by Mary Daheim
Kelsey suddenly looked on her guard. “What?” she asked.
“Where was Dylan before you flew into Sea-Tac?”
“Here,” she said and gasped. “Oh! No, of course not! But he told me he was coming to Alpine to see about the house and look into the newspaper purchase. Dylan left San Francisco Tuesday. I thought he must still be here. I never saw him again until he came to the ski lodge.”
I’d been holding the phone out in front of Kelsey so Milo could hear. “Did you get that?” I asked him.
“Hell, yes. So what name did he use? Humpty Dumpty?”
“That’s up to you to find out,” I retorted. “It sounds as if he tried to cover his tracks by taking two flights, the second one under his real name. He must have holed up in between somewhere in the Bay Area.”
“Shit. This thing’s the biggest mess I’ve—” Milo stopped himself. “Never mind. I’m going back to work.”
“Good,” I said. “Why don’t you arrest somebody?”
“Maybe I will, goddamnit.” He hung up.
I put the phone back in its cradle. “You both must be hungry,” I said to the Cavanaugh siblings. “Let me fix you something. I’ve got a dinner for two almost ready to go.”
Kelsey looked at Graham. “Should we?”
He hesitated before responding. “Well…if Ms. Lord doesn’t mind.”
“No. Of course I don’t,” I assured him. “My own dinner was interrupted. It’ll take only a few minutes. I’ll boil the potatoes instead of baking them. Would you like something to drink while you wait?”
Graham nudged his sister. “A little wine, maybe?”
“Oh…no,” she said. “We can’t stay at the ski lodge tonight, so I need my things. Everything’s there. Can we get them while Ms. Lord makes dinner? Please?”
Graham shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe somebody can bring your belongings here.”
Kelsey, however, was surprisingly stubborn. “I know where everything is and what I brought. Please, let’s go. If you’re with me, it’ll be fine.”
Graham looked like a man arguing with himself. “Maybe,” he said, turning in my direction, “we should ask somebody from the sheriff’s office to go with us.”
“The sheriff may be on his way there now,” I said. “Call his office.” I recited the number. “Go ahead, use my phone.”
I went to the kitchen to start the meal I’d intended for Vida and me. My mind was preoccupied with sorting through the information Milo had given me. I still couldn’t believe Curtis had murdered Maxim Volos or shot Leo. It simply didn’t make sense. But neither did much of the case that surrounded the conspirators.
I’d just turned on the broiler when I heard Graham and Kelsey leave through the front door. I didn’t know what they’d been told by whoever had answered the phone at the sheriff’s office, but I presumed they’d been assured of their safety.
As I waited for the potato water to boil, I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. It had been a long, eventful day, as turbulent as any I could remember in the last few years. The Cavanaughs had a knack for disrupting my life. But this time there was a bright side. I was finally getting to know Tom’s children, and that meant more to me than I’d ever dreamed it would.
Yet there was a lingering fear that Graham and Kelsey might also be my worst nightmare.
TWENTY
AT TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER ELEVEN THAT NIGHT, THE lamb steaks were drying out, the potatoes were turning to mush, and I’d yet to put on the corn for its three-minute boil. Graham and Kelsey had been gone for over half an hour. I waited by the window for five more minutes and then called the ski lodge.
Carlos, the night desk clerk, answered. He hadn’t seen Kelsey Platte. “I’m sorry,” he said wearily. “I don’t know what this other guy looks like. I thought Graham Cavanaugh was already staying here.”
“That’s not his real name,” I pointed out, not wanting to explain the convoluted situation. “I’ll bet Sophia Cavanaugh registered for both of them.”
“Do you want me to check?” Carlos asked.
“No, not now. Has the sheriff or one of his deputies come in during the last hour?”
“Yes,” Carlos replied. “Dodge got here a while ago, but I don’t know where he went. He had that lady deputy with him.”
“What about Dylan Platte and the Cavanaughs? Have you seen them lately?”
“Not since they came back from dinner,” Carlos answered. “That was about nine or a little later. Do you want me to ring them?”
