The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “Yes,” I said, resuming my place on the sofa. “Can you picture your father living here?”

  “No, I really can’t,” Graham said after a pause. “He’d become a true San Franciscan. No offense, but we never believed he’d move away after thirty years.”

  “Really.” My tone was skeptical.

  “Oh, I realize that’s not what you like to hear,” Graham said matter-of-factly, “but Tom was all about business and profit margins. That was his life. He enjoyed the action.”

  “Maybe.”

  Graham leaned forward, hands clasped on his knees. “Look, I understand you may have a different take on my father, but we all have our own perceptions. How many years did you hold on to the dream?”

  “Too damned long,” I snapped. “It was no dream. We finally had definite plans. Adam—your half brother—and my own brother were going to concelebrate our nuptial Mass.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Graham remarked, “and I’m sure that’s what you wanted. It’s quite touching—romantic, too. But that wasn’t going to happen.” He slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, it’s tough to demolish someone’s illusions, but the real world is often harsh.”

  “Why have you come to see me?” I asked, trying to control my distress and at the same time searching for something—anything—about Graham that reminded me of Tom.

  Graham sat back in the armchair, crossing one leg over the other and giving his designer slacks a little tug to keep the crease straight. “To settle this business with the Advocate. We’ve reworked our offer and want you to stay on as long as you wish as the editor.”

  I started to protest, but Graham held up a hand. “Please, hear me out. We’re making a generous offer, and we’ll also give you a salary that will be considerably more than you take home now. We can do that because we own over three dozen newspapers west of the Rockies, up by fourteen percent in the three years since Tom died. Almost all of them are in the black. We manage to make a profit because our specialty is advertising on a very broad basis, not just local or even regional, but including national and even international advertisers. In some instances, we can give the newspapers away because of the lucrative ad revenue. You can see for yourself not only that this setup would provide you with a comfortable income until you’re ready to retire but that the buyout money will give you a fat nest egg.”

  The offer made some sense. Some, I thought, yet not enough to make me jump at the prospect.

  My hesitation was Graham’s signal to chuckle softly. “Don’t give me an answer now. Think about it, sleep on it. You know from your own experience that our little empire is solid and has a fine reputation. We’re staying for another day while Dylan and Kelsey make up their minds about that house they’re considering.” He got to his feet and smiled benignly. “I’ll go away now and let you cogitate. Thanks for hearing me out. We’re not villains, we’re businesspeople, trying to make a successful enterprise prosper even more.” He reached out to shake my hand.

  I couldn’t refuse the seemingly polite gesture. “I should do some research,” I said, realizing that Graham had yet to name his buyout price. I decided not to press him. I was afraid that, if it was large enough, I might be tempted. Instead, I informed him that I couldn’t promise an answer overnight.

  “That’s fine,” he said, letting go of my hand. “Take your time.”

  The phone was ringing. “Yes. Okay. I must get that call,” I said.

  Still smiling, Graham left.

  I’d already grabbed the receiver and answered as I closed the door behind him. It was, as I’d expected, Vida. She explained that she’d stopped off on the way home from KSKY to visit with her daughter and her husband.

  “I’d hoped Roger would be home,” Vida went on, “but he was working out at his friend Davin’s basement gym. Davin just returned from Western Washington University in Bellingham. Naturally, Roger is glad his chum is home again. He’s so keen on keeping fit but doesn’t want to impose on the family when Davin’s away at college.”

  Davin was the son of Oren and Sunny Rhodes, Curtis’s temporary landlords. The only basement apparatus I knew the family owned was an old pinball machine that had been taken out of the Venison Inn’s bar when the restaurant had been renovated. As far I could tell, keeping fit meant that Roger could still ease his large rear end into an even larger chair.

  I went straight to the point. “What did Sophia have to say?”

  “She was very vague about the Bronsky house,” Vida replied, “emphasizing that the decision quite naturally was up to Dylan and Kelsey. She and Graham came to give moral support after Dylan was supposed to have been murdered.”

  “That sounds odd,” I said.

