by Mary Daheim
The motel office was small, but tidy and pleasant. Mel and Minnie Harris had bought the property from one of the Gustavsons several years ago. The Harrises were from Seattle, and Mel had taken early retirement from the phone company. He and his wife had fled the city’s turmoil for the rustic peace of Alpine. They probably wouldn’t appreciate being connected to a homicide investigation.
Minnie was on duty, or at least it was she who came into the office from the Harrises’ living quarters. A chunky, sharp-eyed woman in her late fifties, Minnie recognized Vida at once.
“Mrs. Runkel.” She put out a pudgy hand. “You were at the Burl Creek Thimble Club a while back.”
“So I was.” Vida tossed off the rejoinder as if she’d been spotted at the Oscars. “Your annual board election. Have you met Emma Lord?”
We had met, though neither of us were sure when or where. Perhaps, Minnie suggested, it had been at The Advocate. She had brought in an ad at the beginning of tourist season, back in the days when Ed Bronsky wouldn’t get off his fat rear to personally solicit the local merchants.
Vida explained why we had come to the Lumberjack. Actually, she phrased the words in a vague sort of way, suggesting that we were actually interested in a story on off-season tourism.
“You’re checking for homicide suspects,” Minnie said flatly. “Don’t try to fool me; the sheriff’s deputy was here already today.” Minnie shoved the guest register in front of us. “Here, take a look. You won’t find much, I’m afraid. The deputy didn’t.”
Minnie Harris was right. The guests who had signed in Friday, November fifth, definitely sounded innocuous. The names and addresses had a ring of authenticity. And Minnie Harris vouched for them.
“I was on duty that night, too. Not a weirdo in the lot,” she declared, adjusting the clip that held her long gray hair in place.
Vida was still studying the register. “Thursday—this Priestly person. Who was that?”
Minnie broke into a big smile. “Chuck Priestly. He’s an old friend of Mel’s. They started out in the commercial department at the phone company together. Chuck retired when Mel did. He stayed with us before heading on to hunt in Eastern Washington Friday.”
Vida hid her disappointment well. But she wasn’t giving up. “On Wednesday, there’s a name I can’t make out. Very cramped penmanship. Tsk, tsk.” She turned the register around so that Minnie could have a look.
Putting on the glasses that had been hanging on a chain around her neck, Minnie frowned at the page. Then she brightened and removed her glasses.
“Ruggiero, that’s the name. D. M. He spent two nights.” She tapped the page with a fingernail that looked as if it had been well chewed. “See, he was here Tuesday and Wednesday.”
Vida had fixed Minnie with her formidable gaze. “Who is he?”
Minnie didn’t waver under Vida’s scrutiny. “A businessman. He asked for the corporate rate.” She pointed again to the registration. “See? His address is downtown, on Third Avenue.”
I was trying to place the location. “Did he use a corporate credit card?”
Minnie looked as if she were going to balk, but sighed instead, and went over to an old steel filing cabinet. “You know,” she began, her back turned to us, “Mel and I left Seattle to get away from all that corporate claptrap. You wouldn’t believe what he went through with the phone company the last few years while divestiture was going on. We wouldn’t care if the Mayor and the whole damned City Council showed up in Alpine. But,” she added, waving a charge slip at us, “we’d take their money.”
I looked around Vida’s shoulder while she examined the merchant’s copy of the motel charge. The only information on the imprint was the card number, the name of Daniel M. Ruggiero, and the expiration date.
“That’s not much help,” Vida said. She sounded as if she were chiding Minnie. “Exactly what is that address on Third Avenue?”
Minnie was beginning to lose patience. “Twelve-oh-one. I think. You’re right, the handwriting’s hard to read.” She picked up the charge slip and firmly closed the register. “I’m sorry, that’s all I know about Mr. Ruggiero. He wasn’t a talker.”
Vida turned to me. “Twelve-oh-one Third—what is it? You ought to know, Emma. You’re from Seattle.” She swung around to look at Minnie. “So are you. Well? Don’t either of you know your own hometown?”
For the life of me, I couldn’t recall what stood on the twelve-hundred block of Third Avenue. “I haven’t actually lived in Seattle for over twenty years, Vida. It’s changed beyond recognition.”
