The Alpine Traitor Part 6

"Curtis isn't up yet," she informed me, still sounding like her usual cheerful self. "I promised to make breakfast for him this morning because Oren wanted pancakes. Should I wake Curtis?"

I hesitated. "No. But have him call me as soon as he gets up. Thanks, Sunny."

Sleeping in is not a sin. I'd do it myself if I had more opportunities. But I wondered if my new reporter was a bit lazy. While I waited for him to reach a conscious state, I called Milo's cell phone.

"Are you at work?" I asked in response to his gruff greeting.

"Yes," he replied. "How come you didn't ignore my warning and run off to see Lover Boy in Seattle?"

I realized that Milo had seen my home phone number come up on his caller ID. "That's really none of your business," I snapped. "What does concern you is that I'm a.s.signing Curtis Mayne to the Platte investigation."

"Curtis is twelve," Milo responded. "Are you crazy? You didn't let Scott Chamoud take on a big story like this until he'd been working for you at least five years."

"It wasn't that long," I countered, although it had definitely taken me quite a while to let Scott handle a touchy a.s.signment. "This is different. I'm concerned about my objectivity."

"Yeah, right, okay," Milo said grumpily. "It's your call. But I don't want to have to hold this twerp's hand."

"That's how he'll learn," I declared. "Naturally, I'll edit his copy closely."

"d.a.m.ned straight you will," Milo shot back. "I don't want some punk fresh out of college making me look like an idiot."

"Of course not," I said. "Is there anything new on the case?"

"It's not your story," Milo retorted. "I'll keep Curtis up to speed when he gets here."

There was no point in arguing with the sheriff when he was in one of his ornery moods. "You'll see him soon," I promised and hung up.

But noon came and the clock kept ticking. I'd gone outside to work in the garden, taking my phone with me. By one o'clock I'd filled a plastic bag full of weeds, leaves, and branches, taking out my increasing annoyance with Curtis by yanking up the English bluebells that were crowding out my summer-blooming plants.

I stood up, brushed the dirt off my old slacks, and surveyed my handiwork. As usual, I couldn't see much of an improvement. My front yard is relatively flat, but out in back of my log house the property slopes upward and is shaded by tall evergreens. I confine my greatest labor to the front, where the garden gets more sun. The rainy climate encourages growth, and for some perverse reason it seems to have a more positive effect on weeds and other undesirable flora than on the flowers and shrubs I've spent my hard-earned money on. I don't have a truly green thumb, but I try. At the moment, I felt as if I was a better gardener than an editor and publisher, given my inability to keep track of my reporter. I went back inside, washed my hands, and called the Rhodes residence a second time.

"Did Curtis ever wake up?" I asked Sunny.

"Yes," she replied. "He came into the kitchen about ten minutes after you called. I told him you wanted to talk to him, and he said he'd call, but after he ate his breakfast, he left. Maybe," she added hopefully, "he's coming to see you."

"Maybe." I sounded far less hopeful. "Thanks."

I dialed Curtis's cell phone again. This time he picked up on the third ring.

"Wow," he said with what sounded like feigned amazement, "would you believe I was just about to call you?"

"No, I wouldn't," I snapped. "I've been trying to get ahold of you for almost two hours." It was an exaggeration, but I was mad.

"Sorry," he said breezily. "I didn't realize I was still on the clock. I thought this was a Sat.u.r.day."

"Journalists are always on the clock," I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. "News actually does sometimes happen on a weekend, even in Alpine. Where are you?"

"Uh...Starbucks. Mrs. Rhodes doesn't make lattes."

I couldn't resist sarcasm. "That's a shame. Poor you. Bring it with you and be here in five minutes." I hung up.

It took Curtis almost ten minutes, but he arrived in his aging Nissan just before one-thirty. He wasn't carrying a paper cup, so I presumed he'd finished his latte at Starbucks.

"So what's happening?" he asked after I indicated he should sit in an armchair by the fireplace.

I sat rigidly on the sofa. "You've heard about Dylan Platte's murder, I a.s.sume."

Curtis nodded. "It's all over town. He's the guy who wanted to buy the paper, right?"

"He and some other family members," I said. "I'm a.s.signing you the story."

His blue eyes widened. "No kidding! That's great. Byline and all, huh?"

"That's right." I relaxed a little. "Of course I'll go over your copy. This is a huge story, and it has to be handled carefully. Ordinarily, I'd do it myself, but in effect, I'm recusing myself because of the angle about the buyout proposal."

"Oh, yeah." He'd taken a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and was chewing on it. "Gotcha. Touchy. Kid gloves, right?"

"Yes." I leaned forward. "By the time the paper goes to press, a lot of things may've happened, including an arrest. You'll be dealing primarily with Sheriff Dodge, who will tell you only what he thinks you ought to know. How have you gotten on with him so far?"

