The Alpine Traitor (3 page)

I didn’t consider Fuzzy Baugh a confidant. “Well…not really,” I said, trying to regroup. “It was just one of those strange phone calls newspapers get once in a while.”

Fuzzy leaned on the counter that separated us. “A threat?”

“No.” I wasn’t sure I could stand up. “Just…an unusual request.” I kept my unsteady hands in my lap. “What can I do for you?”

“I was looking for that new youngun of yours—Curtis, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “He went to lunch.”

“Ah.” Fuzzy looked at his watch. “My, my. Where does the time go?” He shook his head. The thinning curls were dyed a pumpkin orange, an unfortunate choice for a man in his mid-seventies. “I’m expecting Winn Caldwell—the wood-carving fella—to deliver my porcupine this afternoon. I thought Curtis would want another photo for the paper.”

“Oh. Yes.” I nodded several times, probably looking like a bobble-head doll.

Fortunately, Fuzzy had reverted to his usual obliviousness. “You’ll tell Curtis? Winn’s coming around three.”

“Yes.” I managed to stop nodding. “I’ll write him a note. Thanks.”

Fuzzy tipped an imaginary hat and strolled out of the front office. I took some deep breaths, scribbled the message for Curtis, and managed to stand up. Back in the newsroom, I leaned on my reporter’s desk and tried to collect my wits.

Dylan was lying. Or he’d been deceived by Kelsey and Graham Cavanaugh. Tom had loved me. He’d loved me for years and years, as I had loved him, even though I’d tried to bury that love when he’d abandoned me after I got pregnant with Adam. Tom had faults—I knew them well—but wooing a woman, any woman, to get his hands on a small weekly newspaper wasn’t his style. The Cavanaugh offspring were trying to unhinge me. Maybe it was a business tactic, maybe it was a personal motive. After their mother, Sandra, had died from an overdose of one of her many mind-and mood-altering drugs, Kelsey and Graham had found out that there was another woman in their father’s life. I’d had contact via the phone with them because Tom had died in Alpine, and arrangements had to be made to send his body back to San Francisco. Tom and I had been about to get married when he was killed. His children must have known what was going on between us. Or did they?

I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past twelve. I’d lost my appetite. I wanted to talk to my brother, but Ben was attending a conference for Catholic families in Baltimore, where he was one of the priests lecturing on prayer and meditation. For all I knew, he was in the middle of a heated discourse over whether or not teenagers should listen to rap music while saying the rosary.

Adam.
My son had to find out what was going on with the half siblings he never knew. But he had followed in the footsteps of his uncle Ben and had become a priest. Adam was living in a remote part of Alaska, ministering mainly to the native community of Catholics in his far-flung parish of St. Mary’s Igloo. He had been in Alpine for Easter, but I hadn’t spoken with him since. Phone conversations were awkward and frustrating, coming through on a radio transmission delay, so our communication was accomplished via frequent e-mails. I considered going into my cubbyhole and sending off a missive describing what had just happened to his poor mother. Then I thought better of it. I didn’t have all the facts, and, being a conscientious journalist, I wasn’t going to reveal anything until I had more data.

I was still wandering around the newsroom at twelve-thirty, when Leo came through the door. He took one look at me and stopped in his tracks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in the voice that had endured too many cigarettes. “Are you sick?”

“Yes.” I did an uncharacteristic thing, rushing to him and throwing myself against his chest. “Oh, Leo! Tom’s kids want to buy the
Advocate
!”

“Jesus!” He spoke softly, putting his arms around me in a clumsy gesture. “Hey,” he said after a moment or two, “let’s go into your office. Or would you rather hit the bar at the Venison Inn?”

I forced myself to stop acting like an emotional twit. “No.” I slowly disengaged myself from his embrace. “I mean, not the bar. My office is fine.”

Despite my attempt at stability, I walked so unsteadily that I ricocheted off the doorframe, hit the other side, and almost fell flat on my face.

“Whoa!” Leo cried, grabbing my arm. “Let me get you into your chair.” He gently guided me behind the desk. “There. How many of me do you see?”

I tried to smile. “Only one. I’m not very graceful, even at my best.”

