by Mary Daheim
“Okay, Mrs. Smith,” Milo said in mock defeat. “If you say so. We’ll find out when the impostor gets into town. We understand she’s on her way. Is Honoria around, by any chance?”
“No.” The answer came too quickly.
“How about Trevor?”
“No. I’m alone.” There was another pause. “That’s why it’s taking me so long to unpack.” Again the nervous laugh vibrated through the speakerphone. “I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”
The sheriff rang off. “She’s not a good liar, either. At least not when she’s caught off guard.”
I acknowledged the remark with a nod, but my mind was following a different track. “It’s obvious now why the Whitmans didn’t call Cassandra, the other sister—if it wasn’t Kay who was killed, why would Cassandra care?”
Milo, however, didn’t agree. “The victim was still a sister-in-law, or a live-in. She was being treated as family. Why else bring her along on this trip? Cassandra would want to know if the woman got killed.”
“But they didn’t tell her.” I moved uneasily in the chair. The office smelled like stale smoke, scorched coffee, and gun oil. “Do you know Cassandra’s last name?”
Regretfully, Milo shook his head. “Honoria never mentioned it, and I didn’t think to ask. It didn’t seem important.”
“Maybe Mrs. Smith would tell you.”
“I’m not calling her again. Not now. It looks as if I’m going to have to get Monterey County involved. How else can we ever identify the body?” The sheriff emitted a heavy sigh.
All kinds of crazy ideas were dancing through my brain. How obsessed was Mrs. Smith with appearances and the family image? Had she and Trevor picked up some hitchhiker and had her pose as the devoted wife of an ex-con? Or did Trevor meet somebody in an Oregon bar and bring her along for the ride? More likely, had he asked his current girlfriend to join Mom in visiting sis? That was the simplest explanation. But it didn’t tell us why she’d gotten herself killed.
“Facts,” Milo said, bringing me out of my reverie. “We’ve got to stick to facts. I wish we had some. We’re plugged up until this Kay Whitman gets here. Then we’ll have to wait until Monday to get any records out of Monterey County. Still, I can get their people going on missing persons. That’ll help.”
The sheriff got out of his chair and headed for the outer office. I joined him, watching as he gave orders to Dwight Gould to call Salinas, the county seat.
“I can contact the local papers Monday,” I offered. “Mitch Harmon’s murder should have been covered all over the area.”
“Good,” Milo responded, leaning an elbow on the counter. “That might be faster than having the court transcripts dug out.”
“The towel,” I said, from out of nowhere. “That’s a fact. Have you any idea where it came from and how it got into Stella’s washer?”
“The killer put it there,” Milo answered reasonably. “It could have come from anywhere. Like your bathroom.”
“Not my bathroom.” I didn’t want to go over the white vs. colored-towel issue again. “What are you going to do now?” The question came out in an uncertain voice, which surprised me. I thought I was sticking to business, but realized that pleasure was still lurking somewhere in the back of my mind.
Milo, however, didn’t seem to notice that I sounded strange. “Wait to hear from Salinas. Call Sea-Tac and check to make sure Kay Whitman is actually on a flight from Sacramento. Take another look at alibis.”
I regarded Milo with surprise. “Including Toby Popp’s?”
“Maybe.” The sheriff seemed disgruntled.
“And?” I prodded.
“Oh …” Milo grimaced. “Whatever comes to mind.”
“You can’t avoid it, you know.” My glance bounced off Milo and fell on my shoes.
“What’s that?”
“Honoria. You’re going to have to talk to her tonight. And Trevor.” I gave the sheriff a lame little smile.
Milo hitched up his belt. “I know.” He uttered another big sigh. “You sticking around?”
I’d considered it, but I had plans of my own. “No. I’ve got to get hold of Vida, for one thing. It is her story.”
“Okay.” Milo turned to Dwight, who had just hung up the phone. “You talk to Salinas?”
I left the sheriff’s office. As I’d said, I had plans of my own. Besides, Milo didn’t seem to want dessert. Of any kind.
The bananas wouldn’t keep. But I would.
