by Mary Daheim
Milo hadn’t mentioned any details. Dylan hadn’t been in Alpine long enough—that I knew of—to have made enemies. Except, I thought glumly, me.
Just before six o’clock, I turned off Highway 2 and crossed the bridge into Alpine. Traffic on Front Street was mercifully sparse. The local commute lasted about fifteen minutes and rarely went on after five-thirty. I was able to park on the diagonal just three spaces down from Milo’s Grand Cherokee. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I could smell the grease from the Burger Barn’s grill across the street. My stomach was growling as I entered the sheriff’s headquarters.
“Don’t say it,” Milo growled from behind the counter.
“I can’t help it,” I retorted. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Milo said. “Your usual gripe about serious crimes happening way ahead of when the paper comes out.”
“In other words,” I said, dumping my big handbag on top of the sheriff’s log, “Spencer Fleetwood has already been here.”
“He’s in my office, ready to do the live six o’clock news broadcast.” Milo looked smug. “Got to go. He’s interviewing me.” The sheriff turned on his heel and headed for his sanctuary.
Lori was eyeing me with sympathy. “Can I get you some takeout?”
“I can get it myself,” I said, snatching up my handbag. “Tell your boss if he wants me, he can find me hiding in a booth at the Burger Barn.”
Lori rose partway from her chair. “You’d better not. I think Dodge mentioned that if you got here before six, Mr. Fleet-wood would want to interview you, too. You know—after a commercial break.”
“Tell him he can find me in…Madagascar.” I stomped out the door.
I must have been plagued by bad luck, because the first person I saw upon entering the Burger Barn was Ed Bronsky. He was no longer slinging patties behind the service counter but apparently had just arrived as a customer.
“Emma!” he exclaimed, looking up from a long piece of paper that I assumed was a list of his family’s take-out orders. “What’s this about Platte?”
I’d almost forgotten that Dylan Platte was the prospective buyer for Casa de Bronska. “I just got back in town,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”
“It’s terrible!” Ed’s chins quivered in agitation. “Snorty Wenzel called me half an hour ago with the news. What are we going to do?”
“Buy some burgers?” I had long ago stopped being dismayed by Ed’s self-absorption.
He didn’t appreciate my flippant remark. “I’m serious,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’ll have to start all over. I can’t imagine Mrs. Platte’ll want to buy the house now.”
“Probably not,” I agreed, noting that the Burger Barn was getting busy and the take-out line was growing long. “I gather you never met Dylan Platte?”
Ed shook his head. “Snorty thought he was coming over tonight. I guess Platte had driven by our villa. According to Snorty, he—Platte, I mean—was really excited about it.” He uttered a little grunt that might have been a laugh. “Who wouldn’t be?”
“In alphabetical order?”
“What?”
“All in good order,” I hedged. “I mean, given time, you’ll get another buyer.”
“Well…maybe,” Ed conceded after a pause. “Now we probably won’t be able to buy that new place we like so much.”
“Where is it?” I asked, inching toward an empty stool at the counter.
“Great location,” Ed asserted, regaining some of his usual bravado. “Close to the golf course, real quiet, not so much garden maintenance, and a nice cozy feeling.” He suddenly noticed the take-out line. “Oh, gee, I’d better get going. Say,” he said, digging into the pocket of his forty-eight-inches-at-the-waist summer slacks, “you got a spare twenty? I must’ve left my wallet on the credenza.”
I hesitated, always loath to enable Ed’s tightfistedness when it came to necessities such as food but readiness to squander his inheritance on Venetian chandeliers and faux Louis Quatorze chairs with legs that couldn’t support half his weight.
“Okay,” I finally said, getting out my wallet. “You’re sure a twenty is enough?”
“Got a ten to go with it?”
I handed over thirty dollars. “Pay me back Monday,” I said in a stern voice.
“Oh, sure, no problemo. See you.”
“Yes.” I’d see Ed all right, he was unavoidable. He wouldn’t have the thirty bucks, of course, but we both knew that.
I’d just sat down at the counter when I felt a tap on my arm.
