"No elephant ears?" Ginny said in a disappointed voice. "I don't know why, but I've had a craving for elephant ears this whole pregnancy."

Curtis c.o.c.ked his head to one side. "Maybe your kid's going to be the size of an elephant. Better watch it. Doc Louie might need a crane to deliver him."

"His name is Dewey," Ginny snapped. "If you must know, I'm very careful about my diet. But sometimes I have these natural cravings, which must mean I'm lacking something in my regular foods." Ginny did a fairly good imitation of flouncing from the newsroom without bothering to check out the baked goods.

"Touchy, touchy," Curtis murmured. "Remind me never to get married."

Leo chuckled. "Getting married isn't the problem. Staying married is the hard part."

Curtis had left the bakery bag on the table without putting the items on the tray. I quickly did the task for him, handed Leo a blackberry Danish, and grabbed a glazed doughnut for myself. "Come into my office," I said to my new reporter.

"Sure." He followed me into the cubbyhole. "What's up?"

"That's my question," I said, sitting down at my desk. "What took you so long? Were you working on the Platte story?"

Curtis sprawled in one of my visitors' chairs. "I decided I might as well check the police log while I was out. Nothing big. The usual weekend traffic stuff and a couple of minor accidents."

"What about the homicide?"

"The sheriff was in a meeting," Curtis replied. "Guess he has a staff get-together on Mondays."

"That's news to me," I said. "Milo hates meetings." I leaned closer and fixed my eyes on Curtis. "What the h.e.l.l were you doing for the past hour and a half?"

He winced. "How can I put it?" He paused and stared off into s.p.a.ce. "I was getting my bearings. Finding my groove. You know-trying to get a feel for this place. It's pretty weird, this small town atmosphere. I need some time to make it real."

"It is real," I retorted. "Get a grip, Curtis. You've got a murder story to cover, and we've got a deadline tomorrow afternoon. Forget acclimating and do the job."

Curtis looked offended. "That's what I'm saying. I can't do the job unless I feel as if I'm part of this town. It's like...culture shock. A time warp. You know what I mean, like how in old movies everything looks grainy and not quite in focus. I have to adjust."

It was useless to argue the obvious with him. "Okay," I said, trying not to sound as aggravated as I felt, "how's the story shaping up?"

Curtis held up his hands as if he were measuring something. "A stranger comes to town. Wise in the ways of the big city's mean streets. But he's out of his element. The forest, the mountains, the rivers-to him they seem menacing. But he has a goal, a plan, an offer to make that can't be refused. And then Fate steps-"

"Whoa!" I cried, waving a hand to shut him up. "Are you writing a movie treatment or a news story? Skip the useless c.r.a.p and give me the facts you've got so far."

Curtis frowned. "That's what I was doing. You got something against creativity?"

"Yes." I nodded vigorously. "Don't they teach you how to write a who-what-when-where-why-and-how story anymore in journalism school?"

"I told you," Curtis said doggedly, "readers don't want that tired old stuff. They want excitement, entertainment. TV has made them eyewitnesses to events. Newspaper reporters have to make it personal to make it real."

"Not our readers," I said. "Not my readers. Come on, let's hear what you know."

Curtis looked pained, as if I'd asked him to give me one of his kidneys. "Dylan Platte, thirty-five, of San Francisco, California, was shot and killed sometime between noon and five o'clock last Friday afternoon at the Tall Timber Motel. Details aren't available until Sheriff Milo Dodge gets the results from the Snohomish County medical examiner's office. Platte was reportedly in Alpine on business and was making an offer to buy The Alpine Advocate from editor and publisher Emma Lord."

I waited. But Curtis didn't say another word. "And?" I finally coaxed.

"And?" He looked puzzled.

"I knew that Friday night," I said calmly. "What did you find out over the weekend?"

Curtis wouldn't meet my gaze. "I told you-I got a feel for the story. I talked to Dodge, but he didn't have much to say. I went to the motel and looked around. You know, to see the setting."

I nodded. "Did you talk to the Harrises?"

"The owners?" Curtis finally looked at me again. "Just Mrs. Harris. Her husband was at the other motel. But she didn't want to say anything because she had guests checking out. Trying not to let on what happened, I guess. Bad for business."

"What about Graham?" I asked.

Curtis's expression was blank. "Graham?"

"Graham Cavanaugh," I said, trying to be patient. "Kelsey Platte's brother. Dylan's brother-in-law." I considered making shadow puppets to better explain the connection but decided a family tree would be more appropriate. "Tom Cavanaugh's children are Kelsey and Graham. Dylan is married to Kelsey. Graham's wife is Sophia. Graham was scheduled to arrive in Alpine yesterday. Did you try to contact Kelsey Platte at the ski lodge?"

"I called, but whoever answered told me Mrs. Platte wasn't taking calls or seeing visitors."