“True enough,” Leo said, moving to one of my visitors’ chairs. He took out his cigarettes and offered me one. I didn’t skip a beat, grabbing it and letting him light it for me.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m still in shock, so I’ll go on pretending I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Leo chuckled softly. “Tom’s kids—the last time I saw them they were in junior high or whatever they called it then in the Bay Area.”

“I hardly remember them,” I admitted. “They’re all grown up and running Tom’s newspaper chain.”

“Not into the ground, I hope?”

I shrugged. “Have you heard anything about them taking over?”

Leo shook his head. “When I cut my ties with Tom’s papers way back when, before you rescued me from the bottom of a barrel of booze, I didn’t want to hear how my more sober replacements were doing. Of course Tom kept track of me—he was that kind of guy. But after he died”—Leo didn’t look me in the eye—“I never paid attention to what was going on with his empire. I guess I assumed the kids would sell the papers off.” He flicked ash into the clamshell I kept on hand for smokers—and for me. “Now I realize that, if they’d sold out, that’s the kind of thing I would’ve heard on the grapevine without asking.”

“I’d have heard about it, too,” I said. “My answer is no. But this Dylan doesn’t seem to understand the meaning of the word.”

Leo’s weathered face wore a thoughtful expression. “Are you meeting with him?”

“The answer to that is also no.” Out of habit, I blew smoke away from Leo. Maybe I was blowing smoke in another way. Maybe I didn’t want to admit to any curiosity about the stepchildren I’d almost acquired. “Besides,” I went on, “I’m going to Seattle for the weekend. Dylan is leaving before I get back.”

“Ah.” Leo nodded twice. “The intriguing Mr. Fisher.”

“And sometimes aggravating,” I said, perhaps to make up for the touch of guilt I felt after having rejected Leo’s tentative advances early on in our working relationship. “Anyway, Dylan and Kelsey are buying Ed’s house.”

Leo burst out laughing. “No! They must be real suckers! That place is a white elephant.”

“I know,” I said, putting out my cigarette. “I can’t understand why they’d consider buying the house before they bought the newspaper. It should be the other way around. Why else move here?”

“Good point,” Leo agreed. “I’d like to hear what’s been going on with Kelsey and Graham. You want me to talk to this Dylan…what’s his last name?”

“Platte,” I said. “He’s staying at the Tall Timber, but he wasn’t going to be in this afternoon.”

Leo glanced at his watch. “Quarter to one. Maybe I’ll wander over there and see if I can track him down.”

“Go ahead. Let me know what you find out about the arrogant Mr. Platte.”

“You know,” he said in a musing voice, “this may be a good thing. Outsiders are never welcome in small towns. You start writing or talking about those Californians barging in on Alpine with their Golden State mentality, and the next thing you see is local support for the paper, with more subscribers and maybe even more ad revenue.”

My smile was genuine. “You’re a treasure,” I declared. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

He shrugged and stood up, brushing cigarette ash off his well-worn blue sport coat. “Think of me as your in-house opportunist. As for talking to Platte, I can claim my former decadent advertising stint with Tom’s papers as an entrée.” He cocked his head to one side. “You okay now?”

I nodded. “I was an idiot to get so upset. All I have to do is say no.”

Leo grinned. “You already said that.”

“So I did. But I also said that Dylan Platte doesn’t take no for an answer.”

In light of the tragedies that had already been set in motion, maybe I should have said no to Tom Cavanaugh some thirty-odd years ago.

THREE

“T
HE NERVE!”
V
IDA SHRIEKED AFTER
I
TOLD HER ABOUT
Dylan Platte’s phone call. “What did I say about this younger generation? No manners—and no sense! I hope Leo puts a flea in his ear!”

“He will,” I assured her. “Anybody who can talk Alpine’s tightfisted merchants into buying ads knows how to make a point.”

Vida drummed her fingers on her desk. “I must say that I’m curious about this Cavanaugh bunch. I wish Leo had waited so that I could’ve gone with him.” When I didn’t say anything, she shot me a sharp look. “Well? Aren’t you?”

I sighed and leaned against Leo’s desk. “I suppose I should be. But I never knew them when Tom was alive. Maybe I don’t want any reminders of what might have been.”

