by Mary Daheim
“That's great, Leo,” I enthused. “I'll tie up any loose ends that come along for you. I'm taking tomorrow afternoon off, and I'll be in late on Monday. See you then.”
Despite the cheer in my voice, I felt glum as I replaced the receiver in its cradle. My festive Easter dinner was now down to two, Vida and me. Ordinarily, she would spend the holiday with one of her three daughters, but somehow this year they had all gotten caught in the in-law trap and were celebrating with their husbands’ families.
“Dad's picking us up at noon,” Amber announced from the doorway into the hall. “Are you sure you won't get lonesome?”
“Huh?” My head snapped up. “No, I'll be fine. Honest.” I tried to put some warmth in my smile. “I think it's nice that you're going to get to know your stepmother better.”
“She's never been real friendly,” Amber said as Danny wiggled in his mother's arms. “I used to spend weekends and holidays with her and Dad after they got married. I didn't know which was worse, my stepmother being so stuck-up, or Mom's creepy husband, Aaron.”
I'd heard the complaint many times, and it always elicited a pang of sympathy. Amber hadn't had it easy. Her parents had split when she was four. They'd both remarried, and had shared custody. But if Dean's second wife had been cold, her mother's new husband had put the make on Amber. She'd run away and ended up in Las Vegas, where she'd been raped and gotten pregnant.
“You're a grown woman now and a mother,” I said, not for the first time. “You may never have a mother-daughter relationship with your dad's wife, but you can be friends.”
“I hope so,” Amber said, trying to hold on to Danny, who was now beginning to cry. “Sometimes I forget what it's like to have a real mom.”
I didn't doubt it. I'd only met Amber's mother, Crystal Bird Ramsey Conley, once. It was enough. She'd gotten herself murdered, and for a time I was the prime suspect. Crystal's name could still leave a sour taste in my mouth.
Amber wandered off to put Danny to bed. My glum mood brightened. I'd have the weekend to myself. It would only be the second time since Amber and the baby arrived. They'd gone to Salem in February for a family visit with Dean and the rest of the Ramsey clan.
The next morning, I informed Vida that she and I would be alone for Easter dinner.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, whipping off her glasses. “I thought you were going to Seattle. I assumed dinner was canceled.”
I stared. “No. You and I have to eat. Why would I cancel?”
Vida stared back. “But aren't you going to Seattle to help your cousin?”
“No,” I said, annoyed. “I never promised any such thing.”
Vida put her glasses back on and clucked her tongue. “You can't refuse. I'll go with you.”
“Vida…”
“Now, now. Isn't there a big Presbyterian church downtown? I can go there Sunday while you attend your services at the cathedral. St. James, isn't it? Where shall we stay? I imagine the city is crowded for the holiday. Nothing too expensive, of course. A motel. We'll share expenses. What time do you want to leave? I can be ready by one o'clock.”
My head was spinning. “What about Buck? I thought he was going to be back from Palm Springs Sunday night.”
Vida shrugged at the mention of Buck Bardeen, her sometime escort for the past few years. “That was my understanding. But he'll be worn-out, what with Easter brunch with his children and grandchildren and then the flight home and the drive from Sea-Tac. I'll catch up with him Monday night.”
Buck, a retired air force colonel, had spent the past month in a time-share condo, soaking up the desert sun and playing golf. Every so often Vida dropped a hint about the romance's progress, but so far the couple had no plans. I think Vida preferred things the way they were. Like me, she is a very independent woman.
I sank into her visitors’ chair. “I was trying to ignore Ronnie. What can I do to help him? Assuming he's not guilty.”
Vida picked up a No. 2 yellow pencil and twiddled it between her fingers. “He needs an alibi, correct? He says he was—what? In a neighborhood café?”
“A bar,” I said dryly, knowing how Vida regarded such lowlife activities.
“A bar.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well, we can't change that. He undoubtedly wasn't alone. I wouldn't think it should be too difficult to find someone who remembers seeing him there at the time the murder was committed. The police have an estimated time of death, I take it?”