  “Oh—I don’t know,” Vida responded thoughtfully. “They are family.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Anyway,” Vida continued after a pause, “I found out about Kelsey’s little boy. He’s staying with Sandra’s sister in San Rafael.”

  “I didn’t know Sandra had a sister,” I said. “Or if I did, I forgot.”

  “Understandable,” Vida remarked. “I gathered,” she went on, lowering her voice, “they still want to buy the Advocate.”

  “That’s right,” I informed her. “Graham stopped by to make an offer only an idiot like me could refuse.”

  “What was that?” Vida’s voice sharpened.

  I recounted the proposal. “Frankly,” I said, “it makes sense—right up until I realized that I wouldn’t have control of the paper anymore. Judging from how he described their operations elsewhere, they publish gigantic shoppers instead of newspapers. I’ve seen some of those. Local news is a low priority.”

  “I know. What’s the point?” Vida’s words shook with indignation. “Making money is a very unfulfilling way to live. I can’t imagine that Tommy would approve. From what Leo says, Tommy’s papers were filled with local information.”

  “That was then, this is now,” I said, hearing a siren in the distance and hoping that, if it were a fire engine, nobody’s house was burning down after our deadline. “Let’s face it, the media has changed drastically in the short time since Tom…died.” Short time? It seemed like forever. “I’ll tell them no, of course.”

  “Of course. I can’t imagine Alpine without a hometown newspaper.”

  I couldn’t imagine Alpine without Vida’s contributions. “Their revised offer is a bribe. If they want a foothold in Washington, there are some other weeklies around that are still independent.”

  “Not as many as there used to be, though,” Vida pointed out. “Oh—before I forget, I saw Leo arriving as I was driving away from the ski lodge. Was he calling on those Cavanaughs?”

  “Not that I know of,” I said. “Maybe he was meeting one of our advertisers there for a drink or dinner.”

  “He must’ve missed my program,” Vida murmured. “Oh, well. I suppose business comes first with Leo.”

  Vida and I wound up our conversation just as I heard the westbound Burlington Northern freight whistle as it rumbled through town. I left my House & Home editor to reflect on how our advertising manager would explain his dereliction of duty to her cupboard. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was eight-fifteen. I could e-mail Ben. Or write a couple of real letters, a habit I’d fallen away from in recent years.

  Standing by the sofa, I gazed at Craig Laurentis’s Sky Autumn and wondered if he’d be permitted to adopt the bear cubs. I hadn’t seen Craig since I’d gotten the painting, almost a year ago. Darlene Adcock had reported a sighting of him by her husband’s hardware store in February. Most of the locals still called Craig by his nickname, Old Nick. His long gray beard had made him seem much older than he really was. According to Donna Wickstrom, who ran the local art gallery, he was in his mid-or late fifties and had dropped out early on, when even a hippie’s alternative lifestyle had proved too burdensome.

  The phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I took my time picking up the receiver, sensing that it might be Graham Cavanaugh ad
ding more plums to the pie he’d offered.

  Milo’s voice was at the other end, sounding odd.

  “Emma?” he repeated hoarsely.

  “Yes, it’s me. You don’t sound like yourself. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Leo Walsh,” the sheriff replied with pain in his voice. “He’s been shot. His chances don’t look good.”

  FOURTEEN

  I COLLAPSED ONTO THE SOFA. “NO!” I CRIED. “NOT LEO!”

  “Calm down, Emma,” Milo said quietly. “I’m at the hospital. You stay put. I’ll call as soon as I find out anything.”

  “I’m coming,” I said, my voice shaking.

  “Don’t,” the sheriff insisted. “You can’t do a goddamned thing. You’re in shock, you’ll drive your goddamned car into a goddamned light pole.”

  Dimly, I realized that Milo must be in shock, too, or he wouldn’t have been cussing so much. “I’ll wait to collect myself.” I hung up. And realized I didn’t know how or where or anything else about Leo’s shooting.

