The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Because he was at the ski lodge when the shooting took place,” I said. “I just told you that.”

  “I don’t think so,” Vida responded. “He’s not the noticing kind.”

  “The killer doesn’t know that,” I pointed out.

  “Perhaps.” She still didn’t look convinced. “Are you going to see Leo this evening?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” I said. “I might.” Then I launched into the phone calls from the Bourgettes and Marisa Foxx.

  “Curtis at the motel?” Vida definitely looked puzzled. “You must call Minnie to find out who had that unit.”

  “I will,” I promised, glancing at my watch. It was twenty after six. “But they’re probably busy now, registering guests. Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  “Well…that would be nice. If it’s no trouble,” Vida added.

  “Of course not,” I assured her. “I’ll thaw some lamb steaks. Come join me in the kitchen.” I got up, with Vida following me so closely that I was afraid she’d step on my heels. “I’ve got some fresh corn in the fridge, too,” I said, opening the freezer section. “I was about to make a drink. Do you want something?”

  Vida shuddered. “I’ve had quite enough alcohol for one week after having a drink with Sophia Cavanaugh. Ice water will be fine, thank you. I wish I’d known at the time that Sophia’s brother was the slain man at the motel. Have you told Milo?”

  I shook my head. “I couldn’t reach him, either, and I haven’t tried since I got home. I’m so afraid that this whole gang will leave town and disappear before the sheriff solves the case.”

  “Dylan and Kelsey aren’t going far if they’re buying Ed’s silly house,” Vida reminded me.

  “If,” I emphasized, putting the lamb steaks in the microwave and hitting the Defrost button. “Or is that a smoke screen? As for Sophia and Graham, I…”

  Vida looked at me curiously. “What is it? You were saying?”

  “Graham,” I said softly. “‘Not Graham.’ Is that what Leo meant?”

  Vida’s mouth formed a big O. “Oh, my!” she finally said, also very softly. “Yes, indeed. But what does it mean? Not Graham who shot Leo?”

  “Maybe.” I thought in silence as the microwave’s timer ticked off the seconds. I felt as if it might be counting down to doomsday. “It’s got to be one of them,” I finally said. “The Cavanaughs, I mean. There are only four suspects, assuming Ginger Roth and Sophia Volos Cavanaugh are the same person.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Vida agreed after a long pause. “There’s no connection to anyone around here. Except, of course, for you.”

  “Thanks.” I was washing a couple of potatoes under the tap. “I do not, however, own a Smith and Wesson. Nor was I in San Francisco when Mr. Vitani was shot. And I would never, ever shoot Leo. Not when the penalty is putting up with Ed Bronsky in the office. That’s cruel and unusual punishment for any crime.”

  Vida nodded absently. “While you do that,” she said as I put the potatoes in a baking pan, “I’m calling Minnie Harris. She can’t be that busy. I don’t mind having to wait on the phone as long as I can hear what’s going on at the other end. Now tell me again where Dick Bourgette saw Curtis at the motel.”

  I recounted his not quite precise recall of the unit. Vida stalked off into the living room, where I’d left the phone. I tried to eavesdrop but couldn’t catch much of what she said. She returned while I was shucking a couple of ears of corn.

  “Well now.” She offered me her owlish expression. “Minnie says only one of those middle units was occupied that afternoon. The name on the registry is Camille Whitson from Colville. She stayed two nights and checked out the day after the murder. Young, rather pretty, as Minnie recalled, and blond. She mentioned that she’d come to Alpine to be with her boyfriend.”

  “Colville?” I echoed, referring to the small town northwest of Spokane. “Did she have proper ID?”

  “Yes, a Washington State driver’s license. Of course it could be faked, as was that one from California.”

  The microwave bell rang. “Did Minnie ever see this girl with her boyfriend?” I asked, removing the lamb steaks.

  Vida, who was hovering next to me by the stove, shook her head. “She only saw the girl when she checked in and when she left. May I help you?”

  “There’s nothing much to do,” I assured her, well aware of Vida’s ineptitude in the kitchen, despite her reams of copy offering advice to Alpine cooks. “I’ll get our drinks, and then we can sit for a bit. See if you can reach Milo.”

