The Alpine Traitor

by Mary Daheim

  “I don’t expect you to be a hero,” I said quietly, remembering my first bout with professional cowardice, almost thirty years earlier. I’d been driving back to The Oregonian from an interview in the suburbs of Portland when I encountered an accident involving a boy not much older than Adam. The kid had been hit by a car while riding his bicycle and was on the pavement, where the emergency personnel were tending to him. I didn’t know if he were dead or alive, and I didn’t stop to find out, despite having my camera with me. My crusty old buzzard of a city editor demanded to know why I hadn’t done my job. I told him honestly that I was too frightened—all I could think of was my own son in a similar situation. To my surprise, the editor understood, though he warned me to stiffen my backbone the next time. Because, he insisted, there would always be a next time. “I do, however,” I emphasized to Curtis, “expect you to act responsibly. You’d better find your cell phone or get a new one.”

  “I will,” Curtis promised, finally looking me in the eye. “If only I’d seen the shooter. That would’ve saved the day, right?”

  I agreed. “But it seems nobody else did, either.” I smiled slightly. “Now get out there and go to work. And by the way, I’m not overly thrilled about Ed’s return to his old job, but as long as he’s here, do whatever you can to keep him moving.”

  Curtis saluted. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  My phone rang just as he left. It was Father Den, saying that he’d gotten an e-mail from Adam about a special collection. “I guess,” my pastor said, “he e-mailed you a reminder last night, but I told him what had happened with Leo and that maybe you hadn’t had a chance to check your computer.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I hadn’t.”

  “That’s okay,” he assured me in his usual affable voice. “I’ve got the details. By the way, I went to the hospital last night and gave Leo the Last Rites when he came out of surgery. Of course it’s called the ‘Anointing of the Sick’ these days, because that’s not so frightening. In fact, I figure someday it’ll be known as the ‘Sacrament of the Not Feeling as Good as I Should.’ Anyway, I’ll be including Leo in the intercessions for the next few days. I just wish he’d show up for Mass more often than at Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Sunday. Adam’s going to be offering prayers for him, too. Have you contacted Ben?”

  “No,” I admitted, “but I will. Leo can use the prayers. We all can.”

  For a Wednesday, the morning seemed busier than usual. I e-mailed both my son and my brother, checked with the hospital to make sure Leo was still making progress, and offered more suggestions to Ed about pursuing ads. Vida was clearly avoiding Ed by being away from the office, so when she returned around eleven, her phone messages had piled up.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” she exclaimed while I was pouring more coffee. “I’m supposed to go to the hospital and help get Ella home! Why me? What’s wrong with the rest of the family?”

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer that question because my phone rang. I scurried back into my cubbyhole and grabbed the receiver. Kelsey Platte was on the line.

  “Ms. Lord?” Her voice sounded uncertain. “Dylan told me you wanted to meet me for lunch. He said you had some things that belonged to my father. Could you please send them to the lodge? I really don’t feel at all well.”

  “I’d rather not,” I said. “How about this? I’ll come pick you up around twenty to twelve. That way we can beat the lunch rush at the diner and find a nice quiet booth.”

  “Oh…I don’t know…I really shouldn’t…”

  “You need a break,” I said, trying to sound confidential, warm, fuzzy, and whatever else might motivate the young woman to trust me. “I feel really lax about you and your brother. I should have kept in touch, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Let me buy you lunch. It can’t make amends for not having reached out sooner, but I’m trying to do that now. Please, Kelsey. It’s important to me, for the sake of your dad.”

  “Ah…okay, I guess.” She paused. “What are you driving?”

  “A green Honda Accord,” I said. “Twenty to twelve in front of the lodge. See you.” I hung up before she could change her mind.

  Not two minutes later the phone rang again. “Emma,” Marisa Foxx said. “I thought this might be a good time to call, since it’s the day the paper comes out and you’re not under pressure. How is Leo?”

  “Improving,” I said. “Thank God.”