I considered his offer. “No,” I finally replied. If they were in, Milo might be with them. I didn’t want to interrupt the sheriff’s investigation. “But if you see Kelsey Platte, could you please call me back?”
“Sure,” Carlos said. “I go off duty at one a.m.”
“I understand,” I said and rang off.
I’d remained standing by the front window while I talked to Carlos. Only two vehicles had passed by, neither of them the Chrysler Sebring rented by the real Graham Cavanaugh. I thought about calling the sheriff’s office, but instead, I phoned Vida. She usually didn’t go to bed until after eleven, and then she often read for a bit before turning out the light.
Vida, however, sounded drowsy when she answered the phone on the fourth ring. I apologized for bothering her, but as soon as I launched into my story about Kelsey and Graham, she became alert.
“I’m so glad that Kelsey is safe,” she declared when I finished. “Or is she?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “They’ve been gone for at least forty-five minutes.”
“Perhaps Milo ran into them at the ski lodge,” Vida speculated. “They may be with him if they planned to file charges.”
“That’s possible,” I allowed. “Still, I’m worried. I can’t seem to track down any of these people.”
Vida offered to come to my house. “It won’t take long for me to dress,” she insisted.
“No, please don’t,” I told her. “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.” A faint ringing caught my attention. I realized it was my cell phone, which was in my purse at the end of the sofa. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
I’d already hurried over to my purse to retrieve my cell. I clicked it on just as Vida hung up.
“Emma,” Milo said, his voice unusually brisk. “Your other line was busy. Are those Cavanaugh kids at your place?”
“No,” I replied. “Where are you?”
“In the ski lodge parking lot,” the sheriff answered. “The rest of that bunch isn’t here. Doe and I looked all over. It looks like they’ve cleared out. Their rooms are empty.”
“Damn!” I cried. “Did anyone see them leave?”
“No. I’ve got an APB out on both rental cars. The lodge had the license plate numbers. But they could be all the way to Sea-Tac by now. Or even up to the Canadian border.”
“What about Graham and Kelsey?” I asked. “Have you tried to call him on his cell phone?”
“No answer,” Milo replied. “Doe tried it twice.”
“Damn,” I said softly. “Graham was driving a Chrysler Sebring.”
“He was?” The sheriff turned away from the phone. I heard him tell Doe to check out the parking lot. I had a feeling that she wouldn’t find the car. “You don’t know the plate number, do you?” Milo asked me.
“No. I wish I did. But I imagine he rented it this afternoon at the airport.”
“Okay. I’ll have Sam Heppner check the rental agencies.” The sheriff clicked off.
Feeling antsy, I double-checked to make sure I’d turned off everything in the kitchen. Then I went back into the living room, staring outside. Few lights were on this late. The street was deserted. A breeze had picked up, blowing down from Tonga Ridge, ruffling my shrubs and the Japanese cherry tree I’d planted a few years ago in the corner of my front yard.
I finally turned away, drawn as ever to Craig’s Sky Autumn. I wondered about him, a not infre
quent musing. The two times I’d seen him up close he’d played the part of rescuer. According to Donna Wickstrom, who owned the art gallery that sold Craig’s paintings, she rarely saw Craig in person. His forays into town once or twice a year were always furtive and usually after dark. Yet it dawned on me that he knew more about Alpine than we knew about him. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have known where I lived. A strange, almost comforting feeling came over me as I considered how Craig might often be watching the rest of us from the forest, keeping back in the shadows, observing the comings and goings of our so-called normal world.
The phone rang again. I rushed to answer it.
“I was sure you’d still be up,” Marisa Foxx said, sounding irritable. “Your reporter didn’t kill anyone.”
I uttered a strange little laugh. “I honestly didn’t think he did. Why did he confess? Or should I guess the reason?”