“Perhaps.” Vida stared off into space. “I think I’ll go over to the Tall Timber Motel.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Let Leo handle this.”

Vida’s expression was indignant. “I don’t intend to interfere. I merely want to observe.”

I knew better, of course. But I also knew that I couldn’t stop Vida. Before I could say anything, Curtis came into the newsroom. Vida left while I was relaying Mayor Baugh’s message about the wood carving.

“Three o’clock, huh?” Curtis said, looking not at his watch but at the screen on his tiny cell phone. “Got it.”

I retreated to my cubbyhole, trying hard to put the aggressive buyout effort out of my head. It wasn’t easy, but I had more immediate problems to solve, including how I was going to pay for the
Advocate
’s upkeep. On several occasions, Rick Erlandson had advised me to open a line of credit at the bank. I’d hesitated, seeing in my mind’s eye a figure that escalated every second. I didn’t need a big personal debt. My little log house was paid for with the money from the bungalow Adam and I had shared in Portland when I was working for
The Oregonian.
I’d bought the
Advocate
with an unexpected windfall from an ex-fiancé who had forgotten to remove my name from his Boeing Company life insurance policy after we broke up. My five-year-old Honda Accord was also paid for in full. The cost of living was far cheaper in Alpine than in either Seattle or Portland, but I was hardly getting rich, and inflation creeps into even the most remote of mountain aeries.

Ginny, whose pregnancy was beginning to show under the loose cotton blouse she was wearing, came into my office carrying a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Marlowe Whipp dropped this off just now,” she said. “He’d forgotten to deliver it when he brought the mail this morning.”

Marlowe wasn’t the USPO’s most diligent mailman, but he was all we had in most parts of Alpine. I thanked her. “Are you feeling better?”

She nodded. “I think I’ve put the heaves behind me. With our first two, I stopped being nauseated after three months.” There was a slight frown on her plain, serious face. “Do you suppose that means it’s another boy?”

I smiled at Ginny. “It probably is—unless it’s a girl. I don’t believe all those old wives’ tales about how you can discern a baby’s sex. Only the ultrasound usually tells whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

“I’m not sure I want to know,” Ginny replied. “Rick told me it was my decision. If I find out it’s a boy, I’ll be…disappointed. And if it’s a girl, I’ll worry that she’s not okay.”

I recalled how Ginny had moped her way through the previous pregnancies. Never a high-spirited young woman, she had fussed and fretted for what seemed like far longer than the average gestation period. I’d hoped that we could avoid that problem the third time around, but it appeared this wasn’t going to be a charm. Ginny was Ginny, and as she was a diligent and decent employee, I was willing to put up with her long face and doleful obsessions.

“What does Doc Dewey say?” I asked, picking up a pair of scissors to cut open the package she’d given me.

Ginny shrugged. “You know Doc. He says it’s up to me.”

I certainly knew Doc, who’d joined his father’s practice long before I arrived in Alpine. Gerald Dewey was a general practitioner, and while he wasn’t able to be quite as hands-on as his late father had been, he had a compassionate, practical bedside manner.

“Doc’s right,” I said. And frowned. “There’s no return address on this package. It’s postmarked Alpine, though.”

“It’s not very heavy,” Ginny pointed out.

I read the address, which had been printed with a black marker pen:

Emma Lord
507 Front Street
Alpine WA 98289

I uttered a small laugh. “I hope it’s not a bomb from some irate reader.”

“You never know these days,” Ginny said, shaking her head and taking a few backward steps away from my desk.

“Right,” I said, aware that the hint of sarcasm was lost on my office manager.

The small tan box inside had no markings. I lifted the lid, removed a bit of tissue paper, and stared at a pearl-and-diamond bracelet. “If it’s not fake, it’s rather pretty,” I said in a puzzled tone as I dangled the bauble from my index finger.

Ginny showed a hint of excitement. “Is it a present?”

“I’m not sure.” I put the bracelet on my desk and opened a gift card that lay on the bottom layer of tissue paper.

“Mr. Fisher?” Ginny suggested as I opened the card.

My jaw must have dropped. “What is it?” Ginny asked in a startled voice.

