The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  I couldn’t look at Vida, who’d winced almost every time Snorty had snorted during this lengthy account. Curtis, meanwhile, was half-listening in. The other half apparently was intermittently typing on his keyboard.

  “Are you sure,” I said to Snorty, “that this so-called Platte didn’t arrive until Thursday?”

  Snorty seemed taken aback. “That’s what he told me. Why?”

  “I’m positive I saw him in Alpine Wednesday afternoon,” I said. “So did Stella Magruder at the salon. He was asking for directions to the golf course.”

  Snorty put a chubby fist to his cheek and pondered. “That might explain it.”

  “What?” Vida broke in.

  He swerved to look at Vida. “When I took him on that drive, he mentioned the swimming pool and that he’d replace those poplar trees around it with some sort of cypress. I didn’t think about that until later, but we hadn’t gone by the pool area on the east side of the house yet, and my virtual tour only showed the pool itself, not the trees.”

  “Meaning,” I said, “he’d been there earlier. Or maybe he saw them from the golf course, if that’s where he’d gone on Wednesday.”

  Snorty shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why would he do any of those things, including impersonate Dylan Platte? It sounds like a practical joke or something to me. Not,” he added, wagging a finger, “that I don’t appreciate a good laugh like anybody else.”

  “I’m sure the sheriff would like to know the answers, too,” I told Snorty. “And the real Dylan Platte as well. The sale is going through, though, isn’t it?”

  Snorty frowned. “I hope so. I’m on my way up to the ski lodge to take a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Platte. Ed and Shirley ought to have the house ready for viewing by now.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Vida muttered.

  Snorty grimaced. “It’s not easy with a place that big. Hard to get hired help around here, too.” He eased himself out of Leo’s chair. “Guess I’ll be on my way. Say,” he said, eyeing me with what I assumed was his friendliest smile, “you’ll be sure and mention in your story that I’m a real estate agent dealing primarily in residential property all around Skykomish and Snohomish counties?”

  “This isn’t an ad,” I said, trying to sound kind. “It’s news. Of course I’ll identify you as the agent for the Bronsky house.”

  Snorty nodded once. “It never hurts to dress that kind of thing up, you know. I mean, small town people like to feel as if they’re doing business with a neighbor.”

  “True.” I was noncommittal. “Thanks, Mr. Wenzel.”

  As Snorty went out, my phone rang. I hurried into my cubbyhole to answer it.

  “We got a hit on the dead guy’s prints,” Milo said. “NICS IDed him as Maxim Roth Volos, thirty-five, of New York City. Rap sheet includes a couple of fraud charges, dealing in illegal firearms, and some minor stuff. No convictions, though.”

  “New York?” I said in surprise. “You mean he’s listed as a current resident there?”

  “Last known address was somewhere in Manhattan,” Milo answered, “but that was three years ago. I don’t know much about New York, but the street where he lived then is called Amsterdam.”

  “I’m not familiar with the city, either,” I admitted, “but I think it’s one of the main drags.”

  “Like Alpine Way?” Milo said.

  I figured he was kidding. “Everything in this world is relative. They both begin with an A. I don’t know what to make of this news, but I’m glad you found out who he was before we go to press.”

  “I’m glad you’re glad,” he said dryly. “All it does for me is muddy the waters.”

  “I assume you’ll ask the Cavanaugh Gang if they’ve ever heard of this guy,” I said.

  “Oh, sure. But if they have, they probably won’t admit it. Talk to you later.” The sheriff rang off.

  Vida, naturally, had been eavesdropping. She’d headed my way as soon as I put the phone down. “Well?” she said.

  I related what Milo had told me. “A little strange, isn’t it?”

  She pursed her lips and frowned. “Yes. But there must be a connection.” Vida pointed to the enlargement I’d had made of the victim’s driver’s license picture. “I can’t think what it could be.”

  “I can’t, either,” I said.

  We didn’t know that the answer was staring us in the face.

