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

honey-voiced female on the other end of the line. I tried his cell, knowing that he usually walked to his lower Queen Anne Hill condo. I got his voice mail, so I didn’t leave a message but called his home phone. This time I got a wrong number. Someone with a heavy Eastern European accent informed me that there was no “R-r-a-a-w-f” at that number. Taking a deep breath, I tried again. Still no answer, just his voice mail.
    “I’m sorry,” I said earnestly, “
really
sorry, but I got as far as Sultan before the sheriff called me to say that”—did I want to unload the whole story into thin air?—“that there’s been an emergency and I have to go back to Alpine. Maybe I can come down tomorrow. Call me.”
    I had to wait a minute or so to get back on Highway 2. Eastbound traffic was increasing with vehicles from the more heavily populated western side of the state headed over Stevens Pass. It was officially summer, and vacationers were on the move.
    Driving thirty-five miles an hour on a narrow two-lane mountain road with sharp curves and slow-moving traffic keeps me alert but still allows my mind to think about other things. As I was passing Gold Bar again, the impact of Dylan Platte’s murder began to sink in.
    A random killing, maybe. A drug-addled thief who burst in on Dylan to steal the motel’s TV or the occupant’s wallet? A greedy hooker Dylan had hired to while away the afternoon? A drug deal gone bad? A jealous husband with a case of mistaken identity for his wife’s lover?
    Milo hadn’t mentioned any details. Dylan hadn’t been in Alpine long enough—that I knew of—to have made enemies.
Except,
I thought glumly,
me.
    Just before six o’clock, I turned off Highway 2 and crossed the bridge into Alpine. Traffic on Front Street was mercifully sparse. The local commute lasted about fifteen minutes and rarely went on after five-thirty. I was able to park on the diagonal just three spaces down from Milo’s Grand Cherokee. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I could smell the grease from the Burger Barn’s grill across the street. My stomach was growling as I entered the sheriff’s headquarters.
    “Don’t say it,” Milo growled from behind the counter.
    “I can’t help it,” I retorted. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
    “I didn’t mean that,” Milo said. “Your usual gripe about serious crimes happening way ahead of when the paper comes out.”
    “In other words,” I said, dumping my big handbag on top of the sheriff’s log, “Spencer Fleetwood has already been here.”
    “He’s in my office, ready to do the live six o’clock news broadcast.” Milo looked smug. “Got to go. He’s interviewing me.” The sheriff turned on his heel and headed for his sanctuary.
    Lori was eyeing me with sympathy. “Can I get you some takeout?”
    “I can get it myself,” I said, snatching up my handbag. “Tell your boss if he wants me, he can find me hiding in a booth at the Burger Barn.”
    Lori rose partway from her chair. “You’d better not. I think Dodge mentioned that if you got here before six, Mr. Fleet-wood would want to interview you, too. You know—after a commercial break.”
    “Tell him he can find me in…Madagascar.” I stomped out the door.
    I must have been plagued by bad luck, because the first person I saw upon entering the Burger Barn was Ed Bronsky. He was no longer slinging patties behind the service counter but apparently had just arrived as a customer.
    “Emma!” he exclaimed, looking up from a long piece of paper that I assumed was a list of his family’s take-out orders. “What’s this about Platte?”
    I’d almost forgotten that Dylan Platte was the prospective buyer for Casa de Bronska. “I just got back in town,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”
    “It’s terrible!” Ed’s chins quivered in agitation. “Snorty Wenzel called me half an hour ago with the news. What are we going to do?”
    “Buy some burgers?” I had long ago stopped