“If you guessed he thought the experience of being considered a murderer would win him a Pulitzer Prize, you’d be right,” Marisa said. “Curtis had some odd notion that if he went through the ordeal a real killer would endure, he could bring a personal perspective to his story, thus making it more ‘real,’ as he put it. I don’t approve of such a stunt, but I won’t charge him for my time. It’d only end up costing you money.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Besides, I’ll probably fire him. Did he say why he was at the motel the day Maxim Volos was killed?”
“Yes,” Marisa replied. “He was calling on some girl named Cammie who’d come to Alpine to break up with her boyfriend. Curtis told me he wanted to console her. I’ll bet he did.”
Cammie, short for Camille. I should’ve guessed. She’d been with Curtis at Mugs Ahoy when I’d tried to track him down to find out what progress he’d been making with the homicide story. “Dare I ask how Milo reacted to all this?”
“Angry at wasting his time,” Marisa replied. “He’s keeping Curtis in jail for the weekend, hoping it’ll cure him of doing anything so foolish ever again. How on earth are you going to handle this in the paper?”
I sighed. “I’ll worry about that when the time comes. I’ve got enough on my plate right now to stew over.”
“Of course. I’ll let you go, but I wish you better luck with Curtis’s replacement.”
“I’ll need it,” I said bleakly. “Thanks again.”
I immediately dialed Vida’s number. As I’d expected, she exploded. “Such a ninny! I thought so from the get-go. I hope Milo charges him with obstruction or whatever he deems fit for Curtis’s outrageous behavior.”
I agreed, then brought her up to date with my few scraps of new information.
“Worrisome,” she murmured. “I don’t like it. What can we do?”
I admitted I didn’t know. “I’m truly frustrated,” I confessed.
“Of course. Well, keep me posted, even if you have to wake me up.”
I promised that I would and rang off. Lucky for Curtis that he was in a jail cell or I would have wrung his neck. Now I was without a real advertising manager and a reporter. I didn’t want to think about what the next few days at the Advocate would be like.
Midnight. I should’ve gone to bed but realized I wouldn’t sleep. I felt helpless. It suddenly occured to me that I’d forgotten to call Rolf. In fact, I hadn’t given him a thought since speaking with him earlier. It was too late to call now. Maybe, I thought wistfully, it was too late for us in every sense. Not knowing what else to do, I checked my e-mail again. It was mostly advertising and come-ons that I quickly deleted, wondering why it didn’t all get sent to the junk mail file along with the rest of the ten or more messages that had automatically been dumped into the computer’s trash bin. There was no word from Adam, which annoyed me, but Ben had posted a message earlier in the day.
Had some time to catch my breath this afternoon so took a walk along Whiskey Island Drive by Lake Erie. It’s not far from St. Helena’s, and the weather’s warm but not unbearable. Got an e-mail from Adam yesterday, saying they’ve got nineteen hours of daylight this time of year. Hope you’re not still peeved at him. He’s doing his best, under the circumstances. Here comes trouble in the form of a parishioner who wants me to perform an exorcism to rid his house of his mother-in-law’s evil spirit. Since she’s still alive, I don’t know what he expects me to do, even if I were willing to do it. Maybe I’ll give him a copy of the classified ads so he can find her a new place to live. Until later. Go with God.
I was glad to hear from Ben but couldn’t help feeling that Adam had found time to write to his uncle but not his mother. At present, my son’s “circumstances,” as Ben put it, couldn’t be any more wrenching than my own. I doubted that Adam was fretting over the possibility of a killer on the loose in St. Mary’s Igloo.
My phone rang again. I snatched it up at once and heard the sheriff’s voice at the other end. “The Chrysler Sebring is parked just off the Icicle Creek Road where it forks into First Hill. We didn’t find it, but Gus Lindquist, of all people, spotted it about a hundred yards from his place by Disappointment Avenue. He was out prowling around because he hasn’t been able to sleep since he shot that mama bear.”
“What about the cars belonging to Sophia and Dylan?” I asked.
“No sign of them here or anywhere else so far,” Milo replied. “By the way, next time try hiring somebody who isn’t a nut job.”
“You don’t need to remind me,” I snapped. “Have you still got those dogs from the state patrol?”
