The Alpine Scandal (25 page)

“Your turn,” Milo said.

My hand fell away from the knob. “To do…what?”

“Say thank you.” Milo looked curious.

“Ah…for…?”

“The flowers.”

“The…oh!” I gaped at him. “You sent me that beautiful bouquet?”

“Didn’t the card say so?”

“No. There wasn’t any name. I thought…” I felt like a moron.

Milo’s long face showed no emotion. “I thought it’d make up for getting sick after I ate your dinner. Whoever’s filling in at Posies Unlimited while Delphine Corson’s on vacation must have forgotten to put my name on the damned card. Oh, well.”

The sheriff’s phone rang. He raised his hand in a halfhearted wave and picked up the receiver. “Dodge here.”

I left.

Sunday night Vida asked me to go with her for a little ride. She didn’t explain. I didn’t inquire.

It was dark by seven that night, with a light rain falling and only a faint breeze blowing down from Tonga Ridge. She chattered about many things as we drove down Alpine Way and turned toward the Burl Creek Road.

“Now about my ‘Scene Around Town’ column this week. I’ve not put my mind to it with everything else happening…Delphine on a ski trip to Sun Valley, of course. I’ll interview her when she comes back. Edna Mae gathering used romance novels for a special St. Valentine’s sale to benefit the library. Or is that a small story? I suppose it is. Dare I mention Ed working at the Burger Barn? Perhaps not. He won’t last.”

We pulled up in front of the Nystrom house. Vida grunted as she twisted around to reach into the backseat and pick up a Grocery Basket bag. “You were right,” she said. “I checked my files—and my memory. In all the years Trinity Episcopal has had bake sales, Polly Nystrom never contributed so much as a batch of biscuits. Nor was she active in any of the church’s activities.”

“So?”

She handed me a white paper bag. “I hate to waste good food, but needs must.”

I peeked into the bag. It contained a couple of dozen vanilla wafers from the store’s bakery section. I was still puzzled. “Now what?”

Vida had taken out a brand-new cookie cookbook encased in plastic wrap. “It’s our turn to decorate the Nystroms’ lawn. Come, let’s hurry. It’s raining harder, and I didn’t wear my galoshes. Very foolish of me. I don’t know why I didn’t…” The rest of her words were lost as she got out of the car.

I got out, too. Even in the dark, I could see the crescent-shaped tire treads left in the carefully groomed lawn. Carter must have picked up the debris left by the Pikes. Our mission took less than a minute. I suppose it was foolish of me to obey Vida so blindly, but I knew she had a method to her madness.

We simply tossed everything from the side of the road and hurried back to her Buick. Although the lights were on in the Nystrom and Della Croce houses, no one seemed to notice us. That was lucky. Vida would have been easily identified by her big green hat with its acorns and oak leaves. I smiled to myself, wondering if she’d thought about the symbolism: green for hope, the acorn for strength, oak for endurance—and forgiveness. I took one last look at the round little cookies haphazardly strewn around the yard. They reminded me of Communion wafers. Ironic or appropriate? I wondered.

“Okay,” I said as Vida started up the car. “Why did we just commit a crime that could get us arrested?”

“To remind Polly and Carter that they’re still alive.” She glanced over at me before pulling back out onto the road. “To never retreat from the rest of the world.”

We followed the dark road back to town, where the rain-blurred lights in the houses and shops along Alpine Way welcomed us home.

Read on for an exciting glimpse of Mary Daheim’s

THE ALPINE TRAITOR

the next Emma Lord mystery
from Ballantine Books

F
RIDAY MORNING
, Vida had an eleven o’clock appointment with Ginger Roth at Pines Villa. At eleven-twenty, my House & Home editor stomped back into the newsroom with a furious expression under the brim of her floppy green hat.

“So inconsiderate!” she ranted. “This younger generation! Making appointments and not keeping them! I rang the buzzer on the intercom several times and got no response. I finally buzzed my addlepated sister-in-law Ella Hinshaw and she let me in. But Ginger didn’t respond to my knock on her door. How rude! If you want her life story, have Curtis get it. I’ve no time for bad manners.”

