Curtis didn't look pleased, but he refrained from arguing. "You want to use my lead for the homicide story?"

"I haven't seen it," I said. "Let me have a peek."

"Sure." He got up from the chair. "I'll zap it in to you."

I watched him leave the cubbyhole. From where I was sitting, I could see only the front of his desk. After he disappeared out of sight, I waited. And waited. Finally he came back into my office.

"Sorry," he said ruefully. "I must've deleted it by mistake. Oh, well. Too bad. It was a real grabber."

I didn't ask if he could remember what he'd written. Or if he'd written anything. "That's okay. I'll wing it."

As soon as Curtis left, I dialed Snorty Wenzel's number. He answered-and snorted-on the first ring. "The local media," he said, chuckling and snorting. "First KSKY, now the newspaper. Not to mention the local law enforcement last night. I feel like a celebrity."

"You've done a radio interview?" I asked as Spencer Fleetwood's hawklike face sprang before my eyes.

"Just coming from the station," Snorty replied. "Fleetwood's playing it on the half-hour turn at nine-thirty. You ought to tune in."

"Right," I said without enthusiasm. "Could you stop by the newspaper office? I'd like to do a face-to-face interview."

"Sure. I can be there in five minutes. Hold the presses."

I tried to ignore the several snorts he'd made during his part of the conversation. It might be even worse up close and personal. But I thanked him and rang off.

I went into the newsroom. Leo had left, Curtis was on the phone, and Vida was tapping away at her keyboard. "Snorty Wenzel's on his way," I announced, glancing up at the clock. It was nine-fifteen. "He'll be here in time for his taped session with Fleetwood at nine-thirty."

Vida looked up. "Oh, dear. I suppose that was to be expected. Spencer would naturally want to follow up on the murder. Which reminds me, I need a guest tonight for *Cupboard.' Maud Dodd has come down with a virus. A shame, since I could've helped promote her senior citizen column for the paper."

"Vida's Cupboard" was a weekly fifteen-minute radio program of local lore and gossip. The ratings were excellent, and Vida never used items that should have run in the Advocate. In April, the time slot had been changed from Wednesdays to Tuesdays in order to beat the multiple grocery chains' mailings and thus bring in more ad revenue for KSKY.

"Have you got a backup for Maud?" I asked.

"Not yet," Vida replied.

"What about Mrs. Hines?" I suggested. "I'm doing a brief front-page article about the possibility of converting Pines Villa into condos."

Vida scowled. "Must you? It seems so out of place."

"That doesn't mean it won't happen," I pointed out.

"She might not want to drive back to Alpine this evening."

"You could do it over the phone," I said. "Spence can hook you up."

Vida shook her head. "No, no. I dislike that sort of thing. So impersonal. Maybe I'll try Reverend Nielsen. He and his wife are going to Scandinavia this summer. Again."

Ginny trudged in carrying the mail. "Catalogs!" She shook her head. "Why do we get so many catalogs? Most of them have nothing to do with newspapers, and they're so heavy."

"Get on one list, get on all lists," I said. "I'm told you can request that individual companies stop mailing them to us."

"I tried it," Ginny said, putting a six-inch stack in Vida's in-basket. "Three times. The catalogs keep coming. Marlowe Whipp gets really annoyed when he has to deliver all of them. His back's going out."

"Oh, piffle!" Vida cried. "Marlowe is a chronic complainer. The last I heard was that he wanted the post office to get him one of those contraptions that big city employees use on hills, like meter readers in Seattle do. An elaborate and expensive sort of motorized tricycle. So silly. The hills here in Alpine are good exercise."

A short, stocky, balding man stopped in the doorway and rapped on the frame. "Anybody home?" he inquired-and snorted.

I hurried to greet him. "Mr. Wenzel," I said. "Come in."

Snorty's handshake was on the weak side; his skin felt very soft. He turned toward Vida. "You must be the famous Ms. Runkel. Your popular radio show airs tonight, I hear. Spence absolutely raved about you."