“Sorry, Ms. Lord,” Lori Cobb said with a pained expression on her pale face. “Sheriff Dodge wants to see you. ‘Pronto,’ as he put it.”
I sighed. “The man has a way with words,” I muttered. “Would you mind getting me a burger and fries with a Pepsi?” I took out my wallet again and handed Lori two fives and four ones. “That ought to cover it. If there’s any left over, I’ll have a small salad with blue cheese dressing. Thanks.”
I hopped off the stool and made my way outside. When I reached the sheriff’s office, Milo and Spencer were chatting behind the counter. Mr. Radio saw me and shook his head in mock reproach.
“You missed your big chance to be a star,” he said.
I glared at Spence—and then at Milo. “Gosh, I’ll bet you and the sheriff would’ve been a hard act to follow. Which one of you was Edgar Bergen and which one was Mortimer Snerd?”
Spence turned to Milo. “She’s bitter. Ignore her.” He patted Milo on the shoulder. “Thanks, big fella. Keep me posted.” Mr. Radio collected his equipment and strolled out of the office.
“Male bonding,” I remarked, going through the counter’s gate. “I hate it. You two better not have mentioned my name on the air.”
“We didn’t,” Milo said. “You know damned well I wouldn’t do that this early in a homicide investigation.”
“Yeah, right, sure,” I grumbled as he led the way into his private office. The room smelled of cigarette smoke. I could imagine Mr. Law Man and Mr. Radio puffing their heads off while they got buddy-buddy over the microphone.
“Ever consider airing this place out?” I asked as I sat down in front of Milo’s desk.
“Why?” he shot back. “It reminds me of home.”
I didn’t respond.
“Okay,” the sheriff said, flipping to a fresh sheet of legal-size lined yellow paper, “when did you first know of Dylan Platte?”
“I already told you,” I said, my more perverse side showing front and center. “Why don’t you pay attention?”
“Man,” Milo said, “you sure are a pain in the ass when you’re hungry. Why didn’t you eat lunch?”
“Because,” I said, trying to remain civil, “Dylan called me around noon, just as I was going out the door.”
“Why did he call you?”
“I thought at first he was returning my call to the motel to talk to him about buying the Bronskys’ hideous boondoggle. But I’m not sure if he got the—”
“Hold it.” Milo put a big hand up in the air. “Platte was buying Ed and Shirley’s place? Was he crazy?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Can I finish?”
The sheriff nodded as he lit a cigarette and offered one to me. I declined. “Anyway, Dylan phoned me because he and his wife—Tom’s daughter, Kelsey—have taken over Tom’s newspaper empire with Tom’s son, Graham, and his wife, and wanted to add the Advocate to their—”
“I know that part,” Milo interrupted. “When did he ask to meet with you?”
“After work,” I said. “I told him I was going out of town. He all but ignored my protests and insisted it had to be this evening because he was flying back to San Francisco on Sunday.”
“Mrs. Platte wasn’t with him, right?”
“So I gathered. How did Dylan register?”
“Alone,” Milo said. “He arrived Thursday, according to Minnie Harris. No reservation, just showed up in the early afternoon.”
Milo glared at me. “I’m asking the questions here. How’d Platte react when you kept telling him you couldn’t meet tonight?”
“As if I hadn’t spoken. Just kept hammering at me about getting together on his terms, selling the paper to him—them—and so forth. A total self-centered jerk. Furthermore,” I added, “he told me not to call him because he wouldn’t be in.”
“In where?” Milo asked. “The motel?”
I nodded. “When I told Vida about him, she insisted on going over to the Tall Timber. Leo went there, too.”
Milo scowled. “I didn’t know Vida and Leo got into the act. I’ll have to talk to them. What happened when they went to the motel?”
“Dylan didn’t—” My cell phone rang. “Sorry, but I’ve got to see who this is.”
“Let them wait,” Milo ordered, but I’d already taken out my cell and recognized Rolf’s home phone number.
I ignored the sheriff’s glare. “Rolf,” I said, “I’m being interrogated by Milo Dodge.”
“Is that what you two always called it?” he responded. “Cute. Who gets to wear the handcuffs?”
