The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Not unless that were the only way he might be identified,” I said.

  “Here.” Milo handed me a manila envelope. “Don’t worry about prints. The originals are in the evidence file.”

  I looked first at the black-and-white head shot of the victim. Eyes closed, no expression, could have been asleep. But postmortem photos aren’t misleading. There is something cold and distant about the faces of people who have died. They’re not there, it’s just an image, and all I see is the absence of life.

  The driver’s license was another matter. There were two versions, one the actual size of the license, and the other an enlargement of just the head shot. I gasped when I saw the full-color, smiling face of the handsome young man.

  I instantly recognized him.

  TEN

  “WHAT?” MILO ASKED, SURPRISED AT MY STARTLED reaction.

  “I’ve seen him.” I stared at the enlarged photo. “I’m sure of it. I…” Pausing, I searched my memory. “Stella’s beauty parlor,” I finally said. “He came in while I was there and asked for directions.”

  Milo frowned. “When?”

  “Wednesday, our pub day,” I replied. “Midafternoon.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, of course.” Suddenly I realized what Milo meant. “This guy supposedly didn’t arrive until Thursday.”

  The sheriff moved from behind his desk to stand beside me and gazed at the photos. “How close a look did you get?”

  “Twenty feet,” I said. “Maybe a little more. Stella was the one who talked to him. You’d better ask her where the guy was going and get her to ID these head shots.”

  “Is she still at work or gone home?”

  “That depends on how busy she is,” I replied. “Want me to come with you?”

  Milo shrugged. “Why not?”

  Stella’s Styling Salon was directly across the street from the sheriff’s office. We could see that the closed sign wasn’t hung on the door. Jaywalking across Front, we entered and found Stella alone, toting up the day’s receipts.

  “Good Lord,” she exclaimed as we walked in. “Am I under arrest for stealing my own hard-earned money?”

  “You get to be a witness,” I said. “Dodge is going to grill you.”

  “Been there, done that,” Stella said bitterly, referring to a murder several years earlier that had occurred on her premises. She turned to Milo. “That was no picnic for you, either, was it?”

  “No.” The sheriff and Stella exchanged beleaguered looks. The victim had been related to one of his former girlfriends.

  “So now what?” Stella asked, one fist on her hip. “Has this something to do with your latest corpse?”

  Milo showed her the enlargement of the driver’s license. “Look familiar?”

  Stella studied the photo carefully. “Yes.” She glanced at me. “You saw him, too, last Wednesday. Oh, God, Emma, what have you done to your hair this time?”

  “Skip the shoptalk,” Milo said. “What did he want?”

  “Directions,” Stella answered, apparently taking no offense. “He asked how to get to the golf course.”

  “That’s it?” Milo looked disappointed.

  Stella nodded. “I told him, he thanked me and left.”

  “Okay,” Milo said. “Thanks, Stella. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “No problem.” Stella again looked at me. “The real problem is that my client here can’t seem to find her brush, comb, or product. Did you do anything with your hair today?”

  “I washed it,” I replied, on the defensive. “I even used the dryer.”

  “The one that sits next to the washer?” Stella retorted. “Next time try tumble dry. It couldn’t hurt.”

  After we’d closed the door behind us, Milo scowled. “What was that all about? I think your hair looks nice.”

  “It doesn’t look the way Stella thought the cut should be styled,” I said. “Her criticism doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it, and she’s right. I’m inept when it comes to hair. Are we going to the golf course?”

  “We?” Milo echoed, standing with one foot on the curb and the other in the street. “Oh, why not? We’ll take our own cars, so I’ll head straight home after that.”

  We parted company in front of his headquarters. By the time I walked back to the Advocate office and got in my Honda, Milo had already made an illegal U-turn on Front Street and was heading for the Icicle Creek Road. I didn’t catch up with him until his Grand Cherokee turned right onto Railroad Avenue. We crossed Icicle Creek before making another right into the golf course. As I turned, I glimpsed Casa de Bronska to the east, its bright pink stucco mass erupting from the hillside with all the elegance of used bubble gum.