Vida's guarded expression didn't change. "He did, did he? He ought to. I bring in a goodly sum of advertising for him. And please call me Mrs. Runkel."

Snorty made a little bow. "I am delighted to do you that honor...Mrs. Runkel. You are, I understand, one of the brightest stars in Alpine's firmament."

"Really." Vida looked less than pleased.

Snorty-who, naturally, had snorted his way through all this fulsome verbiage-turned to look at Curtis, who had hung up the phone and was obviously trying to keep a straight face. "And this dashing young man?" Snorty inquired of me.

"Curtis Mayne, our new reporter," I said, noting that Ginny was furtively leaving the newsroom after finishing her mail delivery.

Snorty saluted. "Truly pleased to make your acquaintance. Ah, youth! I remember it well. So encouraging to see that newspapers still attract the younger set. I'm sure you're on your way to making a name for yourself in the business." He paused and glanced up at the clock. "Nine-twenty-five, I see. Where shall we listen to the broadcast?"

"Right here," I said. "Have a seat." I indicated Leo's empty chair. "I'll get my radio. There's coffee and baked goods on the table under the clock."

Snorty snorted with pleasure and made a beeline for the freebies. By the time I returned with the radio and plugged it into the outlet by Vida's desk, he was in Leo's chair with two doughnuts, a cup of coffee, and several napkins.

After turning the radio on, I sat on the edge of Vida's desk. Curtis was sitting with his head propped up by his fists; Vida's posture was ramrod straight as she stared straight ahead; Snorty was smacking his lips over a jelly doughnut. KSKY's "Morning Medley" was playing Connie Francis's "Stupid Cupid" from the fifties. It was one of those oldies that convinced me popular music had gotten better, not worse, over the years. Snorty, however, was rocking in Leo's chair and wagging his head.

A canned commercial for Safeway followed. Then Spence's mellifluous radio voice floated over the airwaves. "This is your *Mid Morning' host, Spencer Fleetwood. We promised our listeners in beautiful Skykomish County an interview with a local Realtor, Snorty Wenzel, who had business dealings with the unidentified man shot to death last Friday in Alpine. However, due to technical difficulties, we're unable to air that segment at this time." Brief pause. "Now let's take another stroll down Memory Lane with Dean Martin's *That's Amore'..."

I clicked off the radio. "That's too bad," I said. "Maybe Spence will run it later."

Snorty looked crushed. Curtis was still trying not to laugh. Vida scowled at the radio.

"Spencer better not have technical difficulties when I do my show this evening," she declared. "Two weeks ago my chair broke. Fortunately, it was during a commercial." She turned her gaze on Snorty. "You might as well recount what you said in the interview."

I kept my eyes averted. Leave it to Vida, I thought, to make sure she got in on my interview. Not that I minded-she'd be a help, not a hindrance.

"Well..." Snorty used a napkin to brush a bit of doughnut off his lower lip. "It's kind of complicated. Want me to begin at the beginning?"

Vida nodded. "If that's necessary, please do."

"It is." He scratched his thick neck. "I met Ed Bronsky at the country club a while back. He was thinking about selling that amazing house of his. I told him I was in the real estate business and would be glad to handle it for him. A couple of weeks later, he agreed and we made a deal for an exclusive listing." He tugged at the collar of his green, blue, and white-striped too-snug Polo shirt. "Now let's face it-there aren't many people in SkyCo who'd be able to afford or maintain a fine property like Ed's, so I listed it on the Internet."

He paused and grimaced at me. "Sorry about that, but your paper's circulation doesn't attract a large readership of wealthy buyers. Location, location...it cuts both ways in real estate."

I nodded. "Go on."