Curtis shrugged. "Okay. I haven't seen him more than twice. He's usually in his office when I stop by to check the log. I talk mostly with Lorna, the receptionist, or to one of the deputies."

"Her name's Lori," I said, beginning to realize that Curtis seemed to have trouble remembering people's names. "Lori Cobb. Be sure you take plenty of notes and use your recorder."

"Sure. It's a good one. I got it as a graduation present, a Sony ICD-MS515 Memory Stick Recorder." He grinned at me. "This should be a kick."

"A kick?" I was appalled. "Murder isn't a cheap thrill. This isn't TV, it's real."

Curtis shrugged again. "Sure-like reality TV. Hey," he continued before I could say anything, "newspapers are part of the media, and the media is all about entertainment. The problem is, print journalists don't get it. They're still living in the past, where they were the big sources of information. Then we got the Information Age, one big explosion of ways to communicate instantly, and meanwhile, editors and publishers and reporters are still back in the Dark Ages. Who wants to wait to read the news? So what's to do? Entertain, just like TV and movies and the rest of the media. How many of those handsome and beautiful people on TV have ever dug out a story on their own? The closest they come to real reporting is to stand in the middle of a hurricane and announce that it's really wet and windy. Even a moron can figure that one out."

"My, my," I said dryly, "I don't recall you giving me this philosophy when you interviewed for the job."

"You didn't ask." Curtis leaned back in the armchair and stretched his legs. "Besides, I thought maybe you already knew all this."

"You have some good points about the media," I allowed, "but I believe in journalistic integrity, which means you can't go off half-c.o.c.ked and not take a story-any kind of hard news story-seriously. You also have to remember to treat your sources with tact and consideration. In a small town, reliable spokespersons are few and far between. Alienating any of them can dry up your sources forever. These people don't tend to forgive and forget."

"Small town, small minds," Curtis said under his breath. "Okay, I get it. I'm off to see the sheriff. He is at work today, isn't he?"

I shot Curtis a reproachful glance. "He was there a couple of hours ago, when I told him you'd stop in almost immediately."

"Got it." He popped out of the armchair and headed for the door.

For the rest of the day, I tried to shake off my misgivings. I even told myself that Milo and Curtis deserved each other. On the rare occasions when I'd allowed Scott Chamoud to deal with the sheriff, my former reporter's good manners and amiable disposition had set well enough with all of the county's law enforcement employees. Curtis Mayne was a different type-c.o.c.ky and opinionated. But maybe that meant he was also determined and aggressive. Time would tell.

In the early evening, Vida called. "So you stayed on in Alpine," she said in an approving voice. "I thought you might go to Seattle after all."

I explained why I'd decided against the trip and concluded by saying that I'd a.s.signed the story to Curtis.

Vida exploded in my ear. "Are you quite mad?" she shrieked. "He's an infant! You've sent a boy to the mill!"

"I didn't have much choice," I argued. "I didn't feel right about handling the coverage directly."

"Oh, nonsense!" Vida seethed. "Then why didn't you let me do it? My nephew Billy would have been anxious to help me with information."

Bill Blatt was another of the sheriff's deputies and one of Vida's primary information sources. Over the years the poor guy had sometimes divulged tidbits he should have kept under wraps, but his aunt had her ways of making even the most reluctant informant talk.

"I can't ask you to sacrifice your own page for hard news," I said, never wanting to even hint that Vida's florid writing style was acceptable only for the House & Home readers-of which there were many in Alpine.

"Piffle," she said, dropping her voice a notch. "You know I can do both."

"Curtis has to learn the ropes," I pointed out. "He was hired as a reporter, and that's what he's going to do-report. I waited too long to give Scott his head on big stories."

"Perhaps," Vida allowed, but she didn't sound convinced.

"You will," I said, "help him with your encyclopedic knowledge of Alpine, won't you?"

"Goodness," Vida replied airily, "I don't see how I can possibly offer any information in this instance. The victim had nothing to do with Alpine except for arriving here two days ago."

"Vida..." I was coaxing her, playing the game like a good sport.

"If Curtis needs my help, he can ask for it," she retorted. "I'm not one to meddle or give unsolicited advice."

"Of course you aren't." Of course you are, I thought but knew better than to say so. "I'd appreciate it. If Curtis asks."

"Very green," she remarked. "Twenty-two, twenty-three?"

"Twenty-four in August," I said. "I think."

There was a brief pause at the other end. "I stopped by this afternoon to see the Harrises at the motel," Vida said.

I wasn't surprised that Vida had gone to the Tall Timber. "What did Minnie and Mel have to say about their departed guest?"

"Dylan Platte was just over average height, curly brown hair, mid-thirties-thirty-five, to be exact-according to his California driver's license. He was casually dressed, though Minnie thought his watch was quite expensive." Vida's voice had lost its edge as she rattled off the data she'd collected. "He was courteous but not friendly. No time for chitchat. Sometimes Minnie's rather snoopy about guests, even though that's most unwise in the motel industry. Not that I blame her."