  The parking lot—which had finally been paved a couple of years ago—was three-quarters full. It was a pleasant evening, a good time to get in nine holes after work. I had just turned off the ignition when my cell phone rang. Reluctantly, I answered while Milo loped toward the homely clubhouse.

  “Emma?” Minnie Harris said. “Mel just got back from his stint at the Cascade Inn. I told him about your visit, and he remembered seeing Dick Bourgette’s truck in the lot Friday afternoon around two or so. Is that any help?”

  “It can’t hurt,” I replied.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Minnie pleaded. “I’m not accusing Dick of so much as wishing somebody ill, let alone actually doing it. In fact, I can’t be sure he was calling on the poor man who got killed. But Mel did notice that Dick’s truck was parked close to the end of the building.”

  “I think the world of all the Bourgettes,” I asserted, “but every scrap of information might help. Dick mentioned dropping off a business card for the man he thought was Dylan Platte, the potential buyer of the Bronsky place. Maybe that’s what he did.”

  “Oh.” Minnie paused. “Of course. I’m sure you’re right. Some latecomers are just pulling in. I must dash. We’ve only got two vacancies left. Three,” she added dolefully, “if we could use the dead man’s unit.”

  I rang off, thinking that, for the Harrises, the corpse without a name had merely become an impediment to their motel’s full occupancy. Life went on in Alpine. Still, somebody somewhere must miss the victim. Who? Where? Would we ever find out?

  Milo had already gone into the clubhouse. When I entered, he was in the pro shop talking to the manager, Van Goleeke.

  The sheriff glanced at me and turned back to Van. “Meet my new deputy, Emma Lord,” Milo said wryly. “Be good to her. She’s just learning the ropes.”

  I smiled at Van, a clean-cut, good-looking man in his thirties with wavy auburn hair and rather long sideburns. He was a nodding acquaintance, though not from the golf and country club. Van and his wife, Arlette, had moved to Alpine a couple of years earlier. She taught music full-time at the community college, and Van was a part-time instructor in golf and tennis. I’d run into him on campus once or twice. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d been to the golf course.

  “Van tells me that our body was here Thursday,” the sheriff said in a neutral voice. “He shot a few holes with Snorty Wenzel.”

  “The real estate guy?” I blurted.

  Van chuckled. “Right. Odd little character. He’s not a bad golfer, though. He told me he usually plays at the Blue Boy West Golf Course in Monroe.”

  Again, I spoke before the sheriff could say anything. “He lives in Monroe?”

  “I guess so,” Van said. “He’s only played this course three or four times, usually with Ed Bronsky.”

  Milo practically elbowed me out of the way. “So how did this guy sign in? The Californian, I mean.”

  “As Dylan Platte from…San Francisco, as I recall,” Van replied. “You want to check the guest register?”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Milo said.

  Van looked bemused. “So he was an impostor?”

  Milo nodded. “We’re running him through the system to see if he has a record, but all we have are fingerprints. No match in this state.
You talk to him?”

  “No,” Van said. “Not much chance for that. Any talking was done by Snorty. Not to mention the snorting in between sentences.” Van chuckled again. “He’s a real motormouth. Say, Sheriff, how come you never swing a club around here? You could walk here from your backyard.”

  “Not my game,” Milo replied. “I fish and hunt. I like the outdoors best when I’m alone.”

  “Golf’s a great game,” Van declared. “You can play until you’re a hundred.”

  “And get a score a lot higher than that,” Milo retorted. “No, thanks. The only holes I care about are the ones I can punch out on my fish and game card.”

  Van grinned. “Suit yourself.”

  Milo thanked Van and we left.

  “Damnit,” the sheriff muttered as we walked into the parking area. “Now I’ll have to track down this Snorty dink. I’ll be damned if I’ll call Ed and ask for his number.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “If you ever really read the Advocate, you’d know he runs a small ad every week. I think his number is a cell phone.”

