Part 27 (1/2)

”It's too early, the sun's still on the river,” I explained. ”I should've realized that when he told me he might go out this afternoon. So what's he up to?”

Vida looked thoughtful. ”Dare we hope he's following up on his lines of inquiry?”

”We wish,” I said. ”What would he be doing that he couldn't do from his office?”

”A good point,” Vida noted. ”Interviews, I suppose. Witnesses, suspects. But why make it a secret?”

We were both silent for a few moments, lost in our own ruminations. ”Leo,” I finally said. ”If he's awake off and on, maybe Milo's at his bedside.”

Vida was skeptical. ”Not his sort of thing. But someone should be there. Shall I?”

”Go ahead,” I urged. ”If Leo's lucid, he may be able to tell us something helpful.”

Vida looked at her Bulova watch, with its slim gold band and rectangular face. It had been a tenth wedding anniversary present from her husband, Ernest, and she swore it had never had to be repaired. ”It's twenty to five. I won't be back here today, of course.”

”Of course. Good luck,” I said as she rose and went out to the newsroom.

I sat in my chair for the next five minutes wondering about Sophia Volos Cavanaugh and her late brother, Maxim. Sophia certainly hadn't behaved like a grieving sister when I saw her. Obviously, she-and maybe the rest of the nefarious crew-had something to hide. But if Maxim had been part of the plot to buy the Advocate, why had he been killed? And why was he impersonating not only Dylan Platte but the allegedly fict.i.tious Josh Roth? None of it made sense.

At five to five, Ed stuck his head-and his paunch-in my doorway. ”I'm taking off for the day. See you tomorrow.” He smacked his fist into his palm. ”Revenue City, here I come! Hubba hubba!”

”Right, Ed.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.

As soon as he'd toddled out the door, I went into the newsroom. Curtis still hadn't returned. His camera and tape recorder were sitting on a carton of printer cartridges by his desk. I was puzzled. Wherever he'd gone, apparently he wasn't pursuing a story. I began to worry.

In the front office, Ginny was gathering up her belongings. I asked if Curtis had told her where he was going.

”No,” she answered. ”I was on the phone when he left. He just waved.”

I glanced out into the street. Curtis's car was nowhere in sight. When I went back inside, Kip was talking to Ginny. I interrupted and asked if he knew where Curtis had gone.

”I haven't seen him since before lunch,” Kip said. ”Sorry.”

”I'll call him,” I said and went back in my cubbyhole.

There was no answer except for the message that ”the customer at this number is not currently available.” I remembered then that Curtis had lost his cell phone at the ski lodge. Maybe he'd gone there to find it.

My new reporter had lingered outside after he heard about the shooting. Had he seen something or someone that he didn't realize was dangerous to know? Maybe, I thought, with a rush of fear, before he could find his phone, someone had found Curtis.

EIGHTEEN.

I CALLED THE SKI LODGE, ASKING FOR HENRY BARDEEN. WHEN he came on the line, I tried to keep my tone light. ”You haven't seen my new reporter, Curtis Mayne, in the last hour or so, have you?”

”No,” Henry replied, ”but I spent most of that time in my office. I was just about to go home. Do you want me to ask around?”

”If you would,” I said and tried to remember the name of the waitress who had holed up with Curtis in the storeroom or wherever the h.e.l.l they'd been doing G.o.d knows what. ”He knows one of your coffee shop waitresses. Her name begins with a B-”

”Don't they all?” Henry said with that dry humor that was seldom in evidence, at least when guests were present. ”The coffee shop, you say? Bernadette or Brenda?”

”Brenda. Thanks, Henry. I'm sorry to bother you.”

”Shall I call you back at the newspaper or at home?”

”Home,” I said. ”It's quitting time for me, too.”

After hanging up, I grabbed my purse and headed out to the car, locking the office door behind me. Curtis had a key if he needed to get in. Driving home, I took a detour, crossing Alpine Way and turning onto Railroad Avenue, heading west to Ptarmigan Tract, where Curtis was temporarily bunking with Oren and Sunny Rhodes. Except for Oren's pickup, there were no other vehicles parked in front of the split-level house. Both Rhodeses were probably working at the Venison Inn. As for Curtis, he was still among the missing.