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I reread the handwritten message, recognizing the large, inelegant penmanship. “Here,” I said, quickly handing the card to Ginny as if it were on fire.

She frowned. “I don’t get it.”

I’m aware that pregnant women tend to be self-absorbed—all their intellect and emotions focused on themselves and the child they’re carrying—but Ginny’s response angered me.

“For God’s sake,” I snapped. “What do you think it means?” I snatched the card away from her and read the scrawled sentiment aloud. “‘Sandra—Happy St. Valentine’s Day, February 14, 1991. You are the only woman I’ve ever loved. With all my heart, Tom.’”

Ginny let out a little gasp. “Oh!” Her fair skin grew flushed. “
That
Tom!”

I threw the bracelet and the note back into the box. “Yes.” I couldn’t suppress the barb: “
That
Tom. Not Tom Sawyer, not Tom Hanks, not Tom Seaver.”

“Tom Seaver?”

I’d forgotten that Ginny wasn’t a baseball fan. “Never mind.” I tried to stifle my anger. “You might as well know,” I said. “Tom Cavanaugh’s children want to buy the
Advocate.
”

“No!” Ginny was aghast. But it didn’t take long for her usual practical nature to reassert itself. “That’s too stupid. It must be a joke.” She pointed to the box while I was covering the bracelet and card with the lid. “I still don’t get it. What’s that got to do with it?”

“Probably part of a war of nerves,” I said. “They’re serious.” I explained that Dylan and Kelsey Platte were buying Ed’s house. “This is no joke,” I emphasized. “Why would they move here if they didn’t think they could take over the paper?”

“Maybe they like small towns?” Ginny suggested. “Every so often we get more people coming to Alpine, especially from California.” She looked at me with a hint of dismay. “You wouldn’t dream of selling, would you?”

“Of course not.” I paused, wondering how ugly the Cavanaugh campaign might get.

“So,” Ginny said slowly, “they sent the bracelet and the card to upset you. That’s mean. Is this the guy who called just as I was going to lunch?”

I nodded. “He’s married to Tom’s daughter, Kelsey. If he calls again, tell him I’ve gone to Madagascar for the weekend.”

“Okay,” Ginny said. I think she knew I was exaggerating, but judging from her stoic expression I couldn’t really tell.

After she left my cubbyhole, I realized I had to tell Kip and Curtis about the buyout offer. Or the
demand,
I thought, my anger returning. In fact, it occurred to me, I should hold a staff meeting. Having sat through endless talk fests in my reporting career, I had a long-standing hatred of meetings, most of which were worthless opportunities to add huge quantities of hot air to the ozone layer. I couldn’t remember when I’d held one of my own. Maybe never. It was a record I didn’t want to break.

Vida and Leo returned together a few minutes before two, just about the time I realized I was famished.

“No luck,” Leo grumbled. “Platte wasn’t at the motel.”

“I didn’t think he would be,” I said. “He told me I couldn’t reach him this afternoon.”

“His car was there,” Vida asserted. “Minnie Harris said she hadn’t seen him leave on foot, but she’d been in the back eating lunch.”

Minnie and Mel Harris owned two of the three motels in Alpine. Years ago, they had bought the Tall Timber from Alma and Gus Eriks, who wanted to retire. More recently, the Harrises had bought Alpine’s oldest motel, which had started as an auto court after World War Two. Mel and Minnie had spent almost a year remodeling and updating what was now known as the Cascade Inn. The third—and newest—was the Alpine Falls Motel, a squalid bunch of built-on-the-cheap units that had opened a couple of years earlier.

By coincidence, my entire staff was on hand a little after three-thirty. Bravely, I asked them to come into the newsroom. When my production manager and my reporter heard me drop the bombshell, Kip was shocked, but Curtis thought it was funny.

“Nothing funny about this,” I said, giving him a reproachful look.

I showed them the bracelet and the note I’d received earlier. Vida was outraged—and not just at the scare tactic. “Mean-spirited,” she declared, “bordering on harassment. You should take that to the sheriff.”

I’d already thought about doing that, but I didn’t want to bother Milo Dodge with crank mailings. Certainly I never pestered him with the ordinary crank calls and letters. As long as bodily threats weren’t involved, they were routine for editors and publishers.