  Milo stopped and gazed skyward, where puffy white clouds moved slowly up the river valley. A faint mist was beginning to rise out of the meadow between the golf course and the Icicle Creek development where Milo lived. “I’ve got last week’s paper somewhere. I’ll call this Snorty from home.” He looked down at me. “You want to come in for a nightcap?”

  “It’s still daylight.” I smiled faintly. “I’ll take a rain check, okay?”

  “Sure.” He didn’t look too disappointed.

  I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Later, big guy. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  He headed for the Grand Cherokee; I got into my Honda. On the way home, I decided to make my own call to Snorty Wenzel. I’d give Milo half an hour of lead time. Meanwhile, I’d update Vida on what little I’d learned about the homicide case. I considered calling Curtis, but my irritation with him hadn’t gone away. He should have been following his own leads. Realistically, I figured he was probably sitting on his butt drinking beer and listening to iTunes.

  Vida’s line was busy when I called her a little after eight o’clock. After listening to her usual lengthy message commanding the caller not only to leave a name and number but to include details of information, news, gossip, or anything else that could possibly provide fodder for her immense store of local knowledge, I disobeyed and simply asked her to call me back.

  Ten minutes later my phone rang. “Well?” Vida demanded. “What is it?”

  I tried to be succinct. My House & Home editor was intrigued. “This Snorty person,” she mused, “may be the key. I’m suspicious of anyone who conducts business from his car. Nor do I know anything about his background. He seems to have sprung up from nowhere.”

  To Vida, that was tantamount to being an unnatural creature spawned by evil spirits. Her lack of knowledge was an insufferable condition that had to be remedied as soon as possible.

  “You know people in Monroe,” I said in my most innocent voice.

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Vida agreed. “Buck has friends there, too.”

  “By the way,” I said casually, “have you talked to Buck about his interest in buying a condo in Alpine?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him since Saturday,” Vida replied, somewhat strained. “I’m certain that Mrs. Hines has confused Buck with someone else.”

  That struck me as highly unlikely, but I held the thought. “You realize,” I said, “I’m pulling Curtis off of the homicide story except maybe for sidebars.”

  “You have no choice,” Vida declared. “Your conflict of interest ended when the murdered man turned out to be someone other than a Cavanaugh kinsman. The entire Advocate issue could be a hoax.”

  “That seems pointless,” I said. “He must have some connection to the Cavanaughs or he wouldn’t know about the family, the newspapers, and me. And what about that bracelet and note?”

  “A front man, perhaps,” Vida murmured. “I must admit, it’s very puzzling.” She paused. “Are you going to call this Snorty tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not see him in person?”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “You’ve met him,” Vida said. “Didn’t you say he came into the front office to place an ad?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t there at the time,” Vida said. “He wouldn’t know me. I could be a stranger. I could be”—she paused again—“from somewhere other than Alpine.” Obviously, the mere idea of living elsewhere disturbed her. “I might tell him that I’d heard the purchase of the Bronsky house wasn’t going through and that I was interested in seeing it.”

  “But Ed and Shirley know you,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, yes,” she said impatiently, “but I’d ask to look at it only from the outside, perhaps have him drive me around town.”

  I turned her plot over in my mind. “No,” I said firmly, “I don’t like it for several reasons. Snorty may not in fact hold the key, as you put it, except, of course, to the Bronsky house. And while you may not have met the man, that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t know who you were even if you used an assumed name. Let’s face it—you are well-known in Alpine, and any number of people, including Ed and Shirley, may have pointed you out to Snorty.”

  “My hats,” she muttered. “Well now. You do have a point. Still…”

  “No,” I repeated. “A simple phone call, which I’ll make in the next half-hour. I’ll let you know if he has anything of interest to say.”

