Free The Alpine Traitor by Mary Daheim Page B

evergreens. I confine my greatest labor to the front, where the garden gets more sun. The rainy climate encourages growth, and for some perverse reason it seems to have a more positive effect on weeds and other undesirable flora than on the flowers and shrubs I’ve spent my hard-earned money on. I don’t have a truly green thumb, but I try. At the moment, I felt as if I was a better gardener than an editor and publisher, given my inability to keep track of my reporter. I went back inside, washed my hands, and called the Rhodes residence a second time.
    “Did Curtis ever wake up?” I asked Sunny.
    “Yes,” she replied. “He came into the kitchen about ten minutes after you called. I told him you wanted to talk to him, and he said he’d call, but after he ate his breakfast, he left. Maybe,” she added hopefully, “he’s coming to see you.”
    “Maybe.” I sounded far less hopeful. “Thanks.”
    I dialed Curtis’s cell phone again. This time he picked up on the third ring.
    “Wow,” he said with what sounded like feigned amazement, “would you believe I was just about to call you?”
    “No, I wouldn’t,” I snapped. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for almost two hours.” It was an exaggeration, but I was mad.
    “Sorry,” he said breezily. “I didn’t realize I was still on the clock. I thought this was a Saturday.”
    “Journalists are always on the clock,” I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. “News actually does sometimes happen on a weekend, even in Alpine. Where are you?”
    “Uh…Starbucks. Mrs. Rhodes doesn’t make lattes.”
    I couldn’t resist sarcasm. “That’s a shame. Poor you. Bring it with you and be here in five minutes.” I hung up.
    It took Curtis almost ten minutes, but he arrived in his aging Nissan just before one-thirty. He wasn’t carrying a paper cup, so I presumed he’d finished his latte at Starbucks.
    “So what’s happening?” he asked after I indicated he should sit in an armchair by the fireplace.
    I sat rigidly on the sofa. “You’ve heard about Dylan Platte’s murder, I assume.”
    Curtis nodded. “It’s all over town. He’s the guy who wanted to buy the paper, right?”
    “He and some other family members,” I said. “I’m assigning you the story.”
    His blue eyes widened. “No kidding! That’s great. Byline and all, huh?”
    “That’s right.” I relaxed a little. “Of course I’ll go over your copy. This is a huge story, and it has to be handled carefully. Ordinarily, I’d do it myself, but in effect, I’m recusing myself because of the angle about the buyout proposal.”
    “Oh, yeah.” He’d taken a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and was chewing on it. “Gotcha. Touchy. Kid gloves, right?”
    “Yes.” I leaned forward. “By the time the paper goes to press, a lot of things may’ve happened, including an arrest. You’ll be dealing primarily with Sheriff Dodge, who will tell you only what he thinks you ought to know. How have you gotten on with him so far?”
    Curtis shrugged. “Okay. I haven’t seen him more than twice. He’s usually in his office when I stop by to check the log. I talk mostly with Lorna, the receptionist, or to one of the deputies.”
    “Her name’s Lori,” I said, beginning to realize that Curtis seemed to have trouble remembering people’s names. “Lori Cobb. Be sure you take plenty of notes and use your recorder.”
    “Sure. It’s a good one. I got it as a graduation present, a Sony ICD-MS515 Memory Stick Recorder.” He grinned at me. “This should be a kick.”
    “A kick?” I was appalled. “Murder isn’t a cheap thrill. This isn’t TV, it’s real.”
    Curtis shrugged again. “Sure—like reality TV. Hey,” he continued before I could say anything, “newspapers are part of the media, and the media is all about entertainment. The problem is, print journalists don’t get it. They’re still living in the past, where they were the big sources of information. Then we