I TRIED TO PRETEND THAT DYLAN PLATTE'S REMARK WAS A joke, but my laugh was hollow. "I haven't gotten to the point where I have to create my own headlines," I said.

Graham's smile was deceiving. His blue eyes were hard as glacier ice. "That's not entirely true, is it? You had quite a big story when my father was shot in front of your eyes."

I gasped. "That's a terrible thing to say! It ruined my life!"

Graham slowly shook his head. "Did you ever think what it did to us?"

Before I could respond, our waitress delivered the round of drinks. Only Kelsey had abstained from an alcoholic beverage. She'd ordered a Diet c.o.ke and stared warily at her soda, as if she suspected I'd had it spiked with a.r.s.enic.

I started to lift the small flutelike gla.s.s of Drambuie but realized that my hands were shaking. "I never knew you. How could I understand...what you felt?" My voice cracked.

Sophia swirled her brandy snifter with a languid hand. "I gather my father-in-law wasn't anxious for his children to meet you. Unfortunately, I didn't know Mr. Cavanaugh. He died before I met Graham."

The hostility that surrounded me stiffened my backbone. I was tempted to retaliate with my own hurtful words, but escalating the situation seemed foolish. I'd only reinforce the conflict of interest that I'd felt from the start.

"Look," I said, folding my hands in an effort to steady them, "I don't want to go to war over any of this. Let's get one thing straight once and for all. I am not selling the Advocate to you or to anyone else."

Graham leaned back in his chair. "Well. I guess that concludes our meeting."

I was finally able to pick up my gla.s.s without spilling any of the liquor. "So I a.s.sume you won't be moving here after all," I said, looking at both Dylan and Kelsey. She turned away from me and gazed questioningly at her husband.

"Oh, I think we probably will," Dylan said, taking Kelsey's hand in his. "We're going to go through the house tomorrow. Apparently, the present owners want to do some fixing up before they show it to us."

I could imagine the disarray at Casa de Bronska. A shovel and a match would probably have been the best way to clean up Ed and Shirley's vulgar mansion. What I couldn't imagine was Kelsey and Dylan's move to Alpine.

"Why?" I asked, not bothering to disguise my incredulity.

"Change," Dylan replied easily. "The Bay Area is obsolete, overcrowded and overpriced. We want some room to roam. A house like the Bronskys' costs a fortune in San Francisco. The Bronskys are asking 1.1 mil, but we figure they'll take 850 and kiss our feet in grat.i.tude. I'm told the place needs work."

Work. Not a word Ed had ever understood. "Good luck," I said, focusing on my drink instead of the company I was keeping. The silence that followed seemed uncomfortable to me-but I sensed that no one else felt that way. They were enjoying themselves at my expense. Except, perhaps, for Kelsey, who struck me as being withdrawn from the others even though her husband still held her hand. "I'm going now," I announced and took a last, fiery sip of Drambuie. "Thanks for the drink."

"Of course," Graham said softly.

I got up with my usual lack of grace, though at least I didn't drop anything, trip, or walk into a wall. I heard a woman's throaty laugh-Sophia's, I was sure-as I moved out of the dining area. As soon as I got into the Honda, I regretted my hasty retreat. There were dozens of questions I wanted to ask that foursome, and not just about the allegedly unknown murder victim. Did Kelsey and Dylan have children? What about the child she'd been expecting before she got married? Had she and Graham sold Tom's condo on n.o.b Hill in San Francisco or the house in Pacific Heights? What were their memories of their father? Or their mother? Had Tom talked to them about the marriage we were planning before he was killed? Did they know or care about their half brother, Adam?

I sat in the parking lot for several minutes, watching the sky darken as night descended over the mountains. Just before I was about to turn the key in the ignition, I was startled by a tap on the window of the pa.s.senger door. Anxiously, I looked to see who was trying to get my attention.

"Open up, Emma," Leo called, looking a bit sheepish.

I unlocked the door. My ad manager scooted inside. "I was afraid you'd already left," he said.

"You were at the lodge?" I asked, still feeling unnerved.

He nodded. "I was spying from the bar. I wanted to see what those Cavanaugh kids looked like now that they're grown up. You came in just before I was going to leave. They didn't recognize me, of course. But then I wasn't trying to be seen."

"Carlos should have told me you were there when I talked to him at the front desk," I said.

"Carlos is fairly new on the job. He doesn't recognize me." Leo rolled down the window and took out his cigarettes. "Do you mind?"

"No," I said, opening my own window halfway. "What did you think?"

Leo lighted his cigarette before he answered. "I don't know. Graham's changed the most, gone from gawky boy to manly man. Kelsey seems to have lost her bounce."

"She bounced?"

"She was what I'd call perky," he said. "Graham was more reticent, sometimes a little surly. But he was at that awkward age, between twelve and twenty. Frankly, I'm not even sure how old those kids were when I last saw them. A permanent alcoholic haze will do that to a fellow." Leo shifted in his seat to look at me more closely. "Are you okay? I had the feeling your get-together wasn't a bundle of fun."

I laughed weakly. "True. I don't know what I expected, but they put me on the defensive from the start."