  I heard her sigh. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  I checked Snorty’s number in his one-column, three-inch ad. “Win with Wenzel! Flexible Mortgages! Dream Homes Our Specialty! Creative Financing! Act Now!!!” ran the copy. Leo must have cringed when he put that one together. The featured home of the week—in very small print with no photo—was described as “Three glorious rooms with river view, natural landscaping, and small outbuilding needs your TLC.” I deciphered that as somebody’s abandoned cabin and privy in the woods so close to the Skykomish that the next spate of high water would wash the whole mess all the way to Puget Sound.

  Before I could dial Snorty’s number, my phone rang. Somewhat to my surprise, Mary Jane Bourgette’s brisk voice greeted me.

  “I’m glad I caught you at home,” she said. “This is just a reminder about the parish potluck picnic this Thursday at Old Mill Park. You’re a salad or fresh fruit.”

  I had forgotten, despite the announcement from the pulpit at Sunday Mass, the notice in the bulletin—and the small article we’d run in the Advocate along with a listing in the Alpine events calendar. “Oh—sure, six o’clock, right?”

  “Five-thirty,” Mary Jane said dryly. “With school out, we’re having the Teen Club set up so we can get an early start in case it rains.”

  I knew Mary Jane well enough to admit I was slightly addled, especially since I could tell from her voice she’d already figured that out for herself. “Too much going on,” I said by way of explanation.

  “The murder at the motel,” Mary Jane said. “You must feel a lot of pressure when we have something like that happen around here.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, well aware that Mary Jane had given me the perfect opening to ask a nagging little question. “Say, when I talked to Dick about our repair projects last week, he mentioned planning to stop by the Tall Timber to drop off a business card for the man we thought was Dylan Platte. Did he meet the guy or decide to wait?”

  Mary Jane didn’t answer right away. “Hang on,” she said at last. “Dick’s in the garage. I’ll ask him. Or do you really want to know?”

  “It’d be helpful if your husband had a chance to size up this guy,” I explained. “He’s a John Doe at present, and that stymies a murder investigation.”

  “Okay.” Mary Jane didn’t sound enthusiastic. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Five minutes passed
before I heard Mary Jane or any sound at the other end of the line. She’d apparently pressed the mute button so that I couldn’t listen to her conversation with Dick.

  “He did swing by the motel that afternoon,” Mary Jane informed me. “But he didn’t see the guy from California.”

  “So he didn’t leave his business card?”

  “No.”

  I realized that Mary Jane’s usual candor was missing. “Gosh,” I said, feigning shock, “does he think the victim was already dead?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Mary Jane said, now sounding downright defensive.

  “I’m trying to piece together the sequence of events Friday afternoon,” I said, sounding bewildered, which wasn’t hard to do. “Time of death isn’t always exact. I thought maybe Dick saw something or somebody suspicious and decided to get out of there. You know how we sometimes have these strange feelings that can creep us out.”

  “Dick’s not like that,” Mary Jane replied, her voice resuming its familiar dry tone. “My husband isn’t imaginative. Hammer and nails, saw and boards—that’s his métier.”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” I said, “since that’s what makes Dick so good at what he does for a living.” I paused, wondering how far I could press my developing friendship with Mary Jane. The road to real camaraderie had been rocky for me in Alpine. I didn’t want to ruin a growing sense of trust between us. “That,” I said, taking the plunge, “would indicate Dick definitely saw something very real that put him off.”

  Mary Jane uttered a big sigh. “Oh, damn, Emma, you’re putting me in the middle! I told Dick I wouldn’t say anything to anybody. It’s all too stupid anyway.”

  “What is?”

  Another sigh from Mary Jane. “Look. It’s not a big deal, I’m sure of it. And unlike most people in this town—remembering that we’re latecomers to Alpine—I don’t flap my jaws about things that can be misconstrued. I’m not going to start now. Oh, I realize you’re only doing your job, but I have to draw the line. I won’t break my word to Dick.”

  I was disappointed, but I understood. “That’s okay, Mary Jane,” I said resignedly. “I’d probably do the same in your place. But if Dick ever decides what he saw might help nail a killer, he ought to talk to the sheriff, not to me.”