“So,” Curtis put in, fingering his dimpled chin, “this goes back to a guy you were going to marry?”

I shot my new reporter a dark glance. “Yes. You should look through the archives. The whole horrible story is in there. In fact, it made the Seattle papers, even the AP. You
are
a newspaper reader, aren’t you, Curtis?”

“Oh, sure,” he replied. “I belong to that dying breed.”

“Then you probably read about Tom’s death,” I said in a waspish tone. “It was almost five years ago.”

Curtis grimaced. “Gee—I’m not sure I knew how to read that far back. I was only six.”

He was sinking in quicksand, and the expression on my face must have warned him. “I went to Europe that summer on a student tour,” he explained soberly. “I didn’t get back until the end of summer quarter.”

With a curt nod, I acknowledged what I assumed was meant as an apology. “The important thing now is that you understand I have absolutely no intention of selling the
Advocate.
These people apparently are playing hardball, but it won’t get them anywhere. Your jobs are safe, and I’m entrenched behind my desk. If anyone approaches you about buying the paper, tell them to forget it. Hopefully, we’ll soon hear the last of this offer. Meanwhile, have a good weekend. I’m going to Seattle this afternoon, but I’ll be back Sunday night. You can always reach me on my cell phone.”

My small staff began to disband, except for Vida, who stood ramrod straight by her desk. “I’m serious, Emma. Whoever sent you that is meaner than cat dirt. Before you leave, take that ridiculous bracelet and note to Milo.”

My watch informed me it was three-fifty-three. “Okay,” I agreed after a pause. “I certainly don’t want the damned things. I’ll see Milo as soon as I finish a couple of chores. I’ll start for Seattle right after that.”

At ten after four I was walking briskly down Front Street in mild if cloudy weather. What little snow we’d had the past winter had long since melted on Mount Baldy to the north and Tonga Ridge on the south. From three blocks away, I couldn’t hear the Skykomish River, but I knew it was running well below its banks. A freight train whistled in the distance, followed by the clang of bells for the red and white crossing bars by the bridge leading out of town.

The sheriff was behind the curving mahogany counter, chatting with Deputy Dwight Gould and the receptionist, Lori Cobb.

“Don’t tell me on a late Friday afternoon you’ve got a crime to report,” Milo said. “I’m going fishing as soon as I grab a bite to eat.”

“Not exactly,” I replied, taking the box and its original wrappings out of my handbag. There was no need for privacy. In Alpine everybody knows everybody else’s business. Secrets are almost as scarce as old-growth trees. “Take a look.”

Out of habit, Milo examined the brown wrapping paper without touching it. “No return. Hunh.” He used a letter opener to lift the lid and the tissue paper. Dwight and Lori were watching. “Bracelet?” the sheriff said.

I nodded.

“Pretty,” Lori noted. “Are those real diamonds?”

“Probably,” I said.

Milo looked down at me from his six-foot-five advantage. “You’ve already mauled this, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Then you show me the card.”

I was tempted to say he could damned well pick it up himself, but I complied. “You can read, can’t you?” I snapped as I held it up for him.

“As long as the words are short,” he retorted. Milo grimaced as he tried to decipher the handwriting. “Did a chicken write this? It’s not legible.”

“It is to me,” I said and quoted from unhappy memory. “Tom Cavanaugh, to his lovely, loony wife.”

The sheriff shook his head. “So how did you end up with it?”

I sighed wearily before relating the story. Milo seemed mildly surprised; Dwight looked indifferent; Lori appeared intrigued.

“Nasty,” she declared. “Not very professional, either.”

“I agree,” I said.

“So what do you want us to do?” Milo asked. His hazel eyes glinted faintly, as if, like Curtis, he thought this was somehow amusing.

“Nothing at the moment,” I said, “but I don’t want it anywhere near me. I’m going to Seattle for the weekend.”

The glint in Milo’s eyes faded. “A hot date with Rolf?”

“A cocktail cruise,” I said without expression. My off-and-on romantic relationship with the sheriff had been off for a long time. But I was very fond of him and never wanted to hurt his feelings. He deserved better. In fact, he deserved a lot better than what I could give him.