"Let me know what they have to say."

"How come you're not going to see them?"

"I'll have to. I can't trust Curtis to find out anything crucial."

Julie brought our salads. Milo requested another drink for each of us. After she'd gone on her way, the sheriff shifted awkwardly in his chair and posed a question for me: "Did Tom talk much about his kids?"

"Some," I said, thinking back and remembering all sorts of things that had nothing to do with conversation. "There were so many years that Tom and I had no contact, so I knew next to nothing about them as children." Nor had Tom known anything about Adam's early years, I thought with too familiar regret. "By the time I...we got back together, Kelsey and Graham were in their late teens. Then he'd talk about their off-and-on-again attempts at college and the phases they were going through with careers and interests." I paused. "What's odd now that I think about it is how seldom Tom mentioned any interaction between his kids and their mother, Sandra. Maybe, given all her emotional and mental problems, she didn't play any kind of traditional mother's role."

Milo was rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, an old habit he'd never shed. "She spent some time in nuthouses, didn't she?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Well, Tom never called them that, but yes, she took the occasional trip to a clinic or hospital. It must've been very hard on Graham and Kelsey-and Tom, of course."

"Right." Milo almost sounded sympathetic. "He had to bring home the bacon, too. At least he didn't have to fork it out in child support."

I knew the sheriff referred to his own situation when his ex-wife, Tricia, had moved to Bellevue and taken their teenage kids with her. Between his work-related duties, which often kept him on the job during weekends, and his kids' frantic schedules, he hadn't seen them very often. I also knew that it had been a relief to him, having been spared many adolescent crises.

I had a different slant on Tom's relationship with his son and daughter. My conscience bothered me because I'd seldom probed too deeply into Sandra's problems-or those that she must have caused her family. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to hear about her. I suppose I preferred to pretend she didn't exist.

Our second round of drinks appeared, courtesy of Julie. I mentioned Minnie's remark about the used-up note tablet at the motel. As I expected, Milo didn't seem interested. Somehow the conversation drifted away from the homicide investigation. I a.s.sumed the sheriff wanted to forget his responsibilities for a while. I didn't blame him. He was always on duty, even in his nominal leisure time.

He picked up the bill, having offered to buy me drinks and dinner. I didn't argue. Milo often ate at my house, expecting dessert that wasn't served in the kitchen. He was almost as often disappointed. Even though we were compatible in bed, I didn't want to give him false hope about a permanent future together. I valued Milo's friendship. I just wished his previous efforts to find a new woman in his life hadn't all turned out badly.

We caught Sunny Rhodes just as she'd seated Scooter Hutchins and his wife in a booth near the front of the restaurant. Milo asked our hostess about the beautiful blonde and the Californian.

"I certainly remember them," Sunny said, keeping one eye on the door. "So good-looking. But I didn't get a chance to talk to them much. We were fairly busy that night."

The sheriff didn't press Sunny for further information. The arrival of a party of four, none of whom I recognized, interrupted the brief interview, so we left. Outside, I suddenly remembered that I'd asked Milo to bring a photo of the victim.

"Oh, s.h.i.t," the sheriff said. "I forgot. Want to come back to the office and get it?"

The short trek took less than three minutes. At almost seven o'clock, it was still broad daylight, with the sun not yet setting over the Skykomish River valley. A couple of cars and a camper bearing out-of-state license plates cruised along Front Street. In the distance, I heard a train whistle, probably Amtrak's eastbound Empire Builder running a few minutes behind schedule.

Sam Heppner was alone behind the counter. He greeted us with a wary eye. "Checking up on me, boss?" he asked Milo.

"You're staying awake," the sheriff responded, opening the gate in the counter and leading me to his office. "I had copies made of the vic's phony driver's license," he explained, moving papers and files around on his desk. "I figured you might not want to run the postmortem photo in the paper."

"Not unless that were the only way he might be identified," I said.

"Here." Milo handed me a manila envelope. "Don't worry about prints. The originals are in the evidence file."

I looked first at the black-and-white head shot of the victim. Eyes closed, no expression, could have been asleep. But postmortem photos aren't misleading. There is something cold and distant about the faces of people who have died. They're not there, it's just an image, and all I see is the absence of life.

The driver's license was another matter. There were two versions, one the actual size of the license, and the other an enlargement of just the head shot. I gasped when I saw the full-color, smiling face of the handsome young man.

I instantly recognized him.

TEN.

"WHAT?" MILO ASKED, SURPRISED AT MY STARTLED reaction.