  The siren. I remembered hearing it, thinking idly about its source. Vida. She’d seen Leo arrive at the ski lodge. When? As she was leaving before six-thirty to get to KSKY in plenty of time for her program. Had Leo been shot at the lodge? The Advocate. Kip wouldn’t have started printing the papers yet. Still trembling, I picked up the phone and misdialed three times before I got it right.

  “Kip?”

  “Emma? You sound weird.”

  “I am. Leo’s been shot.”

  “What?”

  “Leo. He was shot. He’s in the hospital. It sounds…bad.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to the hospital. Milo’s there. Where are you?”

  There was a pause before Kip answered. “Oh—you mean with the paper.” He sounded relieved, probably thinking that I’d lost my mind, which wasn’t far from the truth. “Just finishing up the front page. Shall I hold a spot open?”

  “Yes. I…” How long before we knew if Leo would live? I couldn’t imagine anything worse than coming out with a bulletin tomorrow that said he’d been shot and, before the paper could be delivered, learning that Leo had died. “I’ll call you from the hospital. It may be a little while, okay?”

  “Sure. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No. Hold down the fort.”

  “This is unbelievable,” Kip said, the tremor in his voice indicating that my horrible news had sunk in. “Leo? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got to go.” I hung up.

  I had to call Vida, but suddenly I felt drained. A terrible sense of urgency came over me. I couldn’t waste time before getting to the hospital. Not bothering to grab a jacket or a sweater, I ran out to the carport and got into my Honda. At least I had sense enough to take a deep breath and make sure that I’d put the car in reverse. Milo was right: I wasn’t in very good shape to drive.

  The fastest way was along my own street for a couple of blocks and then down Third to Cedar. It was still light outside, and traffic was minimal. That was lucky because I ran the arterial turning onto Cedar. There was an open parking spot in front of the dental and chiropractic clinic across the street from the hospital.

  I hurried through the emergency entrance, heading for the waiting room. Milo wasn’t there. I went up to the counter where the receptionist, Bree Kendall, sat with her usual hostile expression.

  “Mr. Walsh is in surgery,” she said with what I thought was something akin to pleasure at the opportunity to give me bad news. Bree and I had a brief but acrimonious history resulting from my dogged determination to interview her about a previous murder investigation. “That’s all I know.”

  “Where’s Sheriff Dodge?” I asked.

  “I’ve no idea.” Bree turned away.

  I hesitated, then stomped straight through the emergency area’s double doors.

  “Wait! You can’t do that!” Bree shouted after me.

  I didn’t bother to look in her direction. She might have been taller, younger, and more athletic than I was, but my mood brooked no interference. If she tried to stop me, I’d deck her.

  Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Dr. Elvis Sung came out of one of the examining rooms and quickened his step to meet me.

  “Dodge went out front for a smoke,” he said. “Leo’s being operated on by Doc Dewey and Dr. Weinberg.”

  “Dr. Weinberg?” I didn’t recognize the name.

  “We got lucky,” Dr. Sung said with a grim little smile on his broad, good-looking face. “He’s a crackerjack surgeon visiting from New York. He and his wife are staying at the ski lodge and were coming from dinner when they heard about the shooting. Trust me, this guy’s good. I’ve heard of him, even read a couple of his articles in medical journals.”

  “Then Leo may be okay?” I asked, feeling breathless.

  “Let’s say that his chances improved with Weinberg on the case. Not,” Sung added quickly, “to take anything away from Doc, but we couldn’t ask for a better surgeon in the OR.”

  “Where was Leo hit?”

  “Two bullets in the back, one close to his kidneys, the other just missed a lung.” Sung, a Hawaiian native, ran a hand over his smoothly shaved head. “One of the ski lodge valets heard the shots and found Leo in the parking lot. The young man at the desk called 911 and then got Weinberg out to tend to Leo. Luck of the Irish, you might say.”

  “Not so lucky to get shot in the first place,” I murmured. “How long will Leo be in surgery?”

  Sung shrugged. “It’s hard to tell. A couple of hours, maybe more.” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “Excuse me, Emma. I’ve got to finish up with Dixie Ridley. She broke her ankle playing tennis. Rip says he should’ve benched her a long time ago.”