  “Amen,” Marisa said. “He seems like a very decent man.”

  “He is,” I said. “By the way, your would-be client Ed Bronsky is filling in for Leo.”

  “Oh.” Marisa’s laugh was very soft. “Is that good or bad news?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted, lowering my voice. “Ed’s one step ahead of being better than nothing. I think.”

  “I’d prefer not representing him,” Marisa said, “so I hope the house sale goes through. Of course, he should have an attorney look at the contract. There are some real horror stories out there these days with the high price of real estate. I just heard one of them last night from an old friend in San Francisco. And by the way, I called her because of our chat about the attorney who was murdered. After we’d talked, my curiosity got the better of me. I thought I’d find out if the case were ever solved and figured she would’ve heard, being a prosecutor for the city.”

  “Was it?” I asked.

  “No. But that’s not the only unsolved homicide in San Francisco—or anywhere, for that matter,” Marisa said. “No apparent motive, no witnesses, no weapon found. It was just one of those seemingly random murders. Mr. Vitani’s wife had warned him about walking home late at night and taking shortcuts down dark alleys. It was so sad. He left four young children behind. Angela—my friend—heard Mrs. Vitani was getting married again this summer. Maybe she’ll have better luck.”

  “Yes.” Something Marisa had said distracted me. “Vitani? That name’s familiar. Did you mention it before?”

  Marisa paused. “I might have. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s probably not that uncommon a name,” she said, before changing the subject. “Do you play poker?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t played in years,” I said. “I don’t know all of the newer games, except for watching the tournaments on TV. Why?”

  “I belong to a group—mostly lawyers, but they’re a fairly lively bunch—and we get together twice a month,” Marisa explained. “It’s one of my rare social outings. We usually play in Monroe because it’s a central meeting point for our six regulars. Would you be interested in sitting in sometime? We have dinner first.”

  “I might, if you’re all very generous about my ignorance,” I said.

  “Good. In the summer we often have some open chairs with people going on vacation. I’ll call you before the next get-together, the second week of July.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks, Marisa. I—” The name Vitani suddenly struck me. “I remember,” I blurted. “Was this Vitani in a law firm with somebody else? I can’t think of the other names.”

  “Yes,” Marisa replied. “Bowles and Mercier. It’s now Bowles, Mercier and Fitzsimmons. How do you know of them?”

  I explained about seeing the firm’s name among some papers I’d found recently. Marisa and I might be nourishing a budding friendship, but I was reluctant to reveal too much all at once. “When was Mr. Vitani killed?” I asked.

  “Four, five years ago?” Marisa responded. “I’m not sure exactly, but it was in the summer. I suppose it was still fairly light out and Mr. Vitani felt safe. Unfortunately, he was wrong.” She paused. “Was he someone connected to your newspaper business?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know anything about him, except what you’ve told me. He represented someone I knew.”

  Marisa was very sharp. “Your fiancé?”

  “Yes.” There was no point in evading the issue now. “Mr. Vitani’s firm may have represented the newspaper chain that Tom owned.�
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  “I doubt it,” Marisa said. “Good Lord, what are you thinking? That these people who’ve come to town have some connection with Mr. Vitani? I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve heard rumors, of course, including that they’re somehow related to Tom. How painful this must be for you!”

  “Yes,” I confessed, “it’s been tough. Very tough. But I’m not selling, and that’s that. Why did you say that Mr. Vitani wouldn’t have represented Tom’s business? His name was on a list of emergency contacts.”

  “Mr. Vitani—his first name was John, I think—handled mostly estates, probate, that sort of thing,” Marisa explained. “And high-profile divorces, which might have seemed like a motive for murder, though no serious suspects were ever found. Why kill the attorney instead of the estranged spouse? Anyway, one of the other senior partners, either Bowles or Mercier, could have handled Tom’s business. They’re both more into corporate law, if I recall correctly.”

  “If that’s so,” I said, keeping my eye on the time, which was almost eleven-thirty, “then the firm may still represent the Cavanaugh children.”