“Sort of,” I replied, trying to remember all that Ronnie had told me during our one and only visit. “I recall that it occurred between nine and ten at night. Apparently, Ronnie came home to the apartment just before closing time at two A.M. The daughter had found Carol shortly after ten-thirty.”
Vida gave me her bright-eyed stare. “Well. That's not so difficult, is it? The time frame is very narrow. Do you know the name of this bar?”
I shook my head. “There are about five of them within a two-block strip near the apartment house. Ronnie wasn't entirely sure which one he was in.”
“Oh.” The brightness faded. “Still, it's a start.”
“Vida, don't tell me you're willing to hang out in bars until we find somebody who was drinking with Ronnie at the fateful hour?”
Vida winced. “I don't relish the idea. But needs must. I can drink tea. They do serve tea in those places, don't they?”
“Probably.” I watched her closely. “You're serious, aren't you?”
“Of course!”
“You're bored,” I remarked.
“What?”
I shrugged. “It's been quiet around here lately. The women's shelter is under way, the bridge is coming up to a vote, we've finally got a new MD to back up Doc Dewey—Alpine's going through a calm phase. You're bored.”
Vida gave me her gimlet eye. “Aren't you?”
“No. I was looking forward to a quiet weekend without Amber and Son. I could use some boredom around here.”
Vida's wide shoulders slumped. “I certainly understand that part. But really, Emma, Ronnie is your cousin. I can't imagine stepping aside and seeing kin being railroaded on a murder charge. Don't you have some fond memories of him?”
“Not particularly,” I admitted. “Ronnie was something of a cipher. We didn't see much of his parents or their kids. Let's face it, my mother was kind of snooty.” Like you, Vida, I wanted to say, but didn't. “She didn't care much for people—even kin—who drank and couldn't hold down a job.”
“Yes, I can understand her point of view,” Vida conceded. “But it's only for a short time, and it might do some good. Haven't we managed in the past to help solve a crime or two?”
“It comes with the job,” I allowed.
“Of course it does.” Vida adjusted her glasses. “You go ahead and make the arrangements. You know the city.” She gave an almost imperceptible shudder. “A nice, clean motel. Perhaps with cooking facilities. That will cut down on our expenses.”
The truth was that if I were going to spend a weekend in Seattle, I would have preferred a four-star hotel with room service and an honor bar. But that was out of my price range. Dutifully, stupidly, resignedly, I went into my office and got out the Yellow Pages for Seattle. It took seven phone calls before I found a vacancy at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill. It was close to downtown, and not that far from the neighborhood north of the ship canal where Ronnie had lived with Carol.
“I'll pick you up at four,” I told Vida. “I'm leaving here at two to pack, then I'm going to St. Mildred's for Good Friday services at three.”
Vida, looking satisfied, smiled. “I'll be ready.”
I wasn't so sure I'd be.
Traffic was heavy all the way into Seattle. The Friday commute was worsened by the holiday weekend, which prevented us from getting to our motel until after six. It was too late to visit Ronnie, so I called the jail to leave a message that I'd see him in the morning.
“Maybe,” the detached voice at the other end of the line said, “Mallett will be out
of the infirmary by then.”
“Why's he in the infirmary?” I asked, unexpected concern surfacing.
“I can't tell you that,” responded the voice, which could have belonged to either sex.
“I'm a… close relative.” I gulped on the phrase. “A first cousin. At least tell me if he's sick or if he got injured.”
“It's not serious. He'll heal.”
That was all I could get out of the voice, so I hung up and told Vida, who'd been hanging over my shoulder. “Somebody may have punched him out,” I said. “Or worse. Poor Ronnie.”
“Indeed,” Vida replied. “Jail can be a nasty place, especially in big cities. I don't imagine Ronnie's cellmates are particularly civilized.”
“Damn,” I swore, ignoring Vida's disapproving glance. “Now I actually feel sorry for the poor twerp.”
“Of course you do,” Vida responded. “He's family. Tsk, tsk.”
“Vida—” I began, but stopped. She was right. I must have felt some kind of connection or I wouldn't have felt the surge of guilt.
“Where's an inexpensive restaurant close by?” Vida asked, glancing out the window at the Space Needle.
