The Alpine Traitor by Mary Daheim

being dismayed by Ed’s self-absorption.
    He didn’t appreciate my flippant remark. “I’m serious,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’ll have to start all over. I can’t imagine Mrs. Platte’ll want to buy the house now.”
    “Probably not,” I agreed, noting that the Burger Barn was getting busy and the take-out line was growing long. “I gather you never met Dylan Platte?”
    Ed shook his head. “Snorty thought he was coming over tonight. I guess Platte had driven by our villa. According to Snorty, he—Platte, I mean—was really excited about it.” He uttered a little grunt that might have been a laugh. “Who wouldn’t be?”
    “In alphabetical order?”
    “What?”
    “All in good order,” I hedged. “I mean, given time, you’ll get another buyer.”
    “Well…maybe,” Ed conceded after a pause. “Now we probably won’t be able to buy that new place we like so much.”
    “Where is it?” I asked, inching toward an empty stool at the counter.
    “Great location,” Ed asserted, regaining some of his usual bravado. “Close to the golf course, real quiet, not so much garden maintenance, and a nice cozy feeling.” He suddenly noticed the take-out line. “Oh, gee, I’d better get going. Say,” he said, digging into the pocket of his forty-eight-inches-at-the-waist summer slacks, “you got a spare twenty? I must’ve left my wallet on the credenza.”
    I hesitated, always loath to enable Ed’s tightfistedness when it came to necessities such as food but readiness to squander his inheritance on Venetian chandeliers and faux Louis Quatorze chairs with legs that couldn’t support half his weight.
    “Okay,” I finally said, getting out my wallet. “You’re sure a twenty is enough?”
    “Got a ten to go with it?”
    I handed over thirty dollars. “Pay me back Monday,” I said in a stern voice.
    “Oh, sure, no problemo. See you.”
    “Yes.” I’d see Ed all right, he was unavoidable. He wouldn’t have the thirty bucks, of course, but we both knew that.
    I’d just sat down at the counter when I felt a tap on my arm.
    “Sorry, Ms. Lord,” Lori Cobb said with a pained expression on her pale face. “Sheriff Dodge wants to see you. ‘Pronto,’ as he put it.”
    I sighed. “The man has a way with words,” I muttered. “Would you mind getting me a burger and fries with a Pepsi?” I took out my wallet again and handed Lori two fives and four ones. “That ought to cover it. If there’s any left over, I’ll have a small salad with blue cheese dressing. Thanks.”
    I hopped off the stool and made my way outside. When I reached the sheriff’s office, Milo and Spencer were chatting behind the counter. Mr. Radio saw me and shook his head in mock reproach.
    “You missed your big chance to be a star,” he said.
    I glared at Spence—and then at Milo. “Gosh, I’ll bet you and the sheriff would’ve been a hard act to follow. Which one of you was Edgar Bergen and which one was Mortimer Snerd?”
    Spence turned to Milo. “She’s bitter. Ignore her.” He patted Milo on the shoulder. “Thanks, big fella. Keep me posted.” Mr. Radio collected his equipment and strolled out of the office.
    “Male bonding,” I remarked, going through the counter’s gate. “I hate it. You two better not have mentioned my name on the air.”
    “We didn’t,” Milo said. “You know damned well I wouldn’t do that this early in a homicide investigation.”
    “Yeah, right, sure,” I grumbled as he led the way into his private office. The room smelled of cigarette smoke. I could imagine Mr. Law Man and Mr. Radio puffing their heads off while they got buddy-buddy over the microphone.
    “Ever consider airing this place out?” I asked as I sat down in front of Milo’s desk.
    “Why?” he shot back. “It reminds me of home.”
    I didn’t respond.
    “Okay,” the sheriff said, flipping to a fresh sheet of legal-size lined yellow paper, “when did you first know of Dylan Platte?”
    “I already