"Not surprising. It seems that Dylan Platte is the little group's driving force."

"I'm not sure," I said. "He seems to be, but Graham's no slouch, and his wife, Sophia, strikes me as fairly tough. Kelsey's the only one who doesn't quite fit in. I have to admit, I wonder if she's inherited some bad genes from Sandra."

"It's possible." Leo tapped ash into the small tray under the dashboard. "Did they badger you about selling the paper?"

"They tried." I shrugged. "I told them to forget it."

"They won't."

"What do you mean?"

"I have a feeling they're in this for the long haul," Leo said. "The waitress who was serving them-Britney, Brandy, Brianna, whatever-told me she'd overheard them talking about moving to Alpine. I a.s.sume that means Ed still has a buyer."

I sighed. "Dylan insists they're going ahead with the deal." I turned to look Leo in the eye. "Do they think they can wear me down with a war of attrition?"

"That's my guess," he replied. "I suppose Dylan and Kelsey figure that if they're living here and they keep upping the ante, eventually you'll give in. You're not at retirement age, of course, but down the road, in a couple of years, you might start thinking about it."

I made a face. "Not likely. What would I do with myself? The only close relatives I have are Adam and Ben. Neither of them is around here and probably never will be. I won't ever have grandchildren. I'm not a joiner. I have no intentions of writing the Great American Novel. My whole life is the Advocate." I clapped my hand to my forehead. "Oh, G.o.d! That makes me sound pathetic!"

Leo grinned. "That's probably what they're counting on. Then they can rescue you and be heroes. Hey," he said, tugging on the sleeve of my cardigan, "don't ever let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds see you sweat."

I smiled at Leo. "I'm not sweating. But that whole encounter temporarily unhinged me. I thought I was doing okay, putting Tom into some quiet corner of my mind after all this time. Then his kids come along and..." I made a helpless gesture.

"Neither of them is much like Tom," Leo remarked. "If you didn't know who they were, you'd never guess they were related. Kelsey looks kind of like her mother, but Graham doesn't take after either of his parents."

"Adam doesn't look like me," I pointed out.

"No, he doesn't. He's mostly Tom." Leo took another puff off his cigarette and shook his head. "My kids look like both their mother and me, though the gene pool actually improved. You never can tell what goes into a kid's makeup. Throwbacks, sometimes." He opened the pa.s.senger door. "I'd better let you get home. Tomorrow's deadline day. You'll need all your strength."

"You will, too," I said. "Thanks, Leo."

"Sure." He patted my back and got out of the car but leaned down before shutting the door. "Hey, just remember Walsh's Famous Maxim-*Things can always get worse.'"

I laughed. Sort of. "I know."

Of course Leo was right.

I didn't call Vida after I returned from the ski lodge. I was too tired, and couldn't cope with a rehash of my unsettling encounter with what I was beginning to think of as the Cavanaugh Gang.

By the time I got to the office at a couple of minutes before eight the next morning, I felt better despite a series of chaotic dreams, none of which I could remember after I woke up. That was probably for the best. Real life seemed harrowing enough.

Kip was already on hand, but Ginny hadn't yet arrived to start the coffeemaker. "I can do it," Kip said. "Is she sick?"

"Not that I know of," I replied. "She's just...pregnant."

Kip laughed. "I'd forgotten what she was like the other times."

"She wasn't quite as bad," I said, "but she didn't already have two other kids making demands on her time and energy."

Just as Kip was about to measure out the coffee, Vida entered the newsroom. "Think, think, think! I need four more *Scene Around Town' items. Emma, Kip-what have you got for me?"

Kip held up a hand. "Norm Carlson went out yesterday looking for those two cubs that lost Mama Bear. No luck, but he told his dairy truck drivers to get an early start on their routes so they could help him search the woods near Gus Lindquist's place on Disappointment Avenue."

"Excellent," Vida declared, then looked at me. "Or is it a small story?"

"Yes," I said, "but there's no reason you can't put it in *Scene' as well. I wouldn't list all the searchers for fear of leaving someone out and making them mad at us. There's bound to be more than Norm and his Sky Dairy employees around here, given the number of people who love animals."

"Very true," Vida agreed. "Now you give me an item for *Scene.'"

My mind was blank. All I could think of was the Cavanaugh Gang. It suddenly dawned on me that, if they had been anybody else, I'd toss the tidbit into Vida's hat-which, this morning, was a white and purple striped turban. "Bay Area visitors at the ski lodge enjoying dinner while taking a respite from house hunting in Alpine."

Vida gaped at me. "What?"

"I saw them last night," I said. "I got home too late to call you."

"Nonsense! You know I stay up past eleven! How late could you possibly have been?"

Kip wisely decided to withdraw and retreated into the back shop. "Frankly," I said, looking Vida straight in the eye, "I was too d.a.m.ned worn out and frazzled."

Her ire evaporated. "Truly? Were they unbearably rude?"

"Smug's more like it," I said. "I'll tell you all about it later. And yes, Kelsey and Dylan still plan to buy Ed's house."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" Vida cried, throwing her hands up in the air. "Smug indeed! *Stupid' describes them better."

