The Alpine Traitor Part 13

"I'm not mad at you," I declared. "I'm mad at myself. You must all be wondering if I lost my mind."

Jack chuckled. "You refer, I think, to your recent hire. You're right-he's probably not up for a Pulitzer Prize real soon."

"I should never have allowed him to cover this story," I grumbled as Milo loped out of his office, coffee mug in hand.

"What's up?" he asked, looking vaguely bemused.

"My temper," I said. "I'm an imbecile."

"No," Milo countered, "but you can be a pain in the a.s.s. What's wrong?"

"Curtis Mayne," I snapped. "You haven't noticed?"

Milo drained the dregs from his mug into a coffee can under the front counter. "You hired the last one for his looks. This one doesn't have that much going for him. He doesn't seem to have shaken off his frat boy mentality. Give him time."

"Exactly," I agreed. "It was way too soon to let him take on a homicide story. Can we talk?"

Milo glanced up at the big clock on the far wall. "Give me ten minutes and I'll buy you a stiff drink. Give me twenty minutes and I'll buy you a steak at the Venison Inn."

I considered the offer. "Okay. I'll meet you there. But could you bring that picture of the victim with you? I want to run it."

Lori flinched. "Ugh."

"Hey," Jack pointed out, "the dead guy doesn't look half as bad as any of our three old fart county commissioners."

"Jack!" Lori cried. "You're talking about my grandfather!"

"Oops!" Jack put one hand over his mouth and the other on Lori's shoulder. "Sorry. I forgot he put you on the dole."

I rushed outside, leaving Milo's employees to their own personnel problems. I all but ran to my car two blocks away, got in, and drove off to the Tall Timber Motel. I had yet to see the murder site. I also wanted to talk to Minnie and Mel Harris.

At almost five o'clock, Minnie was busy behind the desk, checking in at least two separate parties. A woman holding a fussy baby was sitting in one of the small lobby's armchairs while a toddler boy tried to pull the leaves off a potted philodendron. I caught Minnie's eye. She acknowledged me with a quick smile; I pointed in the direction of Dylan Platte's unit; she nodded once; I went outside and walked to the end of the two-story building.

There was no crime scene tape, but the door was locked and the drapes on the single window were pulled shut. I presumed the unit was still off-limits. There must have been blood on the carpet or the furnishings, but Minnie and Mel could take care of that problem rather easily. Meanwhile, I guessed that the Harrises had pleaded with Milo to remove any outward signs of the homicide that could deter business.

A logging truck rumbled by, coming off the Icicle Creek Road and headed for Jack Blackwell's mill. The load of second-growth trees was made up of depressingly small trunks compared with the virgin timber I recalled from my youth. But the smell of the freshly harvested evergreens was just as sweet.

A dozen cars were already in the motel parking lot, half of them from out of state. I looked across Front Street to the liquor store, Taco Bell, and Bayard's Photography Studio. A couple of years ago, Kip MacDuff had acquired the technology to develop our own newspaper pictures instead of farming them out to Buddy Bayard. He and his wife, Roseanna, had never quite forgiven us for our defection. Furthermore, I hadn't lived up to my promise to run some of Buddy's photos in the Advocate. As long as Scott Chamoud was on the staff, I hadn't needed freelance work. So far, Curtis hadn't proved to be more than adequate in his approach to photographs. Maybe it was time to make peace with Buddy.

But not just yet. The family with the baby and the toddler were unloading their luggage from an SUV with Idaho plates. No one else had pulled into the parking lot. I went back to the office just as Minnie was handing two keys to a middle-aged couple wearing matching golf outfits including jackets and caps with Eagle Vines Golf Club embroidered into the fabric.

Minnie dispatched them politely and efficiently. I approached the counter while she tucked in a few strands of graying brown hair and took a deep breath. "I'll bet you're not here to spend the night," she said. "How are you, Emma?"

"I've been better," I replied. "The last few days have been a pain. For you, too."

She nodded. "What's this world coming to? And why here?" Minnie's plump hand took in what might have been the motel, the town, or anything else she considered her personal sphere. "Oh, we've had the usual problems a.s.sociated with this business, but never a murder or even a serious a.s.sault. And now it turns out this fellow wasn't who he said he was. I heard that on the news this afternoon."

"Yes," I said, silently cursing Spencer Fleetwood for his predictable victory over the Advocate. "n.o.body knows who he really is. Was. Tell me, Minnie," I went on, quickly because I knew that more guests would be showing up momentarily, "was there anything-anything at all-that was different about this guy?"

Minnie leaned on the counter and fingered her dimpled chin. "Not really. A typical Californian-that's what I told Sheriff Dodge. Good-looking, well-dressed, smooth, self-confident." She shrugged. "You look back, you'd like to think you noticed something that'd help figure out why he was shot. But nothing. Just another visitor from California."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I don't suppose there was anything about his car or his room that wasn't quite right?"