  “I doubt that Curtis is in any kind of—” Vida began, but the phone interrupted her. “I’ll get it,” she offered and hurried to the living room.

  The fridge’s ice maker drowned out Vida’s voice, but before I could finish putting cubes into our glasses, she came through the kitchen door with the phone plastered to her ear. “I can’t believe it!” she cried, apparently for my benefit as well as that of whoever was on the other end of the line. “It’s absurd. Yes, I’ll tell her.” Shaking her head, she clicked the phone off. “That was Milo. He’s arrested Curtis, charging him with one count of homicide and another of attempted homicide.”

  “No!” I shrieked. “I can’t believe it!”

  “You’d better,” Vida said grimly. “Curtis confessed.”

  “Why? How? Are you sure?” I demanded, setting the two glasses on the counter.

  Vida nodded in a series of agitated jerks. “Milo doesn’t joke about murder.”

  “No,” I murmured, leaning against the counter for support. “Oh, my God! Fleetwood will pick this up!”

  Vida had removed her glasses and was breathing on the lenses. “Milo was decent enough to say that he isn’t going public until he has to make the log available tomorrow morning.”

  “For who?” I retorted. “Not Curtis. Fleetwood or somebody working for him usually just calls in every morning.”

  Vida wiped off her glasses with a piece of paper towel. “Shall we go?”

  “Go?” I was still rattled. “Where?”

  “To the sheriff’s office,” she replied. “Curtis needs us.”

  I was incredulous. “I thought you’d prefer having him locked in a cell.”

  “What I’d prefer and what’s right are two different things,” Vida asserted as she put her glasses back on. “He really doesn’t know anyone in town. Where are his parents?”

  “I think they live in Seattle, near the University of Washington,” I said, turning off the oven and making sure the burners weren’t on. “Maybe I should call Marisa Foxx.”

  “Very well. I’ll go on ahead while you do that,” Vida volunteered. “I’ll see you there.”

  She left as soon as she could put on her sweater and hat. I stood motionless at the counter, trying to absorb the latest catastrophe. On the surface, it made no sense. As far as I knew, there was no connection between Curtis and the Cavanaughs. The word conspiracy was haunting me. Maybe all of this was an elaborate plan involving the newspaper’s acquisition. It seemed ridiculous, but human nature is unpredictable, especially so when the cast is a bunch of relative unknowns.

  Armed with a small shot of Canadian whiskey on the rocks, I dialed Marisa’s number and relayed my bombshell.

  “I’m not a criminal lawyer,” she protested after expressing her shock. “But I suppose I could at least make sure that Curtis’s rights aren’t being violated. He is over twenty-one, isn’t he?”

  “He’s almost twenty-four,” I said. “I think he has an August birthday. I’m going to try to track down his parents now. Will I see you at the sheriff’s office?”

  “Yes,” Marisa said. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. I’d already changed into my robe.”

  I thanked her profusely and dug out my Seattle telephone directory. There were only a handful of Maynes listed, and none of them lived near the university. I opened my laptop to see if I had any information about Curtis’s family stored in my files. I was still searching when the
doorbell rang.

  “Now what?” I muttered, getting up from the sofa.

  It was still broad daylight outside. Looking through the peephole, I saw a young man standing on the porch. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t recall his name. At least he wasn’t holding a weapon.

  “Hi,” I said a bit breathlessly after opening the door. “Are you looking for me?”

  “I am if you’re Emma Lord,” he said in a serious voice.

  “I am,” I responded, wondering where I’d seen the visitor. “You’re…?” I let the question dangle.

  “I’m Graham Cavanaugh. May I come in? My sister, Kelsey, is in grave danger.”

  NINETEEN

  I WAS STUNNED. NO WONDER MY CALLER LOOKED FAMILIAR. He was no spitting image of Tom but was almost as tall, had the same blue eyes, and, like his father, faintly chiseled features. Graham—if this was indeed Graham—had lighter brown hair and wasn’t as broad.

  “Do you need ID?” he asked in a weary voice as I stood there in the doorway looking, I’m sure, like an idiot.