I considered. “There's a place out on Phinney Ridge that's quite good and reasonable. We could swing by Ronnie's apartment house. I got the address from him the other day. It isn't far from the restaurant.”
Not wanting to lose the daylight, we headed for the apartment first. It was about three blocks from the neighborhood's business district, an unprepossessing two-story brick-faced building with eight units.
Half of the uncovered parking places in back were empty. A large, overflowing Dumpster stood next to the building, along with several garbage cans. There was no yard as such, just overgrown blackberry bushes, ferns, and weeds. Vida shook her head in disapproval.
“No pride,” she declared. “Wouldn't you think they'd band together and have a work party? Some nice perennials, a few bulbs. What's wrong with city people?”
Since many Alpine residents considered a rusted-out pickup as garden statuary, I didn't comment. We walked around to the front, where stairs led up both sides to the second-floor balcony.
“Ronnie is downstairs, in 1-B,” I said, studying the mailboxes. “Here, only Carol's name is on the box.”
Vida was already at the picture window next to the door marked 1-B. The drapes were pulled, but didn't quite meet. “I don't see anyone,” she murmured. “No lights are on.” She tried the knob, but it was locked.
“They've taken away the crime-scene tape,” I noted. “That's not a good sign as far as Ronnie's concerned. They must figure the case is closed.”
“Mmm,” Vida responded, still trying to peer inside. “It looks as if there are some cartons on the floor.”
I joined Vida at the window, but before I could get a good look, the door to 1-C opened.
“It's not for rent yet,” a rumpled redhead in her early thirties said. “Next week, maybe. You got the landlord's number?”
I started to deny that we were in search of an apartment, but Vida moved in front of me. “Why the delay?” she asked.
“The place has to be cleaned out first,” the redhead answered, flicking cigarette ash onto the concrete floor. A TV was making disjointed noises from inside her unit. “It's only a one-bedroom. You sure you and your daughter are interested?”
“It's not for me,” Vida replied, not exactly lying. “We understand that a murder occurred here.”
A tiny twitch at the corners of the redhead's full lips indicated that the fact somehow pleased her. “Yeah. A couple of weeks ago.” She shrugged. “Mr. Chan, the landlord, told me that you have to tell people when somebody gets killed. You know—future tenants and all that.”
I decided it was time to step out from behind Vida's shadow. “That's sort of gruesome, though,” I said, trying to sound chummy. “Who got killed?”
The full lips twitched again. “Her name was Carol Stokes. Her boyfriend did it. I ought to know—I heard them fighting just before it happened.”
“Really,” Vida said, sounding impressed. “Did the police interview you?”
“Yeah, a couple of times.” The redhead tossed her cigarette into an empty planter, which had obviously served as an ashtray on previous occasions. “It's tough on him, but I had to tell the truth, didn't I?” Her blue eyes widened in an attempt at playing the innocent bystander.
“Of course,” Vida said, tipping her head to one side. “You knew the couple, I take it?”
The redhead nodded emphatically. “Yeah. They were always fighting. Carol was the kind who liked to argue and all that.”
“You must be Ms. Swafford,” I said, remembering the name on the mailbox for 1-C.
“Right,” Ms. Swafford replied, holding out a hand that sported two long acrylic nails and three short, natural ones. “Maybeth, to you. Hi.”
“I'm Mrs. Runkel,” Vida said, “and this is Emma.” She tugged me forward. “How nice to meet you.”
“You want to come in?” Maybeth asked, gesturing at the living room.
“Why, thank you,” Vida said. “Just for a minute. We're on our way to supper.”
The lack of neatness in Maybeth Swafford's apartment obviously disturbed Vida. She sniffed the air, which smelled of cigarettes, burned food, and acetone. She frowned at the furnishings, which appeared to have been sold as discount floor samples. She used her toe to push aside a TV Guide that was lying on the littered floor. She grimaced at the television screen, which was showing a sitcom I didn't recognize.
Maybeth must have followed Vida's gaze, because she turned off the TV and indicated we should sit on the lime-green couch. We did, and it sagged beneath our weight. Our hostess, who was dressed in tight slacks and a T-shirt proclaiming MY OTHER BUST WAS FOR DRUGS, curled up in a plaid recliner.