  TWELVE

  FOR THE REST OF THE MORNING, I HURLED MYSELF INTO finishing my tasks for the front and editorial pages. I’d already completed my copy for the special Fourth of July four-page insert. We were going to run a photo from 1917, when Alpine had sold the highest ratio of World War One Liberty Bonds per capita in the state. The original pictures had been taken on the old mill’s loading dock, with the residents proudly displaying a huge American flag donated by the once-great Seattle department store Frederick & Nelson. Vida had contributed a feature on previous Independence Day festivities and a “where-are-they-now” article about some of the descendants of the participants in the patriotic Liberty Bond drive. She featured a trio of young boys in the photo—two Dawson brothers, Louie and Tom, and a cousin, Bill Murphy—who had all served during World War Two. Louie had been in the Coast Guard, Tom was with General Patton in North Africa and Sicily, and Bill had been a naval officer in the South Pacific. All three had survived the war and returned to the Seattle area.

  Curtis’s contribution was an attempt at humor—not entirely successful—on what might have happened if the colonists had lost the Revolutionary War. Leo, of course, was responsible for all of the extra-revenue ads that supported the additional four pages.

  My homicide article proved tricky, but I managed to get in all the pertinent facts. I let Curtis write the cutline for the head shot and ask if anyone had seen the dead man during his brief stay in the area. If so, they should contract the sheriff—or the Advocate.

  I stayed in for lunch to ride herd over the copy—as well as the ads—that were going to the back shop. I’d eaten two doughnuts and figured I could last until the lunch bunch had left the Burger Barn so I wouldn’t have to wait in the take-out line.

  At a quarter to one, I took a break to check my personal e-mail. I’d been too tired and upset the previous night to see if there were any messages after I’d gotten back from the ski lodge.

  To my surprise—and initial delight—Adam had sent me a message just after ten PDT. “Hi, Mom,” it read.

  Just sent an e-mail to Father Den Kelly in Alpine, telling him about the need for a new heater in our little church and also a new outboard motor for the boat I use during these summer months. Heater costs about $1,800, the motor runs (or doesn’t run, in the case of the current one) almost $9,000. Thought Den might take up a special collection, and you could do an article in the paper that would reach not just the local residents but the retirees and other people who’ve moved out of the parish. I know many of them still subscribe to the Advocate. We’d really appreciate the help. Thanks—Love and prayers, Your Landlocked Son.

  I sat very still for almost a full minute, staring at the screen and trying not to be furious. No mention of my dilemma, no reference to his half siblings. It was as if he’d forgotten all about what was going on with his mother. Finally, I typed my terse answer:

  Adam—Have Father Den give me the details. We’re up against deadline. Love, Mom.

  I hit the Send button and immediately felt a pang of guilt. At least I’d signed the message “Love.” Of course I knew my son was in a far-off place with huge demands upon his time and energy. But the kind of distance I sensed wasn’t in terms of miles, it was emotional detachment. He’d taken vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Or, as his uncle Ben had put it, “No honey, no money, just the Boss.” Unlike the sacrament of Matrimony, Holy Orders did not ask him to forsake all others, including his mother. Adam had hurt my feelings, and I couldn’t help but be resentful.

  While I was still licking my wounds, Leo sauntered in. “Emma,” he called, approachi
ng my cubbyhole, “guess who I ran into at the diner.”

  I tried to pull out of my bleak mood. “Who?”

  “Fleetwood,” Leo said, grinning. “Guess why he didn’t run that interview with Snorty Wenzel?”

  “Why?”

  “Too many snorts,” Leo replied. “When Fleetwood tried to edit them out, he ran into some technical problems and…What’s wrong? You look pissed.”

  Denial was futile. I’m not very good at hiding my feelings. “I am. My son is being a pain in the butt.” Seeing Leo’s surprised expression, I held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I understand he has tons of problems to tackle every day, and a child assumes a parent can weather his or her own little storms. After all, that’s what parents do and keep their mouths shut.”

  “Actually,” Leo said, leaning on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs, “we don’t. Not after they get to be about six. Otherwise, they aren’t ready for the real world. I ought to know. My ex and I knocked ourselves out keeping my drinking problem a secret from our kids—right up until I fell off the stage during the Christmas pageant at St. Elizabeth’s in Van Nuys. Our oldest was in sixth grade at the time. ‘Daddy’s sick’ didn’t cut it.”

