw at the Tall Timber was that new reporter of yours, Curtis Whatever.”

  “Ah.” Curtis again. “What was he doing?”

  “He was going into one of the units,” Dick said.

  I was surprised. “Was it the one where the shooting took place?”

  “No. It was more in the middle on the ground floor. Maybe the third or fourth unit from the office.” Dick uttered a rueful chuckle. “I didn’t think much of it at the time because I figured maybe he was staying there until he found a place to rent. Then Oren Rhodes mentioned that Curtis was rooming with them. All kind of silly, huh?”

  “Did he have a key?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Dick admitted, without his usual aplomb. “It was all so…ordinary. I wouldn’t have recognized the kid if I hadn’t seen him when I was putting together my estimate for your roof. I’d just pulled into the parking lot, saw him walking toward the room, and then he went in and closed the door.”

  “The Harrises have records of who was staying where and when they checked in,” I said, thinking out loud. “As usual, the motel didn’t fill up until later in the day. You didn’t see if anyone was in the room waiting for him?”

  “No. I pulled out then. Say,” Dick said, sounding more like himself, “are you ready for me to start on the roof, about Thursday the eighth?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. Thanks, Dick. You’re right, by the way. It probably has nothing to do with the murder. It’s odd, though, that Minnie Harris didn’t mention Curtis being there.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know,” Dick said. “It could be…Well, boys will be boys.”

  “True, but,” I went on, “the Harrises don’t cater to the hooker crowd.”

  “Also true,” Dick agreed. “Still, if there’s a girl involved, she needn’t be a hooker. That occurred to me at the time, which is why I didn’t want to say anything. You know how everybody around here likes to spread gossip. I know you won’t, though, especially when it involves one of your own. See you at the parish picnic.”

  I hung up, wondering how well I knew my latest hire. The phone rang before I could head for the kitchen.

  “You’re home,” Marisa Foxx said. “I feel like a spy.”

  “How so?” I asked, sitting down on the sofa.

  “I could term it ‘networking,’ I suppose,” she said. “I called another old law school chum who works for the city in San Francisco. He verified what my other old friend, Angela, had told me. The Vitani case was never closed, his widow is indeed remarrying in August, and so on. I like to make sure I’m not dealing in rumors. Anyway, Lawrence—the city attorney—is living with a much younger man who’s a paralegal for a firm in the same building as Bowles, Mercier and company. Naturally, there’s gossip traded at lunch or whenever these employees get together.” Marisa paused. “The Vitani murder was a hot topic for some time, but Lawrence’s live-in never heard any mention of the Cavanaughs in connection with the case.”

  My shoulders slumped. I’d been prepared for something juicy. “Damn!”

  “I know,” Marisa said. “I’m sorry. But maybe no news is…interesting news.”

  I frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Lawrence checked the police department’s case notes on Mr. Vitani’s homicide. No mention was made of the Cavanaughs, including Tom. On the day Mr. Vitani was killed, he’d seen four clients, including two older widows, one younger couple who were adopting a baby from Asia, and an eighty-six-year-old woman who was divorcing her fifth husband. None of them were ever considered suspects.”

  I hadn’t paid close attention to Marisa’s account of Mr. Vitani’s last workday. Instead, I was trying to figure out if every possibility to make a connection between the Cavanaughs and Mr. Vitani’s slaying had been exhausted. “Okay,” I finally said, “how about this? Could your pal, or your pal’s paralegal pal, find out the last time Tom had an appointment with Mr. Vitani?”

  “Possibly,” Marisa replied. “You aren’t pushing too hard on this angle, are you, Emma?”

  “Probably,” I admitted. “I’m a pest, I know. But I’m not a great believer in coincidences.”

  “You’re not a pest,” Marisa said kindly. “I must confess I find this rather fascinating, as long as I’m viewing it from a safe distance. I’m fond of puzzles.”

  “So am I,” I said as someone knocked loudly on my front door. “I’ve got company. Thanks again. I’ll talk to you later.”

  My caller pounded a second time, harder. On guard, I peered through the peephole and saw an enormous straw hat. “Vida,” I said in relief, opening the door. “Why didn’t you use the bell?”

  She burst across the threshold like a whirlwind. “Because nobody has one that works,” she asserted. “I assume that includes you.”

  “You know better,” I said as she virtually fell into the armchair by the hearth. “How’s Leo?”

  “Hazy,” Vida said. “I had to stop at the Grocery Basket on my way home. Since it’s out of my way and closer to your house, I decided to deliver personally what little information I have about Leo. I sat at his bedside for nearly an hour, and he woke up briefly twice. I’m not sure he even knew I was there. The nurse—someone new, I have no idea who she is or even if she’s a real nurse—how could I not hear of her? All this current vogue of nurses taking on rotating assignments for six months at a time is such a poor idea. No continuity, no attachment to patients or the community. What’s wrong with people these days? They can’t stay put.” Vida whipped off her hat, displacing several hairpins and a small tortoiseshell comb. “What was I saying?”

  “The nurse,” I reminded her. “She told you…something.”

  Vida bent down to collect the hair accessories. “Oh, yes. This so-called nurse—very haughty—informed me that Leo was heavily medicated and visitors shouldn’t tire him. How can you tire someone who’s unconscious most of the time?” She poked pins back into her coiffure, which didn’t do much to tame the errant gray curls. “I actually think this nurse—her name tag was handwritten and utterly indeciphera
ble—thought she could make me leave. Nonsense, of course. I wouldn’t budge.”

  “Of course not,” I murmured. “Was Leo at all coherent?”

  “Not really,” Vida said, finally settling back in the chair. “The first time he opened his eyes, he muttered. I thought he was thirsty, so I tried to give him a sip of water. It spilled all over. Later—oh, goodness, it must have been another half-hour—he woke up again, and he did look at me, but as I mentioned, I don’t know if he knew who I was or where he was and how he got there. I asked him, in fact. He just lay like a lump with his eyes half-closed and then finally—and this was rather curious—he said, ‘Not game.’ What on earth do you suppose that means?”

  I shook my head. “To me, it’s only a term we use in playing bridge. Or to describe someone who isn’t willing to participate in something, especially sports.”

  “He said it three times,” Vida said, frowning. “It never became more distinct. Then he went back to sleep, so I finally left.”

  “That sounds as if he was trying to tell you something important,” I suggested.

  “Well…” She looked thoughtful, resting her chin on her fist. “Maybe so. But what?”

  “Who shot him?”

  “Wasn’t his back turned?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” I replied, unable to block out the mental image of Leo being hit by a bullet. “He might have been able to move after he was shot.”

  Vida nodded. “True. ‘Not game,’” she repeated. “What does that sound like?”

  “Not same?” I suggested. “Not lame? Not blame?”

  Vida shook her head. “It was not and something beginning with a g, because each time Leo said it, he had difficulty getting it out.”

  My mind was blank, so I changed the subject and told Vida that I couldn’t run down Curtis. “It worries me. It’s as if we all have targets on our backs. You’re being careful, I hope?”

  “Oh, piffle!” Vida exclaimed. “Why would anyone except you want to shoot Curtis?”