  “That’s very likely,” Marisa agreed. “Does that mean if you get involved in some legal complications, I could be going up against those high-powered San Franciscans?”

  “I doubt it’ll come to that,” I said. “They can’t sue me for not selling them the Advocate. Still, it’s very curious how linked everybody seems to be. It is a small world sometimes.”

  “It is,” Marisa replied, “particularly if you limit it to the West Coast. Even here in Alpine I find myself dealing with firms from Mexico to Canada. The law is a bit like a big fraternity, though often as adversaries, not allies.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” I said. “And speaking of adversaries, I have to pick up Tom’s daughter in a few minutes and take her to lunch.”

  “Ah.” Marisa uttered a little laugh. “That should be interesting. Or,” she added, sounding more serious, “will it be awkward?”

  “Both,” I said. After a couple of cliché pleasantries, we rang off.

  Coming back from a quick trip to the restroom, I found Vida arguing fiercely with—I guessed—one of her relatives. “You’re not a working woman,” she asserted, tapping the desk with a pencil and making a sound like an angry woodpecker. “And don’t tell me how much you do around your house or your garden. I have all that to keep up, too. Just because you worked two jobs and raised a family a hundred years ago doesn’t mean—” Vida stopped talking. “Well!” She banged the receiver down in its cradle. “The nerve! Mary Lou hung up on me!”

  Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt was another sister-in-law, and equally strong-minded. The two women had never gotten along. “I gather,” I said, “you’re stuck with Ella.”

  Vida leaned back in her chair, fists on hips. “That’s right. Ella’s related to I don’t know how many able-bodied people around this town, and yet I’m the one who has to get her home and settled in. It’s simply not right!” Suddenly she sat up, whipped off her glasses, and began that ferocious habit of grinding away at her eyes with her fists. “Ooooh! If this doesn’t beat all!”

  I had moved closer to Vida’s desk, trying to ignore the unsettling sound of her eyeballs squeaking when she punished them so harshly. “So Ella won’t be going to rehab?”

  Vida stopped the irksome rubbing and looked up. “Rehab? Oh, for goodness’ sakes! It wasn’t that serious a stroke. More like the vapors, if you ask me.” She sighed, her big bosom heaving and her broad shoulders sagging. “I’d better go fetch Ella now. She’s already been discharged.”

  I got out of the way as she put on her glasses, plopped the big orange straw hat on her head, grabbed her purse, and sprang from her chair. “I’ll be back by one,” she called over her shoulder.

  The newsroom was empty, except for me. Curtis and Ed had both gone out, though where I didn’t know. I could only hope they were actually working. After getting my own purse, I headed outside, passing Ginny, who was on the phone taking a classified ad.

  On the short drive to the ski lodge, I thought back to what Marisa Foxx had told me about John Vitani’s unsolved shooting death. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any connection between that case and our local tragedies. It seemed unlikely, though, so I put it out of my mind. Dealing with Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte was my priority. I sensed that our lunch date was going to be painful for both of us. I decided there was no point in trying to connect the dots between Mr. Vitani, Maxim Volos, and Leo.

  That, of course, was a big mistake.

  SIXTEEN

  KELSEY PLATTE STOOD NEXT TO ONE OF THE GRANITE pillars that supported the lodge’s porte cochere. She looked forlorn and maybe apprehensive. I stopped my car and waved at her. After peering at me for what seemed like a long time, she walked over and opened the passenger door. Before getting in, Kelsey glanced into the backseat. Maybe she was checking to see if I had an accomplice stowed away.

  “I’m not very hungry,” she announced before I could offer a greeting. “Does this diner serve a lot of grease?”

  “It is a diner,” I said, slowly driving away from the lodge and trying not to look at the crime scene tape that still marked the spot where Leo had been shot. “They have nice salads, though.”

