The Alpine Traitor (20 page)

I got out of the way as she put on her glasses, plopped the big orange straw hat on her head, grabbed her purse, and sprang from her chair. “I’ll be back by one,” she called over her shoulder.

The newsroom was empty, except for me. Curtis and Ed had both gone out, though where I didn’t know. I could only hope they were actually working. After getting my own purse, I headed outside, passing Ginny, who was on the phone taking a classified ad.

On the short drive to the ski lodge, I thought back to what Marisa Foxx had told me about John Vitani’s unsolved shooting death. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was any connection between that case and our local tragedies. It seemed unlikely, though, so I put it out of my mind. Dealing with Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte was my priority. I sensed that our lunch date was going to be painful for both of us. I decided there was no point in trying to connect the dots between Mr. Vitani, Maxim Volos, and Leo.

That, of course, was a big mistake.

SIXTEEN

K
ELSEY
P
LATTE STOOD NEXT TO ONE OF THE GRANITE
pillars that supported the lodge’s porte cochere. She looked forlorn and maybe apprehensive. I stopped my car and waved at her. After peering at me for what seemed like a long time, she walked over and opened the passenger door. Before getting in, Kelsey glanced into the backseat. Maybe she was checking to see if I had an accomplice stowed away.

“I’m not very hungry,” she announced before I could offer a greeting. “Does this diner serve a lot of grease?”

“It
is
a diner,” I said, slowly driving away from the lodge and trying not to look at the crime scene tape that still marked the spot where Leo had been shot. “They have nice salads, though.”

“I’m into the Kushi Macro Diet,” Kelsey said. “It’s been a nightmare up here. Nobody knows about
Gobo Misso Itame
or even azuki beans and konbu algae.”

“That’s a shame,” I said, wondering what the hell she was talking about. “How will you manage when you move here?”

“Mr. Bardeen told me there was a really big Asian food store in Seattle called…I forget. I wrote it down.”

“Uwajimaya, I’ll bet. It’s in Seattle’s Chinatown,” I said as we headed down the road that led to Alpine Way. “It’s huge and has all sorts of items you can’t get anywhere else.”

“That’s a relief,” Kelsey said with a little sigh. “I can’t get over this town. It’s so…remote. I feel like I’m in a time warp. What do people
do
around here?”

“That’s an interesting question,” I replied, attempting to encourage her to talk to me. “In the early days, Alpine was a logging camp. There was no road into the town. It could be accessed only by train or climbing a mile up Tonga Ridge. Families were allowed to live in the camp, and while there were never more than two or three hundred people, they managed to come up with their own entertainment. The winters were harder and longer in those days, too, but Alpine was always a closely knit—”

“Who’s that?” Kelsey interrupted, pointing to the statue of Carl Clemans in Old Mill Park.

“The town’s founder and mill owner, Carl Clemans,” I replied. “He’d come west to attend Stanford and organized the first Sigma Nu chapter on campus. He was also the quarterback and captain of the first Stanford football team that—”

“Hunh,” Kelsey said. “Why would somebody from Stanford become a logger?”

“He was a businessman,” I explained. “He bought other parcels of land around the state, including—”

“A couple of my friends went to Stanford,” Kelsey said. “I never wanted to go there. I took some classes at Mills for a while, but I couldn’t see the point. Life’s about living, not just learning.” She turned to look at me as I pulled into the diner’s parking lot. “Where did you get those tan slacks?”

“I don’t remember,” I admitted. “I’ve had them for several years. Nordstrom’s, maybe.”

“I like Nordstrom’s,” she said. “I go to the one on Market Street.” Kelsey pointed to the sleek chrome structure that had been built to resemble a fifties roadside diner. “Is that it?”

“Yes.” I felt like asking her what else it might be, especially with the bright red neon sign proclaiming “THE DINER—Good Eats.”

As I’d expected, the restaurant hadn’t yet begun to fill up at ten to twelve. Terri Bourgette seated us toward the rear and shot me a questioning glance. I looked back at her with an I-think-I-know-what-you’re-wondering expression but couldn’t say anything to identify my companion. I figured that Terri, who is a very sharp young woman, had probably already guessed.

Kelsey ordered iced tea; I asked for a Pepsi. For the next few minutes we studied the menu in silence. Or rather Kelsey did, as I already knew I wanted the rare beef dip.

“This is really awful,” my guest said with a deep frown. “I’m going to order the navy bean soup with a side of whatever greens they’ve got.”

Our waiter, a young man named Royce, took the orders without argument. “Carrots, radishes, celery, and black olives on the side,” he repeated in an amiable voice. “Got it.”