I got home shortly before five-thirty. Two messages were waiting on my answering machine. The first was from Rolf Fisher. ”Wednesday, five-oh-six p.m.,” he said, imitating a recording. ”Just missed you. Must be nice to be your own boss. Got your cub reporter's pic of the cubs from the current edition. We're running it on the wire, so this Mayne kid's already on his way to fame and fortune. Be sure to let him know. Until later.”

I wished I could let Curtis know. But his whereabouts were a mystery. Of course, it was possible that he'd simply gone to a bar or a tavern or even someone else's home. I kept trying to tell myself he might be out in that famous secluded spot on Ca.s.s Pond making like a mink with Brenda or Bernadette or Brianna or Sweet Betsy from Pike. He was not my son, he was an employee and presumably a grown-up.

So was Leo. Definitely grown up, and able to take care of himself, though he'd done a poor job of it. I sighed wearily and listened to my second message.

Mary Jane Bourgette's recorded voice sounded uncharacteristically tentative. ”Hi, Emma, it's Mary Jane. Just had a chance to sit down and read the Advocate. It doesn't sound like much progress has been made on finding the killer. We're so sorry about Leo, by the way. Anything we can do now or when he gets out of the hospital? d.i.c.k just got home from work, and we talked about you know what. Call me when you can. It's nothing important, really, but we decided you were right when you said every little bit helps. Give me a buzz when you have time. Thanks.”

It took me a few seconds to remember what she meant by ”you know what,” but finally I recalled that d.i.c.k had seen someone at the Tall Timber Motel on the afternoon of the murder but that neither Bourgette had been willing to say who, lest they start ugly rumors. Mary Jane's message had come through at five-twenty-five, so I immediately called her back. She answered on the second ring.

”Oh, hi,” she said in her usual outgoing manner. ”Do you want to talk to d.i.c.k? He's right here, popping the top on a Bud Light.”

d.i.c.k came on the line. ”I got to thinking,” he said, sounding apologetic, ”that when we moved here and were building the diner, we got involved right off the bat with a homicide when that body was found on the construction site. Don't try to kid me, I know you had a big role in solving that case. You even put yourself at risk to catch the killer. So I figured we owed you one-not that it's probably much help.”

”Every detail's a help in these investigations,” I said. ”Maybe you should be talking to the sheriff.”

”No, no,” d.i.c.k insisted. ”Really, it's very minor, and from what I know about Dodge, he'd probably blow me off. I wouldn't blame him. Anyway, the person I saw at the Tall Timber was that new reporter of yours, Curtis Whatever.”

”Ah.” Curtis again. ”What was he doing?”

”He was going into one of the units,” d.i.c.k said.

I was surprised. ”Was it the one where the shooting took place?”

”No. It was more in the middle on the ground floor. Maybe the third or fourth unit from the office.” d.i.c.k uttered a rueful chuckle. ”I didn't think much of it at the time because I figured maybe he was staying there until he found a place to rent. Then Oren Rhodes mentioned that Curtis was rooming with them. All kind of silly, huh?”

”Did he have a key?” I asked.

”I'm not sure,” d.i.c.k admitted, without his usual aplomb. ”It was all so...ordinary. I wouldn't have recognized the kid if I hadn't seen him when I was putting together my estimate for your roof. I'd just pulled into the parking lot, saw him walking toward the room, and then he went in and closed the door.”

”The Harrises have records of who was staying where and when they checked in,” I said, thinking out loud. ”As usual, the motel didn't fill up until later in the day. You didn't see if anyone was in the room waiting for him?”

”No. I pulled out then. Say,” d.i.c.k said, sounding more like himself, ”are you ready for me to start on the roof, about Thursday the eighth?”

”Sure, that's fine. Thanks, d.i.c.k. You're right, by the way. It probably has nothing to do with the murder. It's odd, though, that Minnie Harris didn't mention Curtis being there.”

”Maybe she didn't know,” d.i.c.k said. ”It could be...Well, boys will be boys.”

”True, but,” I went on, ”the Harrises don't cater to the hooker crowd.”