  “You have a point,” I conceded. “In many ways, I didn’t shield Adam from grim reality. I couldn’t—not when he got old enough to wonder where his father was.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That his dad lived in California.” I thought back to that awkward moment when my son had just turned four. “Adam had heard of California. I showed him on a map and told him it was a long way from Portland. In fact, I hadn’t known myself that Tom had moved from Seattle until I heard it a few months earlier through the grapevine at The Oregonian.”

  Leo nodded. “There must have been more questions when he got older.”

  “Oh, yes.” I shook my head. “That got harder, but I was candid. When Adam was ten, I gave him the birds-and-the-bees talk. Luckily, I had Ben to help steer him through that from a male’s standpoint. I told Adam then that his father and I had made a mistake, that I couldn’t marry Tom because he already had a wife and children, and that it was best for us—I meant Adam and me—to stay out of Tom’s life. I tried very hard to not describe his father as a villain, even though I had dark moods of resentment and anger.”

  “Not surprising.” Leo regarded me with an inquisitive expression. “I…” He shrugged. “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, it’s none of my business,” he said, looking embarrassed.

  “Oh, come on,” I urged. “If it isn’t, I’ll tell you to stick it.”

  Leo uttered a big sigh. “I’ve wondered if Tom ever offered to help with Adam. Financially, I mean.”

  “He called me a couple of times at first. I hung up on him. Then he wrote me a letter. I threw it away and never answered it.” I made a face. “That was it—until he showed up eighteen years later.”

  “So Adam really had only…what? An off-and-on relationship of five or six years with Tom?”

  “A bit more,” I said, finally realizing why Leo was quizzing me. “I know what you’re thinking. Adam and Tom saw each other maybe a dozen times at most. Not enough to really bond. Ben was the surrogate father.”

  “Not to mention Adam must resent those half siblings, who, in effect, held his father hostage while they lived a life of luxury and you toiled away to keep food on the table and a roof over Adam’s head. Hell, Emma,” he said, straightening up, “your son may be a priest, but he’s still human. He could be having his own struggles with this situation.”

  “Maybe,” I allowed, noting that Vida had returned and was casting an inquiring eye in our direction. “I guess I should make allowances for that, but Adam’s apparent indifference still hurts.”

  Before Leo could respond, my phone rang. Figuring Ginny wasn’t yet back from lunch, I picked up the receiver.

  “Ms. Lord?” the cheerful voice at the other end said. “This is Diana Hines in Everett. I called Debbie Murchison last night to inquire about Ella Hinshaw. She hadn’t yet gotten back from Mount Vernon, but I left a message, and she called me on her lunch break a few minutes ago.”

  Leo had gone back to his desk. Vida had poured herself a mug of hot water and was standing in the middle of the newsroom. “Yes, Mrs. Hines,” I said, making sure my House & Home editor could hear me. “How’s Ella doing?”

  The question rocketed Vida into my cubbyhole. “Malingering, probably,” she muttered.

  “She’s doing fairly well,” Mrs. Hines said, “and please call me Diana. Ella’s going to need help when she’s discharged, though. Her right side is paralyzed, though the prognosis is good.”

  “I’ll let Mrs. Runkel know,” I said, gazing innocently at Vida, who had settled into a chair. “She’ll be so pleased to hear how her sister-in-law is getting along. Thanks for calling.”

  “That’s not all,” Diana said hastily as Vida glared at me. “I asked Debbie about the Josh and Ginger Roth thing. She had actually seen Mr. Roth—she presumed it was Mr. Roth—slipping his name into the mailbox slot a week or so ago.”

  “She had?” I scribbled a note for Vida and pushed it across my desk. “Did she talk to him?”

  “Yes,” Diana replied. “She asked if he was moving in. He told her he was, along with his wife. And then he left. Debbie was coming off the night shift and was dead tired, so she went straight to her unit.”

  “Did you ask her what he looked like?”