I turned away to avoid Milo’s annoyed expression. “I’m serious. There’s been a murder. It’s a long story, but it involves somebody who wanted to buy the Advocate. I’ll call you when I get home, okay?”
“I’ve nowhere to go, no one to enjoy my passionate embrace. What should I do to while away the hours?”
“You’ve got your dog.”
“Even my dog can’t compensate for your absence, although his brown eyes and clinging paws remind me of you.” He sighed loudly. “As you will. Maybe I’ll jump off my balcony. Or phone the hooker service.”
I never knew when Rolf was teasing me. “I have to go.”
There was a pause. “You said this victim wanted to buy the Advocate?” Rolf’s tone had become serious.
“Yes.” I glanced at Milo, who was stubbing out his cigarette as if he wanted to burn a hole in the ashtray. “I promise to call you as soon as I can.”
Rolf resumed his characteristic banter. “What if this is the last phone call you’re allowed to make before he arrests you?”
“Good-bye, Rolf.” I hung up.
Milo shook his head. “I’ll be damned if I know what you see in that guy. He’s a real bullshitter, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you,” I retorted.
A tap-tap-tap on the door caught the sheriff’s attention. “Yeah?” he called out.
Lori entered, bearing my meal. “Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t ask if you wanted something, sir.”
“Not now.” Enviously, he watched me remove the items from the white paper bag with the red barn logo. “Maybe I’ll eat some of Emma’s salad.”
“I could get you one of your own,” Lori offered, putting my change of a quarter and three pennies on the desk. “Or go to the Venison Inn. They have a nice shrimp and crab Louis special on Fridays.”
“Later,” Milo said. “Thanks.”
“You really are watching what you eat,” I remarked after Lori left. “That’s good.”
“Like hell it is,” Milo grumbled. “Ever since I had my gallbladder out I’m supposed to stay away from grease. Who wants to live forever without a thick steak or a double cheese-burger?”
I tried to look sympathetic. “Don’t you feel better since you had the surgery?”
The sheriff made a face. “I don’t have those damned chest pains anymore, but as long as I know I’m not having a heart attack, I’d almost put up with them if I could eat what I like all the time.” He took his eyes off my burger and looked at his notes. “Okay, so what about Vida and Leo at the motel?”
“Nobody responded to their knock on the door of Dylan’s unit,” I said, sprinkling the contents of the salt and pepper packets on my salad. “They went back to the office to tell Minnie, and she told them that his rental car was still parked by his room, so maybe he’d walked wherever he was going. She hadn’t seen him because she was eating lunch in the back behind the front desk.”
“Anything else?” Milo asked, snatching a couple of French fries from my red plastic basket.
“Nothing,” I replied, “until I heard from you. Why did Minnie go to Platte’s room?”
Milo waited until he’d swallowed the fries. “You mean when she found him?” He saw me nod. “Mel had lost his glasses. He thought he might’ve left them in one of the rooms when he did the cleaning earlier. Minnie didn’t get a response to her knock, so she used her key. You can guess how big a fit she pitched when she found Platte’s body.”
“Minnie has always struck me as levelheaded,” I said.
“She is,” Milo replied. “But Minnie and Mel have run their two motels for a long time, and they’ve never had more than the usual problems with drunks and irate spouses and petty theft. Besides, the Harrises aren’t spring chickens.”
“Who is?” I murmured. “Did either of them see anything or anybody unusual at the motel?”
Milo shook his head. “Mel was at the Cascade Inn earlier in the afternoon. Later on, they both were pretty busy. It’s vacation time, and their summer hires are just getting used to their jobs.”
“Nobody heard the shot?”
“No.” The sheriff was looking impatient. “That’s not the quietest spot in town. The mill’s close, the railroad tracks are a block away, and it’s just off Front Street. Platte’s unit was second from the end, away from the office. Nobody had checked in yet on either side of him. Besides, the Fourth of July’s coming up. Some of the kids are shooting off illegal fireworks. We’ve had a few calls about them already.”
“Yes,” I said, rather absently, having noticed the complaints in the police log that Curtis checked every day. “Dylan’s wife—has she been notified?”