  “I’m into the Kushi Macro Diet,” Kelsey said. “It’s been a nightmare up here. Nobody knows about Gobo Misso Itame or even azuki beans and konbu algae.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said, wondering what the hell she was talking about. “How will you manage when you move here?”

  “Mr. Bardeen told me there was a really big Asian food store in Seattle called…I forget. I wrote it down.”

  “Uwajimaya, I’ll bet. It’s in Seattle’s Chinatown,” I said as we headed down the road that led to Alpine Way. “It’s huge and has all sorts of items you can’t get anywhere else.”

  “That’s a relief,” Kelsey said with a little sigh. “I can’t get over this town. It’s so…remote. I feel like I’m in a time warp. What do people do around here?”

  “That’s an interesting question,” I replied, attempting to encourage her to talk to me. “In the early days, Alpine was a logging camp. There was no road into the town. It could be accessed only by train or climbing a mile up Tonga Ridge. Families were allowed to live in the camp, and while there were never more than two or three hundred people, they managed to come up with their own entertainment. The winters were harder and longer in those days, too, but Alpine was always a closely knit—”

  “Who’s that?” Kelsey interrupted, pointing to the statue of Carl Clemans in Old Mill Park.

  “The town’s founder and mill owner, Carl Clemans,” I replied. “He’d come west to attend Stanford and organized the first Sigma Nu chapter on campus. He was also the quarterback and captain of the first Stanford football team that—”

  “Hunh,” Kelsey said. “Why would somebody from Stanford become a logger?”

  “He was a businessman,” I explained. “He bought other parcels of land around the state, including—”

  “A couple of my friends went to Stanford,” Kelsey said. “I never wanted to go there. I took some classes at Mills for a while, but I couldn’t see the point. Life’s about living, not just learning.” She turned to look at me as I pulled into the diner’s parking lot. “Where did you get those tan slacks?”

  “I don’t remember,” I admitted. “I’ve had them for several years. Nordstrom’s, maybe.”

  “I like Nordstrom’s,” she said. “I go to the one on Market Street.” Kelsey pointed to the sleek chrome structure that had been built to resemble a fifties roadside diner. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” I felt like asking her what else it might be, especially with the bright red neon sign proclaiming “THE DINER—Good Eats.”

  As I’d expected, the restaurant hadn’t yet begun to fill up at ten to twelve. Terri Bourgette seated us toward the rear and shot me a questioning glance. I looked back at her with an I-think-I-know-what-you’re-wondering expression but c
ouldn’t say anything to identify my companion. I figured that Terri, who is a very sharp young woman, had probably already guessed.

  Kelsey ordered iced tea; I asked for a Pepsi. For the next few minutes we studied the menu in silence. Or rather Kelsey did, as I already knew I wanted the rare beef dip.

  “This is really awful,” my guest said with a deep frown. “I’m going to order the navy bean soup with a side of whatever greens they’ve got.”

  Our waiter, a young man named Royce, took the orders without argument. “Carrots, radishes, celery, and black olives on the side,” he repeated in an amiable voice. “Got it.”

  “So,” I said, leaning forward in the booth, “you’re definitely buying the Bronsky house?”

  “I guess,” Kelsey said vaguely. “Dylan wants to. He skis.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sometimes. I don’t really enjoy it.” Her blue eyes gazed at our booth’s divider panel. “Why do they have all these pictures of old-fashioned people? Are they from around here?”

  Given that she was referring to black-and-white still shots of Leave It to Beaver, Dragnet, and The Honeymooners, I was appalled at her ignorance. “Those were popular TV shows in the fifties,” I replied. “All the decor here is from that era, including pictures of movie stars and singers.”

  “Oh.” Kelsey seemed uninterested, preferring to concentrate on pulling a stray thread from her sleeveless yellow blouse.

  I decided to broach a topic that might interest her. “You have a son, I believe. How old is he?”

  “Aidan? Almost seven. He starts second grade in September.”

  “Do you have a picture of him?”

  She shook her head. “I did, but I lost it. It was out-of-date anyway.”