  “She said he was very good-looking, thirties, well-dressed, brown hair. Is that any help?”

  “It could be,” I said, noting that Vida was shifting impatiently in the chair. “Maybe we can show her some pictures.” Thanking Diana, a second time, I rang off.

  “Well now!” Vida huffed. “What’s this about?”

  I gave her the details. “Do you want to see Debbie?” I inquired. “You could look in on Ella.”

  “I already did, after work last night.” Vida made a face. “Ella ought to have more spunk. Therapy should restore the use of her arm and leg, but dollars to doughnuts, she won’t stay with the regimen. She’ll expect everyone to wait on her.”

  “Luckily,” I pointed out, “Ella has quite a few relatives in town.”

  Vida looked askance. “I refuse to be numbered among them.”

  Having no intention of getting into a Runkel family feud, and never exactly certain of how each was related to the others, I changed the subject. “What about talking to Debbie?”

  “You mean to show her the picture of the victim?”

  I nodded. “If she doesn’t recognize him as the man at Pines Villa, get a description.”

  “Very well.” Vida stood up. “First, I must finish ‘Scene’. I could use one more item.”

  “It looks like the squirrels have been digging in the planter boxes on Front Street,” I said. “There was dirt all over the sidewalk by the one where I parked this morning.”

  “Nasty creatures,” Vida murmured. “So destructive. And prankish. They ate almost all of my daffodil bulbs this winter. I don’t know why I’m buying more to plant this fall. At least they left some of the tulips.”

  She started out of my office, but the mention of bulbs was a timely reminder for me. “Hey,” I called out, “you never told me what Rick Erlandson said when you went over to the bank to get your money order. Did he recognize the victim’s picture?”

  Vida turned around and scowled. “Rick was in a meeting. I’ll check with him when I go to the hospital to see Debbie. And,” she added grudgingly, “Ella.”

  “You might check at the Venison Inn with Oren and Sunny Rhodes,” I said. “The blonde known as Ginger was there with a man last week. They’ll remember—Milo and I already talked to them, but we didn’t have a picture of the victim with us.”

  Vida looked disapproving. “I prefer not going into the bar. Midafternoon drinkers are often alcoholic. And Sunny doesn’t ordinarily start work until the dinner hour.”


  “Okay, I’ll do it myself,” I said. “Or send Curtis.”

  “Good luck with that assignment.” Vida stalked off.

  Curtis returned shortly after she’d left. Leo was in the back shop with Kip. Ginny was languishing behind the front desk.

  “I’m going to get some lunch,” I informed my reporter. “I won’t be gone long.”

  “Anything I can do?” he asked in a rather plaintive tone.

  “All of your copy is in?”

  He nodded. “All six inches of it.”

  I felt guilty for having lost confidence in his journalistic ability. “Okay. You can go to the diner and talk to Terri Bourgette. Ask if she remembers the guy who came in Thursday with Snorty Wenzel. Then stop by the sheriff’s office and find out if there are any last-minute facts they’ve uncovered.” I figured there probably wouldn’t be anything new or Milo would have let me know. On the other hand, the sheriff sometimes forgot about our Tuesday deadline. “Oh—get a copy of the victim’s enlarged driver’s license head shot and check in with Oren Rhodes. If Sunny—his wife—happens to be there, ask her, too.”

  “Got it,” Curtis said, all but leaping out of his chair. “Race you to the door.”

  I let him win. Short of firing him, the only thing I could do was try to offer encouragement and hope he improved as a reporter. After all, he’d been on the job just a few weeks, and he was young as well as inexperienced. Over thirty years ago, I’d traveled that same road. My internship at The Seattle Times had helped me adapt to the real world of newspapers—and, in the process, it had broken my heart. My mentor had been Tom Cavanaugh. At least I didn’t have to worry about Curtis falling in love with Vida.

  Shortly after two, my House & Home editor returned, her gray eyes snapping behind her big glasses. “Well! That was most interesting!” she declared, confronting me as I was coming out of the back shop. “Rick Erlandson and Debbie Murchison identified the victim as the same person they’d seen at the bank and Pines Villa.”