"I've seen him." I stared at the enlarged photo. "I'm sure of it. I..." Pausing, I searched my memory. "Stella's beauty parlor," I finally said. "He came in while I was there and asked for directions."

Milo frowned. "When?"

"Wednesday, our pub day," I replied. "Midafternoon."

"You sure?"

"Yes, of course." Suddenly I realized what Milo meant. "This guy supposedly didn't arrive until Thursday."

The sheriff moved from behind his desk to stand beside me and gazed at the photos. "How close a look did you get?"

"Twenty feet," I said. "Maybe a little more. Stella was the one who talked to him. You'd better ask her where the guy was going and get her to ID these head shots."

"Is she still at work or gone home?"

"That depends on how busy she is," I replied. "Want me to come with you?"

Milo shrugged. "Why not?"

Stella's Styling Salon was directly across the street from the sheriff's office. We could see that the closed sign wasn't hung on the door. Jaywalking across Front, we entered and found Stella alone, toting up the day's receipts.

"Good Lord," she exclaimed as we walked in. "Am I under arrest for stealing my own hard-earned money?"

"You get to be a witness," I said. "Dodge is going to grill you."

"Been there, done that," Stella said bitterly, referring to a murder several years earlier that had occurred on her premises. She turned to Milo. "That was no picnic for you, either, was it?"

"No." The sheriff and Stella exchanged beleaguered looks. The victim had been related to one of his former girlfriends.

"So now what?" Stella asked, one fist on her hip. "Has this something to do with your latest corpse?"

Milo showed her the enlargement of the driver's license. "Look familiar?"

Stella studied the photo carefully. "Yes." She glanced at me. "You saw him, too, last Wednesday. Oh, G.o.d, Emma, what have you done to your hair this time?"

"Skip the shoptalk," Milo said. "What did he want?"

"Directions," Stella answered, apparently taking no offense. "He asked how to get to the golf course."

"That's it?" Milo looked disappointed.

Stella nodded. "I told him, he thanked me and left."

"Okay," Milo said. "Thanks, Stella. Sorry to trouble you."

"No problem." Stella again looked at me. "The real problem is that my client here can't seem to find her brush, comb, or product. Did you do anything with your hair today?"

"I washed it," I replied, on the defensive. "I even used the dryer."

"The one that sits next to the washer?" Stella retorted. "Next time try tumble dry. It couldn't hurt."

After we'd closed the door behind us, Milo scowled. "What was that all about? I think your hair looks nice."

"It doesn't look the way Stella thought the cut should be styled," I said. "Her criticism doesn't bother me. I'm used to it, and she's right. I'm inept when it comes to hair. Are we going to the golf course?"

"We?" Milo echoed, standing with one foot on the curb and the other in the street. "Oh, why not? We'll take our own cars, so I'll head straight home after that."

We parted company in front of his headquarters. By the time I walked back to the Advocate office and got in my Honda, Milo had already made an illegal U-turn on Front Street and was heading for the Icicle Creek Road. I didn't catch up with him until his Grand Cherokee turned right onto Railroad Avenue. We crossed Icicle Creek before making another right into the golf course. As I turned, I glimpsed Casa de Bronska to the east, its bright pink stucco ma.s.s erupting from the hillside with all the elegance of used bubble gum.

The parking lot-which had finally been paved a couple of years ago-was three-quarters full. It was a pleasant evening, a good time to get in nine holes after work. I had just turned off the ignition when my cell phone rang. Reluctantly, I answered while Milo loped toward the homely clubhouse.

"Emma?" Minnie Harris said. "Mel just got back from his stint at the Cascade Inn. I told him about your visit, and he remembered seeing d.i.c.k Bourgette's truck in the lot Friday afternoon around two or so. Is that any help?"

"It can't hurt," I replied.

"Don't get me wrong," Minnie pleaded. "I'm not accusing d.i.c.k of so much as wishing somebody ill, let alone actually doing it. In fact, I can't be sure he was calling on the poor man who got killed. But Mel did notice that d.i.c.k's truck was parked close to the end of the building."

"I think the world of all the Bourgettes," I a.s.serted, "but every sc.r.a.p of information might help. d.i.c.k mentioned dropping off a business card for the man he thought was Dylan Platte, the potential buyer of the Bronsky place. Maybe that's what he did."

"Oh." Minnie paused. "Of course. I'm sure you're right. Some latecomers are just pulling in. I must dash. We've only got two vacancies left. Three," she added dolefully, "if we could use the dead man's unit."