"Maybe," I murmured. "Here's Leo with the bakery goods. Ask him what he thought about the Cavanaugh Gang." I greeted my ad manager and hurried into my cubbyhole.

Several minutes later, as I was going into the newsroom to pour my coffee, Ginny plodded through the door. "Sorry," she said in a forlorn voice. "Our hot-water heater blew up."

"Good," Vida said, swinging around to her keyboard. "That goes in *Scene.' Let me see...*Expectant parents run out of hot water for their two youngsters who-'"

"Don't," Ginny pleaded. "We never mention our staff in *Scene.'"

"I'm not using your names," Vida responded. "It'll be one of my little teases."

Shoulders drooping even more, Ginny surrendered. "Really, Emma, I'm sorry I was late. I've already checked the calls. You have one from a Mr. Weasel." She took a slip of memo paper out of the pocket of her baggy cardigan. "Here's his number."

"Thanks. I think his name is Wenzel." I glanced at the clock above the coffee and bakery table. It was eight-thirty. "Anybody seen Curtis?"

Leo looked up from the Grocery Basket layout on his computer screen. "Yes, I saw his beater pulling out of Cal's Texaco when I stopped to get gas just before eight."

"Then where the h.e.l.l is he?" I demanded.

Vida swiveled around in her chair. "Emma, please! Watch your language. You're out of control this morning."

For once, I ignored her comment. "Ginny," I said before our office manager could escape to the sanctuary of the front office, "did your husband have anything more to say about the man who came into the bank and called himself Josh Roth?"

"Not really," Ginny responded. "The only reason Rick talked to him was because Jodie-that's the new teller-thought a manager had to sign off on a traveler's check from out of state."

"Did you show Rick the picture we're running of the dead guy?"

"No." Ginny looked puzzled. "Why should I?"

Ginny is fairly smart and usually very efficient, but she has no imagination. "To make sure the guy on the driver's license is the same one who Rick saw at the bank. Why don't-" I stopped. Asking Ginny to go to the bank now would get her off to an even later start in the workday. "I'll have Curtis do it when he gets in."

Ginny nodded. "The bank doesn't open until nine-thirty, you know." She slouched out of the newsroom.

"I'll go to the bank," Vida volunteered. "I must get a money order for some bulbs I'll plant after Labor Day. They're twenty percent off now in the catalog I like, but they don't take checks and I refuse to give out my credit card numbers to anyone unless I know them personally."

"Okay," I said, knowing that Vida was using the bulb purchase as an excuse to talk to Rick. Little by little, Curtis was losing his grip on any part of the homicide coverage, but he had no one to blame but himself.

Ten minutes later my new reporter arrived, seemingly full of enthusiasm. "Time to beat those deadlines with those headlines," he said, rubbing his hands together before selecting a couple of doughnuts from the bakery tray. "Hey, boss," he called to me, "how much room for my page one story?"

I'd been standing in the doorway of my office, talking to Kip. "None," I replied. "Come in here and talk to me. Close the door behind you."

I stalked over to my desk and sat down. Curtis hadn't worked for me long enough to know that the closed door meant serious business was at hand. Still, he already looked abject, his usual c.o.c.kiness gone.

As usual, I felt guilty over causing pain for anyone else. I am basically softhearted, a trait that had kept Ed Bronsky on the payroll during my early years with the Advocate.

"Look," I said, resting my elbows on the desk and leaning forward, "I made a big mistake. I should never have a.s.signed you to this homicide story so early on in your job here. In fact, I didn't give Scott much responsibility for complicated and potentially touchy coverage until the last year he worked for the Advocate. That was a mistake, too, though of a different kind. If necessary, I'll still have you do some of the sidebar or background stuff, but I feel this is a burden I ought to take on myself. It's not fair to weigh you down with this murder investigation."

"Okay." Curtis's chin was practically on his chest. "Maybe crime's not my strong suit. It's politics that interests me. Like I could do a series profiling the average voter in this county. It's an election year, so it'd be timely." He raised his head and suddenly regained some of his swagger.

"We might consider that," I allowed. "There'll be issues, of course. Any levies or bonds will be on the primary ballot in September. In fact, my editorial this week involves asking residents what they'd like to see happen in SkyCo. Your articles could tie in with that."

Curtis frowned. "That isn't exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more about national and international problems facing the whole country. It'd be kind of a forum."

I had the feeling that somewhere along the way in college Curtis had written a poli-sci paper on the subject and planned to take the easy way out by using it to fill up s.p.a.ce in the Advocate. "We'll figure out the angle later," I said. "We've got over two months until the primary. Meanwhile," I continued, sitting up straight and pushing my chair away from the desk, "we have a paper to get out. You've turned in a story and two photos already about Mayor Baugh's wood carving. What else is ready to go to the back shop?"

"The sheriff's blotter is almost done," Curtis replied. "Not much new this morning."

"What about the bear?" I asked. "Do that story and how some of the locals are searching for the motherless cubs."

Curtis looked askance. "That doesn't exactly have global implications, does it?"

"We're not global," I a.s.serted. "We're local, small town. This isn't the Guardian, it's the Advocate."