“No.” Milo stole some more French fries. “Dustin Fong tried to call her in San Francisco, but nobody picked up. He didn’t want to leave a message. Deputy Dustman is the soul of tact.”
“He is,” I agreed. “I wouldn’t want Dwight Gould making those kinds of calls. The first thing he’d ask is, ‘Are you the widow Platte?’ By the way, do the Plattes live in San Francisco?”
“That’s the address on the vic’s driver’s license.”
“Where in San Francisco?”
Milo’s scowl returned. “How the hell do I know? I’ve been there twice in my whole life. Damned near froze to death at Candlestick Park in August the first time, and when I went with Old Mulehide sixteen years ago for what she called ‘a romantic getaway,’ she told me she was filing for divorce.”
“That’s not the city’s fault,” I said in my most innocent voice.
“Screw it,” Milo muttered, still holding a grudge against his ex-wife for having an affair with a high school teacher. “We’re done here. Beat it, Emma.”
I started to get up from the chair, but the sheriff had a final warning. “Don’t leave town.”
“Oh, come on, Milo!” I cried. “You’re just trying to ruin my weekend! You know I’m not a suspect!”
The sheriff’s expression was surprisingly bland. “I’m not trying to ruin anything. You’re the primary source of information for this Platte and the rest of the Cavanaugh bunch. What’s wrong with you? I’d think you’d be panting with curiosity about Tom’s kids and his business. Even when you don’t know any of the people involved in a homicide you get all wound up about trying to figure out whodunit.” His hazel eyes hardened just a bit. “Is this Fisher really that hot?”
“That’s none of your business,” I snapped. “I’m going to see him. Now.”
I moved so fast that I knocked the chair over. It hit against my right leg, but I wouldn’t let Milo know how much it hurt. Trying not to limp, I hurried out of his office but refrained from slamming the door.
Lori, however, eyed me curiously. “Are you okay?”
I nodded and ignored Jack Mullins’s smirk. The deputy had a puckish sense of humor and,
for all I knew, had been listening at the keyhole. “Thanks for picking up my dinner,” I said to Lori with as much dignity as possible. “Dodge is probably finishing it for me right now.”
I went through the swinging gate and out of the building. Behind the wheel of my car, I sat still for a few moments, watching the slow flow of foot traffic on the south side of Front Street across from the sheriff’s headquarters: Irene Baugh, Mayor Fuzzy’s wife, coming out of city hall; a half dozen teenagers heading toward the Whistling Marmot Theatre to catch the early movie; Karl Freeman, high school principal, using the bank’s ATM after hours; the town veterinarian, Jim Medved, and his wife, Sherry, leaving the Burger Barn. Ordinary people doing ordinary things. The sameness of it all, the predictability, the mundane lives of Alpine suddenly struck me in a moment of revulsion. I was one of them. And I didn’t like myself for it.
There was nothing mundane about murder. Someone had killed someone else, and even if I thought Dylan Platte was a self-centered jackass, he hadn’t deserved to have his life cut short. But that didn’t make it right. If there was one thing I could do, and had done it fairly well in the past, I might be able to figure out that much. Dylan was Tom’s son-in-law. I’d do it for Tom. No, I thought, I’ll do it for me. Because I can. Because it will prove I’m not ordinary.
I dug out my phone and reluctantly dialed Rolf’s number. “Let me explain,” I said after he’d answered and made some smart remark that flew right by me in my self-appointed scales of justice mind-set. Fortunately, he didn’t interrupt but listened as I unfolded the tale of Dylan Platte and the Cavanaugh offspring.
“That is the most elaborate and inventive reason I’ve ever heard for being stood up,” Rolf declared when I was done. “I’m not sure whether I want to know if it really could be true. I’d like to leave it as it is, just for the sake of cocktail chatter when I go alone on the cruise tomorrow night.”
“You know perfectly well it’s true,” I retorted. “You can check it on the AP wire when it comes through courtesy of Spencer Fleetwood. In fact, it’s probably already there. He had it on the six o’clock news.”
There was a fairly long silence at the other end. “Hmmm,” Rolf finally murmured. “Do you want me to drive up to Alpine and help you sleuth?”