"I don't pay much attention to cars," Minnie said. "Mel does, but he didn't mention anything unusual. Dwight Gould checked it out, but he didn't seem to find any of what you'd call clues."

"Any visitors?"

Minnie tapped a finger against her cheek. "I'm not sure. Unless someone asked me for this man's room number, I wouldn't see who went to his unit so close to the end of the building."

A pretty woman wearing huge sungla.s.ses and a sky blue halter dress entered the office. I knew that was my cue to leave, but I had one more question. "He got here Thursday, right? Who made up his room Friday?"

"I did," Minnie replied after giving the new arrival a welcoming smile. "Our summer help isn't in full swing yet."

"Nothing odd about the room?" I asked, moving aside so that the woman in the halter dress could take my place at the counter.

Minnie was placing a registration card in front of her guest. "No. Nothing untoward-if you know what I mean."

I a.s.sumed she meant no sign of an unusual s.e.xual romp, drugs, or booze. I nodded absently while the pretty woman began filling out the form.

Minnie took a couple of steps closer to where I was standing. "There was one little thing-really little, that I just thought of now." She nodded discreetly at the woman, who had taken a small notebook out of her purse while she delved inside for what I a.s.sumed was her driver's license. "We keep those little tablets in each room," Minnie said softly. "Mr.... Whoever had used his up. There wasn't any paper in the wastebasket. I don't suppose it means anything, but it was kind of strange, especially since I noticed he hadn't used any of the new notepaper the day he was killed." She turned away from me. "Oh, you're a fellow Washingtonian, Ms. Pierce. Aren't our licenses the darnedest things to try to read when they're still in your wallet? The DMV ought to make the serial numbers bigger. I'll have to take this out. I'm so sorry."

This time I took my cue and left. My usual spot in front of the Advocate building was still vacant, so I pulled in and walked down the street to the Venison Inn. The dining area was beginning to fill up, but I saw no sign of Milo. I looked into the bar. He wasn't there, either. I went back and stood near the entrance. It was almost five-thirty.

Sunny Rhodes, wife of the inn's bartender, Oren, greeted me. "Do you want a booth?" she asked with the bright smile that had long ago prompted her nickname.

"I'm waiting for the sheriff," I said. "Maybe I should get a booth."

"He'll smoke," Sunny reminded me. "I wish he wouldn't, especially when he sits by the sign in the dining room that says *No Smoking.' It's a poor example. I thought he might quit after that siege he had in the hospital a while back."

"That was his gallbladder," I said.

"I know," Sunny replied, "but I hoped it would give him a scare about keeping a healthy lifestyle. Oren says Dodge almost never orders anything but steak when he comes here."

"Well," I said, looking out of the corner of my eye, "here he comes again. We'll sit in the bar to ease your conscience."

Sunny's big smile was lost on Milo, who glowered at her. Obviously, they'd had some previous run-ins. "We'll be in the bar," he declared and led the way.

"d.a.m.ned do-gooder," the sheriff grumbled after we'd arrived at a table for four and he'd lowered his long-limbed frame into one of the captain's chairs while I sat on the banquette. "She'd be better off watching where she parks that car of hers when she's peddling Avon stuff. I'd guess she pays at least three hundred bucks in fines every year. Can't she read a loading zone sign when she sees it?"

"Sunny is loading," I pointed out. "Or unloading, as the case may be. She's usually delivering her orders."

Milo snorted as he signaled Oren to bring what he knew was our usual request-bourbon for me, Scotch for the sheriff.

"Speaking of a different kind of case," I said, "is there anything I should know about the phony Dylan Platte's homicide?"

"You mean that Curtis either hasn't asked about or isn't telling you?" Milo leaned back in his chair. "I doubt it. Not," he added, "that I think your new guy can walk and chew gum at the same time. At least Scott and Carla were better-looking."

"Not only do I wish I still had Scott on the staff," I admitted, "but I even yearn sometimes for Carla, typos and all."

"She's cute, even if she has put on some weight," Milo noted. "Still teaching journalism at the college?"

"Alas, she is," I said. "I almost think Curtis could have had her for a teacher. Her last story for the Advocate was about her replacement. She spelled Scott's name S-c-o-o-t."

"I'm going to let Jack or one of the other deputies handle Curtis from now on," Milo said. "I don't need any more aggravation on the job."

"I've decided to yank Curtis from the story," I confessed. "He can do some sidebars, but he isn't ready for a big a.s.signment. I should never have given it to him."

Milo waited for Oren to deliver our drinks. "How are you two doing?" he asked in his friendliest bartender's manner. "Sounds like you've both got a big job on your hands with this murder at the motel."

"We're working on it," Milo responded in his laconic manner.

Oren nodded. "I bet I know that guy who got shot. He came in here Thursday night and ordered a Mind Eraser. Who else but a Californian would ask for that? His girlfriend wanted one of those energy drinks, you know, Red Bull and vodka. Crazy, huh?"