Curtis was sitting at his desk, only a few feet away from where Vida was standing. For some reason, she rarely spoke directly to him but behaved as if he weren’t present. Vida didn’t like change. Maybe she was pretending that Scott was still working for the
Advocate
.

“Curtis?” I said.

He looked up, blue eyes wary. “Yeah?”

I took Ginger and Josh Roth’s address and phone number from Vida. “Ms. Roth was a no-show for—”

Curtis grinned, a rather engaging expression. “I heard. Ms. Roth is a boor, unworthy of calling herself a resident of Alpine.” His eyes flicked in Vida’s direction, where she was about to sit down at her desk. “Mrs. Runkel,” he said, a bit louder, “I’m not deaf, though it’s kind of you to be considerate of my handicap. If I had one.”

I stiffened, prepared for a burst of reproach from Vida. But after an awkward pause, she gave Curtis one of her cheesy smiles with plenty of teeth showing. “Ah. So you do have some spunk. Good. I’ve been concerned about that.” She stopped smiling, sat down, and immediately picked up the phone.

Curtis studied the scribbled information on the Roths. “Should I try again today?”

“Early afternoon,” I suggested. “She may be out shopping this morning. Thanks, Curtis.”

Shortly before noon, Dick Bourgette stopped by to give me an estimate on a new roof. I trusted Dick, who’d moved to Alpine several years earlier with his wife and almost-grown family. The Bourgettes had flourished in every way, with their six children marrying, multiplying, and getting involved in various business endeavors of their own. Dick’s wife, Mary Jane, was a friend of mine, and the entire clan were regulars at St. Mildred’s Catholic Church. Though the Bourgettes had come late to Alpine, it seemed as if they’d always belonged to the town, and in fact, one of their daughters had married a descendant of Carl Clemans, the mill owner and the town’s founding father.

“Okay,” Dick said, laying a spec sheet on my desk. “If you want only the section over your office replaced, it’s going to cost less than five hundred bucks, including labor and materials. But that old tin roof over the rest of the building is shot. The climate’s changed. We don’t have as much snow like we did in the old days. I suggest you go with slate. It’ll withstand anything and last forever.”

I blinked a couple of times. “How much?”

Dick scrunched up his round, faintly florid face and tapped his pen on the desk. “Oh—let’s say fourteen hundred. That’s a fair price, Emma.”

“Well…” I hesitated, though I knew Dick was scrupulously honest. “Okay. When can you start and how long will it take?”

“Mid-July,” Dick replied, putting his pen back in his shirt pocket. “A couple of days. I can do it myself. It’s not a big job.” He pointed to two of the buckets I kept in my office. “You better hang on to those. It usually rains just before or after the Fourth of July.”

I nodded. June in Alpine could be more like March; May was usually sunny and pleasant; February often brought a few days of what the old-timers called “false spring.” The venerable adage about the changeable climate was “If you don’t like the weather, wait twenty minutes.”

Dick gathered up his clipboard and laptop computer. “I hear the Bronskys finally sold their palace.”

“So Ed told me,” I said. “Thank your lucky stars you weren’t here when they built it. You can’t imagine what they put their architect and contractor through.”

“Oh yes, I can,” Dick responded and chuckled. “Mary Jane and I went to a couple of their soirees—or as Ed pronounced it, ‘
soy
-rees.’ We couldn’t believe how much money they wasted on things like those marble floors with inlays of the family’s pictures, including their dog, Carhop.”

“Ed started going broke before they could add their new dog, Barhop,” I remarked. “I hope the buyers have enough money to undo some of Ed and Shirley’s atrocious taste.”

“I’d like to meet with them as soon as they get settled,” Dick said. “I thought I might drop off one of my business cards at the Tall Timber Motel, but that’s probably pushing it.”

I gave Dick a curious look. “They’re here?”

Dick nodded. “At least the husband is. Our daughter Terri talked to him at the diner yesterday. His first name is Dylan. Dylan Platte.”