I didn't know whether or not to tell Curtis that I'd managed to meet with Kelsey. I didn't want to rub it in for fear of ruining whatever now seemed to be his slim chances of covering the story. On the other hand, he had to learn that reporters can't take no for an answer.

I was still mulling when Vida burst into the newsroom and headed straight for my office, oblivious to the one-on-one talk I was having with Curtis.

"You won't believe this," she announced in a trumpetlike tone. "My sister-in-law Ella has had a stroke. Or a fit. Or something." Vida leaned against the back of the vacant visitor's chair next to Curtis. "Her neighbor at Pines Villa, Myra Koenig, called me about an hour ago and said Ella had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. I checked with the emergency room, and learned I couldn't do anything until Doc Dewey had seen her, so I decided to go to Pines Villa and have Myra let me in to gather up some things Ella needs if she stays in the hospital overnight, which I suspect she will." Vida paused for breath. "While I was there," she went on, "I went to Ginger and Josh Roth's unit. No one responded. I asked Myra if she knew them. You'll never guess what she said."

"What?" I asked after Vida paused for dramatic effect.

"That unit has been vacant for weeks. Ginger and Josh Roth apparently don't exist."

SEVEN.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" I DEMANDED. "I MET GINGER ROTH in this very office!"

"Yes, yes," Vida retorted. "But that doesn't mean she ever lived at Pines Villa. Or that her real name is Ginger Roth."

Curtis scrambled up from the chair. "I'll put my notes together," he murmured and dashed out of my cubbyhole.

I held my head. "Sit, Vida. Let me absorb this a little more slowly."

"There's nothing to absorb," she a.s.serted. "You were tricked."

I thought back to the previous Wednesday, when the lovely Ginger had parked her shapely carca.s.s in the same chair where Vida was now sitting. "It was a bit odd," I admitted. "She was doing research-supposedly-for a friend in Arizona who was working on an advanced journalism or communications degree. Ginger was quite vague, but in retrospect, it could've been an act. At the time, I was reminded of the beautiful but dumb blonde cliche from the movies."

"What if," Vida said with a frown of concentration, "she was actually studying you and the newspaper operation for the Cavanaughs?"

"That makes sense," I agreed, "but why the subterfuge?"

"Why not? To find out what you're like. To survey the premises. To get the upper hand. These Californians are very sharp when it comes to business practices."

Vida's rationale made some sense. "Is that the unit where Scott and Tamara Chamoud lived before they moved?"

She nodded. "The last I heard, they thought they'd sublet it to a retired couple from Everett, but I don't know if the deal fell through. We should call Scott and ask him. If it was still vacant, there's no reason that these devious Californians couldn't have simply slipped a card with the names of Ginger and Josh Roth into the building's directory. It's right there by the main entrance."

I nodded. "I'll call Scott. Of course, just because these people never lived at Pines Villa doesn't mean they don't exist."

Vida rose from the chair. "True. But it all sounds rather theatrical to me. Hollywood, you might say."

"San Francisco," I pointed out. "That's the Cavanaugh family's base of operations."

Vida shrugged. "It's still California. I believe I'll call that woman in Everett who owns Pines Villa. I may have her name somewhere."

I had Scott's new number in my Rolodex. He and Tamara had found a rental house in Burien, just south of Seattle, where prices were somewhat lower than in the rest of the city. Tamara had signed a teaching contract at Highline Community College, and Scott was trying his hand at freelance photography, working out of their home.

Tamara-or Tammy, as Scott called her-answered on the third ring. "Emma!" she exclaimed. "How nice to hear from you! Scott told me that someone had been killed over the weekend in Alpine. He saw a small article in The Seattle Times' Northwest news wrap-up."

"Unfortunately," I said, "that's true. In fact, it's a long story. Want to be bored?"

"Why not?" Tamara laughed. "I don't start teaching until fall quarter, and that doesn't begin for almost three months. I've been revising my lesson plans, and I'm already bored."

When I'd finished my account of the Dylan Platte homicide, Tamara was aghast. "Those Cavanaugh kids wanted to buy you out? That's dreadful! They sound like vultures."

"I only met them once," I said. "I didn't even know until now that this Dylan Platte existed."

"Still..." Tamara paused. "I can't wait to tell Scott. He's out taking some pictures for his portfolio. It was raining a little when we got up, but it's clearing off now. How's your new reporter working out?"

"Let's say that it's early days," I replied reluctantly. "Let's also say that I wish your husband were still working here."

"I get it," Tamara said. "Oh, Emma, I hope Scott can make a go of his freelancing. Things are pretty tight these days. Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing."

"You'll be fine," I said encouragingly. "It takes time, and Scott's a very good photographer." I had a sudden idea. "Have him call Rolf Fisher at AP. Maybe he can give Scott some leads or even buy a photo from him."

"Rolf Fisher? Isn't he the guy you've been seeing?"