To my relief, Vida was home. It was going on nine when I arrived, and she’d just gotten in the door. Buck was still ailing, so she’d had dinner with Amy, her husband, Ted—and Roger. The adorable little fellow had made a spaceship out of his ravioli. Unfortunately, he’d used his father’s chair for a launching pad. Before Vida could fully launch herself on her grandson’s antics, I interrupted with my latest bulletins. Kay Whitman’s resurrection so startled my House & Home editor that she let out a loud squawk.
“Impossible! And she’s coming here? Oh, good grief!” Vida all but staggered around her tidy living room before collapsing in her late husband’s favorite chair. “This is incredible! Are you absolutely certain? Did you get this secondhand from Milo?”
“Now don’t get mad,” I said, seeing Vida’s hackles rise as the shock wore off. “I tried to call but you weren’t home. That’s why I’m here now, to bring you up to speed, and to ask you to go with me to see Stella.”
Vida glanced at her watch. “At nine o’clock? Well, maybe. This is all very peculiar. Honestly, Emma, I do wish you’d tried to phone me at Amy’s.”
I’d done that once, a year or so ago, and had gotten Roger, who’d used every orifice of his wretched little body to make disgusting noises in my ear. Nor had he let me speak with his grandmother, who, he insisted, was dead. I didn’t bother to defend myself further with Vida.
Stella and Richie Magruder lived in a big old house on First Hill, across from the high school. It was a comfortable place, set among second-stand Douglas firs, a home that had raised children, and reflected Stella’s down-to-earth personality.
Stella, however, greeted Vida and me as if we’d come from Mars. “What’s wrong now?” she demanded, ushering us into the long hallway with its lily-patterned wallpaper.
“Nothing,” Vida soothed. “That is, nothing that should distress you. Oh—do I smell pecan pie?”
“No. It’s nail-polish remover.” Stella wasn’t taken in by Vida’s comment. “Come on into the living room anyway. Richie’s out playing poker with the boys, so I was experimenting with a new line of polish. It’s expensive and the colors are too glitzy. I’m going to pass. How about a drink?” She flashed a hand that had three gaudily painted nails, all in different shades.
Judging from the empty highball glass on the end table, Stella’d already had a drink. Or two. Yet the salon owner was clear-eyed, and crisp of speech. Somehow, Vida and I ended up with apple juice.
“If you’ve come to commiserate about Becca’s stupid stunt, don’t bother,” Stella said, sitting back down on the couch. “If she’s serious about getting back together with this Eric creep, she’ll probably quit before I can fire her. It looks like Becca is the type who learns the hard way.”
Don’t we all, I thought. But Stella was right. It was pointless to harp on Becca’s apparent lack of judgment. The hour was late, and there were other, more pressing matters at hand. Since Milo hadn’t sworn me to secrecy, I told Stella about the woman who said she was the real Kay Whitman. Stella’s reaction wasn’t as marked as Vida’s.
“So who got whacked in my salon?” Stella inquired with a vexed expression.
“That’s what we want to know,” Vida put in. “When the woman came in, did she give her name?”
Stella ran a hand through her gilded locks. “God, I’m not sure. Why does Monday seem like six months ago? I suppose she said, ‘I’m Ms. Whitman, I’ve got a facial appointment.’ That’s the usual drill.”
“What did she look like?” The
question was mine, and I felt foolish. I’d seen her, but recalled only a body, smeared with green cream, bloodied and yet bloodless.
Stella tipped her head to one side. “Average height, decent figure, early forties, light brown hair with red highlights, probably not natural, slacks and sweater under a barn jacket. Kind of plain, but she wasn’t wearing makeup. Almost nobody does, when they come for a facial. I doubt I’d recognize her if I ever saw her again. Not that I will, of course.”
“She wasn’t remarkable.” Vida frowned into her apple juice. “Not a femme fatale.”
“God, no.” Stella laughed in a strained manner. “If she gained thirty pounds, she could have fit right into Alpine.”
Vida had assumed a pensive air. “Stella, you’re very aware of people. Earlier on, it occurred to me that a woman—such as Honoria—wouldn’t make a facial appointment unless she really wanted one. But I’ve been thinking, and now I realize that she might do such a thing if she had another reason for coming to the salon. Can you think why Honoria would have wanted to do that?”