“So,” I said, leaning forward in the booth, “you’re definitely buying the Bronsky house?”

“I guess,” Kelsey said vaguely. “Dylan wants to. He skis.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes. I don’t really enjoy it.” Her blue eyes gazed at our booth’s divider panel. “Why do they have all these pictures of old-fashioned people? Are they from around here?”

Given that she was referring to black-and-white still shots of
Leave It to Beaver, Dragnet,
and
The Honeymooners,
I was appalled at her ignorance. “Those were popular TV shows in the fifties,” I replied. “All the decor here is from that era, including pictures of movie stars and singers.”

“Oh.” Kelsey seemed uninterested, preferring to concentrate on pulling a stray thread from her sleeveless yellow blouse.

I decided to broach a topic that might interest her. “You have a son, I believe. How old is he?”

“Aidan? Almost seven. He starts second grade in September.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

She shook her head. “I did, but I lost it. It was out-of-date anyway.”

“Yes, they grow so fast.” I racked my brain for something, anything that might get Kelsey to open up. “Have you gone through the Bronsky house?”

She shook her head again. “Dylan did this morning. He was supposed to do it…I forget when, but he didn’t then. It’s up to him.” She shrugged. “Dylan thinks it needs work, but that’s okay. We probably won’t move in until fall.” She frowned. “Oh, gee, that means Aidan will have to go to school here. I never thought of that.”

My Pepsi and her iced tea arrived. “We have two grade schools here, one private, one public,” I explained. “I assume you’re raising Aidan Catholic?”

“What?” She looked startled, her thin hands gripping the tall glass. I sensed that she’d drifted to some far-off place, perhaps the school he’d been attending in San Francisco. “Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“Dylan says children should choose for themselves,” Kelsey replied. “Aidan was baptized because my father insisted on it, but I don’t go to church anymore. What good does it do? It didn’t do much for my father, did it?”

“I can’t judge that,” I replied, beginning to feel not just frustrated but annoyed. “Nobody can. It wasn’t religion that got your father killed, it was politics.”

“It was both,” Kelsey insisted, showing a bit of animation. “I hate religion and politics. They only cause trouble and pain and wars and death.”

I didn’t know what to say. Kelsey didn’t appear capable of rational thought. Nor could she seem to focus for very long. ADD, maybe or, as Vida would say, an excuse for people who lacked the self-discipline to concentrate on any one thing for more than thirty seconds.

I changed the subject. “Before our meal arrives, I’ll show you what I brought along.”

Kelsey frowned. “Something that belonged to my father?”

“Well,” I said, opening my handbag, “not exactly. It’s some photographs of him taken when he visited Alpine.”

“Oh.” She looked away, exhibiting no interest whatsoever.

I hesitated, my fingers touching the envelope in which I’d put the pictures. “You don’t want to see them?”

“No. I remember what he looked like. I’ve got photos at home somewhere.” She stared at the black-and-white glossy of Wally and Beaver Cleaver. “I wish Graham were here. It’d make me feel better.”

“You should’ve told me you wanted him to join us,” I said. “He’s more than welcome.” That wasn’t part of my plan, of course, but I realized now that Kelsey might have been more forthcoming in her brother’s company.

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” I said, letting go of the envelope containing Tom’s pictures and zipping up my handbag.

“I feel better when he’s with me,” Kelsey murmured. “I miss him.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “I miss my brother, too.”

“Maybe soon,” she said, so low that I barely caught her words.

“Right.” I was flummoxed. I’d dealt with plenty of airheads in my time, but Kelsey was in the extreme. I couldn’t tell what was wrong with her, at least not in any clinical sense. Maybe she had built up so many barriers to protect herself that no one could get through to her. No one, it seemed, except Dylan. Admittedly, I’ve got my own thick walls, so I understood—to a degree. But Kelsey seemed utterly beyond reach.

Our orders arrived before I could speak again. Even after Royce had left us, I couldn’t figure out what to say. Finally, I made a desperate lunge.

“Kelsey,” I said, leaning even closer, “I almost became your stepmother. You must know that. We met at your father’s funeral in San Francisco. Do you recall that?”

“The funeral?” She nodded. “It was in that huge church with all the white marble. I thought it was ugly.”

“Do you remember my son, Adam?”

Her whole body tensed. “He was one of the priests you brought along.”

Kelsey made me sound like some sort of traveling bereavement circus. Fighting for control of my temper, I fixed my gaze on her face, which seemed frozen. “Have you no curiosity about me or your half brother? Haven’t you ever wondered why your father was going to marry me?”

“I know why,” she replied, tight-lipped. “Dylan told me. He wanted your newspaper.”