  I shook my head. His face—no, I realized, it was his mannerisms that evoked his father. “Come in,” I urged, stepping aside. Not Graham. That was what Leo had been trying to say. The man calling himself Graham Cavanaugh was another impostor.

  He moved swiftly to the hearth and took a deep breath. His eyes darted around the room, searching, studying, as if he were taking inventory. At last his gaze steadied, fixed on me. I could imagine what he was thinking. So this is the woman my father loved. I couldn’t help but wonder if he were judging my worthiness. But when he spoke again, his words had nothing to do with my credentials. “Have you seen Kelsey in the last few hours?”

  “No,” I replied. “Is she…missing?”

  “I don’t know.” He rubbed at the back of his head. “She’s not at the lodge.”

  “Please,” I implored, indicating the armchair nearest to him. “Sit. What’s going on? If you’re Graham, then who’s—”

  He waved an impatient hand and remained standing. “I don’t know. Frankly, Kelsey was somewhat incoherent, and I was stupefied when I heard Sophia was here. We separated six months ago, when she told me there was another man and she was planning to move in with him after he got rid of his wife. Anyway, I took an early flight out of New York this morning after Kelsey called me in a panic last night to tell me what was going on around here. Good God,” he said with fervor, “has everybody lost their minds?”

  I had to sit down. “How long have you been in town?”

  “An hour.” He looked at his watch. “Closer to two hours now. I’ve lost track of time.”

  “When was Kelsey last seen?”

  “This afternoon,” Graham replied, pacing the hearth. “Or so the manager at the ski lodge told me.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else in their party?”

  He shook his head. “They’ve gone to ground. That’s why I’m here. I thought if anyone might know where Kelsey was, it’d be you.” He grimaced. “You were, after all, about to become our stepmother. I thought Kelsey might come to you for help.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. One of the Cavanaughs had finally acknowledged my existence in Tom’s life. With effort, I tried to regain some composure. So much had happened so fast. My brain was being pelted with revelations.

  “You must notify the sheriff,” I said, reluctant to tell Graham that a suspect was in custody. “Why do you think Kelsey’s in danger?”

  He looked at me with disbelief. “Why do you think? Because she knows too much. Because these crooks can’t get their hands on your newspaper without her. Damn!” Clearly on edge, he moved around the room, pausing only to look out the front window, to touch the fireplace mantel, to glance at some books I’d piled on top of a shelf. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll call the sheriff. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Here.” I handed him the phone. “Before you do, I have to ask you a question. Do you know someone named Curtis Mayne?”

  He frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

  “He’s confessed to murdering Maxim Volos and taking a shot at Leo Walsh. Curtis works for me.”

  Graham looked startled. “As what? An assassin?”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh and tried to stop before I became hysterical. “No, no,” I finally managed to get out. “I hired him recently as a reporter.”

  “Leo Walsh?” A light seemed to go on in Graham’s blue eyes. “I remember Leo, but I forgot that he works for you. He was shot?”

  “Last night,” I said. “Now I know why. He knew that the person posing as you wasn’t. That is—”

  “I get it,” Graham snapped. “Holy Christ!”

  “I should’ve known,” I said ruefully as recollections of two separate conversations flashed in my brain. “When Kelsey and I went to lunch, she kept saying she wished you were here. I thought she meant with the two of us at the diner, but in fact, she was telling me you weren’t in Alpine. And whoever impersonated you referred to your father a couple of times as Tom, not Dad.”

  “Some kids do that,” Graham said with a shrug. “Maybe I should see the sheriff in person. Where’s his office?”

  “I was about to go there when you showed up. I’ll lead the way,” I offered, swigging down the last of my drink. “Let’s go.”

  Graham had rented a Chrysler Sebring. Although it was a convertible, he had the top up on this pleasant first evening of July. Maybe he was afraid someone was going to shoot him. I had to admit it didn’t seem like an unreasonable fear.

  As I headed down to Front Street, it occurred to me that I didn’t know how far I could trust Graham. He might look more like Tom than the bogus Graham did, but that didn’t mean he had his father’s integrity. On the other hand, we were on our way to see the sheriff. I couldn’t think of a safer destination.