  Dixie was married to the high school football and basketball coach. On the verge of any other last-minute deadline, I’d have called in her mishap to Kip so he could put it on page three. But not tonight. Leo was my priority.

  I didn’t want to go back through the waiting room and face Bree Kendall a second time, so I slipped out through the rear exit. Sure enough, Milo was pacing and smoking on the corner of Third and Pine across from the Clemans Building.

  “Emma.” He dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his heel, and loped toward me. “A hell of a thing,” he said, putting an arm around me. “You okay?”

  “I’m better now that I talked to Dr. Sung,” I said. “He didn’t scare the crap out of me like you did.”

  “I didn’t know about this Weinberg guy,” Milo admitted. “He rode with Leo in the ambulance, but I thought he was just another citizen tourist doing a good deed.”

  “Has Leo said anything?” I asked, grateful to lean against Milo’s solid presence.

  “No,” he replied. “Jesus, do you think this is connected with the other shooting? It can’t be random, can it?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes. No.” Milo looked up into the summer sky, where ribbons of pale gold and purple crept earthward to the west. “Still, you know more about this bunch than I do.”

  “Not a lot,” I admitted. “They’re virtual strangers.” I paused, my head still resting against Milo’s chest. Last January it had been the sheriff who had given me—and everyone else who knew him—a dreadful scare with what had finally been diagnosed not as a series of heart attacks, as we’d all feared, but as gallstones. Now it was Leo. Life’s uncertainties were taking a toll on me. “I’m helpless, incapable of changing the world around me. I feel remiss, almost as if I purposely neglected Tom’s kids. Crazy, huh?”

  “No crazier than a lot of stuff,” Milo said, clumsily patting my back before he let go of me. “We should check in, see if there’s any news.”

  “There won’t be this soon,” I said. “Do you know how long Leo’s been in surgery?”

  Milo glanced at his watch. “Twenty, thirty minutes. I got here from home right after the ambulance pulled in. Jack Mullins and Dustin Fong were on duty, so they
went to the ski lodge. They’re still there, processing the scene.”

  “Vida,” I blurted. “I must call her.”

  “Oh, hell!” Milo exclaimed. “Do you really want her roaring around here like a wounded elephant?”

  I looked up at the sheriff. “Better than having her roaring at me for the next few days if I don’t tell her. After all, Leo is her coworker. Despite their bickering, I think they actually like each other.”

  Heading for the hospital door, Milo shrugged. “Your call.”

  “Literally,” I said and took out my cell phone. “I’ll do it here. Sometimes they won’t let you use a cell inside the hospital because of all the sensitive equipment.”

  The sheriff loped back inside while I dialed Vida’s number. Her line was busy, so I left a message telling her to call me as soon as possible. I’ve never felt right about delivering bad news to a machine instead of a person.

  My next call was to Kip. I told him to wait a bit to run anything but the bare facts. We should have more news after Leo came out of surgery.

  “How long?” The usually unflappable Kip sounded anxious.

  “I’ve no idea,” I told him.

  Milo was pacing in the waiting room. The only other people in the area—except for the surly Bree Kendall behind the counter—were a young woman I didn’t recognize and her two-year-old boy, who had a runny nose and was coughing his head off.

  I joined the sheriff by the tropical fish tank and reduced my voice to a whisper. “Did you ask Bree how long it might be before we have any news?”

  “She doesn’t know,” Milo replied, not bothering to speak any more quietly than he usually did. “Does anybody who works in a hospital ever know anything?”

  I glanced at Bree, who was turned away from us. Then I glanced at the fish tank, noticing that a neon tetra was floating upside down. I hoped it wasn’t an omen. “Not very often,” I finally said, having to raise my voice to be heard over the coughing kid.

  “I can’t stick around here,” Milo declared, frowning in Bree’s direction. “I’m going up to the lodge. Where’s Vida? She lives only five blocks from here. Or didn’t you call her?”