Part 9 (1/2)
”No elephant ears?” Ginny said in a disappointed voice. ”I don't know why, but I've had a craving for elephant ears this whole pregnancy.”
Curtis c.o.c.ked his head to one side. ”Maybe your kid's going to be the size of an elephant. Better watch it. Doc Louie might need a crane to deliver him.”
”His name is Dewey,” Ginny snapped. ”If you must know, I'm very careful about my diet. But sometimes I have these natural cravings, which must mean I'm lacking something in my regular foods.” Ginny did a fairly good imitation of flouncing from the newsroom without bothering to check out the baked goods.
”Touchy, touchy,” Curtis murmured. ”Remind me never to get married.”
Leo chuckled. ”Getting married isn't the problem. Staying married is the hard part.”
Curtis had left the bakery bag on the table without putting the items on the tray. I quickly did the task for him, handed Leo a blackberry Danish, and grabbed a glazed doughnut for myself. ”Come into my office,” I said to my new reporter.
”Sure.” He followed me into the cubbyhole. ”What's up?”
”That's my question,” I said, sitting down at my desk. ”What took you so long? Were you working on the Platte story?”
Curtis sprawled in one of my visitors' chairs. ”I decided I might as well check the police log while I was out. Nothing big. The usual weekend traffic stuff and a couple of minor accidents.”
”What about the homicide?”
”The sheriff was in a meeting,” Curtis replied. ”Guess he has a staff get-together on Mondays.”
”That's news to me,” I said. ”Milo hates meetings.” I leaned closer and fixed my eyes on Curtis. ”What the h.e.l.l were you doing for the past hour and a half?”
He winced. ”How can I put it?” He paused and stared off into s.p.a.ce. ”I was getting my bearings. Finding my groove. You know-trying to get a feel for this place. It's pretty weird, this small town atmosphere. I need some time to make it real.”
”It is real,” I retorted. ”Get a grip, Curtis. You've got a murder story to cover, and we've got a deadline tomorrow afternoon. Forget acclimating and do the job.”
Curtis looked offended. ”That's what I'm saying. I can't do the job unless I feel as if I'm part of this town. It's like...culture shock. A time warp. You know what I mean, like how in old movies everything looks grainy and not quite in focus. I have to adjust.”
It was useless to argue the obvious with him. ”Okay,” I said, trying not to sound as aggravated as I felt, ”how's the story shaping up?”
Curtis held up his hands as if he were measuring something. ”A stranger comes to town. Wise in the ways of the big city's mean streets. But he's out of his element. The forest, the mountains, the rivers-to him they seem menacing. But he has a goal, a plan, an offer to make that can't be refused. And then Fate steps-”
”Whoa!” I cried, waving a hand to shut him up. ”Are you writing a movie treatment or a news story? Skip the useless c.r.a.p and give me the facts you've got so far.”
Curtis frowned. ”That's what I was doing. You got something against creativity?”
”Yes.” I nodded vigorously. ”Don't they teach you how to write a who-what-when-where-why-and-how story anymore in journalism school?”
”I told you,” Curtis said doggedly, ”readers don't want that tired old stuff. They want excitement, entertainment. TV has made them eyewitnesses to events. Newspaper reporters have to make it personal to make it real.”
”Not our readers,” I said. ”Not my readers. Come on, let's hear what you know.”
Curtis looked pained, as if I'd asked him to give me one of his kidneys. ”Dylan Platte, thirty-five, of San Francisco, California, was shot and killed sometime between noon and five o'clock last Friday afternoon at the Tall Timber Motel. Details aren't available until Sheriff Milo Dodge gets the results from the Snohomish County medical examiner's office. Platte was reportedly in Alpine on business and was making an offer to buy The Alpine Advocate from editor and publisher Emma Lord.”
I waited. But Curtis didn't say another word. ”And?” I finally coaxed.
”And?” He looked puzzled.
”I knew that Friday night,” I said calmly. ”What did you find out over the weekend?”
Curtis wouldn't meet my gaze. ”I told you-I got a feel for the story. I talked to Dodge, but he didn't have much to say. I went to the motel and looked around. You know, to see the setting.”
I nodded. ”Did you talk to the Harrises?”
”The owners?” Curtis finally looked at me again. ”Just Mrs. Harris. Her husband was at the other motel. But she didn't want to say anything because she had guests checking out. Trying not to let on what happened, I guess. Bad for business.”
”What about Graham?” I asked.
Curtis's expression was blank. ”Graham?”
”Graham Cavanaugh,” I said, trying to be patient. ”Kelsey Platte's brother. Dylan's brother-in-law.” I considered making shadow puppets to better explain the connection but decided a family tree would be more appropriate. ”Tom Cavanaugh's children are Kelsey and Graham. Dylan is married to Kelsey. Graham's wife is Sophia. Graham was scheduled to arrive in Alpine yesterday. Did you try to contact Kelsey Platte at the ski lodge?”
”I called, but whoever answered told me Mrs. Platte wasn't taking calls or seeing visitors.”
I didn't know whether or not to tell Curtis that I'd managed to meet with Kelsey. I didn't want to rub it in for fear of ruining whatever now seemed to be his slim chances of covering the story. On the other hand, he had to learn that reporters can't take no for an answer.
I was still mulling when Vida burst into the newsroom and headed straight for my office, oblivious to the one-on-one talk I was having with Curtis.
”You won't believe this,” she announced in a trumpetlike tone. ”My sister-in-law Ella has had a stroke. Or a fit. Or something.” Vida leaned against the back of the vacant visitor's chair next to Curtis. ”Her neighbor at Pines Villa, Myra Koenig, called me about an hour ago and said Ella had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I checked with the emergency room, and learned I couldn't do anything until Doc Dewey had seen her, so I decided to go to Pines Villa and have Myra let me in to gather up some things Ella needs if she stays in the hospital overnight, which I suspect she will.” Vida paused for breath. ”While I was there,” she went on, ”I went to Ginger and Josh Roth's unit. No one responded. I asked Myra if she knew them. You'll never guess what she said.”
”What?” I asked after Vida paused for dramatic effect.
”That unit has been vacant for weeks. Ginger and Josh Roth apparently don't exist.”
SEVEN.
”WHAT DO YOU MEAN?” I DEMANDED. ”I MET GINGER ROTH in this very office!”
”Yes, yes,” Vida retorted. ”But that doesn't mean she ever lived at Pines Villa. Or that her real name is Ginger Roth.”
Curtis scrambled up from the chair. ”I'll put my notes together,” he murmured and dashed out of my cubbyhole.
I held my head. ”Sit, Vida. Let me absorb this a little more slowly.”
”There's nothing to absorb,” she a.s.serted. ”You were tricked.”
I thought back to the previous Wednesday, when the lovely Ginger had parked her shapely carca.s.s in the same chair where Vida was now sitting. ”It was a bit odd,” I admitted. ”She was doing research-supposedly-for a friend in Arizona who was working on an advanced journalism or communications degree. Ginger was quite vague, but in retrospect, it could've been an act. At the time, I was reminded of the beautiful but dumb blonde cliche from the movies.”
”What if,” Vida said with a frown of concentration, ”she was actually studying you and the newspaper operation for the Cavanaughs?”
”That makes sense,” I agreed, ”but why the subterfuge?”
”Why not? To find out what you're like. To survey the premises. To get the upper hand. These Californians are very sharp when it comes to business practices.”
Vida's rationale made some sense. ”Is that the unit where Scott and Tamara Chamoud lived before they moved?”