Terri Bourgette was the hostess at the fifties-style diner owned by two of her brothers. “Interesting,” I noted. “We seem to be attracting some younger people to Alpine lately. I’m going to run a story about that after we’ve talked to the newcomers.”

“It’s a good little town,” Dick asserted. “I’m glad we made the move. That traffic in and around Seattle is really horrendous.”

On that note, Dick left. I decided to call the Tall Timber Motel and arrange an appointment with Dylan Platte. He wasn’t in, so I left my name and number.

Vida was still fuming. “I hope you have better luck than I did with the Roths,” she declared, taking a hard-boiled egg, a container of cottage cheese, and several carrot and celery sticks from a brown paper bag. It was obvious that she was on another one of her intermittent diets. I never understood why—she is a big woman with a big frame, and no matter how much or how little she eats, Vida never seems to lose or gain a pound. She sniffed with contempt. “Common courtesy was left behind in the last century.”

I couldn’t argue the point. I decided to go over to the Burger Barn and pick up fish and chips for lunch. If I ate in the office and finished the tasks I’d allotted myself for the week, I could leave for Seattle around four. As I walked through the front office, Ginny was on the phone, standing at her place behind the counter and wearing her coat.

“Just a moment,” she said into the phone and beckoned to me. “Ms. Lord is still here.” Ginny handed me the receiver. “It’s somebody named Platte,” she whispered.

“Hello, this is Emma Lord,” I said into the phone, waving Ginny good-bye. “Thanks for returning my call so promptly.”

“Your call?” The male voice sounded puzzled. “When did you call me?”

“About five minutes ago,” I said, equally puzzled. “I phoned the Tall Timber Motel after I heard you were in town.”

“Then you must know what I’m calling about,” he said.

“You’re buying the Bronsky house,” I replied, moving around the counter and sitting down in Ginny’s chair.

“Yes.” He paused. “When can we meet?” he finally inquired after at least thirty seconds had passed.

“I’m on my way to lunch,” I said. “Can you join me at the Burger Barn?”

“That doesn’t work for me,” he responded, sounding very formal. “I’d prefer meeting you somewhere less public, perhaps after work tonight. I see you live on Fir Street, off Fourth.”

I was beginning to get suspicious. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr. Platte. I’m leaving town for the weekend later this afternoon. Can you wait until Monday?”

“No,” he replied. “I wouldn’t think that’d suit you, either. There’s quite a lot to talk and think about.”

“Like what?” I was growing impatient as well as wary.

“I thought you knew.”

“I haven’t a clue.”

Dylan made a sound at the other end that was either a snort or a laugh, I couldn’t tell which. “I suppose I’d better make the announcement right now, and then we can talk about it tonight.”

“I won’t be here,” I said, figuring he was one of those people who had some weird idea for a story that would make himself look like a hero, adventurer, entrepreneur, or some other kind of self-seeking opportunist. “I told you that.”

“I know what you said,” Dylan assured me. “But my time here is limited. I have to be back in San Francisco Sunday night. My wife and I won’t return to Alpine until the second week of July.”

“Your wife is with you?” I asked, wishing he’d get to the point.

“Kelsey couldn’t make it. I had to check out the house by myself.”

The name “Kelsey” rang a faint bell. I didn’t stop to figure out why. “So what’s your proposal?” I asked.

“My wife and her brother and I want to buy the
Advocate
.”

I was sure that I hadn’t heard correctly. “You want to buy
space
in the
Advocate
?”

This time the noise at the other end was definitely a chuckle—a rather snide chuckle, I thought. “Didn’t you get Kelsey’s e-mail last week?”

Kelsey
. I knew that name. It was unusual, but I knew—or knew of—someone named Kelsey. I thought back to the batches and batches of mostly worthless e-mails sent to me every day. “I don’t recall anything from someone named Kelsey,” I said.

“The subject was ‘Acquiring the
Advocate
,’” Dylan said.