"On and off," I replied but didn't add that, at the moment, the relationship seemed more off than on. "I've got a question for you-did you sublet your apartment?"

"No," Tamara answered, sounding a bit grim. "That's one of the reasons we're in a financial hole. We're paying rent for two places because our lease doesn't run out until October first. The couple who planned on retiring in Alpine changed their minds and decided to move to Ocean Sh.o.r.es. I guess they prefer waves to mountains. Do you know somebody who's interested?"

"Unfortunately, no," I said and then explained about Ginger and Josh Roth.

"That is so weird," Tamara declared. "I don't suppose they were like...squatters?"

"I suspect they never got inside the building. But Vida's going to check with the owner. Is it still that woman in Everett?"

"Mrs. Hines? Yes, as far as I know. Do you want her number?"

I said I thought Vida might have it but to give it to me just in case.

Vida not only had found Mrs. Hines's number but was talking to her on the phone when I came out of my cubbyhole after my chat with Tamara.

"Yes," she was saying into the receiver while showing me a scribbled note with the landlady's name, number, and address, "I'd very much enjoy a cup of tea. Shall we say three o'clock at the diner? Lovely. I'll see you then." Vida hung up and smiled triumphantly. "By chance," she said with her Cheshire cat grin, "Mrs. Hines is coming to Alpine this afternoon to consult with d.i.c.k Bourgette about the possibility of converting Pines Villa. She seemed quite intrigued when I told her about the Roths using the address as camouflage. I got the impression that she enjoys a mystery. We're having tea after her meeting with d.i.c.k." Vida became somber. "Of course I realize that I may be treading on Curtis's toes. I'd be the last person to interfere with his a.s.signment."

I kept a straight face. "We don't know that there's any connection between Ginger and Josh Roth and the Platte homicide," I pointed out. "After all, you wanted to interview them for a newcomer feature."

Vida nodded once. "That's so."

"Then go ahead and talk to Mrs. Hines," I said and filled her in on my conversation with Tamara. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was going on eleven. "I hope Curtis found out if Graham Cavanaugh arrived in town."

"Surely," Vida said, "Curtis can do at least that much in a single morning."

The sarcasm wasn't lost on me. But before I could comment, Ginny entered the newsroom carrying an envelope with the ski lodge logo. "Heather Bardeen Bavich sent this to you, Emma," she said. "Do you mind if I take a little extra time this noon? I want to go home and have a nap. I hardly slept a wink last night."

I hesitated. "Would you rather leave early? We don't have many front office visitors after four-thirty."

Ginny toyed with a long strand of her luxuriant red hair. "Well...if I can stay awake that long."

"Okay," I said. "Drink some more coffee."

"Caffeine isn't good for the baby," she said. "I'll just force myself to stay alert." Shoulders slumping, Ginny trudged out of the newsroom.

"Oh, for heaven's sakes!" Vida exclaimed after Ginny left. "Where's her gumption? She's worse this time than she was with the other two. And all this nonsense about what you can and can't eat! I'm very disappointed with Doc Dewey for giving in to these current fads."

"I don't think they're all fads," I pointed out. "It's always better to err on the side of caution."

"Oh, piffle!" Vida yanked off her gla.s.ses and rubbed fiercely at her eyes, a sure sign that she was annoyed. I swear I could hear her eyeb.a.l.l.s squeak. "Moderation is always wise. But these days, the medical pract.i.tioners seem to have abandoned common sense."

I decided to forgo an argument. Opening the envelope from Heather, I saw a note and a small photograph. "Emma," the note read, "this is the only photo Mrs. Platte had. It was taken last winter at Lake Tahoe."

The wallet-size color picture showed a man and a woman in ski togs, posing under a snow-covered pine tree. There was no identification or date on the back. "Let me borrow your magnifying gla.s.s," I said to Vida. "This is allegedly Mr. and Mrs. Platte."

Vida got the magnifying gla.s.s out of a desk drawer. "Let me see when you're done," she said.

I peered at the photo. Kelsey was barely recognizable, probably because she was smiling and looked relatively animated. Her appearance was far different from that of the young woman I'd talked to at the ski lodge. The dark-haired man was also smiling. He appeared to be about six inches taller than his wife and could have qualified as handsome. "Here," I said, handing over the photo and the magnifying gla.s.s.

"A rather nice-looking couple," she said after a long pause. "A shame, of course. They look very happy here. But then you never know, do you?"

"No," I agreed as she handed the photo back to me. "I hope Kip can enlarge this and still keep it in sharp focus."

Back in my office, I called Heather at the ski lodge to thank her for sending the picture.

"No problem," she said. "Dad left me a note about it. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Platte. She seems totally out of it."

"Did her brother get in yesterday?" I asked.

"Yes," Heather replied. "Late last night. I haven't seen him yet. He's staying in the suite with Mrs. Platte."