"Girlfriend?" I said, surprised.

Oren nodded. "A real knockout. Could've been a movie star. Beautiful, blond, and with a figure that-" He stopped, looking embarra.s.sed. "Sorry. Not supposed to make cracks like that these days according to the little woman."

"You're not supposed to call your wife *the little woman,' either," I pointed out, although I frankly didn't give a rip if he called Sunny his ball and chain. "Tell us more. I'm sure the sheriff would like to hear about your conversation with the victim."

The sheriff, however, was lighting a cigarette and exhibiting his usual laid-back att.i.tude when listening to a witness. No rush, in Milo's opinion. Sooner or later, you'd hear what you wanted to know. Just let people talk.

But the bar was getting busy. Oren had an a.s.sistant, a pet.i.te brunette named Julie, who was working her way through Skykomish Community College after her ill-fated teenage marriage had ended in divorce. She was pleasant, but not very efficient.

"I'll be back," Oren said, looking anxious. "You want menus?"

The sheriff told him we did. Oren hurried away.

"Why do we need menus?" I asked. "We always know what we're going to order."

"It makes Oren feel like he's earning his tip." Milo tapped ash into one of the inn's new gla.s.s ashtrays, which had replaced the old black plastic variety. "So how are you going to grill him about the knockout blonde?"

"She sounds like Ginger Roth," I said. "I've had a feeling there was a connection all along between the Roths and the homicide."

Milo groaned softly. "Oh, G.o.d, please, not women's intuition!"

I made a face at him. "It's not that. I'm always wary of coincidences that aren't."

"Whatever that means," Milo muttered as Oren appeared with our drinks and menus. "Hey," the sheriff said, "what time was this Eraser guy here Thursday?"

Oren thought for a moment. "Seven, seven-thirty. The blonde came in a few minutes later."

"How long did they stay?"

"An hour or so," Oren replied, adjusting his bar ap.r.o.n over his paunch. "They had a couple of those screwy drinks, and then I think they went into the dining room and had dinner. Ask Sunny. She's been working for the past week or so filling in for Tracie, who's on vacation."

"How'd they act?"

"Friendly," Oren said, "but not all over each other. They just talked, kind of serious, now that I think about it."

"Hear any of what they were saying?"

"Not really."

"Think."

Oren cracked his knuckles, a habit that irked me no matter who the cracker might be. "Uh...no, I honestly didn't catch anything. They'd clam up when I came along." He nodded toward a small, round, and currently empty table in the far corner. "I suppose maybe they didn't want to be overheard."

Milo nodded once. "Thanks, Oren," he said, handing his unread menu back. "I'll have the T-bone medium well done, with the salad and blue cheese and a baked potato, but not with any of that goop that comes in the little cups."

The bartender looked at me. "Emma?"

"The same, only rare, with all the goop for the potato."

Oren took both menus and went off to the bar.

"Business, not pleasure," I said.

"Sounds like it." Milo puffed on his cigarette. "They're going to change the state laws about smoking, you know."

"Yes," I said, "late this year. No smoking in any eating or drinking establishment."

"Freaking n.a.z.is," Milo muttered. "If anybody expects me to enforce that rule, they can think again or meet me out back by the Dumpster. Don't these morons have anything better to do? It's not like there aren't any real crimes in this country. And don't tell me that these motherjumpers who come up with this c.r.a.p aren't snorting c.o.ke or puffing on some funny stuff and being so self-righteous I could puke."

"You done?" I asked sweetly.

"Hey," Milo said sharply, "aren't you a journalist? Aren't you supposed to get all wound up over people's rights being trampled? How come all of you d.i.n.ks suddenly shut the h.e.l.l up when it comes to smoking?"

"How come you don't read my editorials?" I retorted. "I already wrote one a couple of months ago saying that even if I weren't a smoker-usually-I felt this new law was a serious infringement and only more chipping away at personal freedoms. You missed that?"

The sheriff looked faintly sheepish. "Must've. Write another one."

"I might." We'd gone off the rails. "About the dead man and the blonde," I said. "If she posed as Ginger Roth, a real or imaginary person, where was she holed up while-let's call him Josh for now-was at the Tall Timber?"

"Maybe she wasn't staying around here," Milo suggested. "Maybe she's from somewhere nearby."

Maybe she's been here all along, I thought. But I didn't say so out loud. It seemed like a preposterous idea. n.o.body in Alpine resembled the beautiful young woman who'd called on me.

"Are you going to talk to Sunny on the way out?" I asked.

"Might as well," Milo said without enthusiasm.

"What's Graham Cavanaugh like?"

"The son?" Milo frowned. "Long ponytail, goatee, harp tattoo on his left hand, probably the artsy type."

"He's supposed to have a good head for business," I said. "His wife is a writer. Was she with him?"

The sheriff shook his head. "I guess she stayed behind at the ski lodge. I'll talk to her and Kelsey tomorrow."