“No, but I called them back in,” Milo said. “I don’t see what good it’ll do. This is one hell of a mess.”
“Don’t tell me something I already know.” I paused. “Weird—out of habit I just thought of sending Curtis to take some pictures. I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”
“Forget it,” Milo ordered in his most severe voice. “Stay put. I don’t want to have to go looking for you.”
I didn’t argue. The warning didn’t faze me. My mind was already made up. “We’ll talk later,” I said and was about to disconnect when the sheriff spoke again.
“There’s another car not far from the one Graham Cavanaugh rented,” he said. “It doesn’t belong to the other Cavanaughs, but it looks like a rental. A Ford Focus, real clean, ‘no smoking’ sticker, only six thousand miles on it.”
“You could get into it?”
“No. I used a flashlight to check out the interior,” Milo said. “I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a body in the backseat. Maybe I should’ve busted open the trunk.”
“Not funny,” I remarked.
“Sure as hell isn’t,” he agreed and hung up.
I considered asking Vida to come along and bring a camera. If there were any pictures to be taken, she could handle that duty much better, since I was an utter dunce when it came to photography. I called her on my cell just before going out to the car. “I can pick you up,” I said. “I’m leaving now.”
“I’ll get dressed,” she said. “Don’t honk. You might wake the neighbors.”
Sure enough, four minutes later Vida appeared on her porch as I drove up to her house.
“What did you do?” I asked as she fastened her seat belt. “Throw your clothes up in the air and run under them?”
“Virtually,” she replied. “Is Milo still up on First Hill?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’m not sure of anything except that I couldn’t sit still and do nothing.”
“Quite so,” she agreed. “Have you contacted Graham or Kelsey?”
“Doe Jameson tried twice,” I said as we drove past the cemetery. I hoped it wasn’t an omen. “No luck. You want to see if he picks up now? My cell’s in my purse.”
Vida dug it out. “What’s the number?”
Fortunately, I’d memorized it. But Vida shook her head after placing the call and waiting a few moments. “Nothing. Oh, dear.”
I took a right at First Hill Road, passing the high school and the Dithers sisters’ horse farm. The rocky area on the other side
of the road was the first of two hills where several old mine shafts still existed under cover of wild blackberry vines, moss, and ferns. When I’d moved to Alpine, there were only a handful of houses among the trees, but in recent years a dozen or more homes had been built to take advantage of the view.
As we approached the turnoff to Disappointment Avenue, there was no sign of Milo and his deputy. “Now what?” I asksed, slowing down.
“I see a parked car,” Vida said, gesturing up ahead. “Is that the one Graham was driving?”
“Let’s look.” I pulled over onto the verge and approached even more slowly. “Yes,” I said, recognizing the Chrysler symbol on the rear end. “That might be the Ford Focus across the road from the Dithers sisters’ gate.”
We got out of the car, stopping first to check Graham’s rental. The car was locked. Vida had a small flashlight attached to her key chain. She clicked the light on and looked inside. “Nothing except maps, a pair of sunglasses, and bottled water.”
We trudged up the hill and across the road to the Ford. It was parked by an old railroad spur that had been used to carry logs down the steep incline to the millpond. Much of the century-old wooden portion of track had rotted away or disappeared under grass and weeds. A ramshackle Great Northern caboose sat nearby, a relic from the distant past. The stumps of giant evergreens stood like monuments to the heyday of logging. I gazed down the hill, where only a handful of lights glowed in the darkness. The wind had grown stronger, blowing through the alder and maple trees that had sprung up after the last clear-cut, in the seventies. Looking up, I saw only a few stars. The old moon had faded into a pale sliver as clouds rolled in from the south.
Using her small flashlight, Vida had been inspecting the Ford’s interior. “Milo was right,” she said. “There’s nothing of interest.”
“Where did Kelsey and Graham go?” I asked in a helpless voice. “Why didn’t they come back to my house?”
Vida didn’t respond but shook her head and bit her lip. We went back to the car. My cell phone rang before I could turn on the ignition.