"I got a couple of hits the first week, but nothing solid until about the second week of June. This Dylan Platte guy sounded really interested. We e-mailed back and forth for a few days, and he finally said he'd come to Alpine toward the end of the month and have a look. Then he called me a week ago Monday...no, it was Tuesday...and said he'd be here Thursday. I met him at the diner and we played a little golf before I took him to look at the site. We didn't go inside because Ed and Shirley needed more notice to get everything shipshape for viewing. Anyway, I'd given him kind of a virtual tour on the Internet, you know, showing all the highlights. The next thing I know, the poor guy's dead." Snorty shook his head. And snorted, of course. "I was stunned, I can tell you."

I couldn't look at Vida, who'd winced almost every time Snorty had snorted during this lengthy account. Curtis, meanwhile, was half-listening in. The other half apparently was intermittently typing on his keyboard.

"Are you sure," I said to Snorty, "that this so-called Platte didn't arrive until Thursday?"

Snorty seemed taken aback. "That's what he told me. Why?"

"I'm positive I saw him in Alpine Wednesday afternoon," I said. "So did Stella Magruder at the salon. He was asking for directions to the golf course."

Snorty put a chubby fist to his cheek and pondered. "That might explain it."

"What?" Vida broke in.

He swerved to look at Vida. "When I took him on that drive, he mentioned the swimming pool and that he'd replace those poplar trees around it with some sort of cypress. I didn't think about that until later, but we hadn't gone by the pool area on the east side of the house yet, and my virtual tour only showed the pool itself, not the trees."

"Meaning," I said, "he'd been there earlier. Or maybe he saw them from the golf course, if that's where he'd gone on Wednesday."

Snorty shook his head. "I don't get it. Why would he do any of those things, including impersonate Dylan Platte? It sounds like a practical joke or something to me. Not," he added, wagging a finger, "that I don't appreciate a good laugh like anybody else."

"I'm sure the sheriff would like to know the answers, too," I told Snorty. "And the real Dylan Platte as well. The sale is going through, though, isn't it?"

Snorty frowned. "I hope so. I'm on my way up to the ski lodge to take a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Platte. Ed and Shirley ought to have the house ready for viewing by now."

"Don't count on it," Vida muttered.

Snorty grimaced. "It's not easy with a place that big. Hard to get hired help around here, too." He eased himself out of Leo's chair. "Guess I'll be on my way. Say," he said, eyeing me with what I a.s.sumed was his friendliest smile, "you'll be sure and mention in your story that I'm a real estate agent dealing primarily in residential property all around Skykomish and Snohomish counties?"

"This isn't an ad," I said, trying to sound kind. "It's news. Of course I'll identify you as the agent for the Bronsky house."

Snorty nodded once. "It never hurts to dress that kind of thing up, you know. I mean, small town people like to feel as if they're doing business with a neighbor."

"True." I was noncommittal. "Thanks, Mr. Wenzel."

As Snorty went out, my phone rang. I hurried into my cubbyhole to answer it.

"We got a hit on the dead guy's prints," Milo said. "NICS IDed him as Maxim Roth Volos, thirty-five, of New York City. Rap sheet includes a couple of fraud charges, dealing in illegal firearms, and some minor stuff. No convictions, though."

"New York?" I said in surprise. "You mean he's listed as a current resident there?"

"Last known address was somewhere in Manhattan," Milo answered, "but that was three years ago. I don't know much about New York, but the street where he lived then is called Amsterdam."

"I'm not familiar with the city, either," I admitted, "but I think it's one of the main drags."

"Like Alpine Way?" Milo said.

I figured he was kidding. "Everything in this world is relative. They both begin with an A. I don't know what to make of this news, but I'm glad you found out who he was before we go to press."

"I'm glad you're glad," he said dryly. "All it does for me is muddy the waters."

"I a.s.sume you'll ask the Cavanaugh Gang if they've ever heard of this guy," I said.

"Oh, sure. But if they have, they probably won't admit it. Talk to you later." The sheriff rang off.

Vida, naturally, had been eavesdropping. She'd headed my way as soon as I put the phone down. "Well?" she said.

I related what Milo had told me. "A little strange, isn't it?"