“I don’t know Honoria,” Stella said, picking up her highball glass, which she’d refilled with what looked like a screwdriver. “Do you mean she needed an excuse to talk to Becca?”
Vida nodded, in an uncharacteristically vague manner. “Or to you or Laurie. But she wouldn’t want to have her hair cut. Honoria has it done in Sultan, always the same style, very becoming. Women don’t switch hairdressers for fanciful reasons. That’s why I’m wondering if she didn’t have an ulterior motive for scheduling a facial. It wouldn’t alter her appearance, and she’d achieve her underlying goal.”
This was the first I’d heard of Vida’s idea. It made a certain amount of sense. Stella, however, was shaking her head. “I can’t think why Honoria Whitman would want to talk to me—or Laurie or Becca. The point is, she didn’t come at all. Kay—or whoever she was—came instead.”
“Exactly.” Vida was looking slightly smug. “Let’s conjecture that Honoria planned to come to Alpine alone. She made the Monday appointment on Saturday. Perhaps she thought her relatives would be gone after the weekend. Or perhaps she wanted to escape from them for a few hours. Houseguests can be trying, and Honoria is used to being alone. But on Monday, the company is still there. Trevor and this unknown woman insist on joining Honoria. Maybe the so-called sister-in-law announces she wants to come to the salon, too. Honoria’s meeting plans are upset. She doesn’t want to waste the opportunity, so she gives up the appointment, figuring she can do it later, after her guests are gone. But whatever Honoria had in mind, she didn’t want her relatives to know about it. Especially, I would guess, not the alleged sister-in-law.”
Stella was smiling. “That’s very complicated, Vida. But I don’t know what you’re talking about. Becca and Laurie don’t know Honoria, either.”
Vida said no more. We seemed to have come up against a brick wall. “Did you ever figure out where the towel came from?” I asked Stella, deciding to get back to basics.
Stella couldn’t begin to guess. Vida and I drank our apple juice, then left our hostess to finish removing her nail polish.
“Rats,” Vida muttered as we walked back to my car. “I was hoping Stella would remember something—anything—that might indicate the victim didn’t actually claim to be Kay Whitman.”
“No, you didn’t,” I countered. “You wanted to see if she knew of any connection between Honoria and Laurie. Such as Toby Popp.”
“There is one, of course.” Vida’s profile was set. “It may go back to Honoria’s youth, or only six months ago. But it exists.”
The moon was now overhead, a white, bright wedge in the jet-black sky. I could still see the stars, dazzling in number, and beckoning as if they were within touching distance of Tonga Ridge.
“Let’s pack it in,” I suggested, hearing the tired note in my voice. “We’ll know more tomorrow when the real Kay Whitman gets here.”
“I wonder why she’s coming?” Vida ducked low to get into the Jag.
“Wouldn’t you?” Fastening my seat belt, I turned the ignition key. “If I’d been reported as having my throat slit in Alliance, Nebraska, or Appleton, Wisconsin, I think I’d be curious enough to go to the source. For one thing, I’d be scared.”
“Y-e-s.” Vida drew the word out as she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “Oooooh! This is all such a mess! I wonder how Milo is doing with his alibis?”
“I’m not going to think about it anymore tonight,” I declared, heading past the high school, which stood dark and mute on its hill above Spruce Street. “I’m going to concentrate on seeing Adam and Ben in Arizona.”
Putting her glasses back on, Vida sighed. “Arizona! All that sun and dryness! I’ve never been there.”
“They have some kind of winter in the northern part where Ben is,” I said. “I think.”
“I should hope so.” Vida was looking out the window as we headed down Seventh toward her house. “What are you going to do?”
“About what?” Puzzled, I glanced at Vida before I turned left onto Tyee.
“Tommy. Are you really going to abandon him?”
“Vida.” My sigh turned into a groan. I couldn’t understand why my usually sensible House & Home editor seemed determined to keep me tied to Tom Cavanaugh. Sometimes I wondered if she’d had an early love who’d gotten away. Maybe Vida had secret regrets. “I can’t abandon what I never had. Twenty-three years ago, Tom abandoned me. This isn’t revenge, it’s common sense, the kind you admire so much. Tom’s got grown kids, plenty of friends, business associates, and most of all, a wife. He doesn’t need me.” I’d pulled into Vida’s driveway. “Not really.”