  Or a stranger one, given Curtis’s presence as a confessed killer. I couldn’t imagine how—other than with a sizable bribe—he figured into the Cavanaugh mix. If that were true, then the plot must have been hatched after mid-May, when I decided to bring him on after he’d graduated in early June. Shaking my head, I pulled in next to Vida’s car.

  I didn’t see any sign of Curtis’s beater. I wasn’t sure what Marisa drove, so I didn’t know if she’d arrived yet. Graham, who had followed me closely, parked a couple of spaces down from Vida’s Buick. I waited for him on the sidewalk by the sheriff’s entrance. A moment later, Tom’s son was striding purposefully toward me.

  “Is there anything about this Curtis I should know?” he asked, pausing with his hand on one of the double doors.

  “Not really,” I said. “Obviously, I don’t know him very well, either.”

  Milo, Vida, and Doe Jameson were talking behind the counter. Curtis was nowhere to be seen.

  Vida was the first to speak. “What took you so long?” she asked before staring at Graham. “Who is he?”

  “Graham Cavanaugh,” I responded.

  Doe scowled at us; Milo seemed skeptical; Vida, however, paused, tapping her cheek. “Yes,” she finally said. “I can see that. It’s the way you carry yourself, Graham.” Coming through the swinging gate, she held out her hand. “I’m Vida Runkel, the Advocate’s House & Home editor. Yes, you’re definitely Tommy’s son.”

  Graham, looking somewhat taken aback, perhaps at Vida’s reference to “Tommy,” shook her hand. “I think my dad mentioned your name a couple of times.”

  “Possibly,” Vida remarked and gave Graham a dose of her toothy smile.

  I leaned on the counter, closer to Milo. “Where’s Curtis?”

  “In my office,” Milo replied. “He can’t escape. No windows in there.”

  “Do you believe he’s your perp?” I inquired.

  The sheriff shrugged. “He says he is.”

  “Motive?”

  Vida intervened before Milo could answer. “It’s nonsense! Curtis insists he did it for you. I don’t believe a word of it.”

/>   I turned to Doe. “What do you think?”

  Doe’s broad face was inscrutable. “People usually don’t confess to crimes they didn’t commit.”

  At that moment, Marisa Foxx came through the door. “I’m here to represent Curtis Mayne,” she announced, all brusque business. “Where is he?”

  Milo gestured at his office door. “Go ahead. I read him his rights.”

  Marisa marched through the gate and into Milo’s office without bothering to knock. She moved so quickly that the door was closed before I could even glimpse Curtis.

  “He’s not suicidal, is he?” I asked.

  “I doubt it. In fact, the kid seems kind of upbeat.” Milo glanced at the closed door to his office. “Goddamnit, now I can’t get at my own desk.” He eyed Graham. “And you’re here because…?”

  “My sister, Kelsey, has disappeared,” Graham said without emotion. “I’m worried about her.”

  “Okay,” Milo said wearily. “Come over to that desk at the end and fill out a missing person’s report. Doe, you handle this one.” As the deputy opened the gate for Graham, Milo turned to Vida and me. “What are you two doing here? Posting bail for your nitwit reporter?”

  “You’re not taking Curtis seriously, are you?” I said.

  “I think he belongs in the psych ward,” Milo retorted. “Why the hell did you hire him in the first place?”

  “Desperation,” I replied. “Qualified candidates are hard to find because the written word is an endangered species. Did Curtis come to you or did you go after him?”

  “I thought maybe I’d fish Sawyer Creek for a change. I headed up the ski lodge road, but it was still kind of early, and I was hungry, so I stopped at the lodge’s coffee shop to grab a bite and get coffee to take along. Your loony reporter was there talking to one of the waitresses.” Milo made a face. “The next thing I knew, he cornered me before I could go up to the counter. He said we had to talk. We went into the lobby, and he told me he’d killed Volos. Before he could say anything else, I hauled his ass in here. The kid had a real jumbled story—he should be writing fiction. But he confessed, so I had no choice. If nothing else, he’s a danger to himself.”