“That’s a lie,” I declared. “We loved each other. Your father was my son’s father. Surely you know that.”

“Another lie.” She relaxed slightly and tasted her soup. “This isn’t very good.”

It was hopeless. I’d lost my appetite. Kelsey was a mess, impossible for me to deal with, maybe the pathetic victim of her mother’s heredity. I tossed my napkin on the table and slid out of the booth. “Good luck,” I said. “Good-bye.”

Incredibly, Kelsey registered surprise. “How do I get back to the lodge?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I retorted. Maybe she expected a Cinderella coach with four white horses and a clutch of foot-men. I hurried up to Terri Bourgette, who was at the register. “How much? I’m leaving, but I’m also paying.”

Terri looked startled. “You just got your meal. Are you sick?”

“Yes—at heart.” I glanced back toward where Kelsey and I’d been seated. There was no sign of her. She hadn’t cared enough to try to follow me. “That’s Kelsey Cavanaugh Platte,” I told Terri. “She’s either crazy or so far into denial that there’s no way of reaching her. I can’t stand another minute in her company.”

Terri sadly shook her head. “That’s terrible,” she said. “You must be really upset. You’re not the type to give up easily.”

“This is different.” I tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Sorry. It wasn’t the food that put me off. I just couldn’t eat.” I told Terri what we’d ordered. It came to just under twenty dollars, so I gave her two tens and a five for Royce’s tip. “Next time, I’ll come here with a more congenial companion. Maybe one who isn’t nuts.”

By the time I got back to the office, the latest edition of the
Advocate
had hit the streets. It always gave me a sense of satisfaction to see people putting their quarters into the newspaper boxes and checking out the front page. The home deliveries were made later, though only by about an hour in the summer because our carriers weren’t in school.

I immediately called the hospital to check on Leo and see if he could have visitors. Debbie Murchison answered. “Mr. Walsh has been moved out of the ICU. In fact,” she went on, “Mrs. Runkel was here a few minutes ago to see him. She’s gone now. She took Mrs. Hinshaw home. That was very nice of her.”

“Mrs. Runkel has a deep sense of family obligation,” I said, wondering if Ella’s ears were being seared by Vida’s scolding. “Maybe I’ll stop by to see Leo in a few minutes. Is he able to eat lunch?”

“I think so,” Debbie replied. “The trays were delivered about five minutes ago. I haven’t had a chance to check.”

It wasn’t yet twelve-thirty, so I decided to walk the four blocks to the hospital. Leo was on the second floor. As I got out of the elevator, I steeled myself, not knowing what to expect.

It could’ve been worse, I suppose, but the IVs and the oxygen mask were enough to unsettle me. Leo was propped up in bed with his eyes closed. The lunch tray sat on a table next to the bed. Since the steel lids were still on all of the items, I gathered that he hadn’t tried to eat anything yet.

“Leo?” I said softly, approaching the bed.

He stirred slightly and mumbled something I couldn’t catch. His usual leathery skin was pale, and somehow he looked as if he’d already lost weight. I had a sudden urge to cry but stiffened my spine once more and pulled the single visitor’s chair closer to the bed. As I sat down, I wondered if Vida had actually spoken to him. If anyone could get a response out of a semiconscious patient, it’d be her.

I sat quietly for five minutes, saying a couple of prayers and wondering if Leo would sense my presence and wake up. Suddenly I was hungry, having skipped both breakfast and lunch. I lifted the lid off one of the smaller bowls: tapioca pudding, lumpy and unappetizing. I continued to sit and stare around the room. The other bed was empty. Disinfectant hung on the air, along with the odor of food that probably smelled better than it tasted.

Five minutes passed. Leo was still breathing, but otherwise he showed no sign of life. I supposed I couldn’t expect much more. Feeling useless, I got up and went out to see Debbie at the nurses’ station.

“I’d like to leave a note for Doc Dewey and Dr. Weinberg,” I said.

“Dr. Weinberg was leaving for Portland today,” Debbie informed me. “His son lives there. I can give Doc a note, though.”

“Oh…I’ll tell him myself,” I said. “By the way, Leo’s asleep and hasn’t touched his lunch.”

Debbie seemed unmoved by my report. “That’s fine. Trays are delivered whether the patients want them or not. Mr. Walsh needs to rest. I’ll check on him shortly.”

I felt as if I were being dismissed. But as I was about to walk away, she smiled at me. “I know this sounds stupid, but I can’t get over the fact that I actually saw the man who was murdered at the motel. And now Mr. Walsh gets shot.” The smile had disappeared. “It’s horrible, isn’t it? I feel spooked. I wonder what happened to his wife.”