The Alpine Traitor by Mary Daheim Read Free Book Online Page A

to lift as they often did when I could see a slim but lively waterfall cascading over the rocky face of the foothills that lined the route. Moss and lichen, ferns and foliage all spoke to me of the mountain forests. Soothing, no matter what the season.
    Traffic was growing heavier, typical for a Friday in June. I eased up on the gas pedal, dropping to forty miles an hour. I’d just passed Sunset Falls and the turnoff to Index when my cell phone rang. I refused to answer on this winding stretch of dangerous road. Another six miles and I’d be able to pull over at Gold Bar. Whoever was calling could wait.
    Just beyond the next bridge over the Sky, I slowed even more as a big RV loomed ahead. Maybe I’d wait until Sultan. Having skipped lunch, I was starving, and a hamburger and fries sounded good. It was ten to five. I had plenty of time to get to Seattle before seven—if traffic wasn’t tied up too badly in the suburbs. As much as I love the city, its transportation system is a mess.
    When I was a child, back in the fifties, my parents were among those who were opposed to any kind of—gasp!—“California-style” freeway. Along with many others, they believed that if a freeway
had
to be built, it should not be anywhere near the city. Later, when wiser heads prevailed and the route was destined to go straight through Seattle itself, Mom and Dad sided with those who thought it should be hidden under plantings of trees and shrubs and flowers and vines. I remember thinking that might be rather pretty. But it was too expensive, and I-5 began to creep through the town, asphalt and concrete bared for all the world to see—except for Freeway Park, which was built on top of it, complete with the requisite flora and even a waterfall.
    I was still musing on the past when I drove off the highway at Sultan to the Loggers Inn on Main Street. I was getting out of the car when my cell phone rang again.
    “Damn!” I said under my breath, having forgotten that the cursed thing had rung while I was on the road. I got back in the car, dug out the cell, and answered on the fourth ring.
    “Where are you?” Milo asked in an irritated tone.
    “Sultan,” I replied. “In the parking lot of the Loggers Inn.”
    “Your buyout troubles may be over,” he said. “Dylan Platte’s dead.”

FOUR
    I WAS STUNNED. “D EAD?” I REPEATED STUPIDLY. “H OW?”
    “How dead? Dead—as in not alive,” Milo said, still sounding irked. “He was shot twice in the chest. Minnie Harris found him in his motel room.”
    I leaned back against the car seat. “He was murdered? Or was it suicide?”
    “Let’s say suspicious. No weapon at the scene.”
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “Well…” The sheriff’s voice dropped a notch. “That’s the problem. You’re going to have to say something, because you’re the only one who knows much about this guy.”
    “Oh, good Lord!” I cried. “I’m a person of interest?”
    “Yes. Come on, Emma. You know the drill. Get your butt back here ASAP.”
    It was tempting to lash out at Milo and tell him I thought
he’d
shot Dylan Platte just to screw up my weekend with Rolf Fisher. But the sheriff, who always went by the book, was right. Even if I’d never met the victim, at least I’d spoken with him and knew the details about his next of kin. What was worse, I had a motive for wanting Dylan dead. That thought sent a shiver up my spine.
    “Give me an hour to get back to Alpine,” I said, hunger pains still gnawing at my stomach.
    “You don’t need an hour. Didn’t I say ASAP? Point your car east and drive. Nobody’s going home early tonight.” Milo obviously wasn’t in an accommodating mood.
    “You’re a real jackass,” I snapped. “I’ll see you when I see you.” I hung up and immediately dialed Rolf’s number at the Associated Press. It was after five, but he might still be in the office near Elliott Bay.
    He wasn’t. He’d left fifteen minutes earlier, according to the