"Of course not."

"Dylan had arrived shortly after the lunch hour Thursday," Vida continued. "He was gone for part of the afternoon, returned to the motel-Mel saw his rental car in the parking lot-and then went out again. The Harrises like to play a little game about their guests. They call it *Guest Guessing,' and when they don't know why someone is visiting in Alpine, if they find out later, whichever of them has come closest to the real reason puts a dollar in a coffee can toward their own vacation."

"Cute." I failed at sounding enthusiastic. "So did they guess?"

"Guess what?"

"Why Dylan had come to Alpine."

"Certainly not," Vida huffed. "They're not ghouls. Mel and Minnie would never guess that someone visited here in order to be murdered."

"I meant to look at Ed's house."

"Oh. Not precisely. Mel thought Dylan might be one of those California land speculators," Vida said. "It wouldn't be the first time they've come sniffing around here to buy up property at absurdly low prices because they think small town people are stupid."

"So," I asked, "when did Dylan tell them why he was here?"

"He didn't," Vida replied. "They never talked to him after he arrived. Not that it's unusual, especially this time of year, with the travel business being in high gear and two motels to keep up."

"Where had he rented his car?" I asked.

"The airport, I a.s.sume," Vida said. "Sea-Tac. Minnie and Mel didn't know, and when I asked Billy about it, he pretended he hadn't found out. I do hate it when he tries to put me off with very transparent excuses. Surely he understands I have no intention of making him look untrustworthy or indiscreet."

"Did Bill say it was strange that no one heard the shot that killed Dylan?"

"I didn't ask him about that," Vida admitted. "If Dylan was killed yesterday afternoon and his unit was at the end of the building, I'm not surprised. Front Street is rather noisy that far to the east. So many businesses surrounding the Tall Timber, what with the mill, the railroad tracks, the truckers, and often as not, especially with school out, teenagers racing up and down Front and the Icicle Creek Road. I've never understood why the original motel owners built there in the first place."

"It's close to everything," I pointed out, not wanting to say to Vida that, being so small, Alpine didn't offer many secluded and convenient sites for hostelries, with the possible exception of the venerable ski lodge founded by her father-in-law.

"Speaking of property," Vida said, "with all this murder business going on, I forgot to mention what Ella told me after I got back to her apartment to finish dinner. Sorting through her muddleheaded chatter, I learned that the owner of Pines Villa wants to eliminate the mixed usage concept and turn it all into condos, like Parc Pines. There's room enough to build on that vacant lot at the corner of Alpine Way and Tonga Road. We must run a story about that."

"Yes," I agreed, making a note on the pad I kept by the phone. "Who owns it now?"

"A woman who lives in Everett," Vida replied. "Ella couldn't think of her name. Indeed, it's a marvel Ella can remember her own name these days. You recall that the apartments have changed hands more than once in the ten or twelve years since they were built."

I vaguely remembered running the stories on the sales. "The courthouse will have a record of ownership," I said and then tossed Vida a bone: "Do you want to check it out Monday?"

"Certainly," she said. "Frankly, I think more condos are a ridiculous idea in Alpine. We don't need them."

I didn't argue. Alpine had single dwellings, apartments, duplexes, college dorms, a retirement facility, and a trailer park. Prices were much cheaper than in the more populous cities, and there was still plenty of room to build. Even though the number of residents had grown to almost seven thousand countywide, hordes of newcomers weren't beating a retreat to our mountain aerie.

After I finished talking to Vida, I checked in with Curtis. This time he answered almost immediately.

"Anything new?" I asked, hearing music in the background.

"New? Or news?" Curtis laughed and said something I couldn't catch.

"The sheriff," I said, hearing girlish laughter at the other end. "Are there any new developments in the case?"

"C'mon down," Curtis responded. "I'll tell you all about it. There's an empty bar stool here at Mugs Ahoy. You can meet Cammie. She's new in town." He turned away from the phone, but this time I could hear his words. "Hey, hottie, want to talk to my boss?"

Cammie screeched and then giggled.

"Curtis!" I barked as the music grew louder and was joined by somebody singing off-key to James Brown's "Good Good Lovin'." "Go outside! I can hardly hear you!"

"I can't hear you, Boss," Curtis shouted into my ear. "I'll call you back in a nano."

I waited. And waited. My home phone didn't ring; my cell remained silent. After fifteen minutes, I was really mad. Curtis was off to a wretched start. I debated with myself about going to Mugs Ahoy but thought that might cause some kind of embarra.s.sing scene. Instead, I dialed Milo's number at home.

"Okay," I said after he answered, still sounding grumpy, "I'm an idiot. Has Curtis screwed up at your end as well as at mine?"

"Curtis?" Milo paused. "Oh-the new kid you hired? No. Why?"

"Did he interview you this afternoon?"