The Alpine Traitor (19 page)

“Yes,” I said slowly, “it does.” Rational thought began creeping around in my foggy brain. Ed was better than nothing—and nothing was what we had with Leo in the hospital. “Well,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, “you know the drill. Wednesdays are always a good time to think ahead to the next issue and figure out if there are any new revenue sources. KSKY may be upping its power to broadcast as far west as Monroe. You should probably look into that market, since it’s fairly new territory and we have an understanding with Fleetwood about co-op ads.”

Ed swallowed again and looked surprised. “We do?”

“Yes.
The Monroe Monitor
comes out on Tuesdays, so we already have the most recent edition. Check with Ginny.” I forced a smile as I poured coffee and grabbed a cinnamon roll before Ed devoured all of them. Turning to Curtis, I spoke in a frosty voice. “Could you please come into my office?”

He peeked out from behind the
Times
’s sports section. “Me?”

“Yes. You.” I walked briskly to my cubbyhole, managing to splash a few drops of coffee on the floor. If Curtis slipped on it and broke his neck, it’d serve him right. Obviously, my day’s bad start was getting worse.

I didn’t bother to have him close the door or even sit down. “Why didn’t you return my call last night?” I demanded.

Curtis looked blank. “What call?”

“About Leo,” I snapped. “About taking a picture up at the ski lodge.”

“I knew about Leo,” he mumbled, shifting from one foot to the other. “It blew me away. It’s way too scary around this town. What’s wrong with this crazy place?”

Looking at Curtis’s suddenly pale face, I realized he was genuinely shaken. “How did you hear about the shooting?” I asked, softening a bit.

“I…” He looked away, drumming his fingers on the back of one of my visitors’ chairs. “I was at the ski lodge.”

I was startled by his response. “You were?”

He nodded, glancing anxiously at me before looking away again. “I met a girl who works there.” He swallowed hard. “Brenda. She’s a waitress in the coffee shop. She gets off at eleven, but she takes a break around eight.”

I had a vague idea of who Brenda was—a fairly pretty strawberry blonde with an earsplitting giggle. “When did you hear about Leo?”

Now Curtis’s pale face showed some color. “In the break room. The storage room, really, but…sometimes Brenda goes there to…chill. The fry cook came looking for her and told her somebody’d been shot in the parking lot. She left after that, and I waited a couple of minutes and then took off out the back way. I didn’t want to go to my car in case the shooter was still there, so I just hung out by the exit for a while. Then I tried to go back in, but the door locks from the inside. I heard the sirens, so I figured the coast was clear, but I had to go around to the front. Somebody—I think it was one of the EMTs—said it was Leo who got shot. I got in my car and peeled out of the lot before anybody could stop me.” He hung his head. “I guess I lost my cell phone, maybe in back of the lodge. Or the storage room. Guess I’m not much of a hero, huh?”

“I don’t expect you to be a hero,” I said quietly, remembering my first bout with professional cowardice, almost thirty years earlier. I’d been driving back to
The Oregonian
from an interview in the suburbs of Portland when I encountered an accident involving a boy not much older than Adam. The kid had been hit by a car while riding his bicycle and was on the pavement, where the emergency personnel were tending to him. I didn’t know if he were dead or alive, and I didn’t stop to find out, despite having my camera with me. My crusty old buzzard of a city editor demanded to know why I hadn’t done my job. I told him honestly that I was too frightened—all I could think of was my own son in a similar situation. To my surprise, the editor understood, though he warned me to stiffen my backbone the next time. Because, he insisted, there would always be a next time. “I do, however,” I emphasized to Curtis, “expect you to act responsibly. You’d better find your cell phone or get a new one.”

“I will,” Curtis promised, finally looking me in the eye. “If only I’d seen the shooter. That would’ve saved the day, right?”

I agreed. “But it seems nobody else did, either.” I smiled slightly. “Now get out there and go to work. And by the way, I’m not overly thrilled about Ed’s return to his old job, but as long as he’s here, do whatever you can to keep him moving.”

Curtis saluted. “Aye, aye, captain.”

My phone rang just as he left. It was Father Den, saying that he’d gotten an e-mail from Adam about a special collection. “I guess,” my pastor said, “he e-mailed you a reminder last night, but I told him what had happened with Leo and that maybe you hadn’t had a chance to check your computer.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I hadn’t.”