I vaguely recalled a heading like that, but all sorts of syndicates and news services and heaven knew what else were sent to me all the time and usually involved some sort of product for sale, including websites and even porn. I deleted them immediately, fearing that there were viruses attached.

“I never read it,” I admitted. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. What do you mean by ‘acquiring’?”

“I’ll explain.” Dylan Platte sounded condescending, as if he were talking to the Alpine Idiot. “My wife, Kelsey, and her brother, Graham, inherited their father’s newspaper chain when he was killed a few years ago. For a time, they both left the business up to…”

I lost track of what Dylan was saying. Kelsey. Graham. Tom Cavanaugh’s daughter and son. The stepchildren I’d almost acquired—there was that word again—by marrying Tom. My son, Adam’s half brother and half sister. I’d met them only once at Tom’s funeral Mass in San Francisco. Adam and my brother, Ben, had gone with me, but we’d skipped the reception that followed because I simply couldn’t handle mingling with so many people I didn’t know—including Graham and Kelsey. I worred that they might blame me in part for what had happened to their father. I’d been so numb with grief that I’d barely been able to say more than a mumbled hello. They were only a blur in my mind’s eye.

In trying to recall what they looked like, I conjured up only the vaguest of impressions—in their twenties, muddling through mismatched mates and equally incompatible careers. I suddenly realized that the Cavanaugh offspring must be thirty something by now, and apparently had settled down to take life seriously. The searing wound I’d felt when Tom died had never quite healed, and now I felt as if it had been reopened and was bleeding all over again.

I couldn’t speak.

“…Graham has inherited his father’s business skills,” Dylan was saying. “He understands the predicament of newspapers in general these days, but also knows that some of the solutions lie in mergers and acquisitions. My background is in advertising, Kelsey is the creative type, and Graham’s wife, Sophia, is a very fine writer. It’s an ideal situation for all of us, not to mention that living in the Bay Area isn’t what it used to be. We assume you’re getting close to retirement, and we’re prepared to make a very tempting offer. So what would be a good time this evening or tomorrow?”

I marshaled my strength to reply. “I’m not interested, and I won’t be in town past four o’clock. I’ve already made plans with a friend who lives in Seattle.”

“Oh?” Graham paused, but only for a moment. “You enjoy the city, I take it?”

“Of course,” I said. “I was raised there.”

Here came that chuckle again. “So I imagine you’ll move back after you sell the paper. Especially,” he added a trifle slyly, “if your friend lives there.”

I tried to picture Rolf in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t. All I saw was Tom—smiling, talking, thinking, sleeping, looking into my eyes. I pressed my free hand against my forehead, willing myself to behave like a mature middle-aged human being.

“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I’m not contemplating a sale of the
Advocate
in the near future. I have to go now. Good luck on your move to Alpine.”

“Hardball,” Dylan murmured. “I understand. You realize, of course, that Kelsey’s father intended to buy the
Advocate
before he died.”

“What?”
I was so startled that I shrieked the word.

“He left a letter—a memo, I should say—about his intentions,” Dylan explained, as though he was talking about a request Tom might have made to purchase a filing cabinet. “According to Kelsey, he made that fatal trip to Alpine to negotiate with you in person. My father-in-law was interested in getting a foothold for his newspaper chain in western Washington. Since he knew you, he felt that the
Advocate
would make a good starting point. Kelsey and Graham are simply carrying out what Tom Cavanaugh wanted to do.”

I glanced up as the front door opened. Mayor Fuzzy Baugh entered and offered me his best election-year smile. I tried to smile back, but my effort was puny. I spoke quietly into the receiver: “I have to hang up. Someone’s here to see me. I’ll call you back in an hour. What’s your number, or should I contact the motel?”

“I’m not at the motel,” Dylan replied. “I’ll call you.” He broke the connection.

I must have looked stricken. For once, the town’s longtime leader dropped his hail-voter-well-met expression and stopped smiling. “What’s wrong, Emma?” he asked with a trace of his native New Orleans. “Has something…happened?”