I rang off, thinking that, for the Harrises, the corpse without a name had merely become an impediment to their motel's full occupancy. Life went on in Alpine. Still, somebody somewhere must miss the victim. Who? Where? Would we ever find out?

Milo had already gone into the clubhouse. When I entered, he was in the pro shop talking to the manager, Van Goleeke.

The sheriff glanced at me and turned back to Van. "Meet my new deputy, Emma Lord," Milo said wryly. "Be good to her. She's just learning the ropes."

I smiled at Van, a clean-cut, good-looking man in his thirties with wavy auburn hair and rather long sideburns. He was a nodding acquaintance, though not from the golf and country club. Van and his wife, Arlette, had moved to Alpine a couple of years earlier. She taught music full-time at the community college, and Van was a part-time instructor in golf and tennis. I'd run into him on campus once or twice. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been to the golf course.

"Van tells me that our body was here Thursday," the sheriff said in a neutral voice. "He shot a few holes with Snorty Wenzel."

"The real estate guy?" I blurted.

Van chuckled. "Right. Odd little character. He's not a bad golfer, though. He told me he usually plays at the Blue Boy West Golf Course in Monroe."

Again, I spoke before the sheriff could say anything. "He lives in Monroe?"

"I guess so," Van said. "He's only played this course three or four times, usually with Ed Bronsky."

Milo practically elbowed me out of the way. "So how did this guy sign in? The Californian, I mean."

"As Dylan Platte from...San Francisco, as I recall," Van replied. "You want to check the guest register?"

"I'll take your word for it," Milo said.

Van looked bemused. "So he was an impostor?"

Milo nodded. "We're running him through the system to see if he has a record, but all we have are fingerprints. No match in this state. You talk to him?"

"No," Van said. "Not much chance for that. Any talking was done by Snorty. Not to mention the snorting in between sentences." Van chuckled again. "He's a real motormouth. Say, Sheriff, how come you never swing a club around here? You could walk here from your backyard."

"Not my game," Milo replied. "I fish and hunt. I like the outdoors best when I'm alone."

"Golf's a great game," Van declared. "You can play until you're a hundred."

"And get a score a lot higher than that," Milo retorted. "No, thanks. The only holes I care about are the ones I can punch out on my fish and game card."

Van grinned. "Suit yourself."

Milo thanked Van and we left.

"d.a.m.nit," the sheriff muttered as we walked into the parking area. "Now I'll have to track down this Snorty d.i.n.k. I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll call Ed and ask for his number."

"You don't have to," I said. "If you ever really read the Advocate, you'd know he runs a small ad every week. I think his number is a cell phone."

Milo stopped and gazed skyward, where puffy white clouds moved slowly up the river valley. A faint mist was beginning to rise out of the meadow between the golf course and the Icicle Creek development where Milo lived. "I've got last week's paper somewhere. I'll call this Snorty from home." He looked down at me. "You want to come in for a nightcap?"

"It's still daylight." I smiled faintly. "I'll take a rain check, okay?"

"Sure." He didn't look too disappointed.

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "Later, big guy. Take care."

"You, too."

He headed for the Grand Cherokee; I got into my Honda. On the way home, I decided to make my own call to Snorty Wenzel. I'd give Milo half an hour of lead time. Meanwhile, I'd update Vida on what little I'd learned about the homicide case. I considered calling Curtis, but my irritation with him hadn't gone away. He should have been following his own leads. Realistically, I figured he was probably sitting on his b.u.t.t drinking beer and listening to iTunes.

Vida's line was busy when I called her a little after eight o'clock. After listening to her usual lengthy message commanding the caller not only to leave a name and number but to include details of information, news, gossip, or anything else that could possibly provide fodder for her immense store of local knowledge, I disobeyed and simply asked her to call me back.

Ten minutes later my phone rang. "Well?" Vida demanded. "What is it?"

I tried to be succinct. My House & Home editor was intrigued. "This Snorty person," she mused, "may be the key. I'm suspicious of anyone who conducts business from his car. Nor do I know anything about his background. He seems to have sprung up from nowhere."

To Vida, that was tantamount to being an unnatural creature sp.a.w.ned by evil spirits. Her lack of knowledge was an insufferable condition that had to be remedied as soon as possible.

"You know people in Monroe," I said in my most innocent voice.

"Oh, yes, of course," Vida agreed. "Buck has friends there, too."