“That’s okay,” he assured me in his usual affable voice. “I’ve got the details. By the way, I went to the hospital last night and gave Leo the Last Rites when he came out of surgery. Of course it’s called the ‘Anointing of the Sick’ these days, because that’s not so frightening. In fact, I figure someday it’ll be known as the ‘Sacrament of the Not Feeling as Good as I Should.’ Anyway, I’ll be including Leo in the intercessions for the next few days. I just wish he’d show up for Mass more often than at Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Sunday. Adam’s going to be offering prayers for him, too. Have you contacted Ben?”

“No,” I admitted, “but I will. Leo can use the prayers. We all can.”

For a Wednesday, the morning seemed busier than usual. I e-mailed both my son and my brother, checked with the hospital to make sure Leo was still making progress, and offered more suggestions to Ed about pursuing ads. Vida was clearly avoiding Ed by being away from the office, so when she returned around eleven, her phone messages had piled up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes!” she exclaimed while I was pouring more coffee. “I’m supposed to go to the hospital and help get Ella home! Why me? What’s wrong with the rest of the family?”

Fortunately, I didn’t have to answer that question because my phone rang. I scurried back into my cubbyhole and grabbed the receiver. Kelsey Platte was on the line.

“Ms. Lord?” Her voice sounded uncertain. “Dylan told me you wanted to meet me for lunch. He said you had some things that belonged to my father. Could you please send them to the lodge? I really don’t feel at all well.”

“I’d rather not,” I said. “How about this? I’ll come pick you up around twenty to twelve. That way we can beat the lunch rush at the diner and find a nice quiet booth.”

“Oh…I don’t know…I really shouldn’t…”

“You need a break,” I said, trying to sound confidential, warm, fuzzy, and whatever else might motivate the young woman to trust me. “I feel really lax about you and your brother. I should have kept in touch, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. Let me buy you lunch. It can’t make amends for not having reached out sooner, but I’m trying to do that now. Please, Kelsey. It’s important to me, for the sake of your dad.”

“Ah…okay, I guess.” She paused. “What are you driving?”

“A green Honda Accord,” I said. “Twenty to twelve in front of the lodge. See you.” I hung up before she could change her mind.

Not two minutes later the phone rang again. “Emma,” Marisa Foxx said. “I thought this might be a good time to call, since it’s the day the paper comes out and you’re not under pressure. How is Leo?”

“Improving,” I said. “Thank God.”

“Amen,” Marisa said. “He seems like a very decent man.”

“He is,” I said. “By the way, your would-be client Ed Bronsky is filling in for Leo.”

“Oh.” Marisa’s laugh was very soft. “Is that good or bad news?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted, lowering my voice. “Ed’s one step ahead of being better than nothing. I think.”

“I’d prefer not representing him,” Marisa said, “so I hope the house sale goes through. Of course, he should have an attorney look at the contract. There are some real horror stories out there these days with the high price of real estate. I just heard one of them last night from an old friend in San Francisco. And by the way, I called her because of our chat about the attorney who was murdered. After we’d talked, my curiosity got the better of me. I thought I’d find out if the case were ever solved and figured she would’ve heard, being a prosecutor for the city.”

“Was it?” I asked.

“No. But that’s not the only unsolved homicide in San Francisco—or anywhere, for that matter,” Marisa said. “No apparent motive, no witnesses, no weapon found. It was just one of those seemingly random murders. Mr. Vitani’s wife had warned him about walking home late at night and taking shortcuts down dark alleys. It was so sad. He left four young children behind. Angela—my friend—heard Mrs. Vitani was getting married again this summer. Maybe she’ll have better luck.”

“Yes.” Something Marisa had said distracted me. “Vitani? That name’s familiar. Did you mention it before?”

Marisa paused. “I might have. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s probably not that uncommon a name,” she said, before changing the subject. “Do you play poker?”

“Yes, but I haven’t played in years,” I said. “I don’t know all of the newer games, except for watching the tournaments on TV. Why?”

“I belong to a group—mostly lawyers, but they’re a fairly lively bunch—and we get together twice a month,” Marisa explained. “It’s one of my rare social outings. We usually play in Monroe because it’s a central meeting point for our six regulars. Would you be interested in sitting in sometime? We have dinner first.”

“I might, if you’re all very generous about my ignorance,” I said.