“It must have been frightening to realize you'd probably heard your next-door neighbor being murdered,” Vida said with a shudder that may or may not have been feigned.
“Well, I didn't know she was being murdered then,” Maybeth replied, picking up an acrylic nail from a small plastic tray. “I just thought they were having another fight.”
“That was…” Vida gazed up at the ceiling. “When?”
“Umm…” Maybeth also gazed at the ceiling. Maybe there was something there I'd missed; all I could see were a few dangling cobwebs. “Three weeks ago tonight. I remember because it was a Friday and I was supposed to go salsa dancing, but my allergies were acting up. They always do this time of year. Pollen and trees and all that.”
“Yes,” Vida said in a sympathetic tone, “spring is such a difficult season for people with allergies. Was it very late? Did it wake you up?”
Maybeth shook her head. “It was around nine. I forget what I was watching on TV. Nash Bridges comes on at ten, and it was too soon for that. Don Johnson's a hunk, don't you think?” The question was aimed at me.
“Yes,” I said, though I hadn't seen the actor since his days on Miami Vice. For my lonely Friday nights, I'd preferred Homicide, which seemed appropriate under the circumstances. “Was there a lot of screaming?”
“Yelling, mostly,” Carol replied, making a face as she tried to apply a third nail. “Ronnie was still yelling when he slammed the door.”
Vida's eyes slid in my direction. “Really,” she breathed. “Most interesting. Did you tell the police that?”
Maybeth looked up. “What?”
“That this Ronnie was still yelling?”
“I suppose.” Maybeth shrugged. “Hey, you want a beer or something?”
This time Vida's shudder was real. “Heavens, no! We're fine. As I mentioned, we're going to supper. Tell me, Maybeth, why do you think this Ronnie and Carol stayed together if they didn't get along?”
Maybeth examined her new nail. “Don't ask me. Carol was a real bitch.”
“You weren't friends, I gather?” Vida said.
“Not exactly.” Maybeth's mouth puckered up. “We used to hang together, wa
y back. When she first moved in, she seemed okay. Then—” She stopped and stared at us. “Hey—how come you're asking all these questions about Ronnie and Carol and me? What's that got to do with renting Carol's apartment?”
Vida placed a hand at her bosom and laughed merrily, a very uncharacteristic sound. “Do forgive an old lady her rampant curiosity. People are so interesting, don't you think? Especially when one of them gets murdered.”
The explanation didn't quite erase Maybeth's skepticism. “I probably shouldn't be blabbing all this. I mean, I don't know you two, do I?”
“No, you don't,” Vida agreed, standing up. “But perhaps you soon will.” With a Cheshire cat smile, she headed for the door.
Naturally, I trailed along behind her, feeling like a small dinghy behind a large yacht.
“Very unreliable,” Vida remarked as we headed for the parking lot. “Why would Ronnie still be yelling when he left if Carol was already dead?”
“Good point,” I replied. “How long do you intend that we should keep up this farce that I'm looking for an apartment?”
“As long as it works,” Vida replied, waiting for me to unlock the passenger door. “I'm glad I thought of it. Now you know.”
“Know what?” I asked as we both got into the Lexus.
“That Ronnie's innocent.” Vida looked very smug. “Isn't that what we came for?”
VIDA CONFESSED THAT she hadn't been to the Woodland Park Zoo since she was eight.
“Monkey Island,” she said as we finished our meal at Val's just two blocks from the zoo. “That was my favorite, such busy little creatures, so like us. As a child, I found them fascinating, rather like watching neighbors through a window.” Vida smiled in reminiscence; I smiled at Vida's early proclivity for voyeurism. “Shortly before the war,” she continued, “we drove to Seattle to see the floating bridge over Lake Washington. My father refused to believe it wouldn't fall down. Of course, eventually it did.”
“They all do—eventually,” I said, thinking of the Hood Canal floating bridge between the Kitsap and Olympic peninsulas that had collapsed twice.
“I should think so,” Vida said, then grew pensive. “It's not yet eight o'clock. There's no point in wasting time. Who's next on your list?”