“I see.” Vida was staring straight ahead. “Yes. I suppose I do. You’re quite serious. Well now.” She picked up her purse and held on to her green toque. “The important thing, I think, isn’t what you’re running away from. It’s what you’re running to. Good night, Emma.”
The porch light was on. I could see Vida walk up the stairs and across the porch. She bent down to unlock the door, then stepped inside. The light went off.
I was left with the moon and the stars and a strange sense of liberation.
I’d felt that way Monday; it didn’t last.
Maybe this time would be different.
Chapter Seventeen
ARMED WITH A sugar doughnut and a paper cup of coffee, I cornered Father Den after Sunday Mass. Maneuvering him to one end of the school hall where St. Mildred’s Altar Guild hosted its weekly postliturgical social hour, I unloaded about Ed Bronsky. Tact and subterfuge were unnecessary. In the past two years I’d become friendly with our pastor, not only through the usual parish channels, but because Dennis Kelly and my brother had grown close. Den and Ben shared more than a religious vocation: they were near in age, they enjoyed sports, they had some favorite authors in common, and they both had a sense of humor. I could be candid with Father Den.
He, in turn, allowed that there were opportunities galore for Ed. “We’ll talk him into being St. Mildred’s angel,” Den said with his infectious grin. “An angel, as in Broadway show angels. He’s got the time and money to back this parish. Let’s see if he’s willing to put both of them where his mouth is.”
Hatching what I hoped would be a small coup buoyed me through the first half of the day. But after I’d read the Sunday paper, written a couple of letters, and given up on a best-seller somebody had recommended, I began to feel edgy. Vida was entertaining her daughter and family from Bellingham. Leo was probably with Delphine Corson. And Milo was either working or had gone fishing. Of course it wasn’t ideal weather for a masochistic steelheader: the sky was almost clear, the temperature had risen into the high forties, and there wasn’t much wind. With the misery quotient so low, Milo might have decided that an outing wasn’t worth it. At best, steelhead were elusive. Some fishermen waited ten years before landing the first one. They spent the next five years talking about it, which would be about the same amount of time tha
t would pass before they caught another fish. In the world of sportsmen, they were a strange breed, as exotic as their prey, but more numerous.
Since it was almost three, Milo should have gotten back. The sheriff liked to hit his favorite holes at first light. I tried the office first.
Jack Mullins answered. “Dodge went into Seattle,” he said. “That Whitman woman called this morning to say she was staying with friends. The sheriff didn’t want to wait until tomorrow, and he figured he could save her a trip up here.”
I was disappointed. Meeting the real Kay Whitman—if indeed that was who she was—had intrigued me. “Have Milo call me when he gets back.” I thanked Jack and hung up.
Ten minutes later I was in my car. Maybe I’d drive down to see Paula Rubens. Waiting at the railroad crossing for the Burlington Northern to pass, I wondered if I should call her first. I wasn’t keen on drop-in company, though in a small, informal town like Alpine, it was hard to avoid. I could phone her from Skykomish.
I watched the freight cars rumble by. Many were ghosts from the past—the Great Northern, the Northern Pacific, Union Pacific, Southern Pacific, Ashley, Drew & Northern, Milwaukee Road, Rio Grande, City of Prineville Railway, and of course the more contemporary green of Burlington Northern. Like most Americans of a certain age, I am fascinated by trains. At night, when I’m going to sleep, I can hear the whistle in the darkness, and the slowing of the locomotives as they start the steep ascent through the eight-mile Cascade Tunnel. I am comforted, though whether it is because I could jump aboard and be somewhere else in a few short hours, or because the railroad evokes so much of this country’s history, I don’t know. Nor do I care. The siren call of the whistle can lead us into the unknown, without a preordained destination. Trains connect us with more than just place names. Maybe, as I sat waiting in the Jag, I was driving off into some great void, hoping that the excursion would open my mind to a killer’s identity.