“Good. In the summer we often have some open chairs with people going on vacation. I’ll call you before the next get-together, the second week of July.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks, Marisa. I—” The name Vitani suddenly struck me. “I remember,” I blurted. “Was this Vitani in a law firm with somebody else? I can’t think of the other names.”

“Yes,” Marisa replied. “Bowles and Mercier. It’s now Bowles, Mercier and Fitzsimmons. How do you know of them?”

I explained about seeing the firm’s name among some papers I’d found recently. Marisa and I might be nourishing a budding friendship, but I was reluctant to reveal too much all at once. “When was Mr. Vitani killed?” I asked.

“Four, five years ago?” Marisa responded. “I’m not sure exactly, but it was in the summer. I suppose it was still fairly light out and Mr. Vitani felt safe. Unfortunately, he was wrong.” She paused. “Was he someone connected to your newspaper business?”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know anything about him, except what you’ve told me. He represented someone I knew.”

Marisa was very sharp. “Your fiancé?”

“Yes.” There was no point in evading the issue now. “Mr. Vitani’s firm may have represented the newspaper chain that Tom owned.”

“I doubt it,” Marisa said. “Good Lord, what are you thinking? That these people who’ve come to town have some connection with Mr. Vitani? I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve heard rumors, of course, including that they’re somehow related to Tom. How painful this must be for you!”

“Yes,” I confessed, “it’s been tough. Very tough. But I’m not selling, and that’s that. Why did you say that Mr. Vitani wouldn’t have represented Tom’s business? His name was on a list of emergency contacts.”

“Mr. Vitani—his first name was John, I think—handled mostly estates, probate, that sort of thing,” Marisa explained. “And high-profile divorces, which might have seemed like a motive for murder, though no serious suspects were ever found. Why kill the attorney instead of the estranged spouse? Anyway, one of the other senior partners, either Bowles or Mercier, could have handled Tom’s business. They’re both more into corporate law, if I recall correctly.”

“If that’s so,” I said, keeping my eye on the time, which was almost eleven-thirty, “then the firm may still represent the Cavanaugh children.”

“That’s very likely,” Marisa agreed. “Does that mean if you get involved in some legal complications, I could be going up against those high-powered San Franciscans?”

“I doubt it’ll come to that,” I said. “They can’t sue me for not selling them the
Advocate.
Still, it’s very curious how linked everybody seems to be. It
is
a small world sometimes.”

“It is,” Marisa replied, “particularly if you limit it to the West Coast. Even here in Alpine I find myself dealing with firms from Mexico to Canada. The law is a bit like a big fraternity, though often as adversaries, not allies.”

“I suppose that’s true,” I said. “And speaking of adversaries, I have to pick up Tom’s daughter in a few minutes and take her to lunch.”

“Ah.” Marisa uttered a little laugh. “That should be interesting. Or,” she added, sounding more serious, “will it be awkward?”

“Both,” I said. After a couple of cliché pleasantries, we rang off.

Coming back from a quick trip to the restroom, I found Vida arguing fiercely with—I guessed—one of her relatives. “You’re not a working woman,” she asserted, tapping the desk with a pencil and making a sound like an angry woodpecker. “And don’t tell me how much you do around your house or your garden. I have all that to keep up, too. Just because you worked two jobs and raised a family a hundred years ago doesn’t mean—” Vida stopped talking. “Well!” She banged the receiver down in its cradle. “The nerve! Mary Lou hung up on me!”

Mary Lou Hinshaw Blatt was another sister-in-law, and equally strong-minded. The two women had never gotten along. “I gather,” I said, “you’re stuck with Ella.”

Vida leaned back in her chair, fists on hips. “That’s right. Ella’s related to I don’t know how many able-bodied people around this town, and yet I’m the one who has to get her home and settled in. It’s simply not right!” Suddenly she sat up, whipped off her glasses, and began that ferocious habit of grinding away at her eyes with her fists. “Ooooh! If this doesn’t beat all!”

I had moved closer to Vida’s desk, trying to ignore the unsettling sound of her eyeballs squeaking when she punished them so harshly. “So Ella won’t be going to rehab?”

Vida stopped the irksome rubbing and looked up. “Rehab? Oh, for goodness’ sakes! It wasn’t that serious a stroke. More like the vapors, if you ask me.” She sighed, her big bosom heaving and her broad shoulders sagging. “I’d better go fetch Ella now. She’s already been discharged.”