Part 14 (2/2)

”No problem.” Stella again looked at me. ”The real problem is that my client here can't seem to find her brush, comb, or product. Did you do anything with your hair today?”

”I washed it,” I replied, on the defensive. ”I even used the dryer.”

”The one that sits next to the washer?” Stella retorted. ”Next time try tumble dry. It couldn't hurt.”

After we'd closed the door behind us, Milo scowled. ”What was that all about? I think your hair looks nice.”

”It doesn't look the way Stella thought the cut should be styled,” I said. ”Her criticism doesn't bother me. I'm used to it, and she's right. I'm inept when it comes to hair. Are we going to the golf course?”

”We?” Milo echoed, standing with one foot on the curb and the other in the street. ”Oh, why not? We'll take our own cars, so I'll head straight home after that.”

We parted company in front of his headquarters. By the time I walked back to the Advocate office and got in my Honda, Milo had already made an illegal U-turn on Front Street and was heading for the Icicle Creek Road. I didn't catch up with him until his Grand Cherokee turned right onto Railroad Avenue. We crossed Icicle Creek before making another right into the golf course. As I turned, I glimpsed Casa de Bronska to the east, its bright pink stucco ma.s.s erupting from the hillside with all the elegance of used bubble gum.

The parking lot-which had finally been paved a couple of years ago-was three-quarters full. It was a pleasant evening, a good time to get in nine holes after work. I had just turned off the ignition when my cell phone rang. Reluctantly, I answered while Milo loped toward the homely clubhouse.

”Emma?” Minnie Harris said. ”Mel just got back from his stint at the Cascade Inn. I told him about your visit, and he remembered seeing d.i.c.k Bourgette's truck in the lot Friday afternoon around two or so. Is that any help?”

”It can't hurt,” I replied.

”Don't get me wrong,” Minnie pleaded. ”I'm not accusing d.i.c.k of so much as wis.h.i.+ng somebody ill, let alone actually doing it. In fact, I can't be sure he was calling on the poor man who got killed. But Mel did notice that d.i.c.k's truck was parked close to the end of the building.”

”I think the world of all the Bourgettes,” I a.s.serted, ”but every sc.r.a.p of information might help. d.i.c.k mentioned dropping off a business card for the man he thought was Dylan Platte, the potential buyer of the Bronsky place. Maybe that's what he did.”

”Oh.” Minnie paused. ”Of course. I'm sure you're right. Some latecomers are just pulling in. I must dash. We've only got two vacancies left. Three,” she added dolefully, ”if we could use the dead man's unit.”

I rang off, thinking that, for the Harrises, the corpse without a name had merely become an impediment to their motel's full occupancy. Life went on in Alpine. Still, somebody somewhere must miss the victim. Who? Where? Would we ever find out?

Milo had already gone into the clubhouse. When I entered, he was in the pro shop talking to the manager, Van Goleeke.

The sheriff glanced at me and turned back to Van. ”Meet my new deputy, Emma Lord,” Milo said wryly. ”Be good to her. She's just learning the ropes.”

I smiled at Van, a clean-cut, good-looking man in his thirties with wavy auburn hair and rather long sideburns. He was a nodding acquaintance, though not from the golf and country club. Van and his wife, Arlette, had moved to Alpine a couple of years earlier. She taught music full-time at the community college, and Van was a part-time instructor in golf and tennis. I'd run into him on campus once or twice. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been to the golf course.

”Van tells me that our body was here Thursday,” the sheriff said in a neutral voice. ”He shot a few holes with Snorty Wenzel.”

”The real estate guy?” I blurted.

Van chuckled. ”Right. Odd little character. He's not a bad golfer, though. He told me he usually plays at the Blue Boy West Golf Course in Monroe.”

Again, I spoke before the sheriff could say anything. ”He lives in Monroe?”

”I guess so,” Van said. ”He's only played this course three or four times, usually with Ed Bronsky.”

Milo practically elbowed me out of the way. ”So how did this guy sign in? The Californian, I mean.”

”As Dylan Platte from...San Francisco, as I recall,” Van replied. ”You want to check the guest register?”

”I'll take your word for it,” Milo said.

Van looked bemused. ”So he was an impostor?”

Milo nodded. ”We're running him through the system to see if he has a record, but all we have are fingerprints. No match in this state. You talk to him?”

”No,” Van said. ”Not much chance for that. Any talking was done by Snorty. Not to mention the snorting in between sentences.” Van chuckled again. ”He's a real motormouth. Say, Sheriff, how come you never swing a club around here? You could walk here from your backyard.”

”Not my game,” Milo replied. ”I fish and hunt. I like the outdoors best when I'm alone.”

”Golf's a great game,” Van declared. ”You can play until you're a hundred.”

”And get a score a lot higher than that,” Milo retorted. ”No, thanks. The only holes I care about are the ones I can punch out on my fish and game card.”

Van grinned. ”Suit yourself.”

Milo thanked Van and we left.

”d.a.m.nit,” the sheriff muttered as we walked into the parking area. ”Now I'll have to track down this Snorty d.i.n.k. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll call Ed and ask for his number.”

”You don't have to,” I said. ”If you ever really read the Advocate, you'd know he runs a small ad every week. I think his number is a cell phone.”

Milo stopped and gazed skyward, where puffy white clouds moved slowly up the river valley. A faint mist was beginning to rise out of the meadow between the golf course and the Icicle Creek development where Milo lived. ”I've got last week's paper somewhere. I'll call this Snorty from home.” He looked down at me. ”You want to come in for a nightcap?”

”It's still daylight.” I smiled faintly. ”I'll take a rain check, okay?”

”Sure.” He didn't look too disappointed.

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. ”Later, big guy. Take care.”

”You, too.”

He headed for the Grand Cherokee; I got into my Honda. On the way home, I decided to make my own call to Snorty Wenzel. I'd give Milo half an hour of lead time. Meanwhile, I'd update Vida on what little I'd learned about the homicide case. I considered calling Curtis, but my irritation with him hadn't gone away. He should have been following his own leads. Realistically, I figured he was probably sitting on his b.u.t.t drinking beer and listening to iTunes.

Vida's line was busy when I called her a little after eight o'clock. After listening to her usual lengthy message commanding the caller not only to leave a name and number but to include details of information, news, gossip, or anything else that could possibly provide fodder for her immense store of local knowledge, I disobeyed and simply asked her to call me back.

Ten minutes later my phone rang. ”Well?” Vida demanded. ”What is it?”

I tried to be succinct. My House & Home editor was intrigued. ”This Snorty person,” she mused, ”may be the key. I'm suspicious of anyone who conducts business from his car. Nor do I know anything about his background. He seems to have sprung up from nowhere.”

To Vida, that was tantamount to being an unnatural creature sp.a.w.ned by evil spirits. Her lack of knowledge was an insufferable condition that had to be remedied as soon as possible.

”You know people in Monroe,” I said in my most innocent voice.

”Oh, yes, of course,” Vida agreed. ”Buck has friends there, too.”

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