She pursed her lips and frowned. "Yes. But there must be a connection." Vida pointed to the enlargement I'd had made of the victim's driver's license picture. "I can't think what it could be."

"I can't, either," I said.

We didn't know that the answer was staring us in the face.

TWELVE.

FOR THE REST OF THE MORNING, I HURLED MYSELF INTO finishing my tasks for the front and editorial pages. I'd already completed my copy for the special Fourth of July four-page insert. We were going to run a photo from 1917, when Alpine had sold the highest ratio of World War One Liberty Bonds per capita in the state. The original pictures had been taken on the old mill's loading dock, with the residents proudly displaying a huge American flag donated by the once-great Seattle department store Frederick & Nelson. Vida had contributed a feature on previous Independence Day festivities and a "where-are-they-now" article about some of the descendants of the partic.i.p.ants in the patriotic Liberty Bond drive. She featured a trio of young boys in the photo-two Dawson brothers, Louie and Tom, and a cousin, Bill Murphy-who had all served during World War Two. Louie had been in the Coast Guard, Tom was with General Patton in North Africa and Sicily, and Bill had been a naval officer in the South Pacific. All three had survived the war and returned to the Seattle area.

Curtis's contribution was an attempt at humor-not entirely successful-on what might have happened if the colonists had lost the Revolutionary War. Leo, of course, was responsible for all of the extra-revenue ads that supported the additional four pages.

My homicide article proved tricky, but I managed to get in all the pertinent facts. I let Curtis write the cutline for the head shot and ask if anyone had seen the dead man during his brief stay in the area. If so, they should contract the sheriff-or the Advocate.

I stayed in for lunch to ride herd over the copy-as well as the ads-that were going to the back shop. I'd eaten two doughnuts and figured I could last until the lunch bunch had left the Burger Barn so I wouldn't have to wait in the take-out line.

At a quarter to one, I took a break to check my personal e-mail. I'd been too tired and upset the previous night to see if there were any messages after I'd gotten back from the ski lodge.

To my surprise-and initial delight-Adam had sent me a message just after ten PDT. "Hi, Mom," it read.

Just sent an e-mail to Father Den Kelly in Alpine, telling him about the need for a new heater in our little church and also a new outboard motor for the boat I use during these summer months. Heater costs about $1,800, the motor runs (or doesn't run, in the case of the current one) almost $9,000. Thought Den might take up a special collection, and you could do an article in the paper that would reach not just the local residents but the retirees and other people who've moved out of the parish. I know many of them still subscribe to the Advocate. We'd really appreciate the help. Thanks-Love and prayers, Your Landlocked Son.

I sat very still for almost a full minute, staring at the screen and trying not to be furious. No mention of my dilemma, no reference to his half siblings. It was as if he'd forgotten all about what was going on with his mother. Finally, I typed my terse answer: Adam-Have Father Den give me the details. We're up against deadline. Love, Mom.

I hit the Send b.u.t.ton and immediately felt a pang of guilt. At least I'd signed the message "Love." Of course I knew my son was in a far-off place with huge demands upon his time and energy. But the kind of distance I sensed wasn't in terms of miles, it was emotional detachment. He'd taken vows of chast.i.ty, poverty, and obedience. Or, as his uncle Ben had put it, "No honey, no money, just the Boss." Unlike the sacrament of Matrimony, Holy Orders did not ask him to forsake all others, including his mother. Adam had hurt my feelings, and I couldn't help but be resentful.

While I was still licking my wounds, Leo sauntered in. "Emma," he called, approaching my cubbyhole, "guess who I ran into at the diner."

I tried to pull out of my bleak mood. "Who?"

"Fleetwood," Leo said, grinning. "Guess why he didn't run that interview with Snorty Wenzel?"

"Why?"

"Too many snorts," Leo replied. "When Fleetwood tried to edit them out, he ran into some technical problems and...What's wrong? You look p.i.s.sed."