Part 10 (1/2)

”Did Graham's wife come with him?”

Heather paused. ”I don't know. Carlos was working the front desk last night. You know-the cute guy from the college who wants to go into hotel management.”

I didn't know Carlos. ”Look,” I said to Heather, ”I know I'm prying, but that's my job. I'm also trying to be a hands-on boss with a new reporter. Has Curtis talked to Mrs. Platte or her brother?”

”Curtis?” Heather sounded puzzled. ”Oh-the one who took Scott's place. Gosh, I'm sorry Scott moved away. He was real eye candy. Every time he came to the lodge all the girls started having the wildest fantasies!”

”Yes, Scott was a dream walking,” I said, wondering if his replacement was going to become a nightmare. ”But what about Curtis?”

”I'm not sure,” Heather said. ”I spent most of the morning in the office. Dad told me Ed Bronsky stopped in to see Mrs. Platte yesterday, but she refused to let him in. I guess Ed got all p.i.s.sy about it.”

”That sounds like Ed.” I backtracked to my previous question. ”Did Graham Cavanaugh register for two people?”

”I'll have to check. Can you hang on?”

”Sure.” I was trying to be patient. In fact, I realized that if Alpine weren't a small town and I was calling a stranger who worked at a big city hotel I'd never get any personal information about guests. One of the benefits of life in SkyCo was that everybody knew everybody and had a tendency to band together against strangers.

”Yes,” Heather said, sounding as pleased as if she'd found a pearl in one of the ski lodge's Quilcene oysters, ”Mr. and Mrs. Graham Cavanaugh, and their home address is on Clay Street in San Francisco.”

”Thanks, Heather,” I said and plunged ahead. ”Could you ask Graham to call me at the Advocate?”

”Sure. I'll put your request in his voice message box.”

I thanked Heather again. I knew I was interfering with Curtis's a.s.signment, but after all, Graham was Tom's son, my son's half brother. At least that was my excuse.

The phone rang soon as I'd hung up. Dustin Fong's polite voice was at the other end. ”I've got some information for Curtis,” he said, ”but Sheriff Dodge thought I should let you know in case Curtis isn't in.”

”He isn't,” I responded. ”Have you seen him today?”

”Yes,” Dustin answered, ”he was here a little before nine. I haven't seen him since, though.”

”Go ahead,” I said. ”What's new?”

”We got the preliminary report back from the Everett ME,” Dustin replied. ”The victim was killed with two shots from a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. One bullet severed a major artery near the heart, and the other went into his left lung. Death wasn't necessarily instantaneous.”

”But no weapon was found at the scene, right?”

”Right. We may have the full report by the end of the day.”

”Good,” I said. ”You'll let us know?”

”Sure.” Dustin paused. ”Should we call you or Curtis?”

”Either of us,” I said, somewhat grudgingly. ”By the way, was there any sign of a struggle?”

”No,” the deputy answered. ”The sheriff and Sam Heppner responded to the call from Mrs. Harris.”

”You didn't see the crime scene for yourself?”

”No.” Dustin sounded apologetic. ”I've only seen the pictures Sam took. Nothing seemed to be disturbed in the unit, and as far as I know, the victim didn't have any marks on him except for the gunshot wounds. He was lying on the floor between the bed and the desk.”

I tried to visualize the scene. I hadn't been in any of the Tall Timber rooms in years, but my recollection was that they were standard fare-one or two double beds, desk with TV and telephone, a small table, two chairs, an open s.p.a.ce for hanging clothes, and the usual bathroom accommodations, with tub or shower.

”Not much room to maneuver,” I remarked.

”Pardon?” Dustin said.

”The lack of s.p.a.ce in a typical motel room,” I explained. ”If someone pulls a gun on you and your back is to the door, where do you go?”

”Oh-I see what you mean.” The deputy was probably nodding. Of all the employees in the sheriff's office, Dustin had the best people skills by far. ”I'll let you-or Curtis-hear of anything else we learn today,” he added.

I thanked him and hung up. By the time I'd dashed off a couple of brief page one stories about street resurfacing and annual maintenance of the high school's football field, it was time for lunch. Vida had already left, Leo was out on his rounds, and Curtis was still AWOL. Maybe I was misjudging him. I hoped so. Not only was his learning curve steep but it could be perilous on his new a.s.signment.

The sun had come out, so I decided to walk the six blocks to Pie-In-The-Sky Cafe at the Alpine Mall. They had the best sandwiches in town, although the Grocery Basket's deli featured an excellent tuna salad-but only on Fridays. As the owner and my fellow paris.h.i.+oner, Jake O'Toole, put it in his verbose, malapropian style, ”Most discernible people only eat the fruits de mer on Friday, Vatican dictums slackening the rules for fasting and abstinence notwithholding.”

I was walking by the sheriff's office when Doe Jameson, the county's only female deputy, came out. ”Ms. Lord,” she called to me, ”got a minute?”

”Sure,” I said. ”I'm headed for the sandwich place. Want to join me?”

Doe peered beyond me toward Alpine Way and the mall. I wondered if she were visualizing the display cases to figure out if she could resist temptation. A solid and also stolid young woman in her late twenties, Doe was part Native American and had a no-nonsense manner that bordered on being abrasive.

”No, thanks,” she said, ”but I'll walk to the mall with you. I have to buy some summer socks at Barton's Bootery.”

We crossed at the corner of Second and Front, walking past the forest service and the post office. Doe didn't speak again until we'd almost reached the end of the block.

”I just took a call from the a.s.sociated Press in Seattle,” she said. ”Dodge had already left for lunch, so I had to field the questions.” She shuddered. ”I don't like doing that. I shouldn't be the official spokesperson for the sheriff's office.”

”What questions?” I asked as we waited for a truckload of s.h.i.+ngles to turn the corner from First to Front Street.

”About the Platte homicide,” Doe replied. ”Usually the Seattle media pays no attention to anything that happens up here. Oh, they might run a small story in one of the papers or even mention whatever is happening on the TV news, but they almost never contact us.”

”Who called you?” I had a feeling that I already knew.

”His name is Fisher,” Doe said, confirming my suspicion. ”He mentioned that it might be a developing story for their wire service because it might involve the local weekly newspaper. He'd gotten a call from some organization that wanted information.”

”Organization?” We'd reached Alpine Way, where we had to wait for one of the town's three stoplights. ”Did he say which one?”

Doe frowned. ”Was.h.i.+ngton State Newspaper Publishers...Alliance? a.s.sociation? a.s.sembly? It begins with an A.”

”a.s.sociation,” I said. ”I belong to it.” We hurried across the street and turned up past Old Mill Park to the mall. ”Gossip doesn't just travel fast in small towns,” I murmured. ”It invades every industry. d.a.m.n!”

Doe shot me a sidelong glance as we crossed Park Street. ”Should I tell this Fisher to call you?”

”No!” I barked and immediately was remorseful. ”Sorry.” Seeing the surprise on Doe's usually stoic face, I tried to smile. ”Cooperate with him. It's a legitimate story for the wire service. Somebody at the WNPA must have recognized Platte's name. I don't know how, but of course there'd be some interest in his murder, even if it's just insider stuff.” I'd been talking too fast, trying not to expose my wrath at Rolf for going behind my back. Doe and I stopped at the mall's parking lot. ”What did you tell...Fisher?” I almost gagged on his name.

”Just the facts we've given you,” Doe replied, still looking put off by my outburst. ”Won't he call you for the details?”