“She’s right,” Minnie chimed in. “It’s even changed since we moved in 1988. They’ve built one skyscraper after the other downtown. You might as well be in New York.”
Vida was not appeased by our excuses. “As I mentioned earlier, people don’t notice things.” Though Vida seemed to be speaking to herself, the rebuke was clearly intended for Minnie and me.
Minnie’s sharp eyes had narrowed. “I told you the sheriff’s deputy didn’t get anywhere. What did you expect?”
Vida squared her shoulders. “I expected women to do better than men. That’s often the case.”
To my surprise, Minnie took the challenge. “Would it be any help to tell you that Mr. Ruggiero didn’t use a credit card?”
Puzzled, I stared at Minnie. “But … you just showed us the charge slip.”
Minnie nodded. “It was what they call a debit card. I think it comes directly out of your checking account or a line of credit. They’re not common, but certain banks issue them.”
That was when I suddenly remembered what stood at Twelve-oh-one Third Avenue. It was relatively new, it was architecturally splendid—and it was the Bank of Washington Tower.
Chapter Eight
CARLA WAS THREATENING suicide. Again. I tried to ignore her, but it wasn’t easy, especially when she began to make a noose.
“I thought you were going to jump off the bridge over the Sky,” I said, trying not to sound caustic. It was Wednesday, and another edition would hit the mailboxes by midafternoon. Between issues, my work attitude tends to be cavalier until I start getting irate phone calls and threatening letters.
“It’s too cold.” Carla seemed to be having trouble with her knot. “I’m going to climb onto the bandstand at Old Mill Park and hang myself from that big hemlock.”
“It’s a western cedar,” I pointed out. “Where did you get the rope?”
Fumbling away, Carla swore under her breath. “I found it out by my car the other morning. I put it under the seat so I could throw it away later. You know how I feel about litter. Drat!” Frustrated, she threw the rope across the room, narrowly missing Leo, who was on the phone. Propping up her chin with her hands, Carla uttered an exaggerated sigh. “Are you sure that’s not a hemlock in Old Mill Park? I could drink from it and die that way.”
“I’m sure,” I replied cheerfully. “There are lots of hemlock trees around, though. But wouldn’t it be easier to meet a new man?”
“No.” Carla sounded definite, and it was hard to disagree with her. I certainly hadn’t found a new man in Alpine, or anywhere else.
“How are those pictures coming?” I inquired, hoping to divert Carla from morbid thoughts.
“I’ve taken three rolls so far. Indoors, outdoors, morning, noon, and night shots. I didn’t drop them off at Buddy Bayard’s studio until this morning. He’s taking tomorrow off for the holiday, so he won’t have the contact sheets until Monday. I told them there was no hurry.” A defensive note chimed in Carla’s voice. “Isn’t that what you said?”
I nodded and smiled encouragement. “That’s right. Go ahead and shoot a couple more rolls if you feel like it.”
Carla looked as if she felt more like retrieving the noose. At that moment, Ginny entered the news office, carrying the morning mail. Her previously glum face was set with determination. She looked like a woman on a mission.
“I’ve got an idea,” she declared, dropping a three-inch stack of envelop
es on the top of Vida’s crowded in-basket. Vida wasn’t at her desk, having gone off to interview Grace Grundle about a recent trip to Topeka. “Why don’t we run classified ads for singles? Not just for Alpine, but Skykomish, Snohomish, and Chelan Counties.”
Leo glanced up from his phone call, one eyebrow raised. Carla was unresponsive. My initial reaction was negative, but then I began to see possibilities, including new revenue for The Advocate.
“We’d have to set certain standards,” I said, taking my mail from Ginny. “We’d also have to do some advertising of our own in the other two counties to let them know about the ads.”
“Creeps,” Carla said. “Perverts. Ax murderers. That’s what we’ll get, Gin. Did you ever know of anybody who met a decent guy through a singles ad?”
“Yes, I do.” Ginny all but stamped her foot. “My cousin Beverly in Redmond met her husband through an ad in The Weekly. He works for Microsoft and he’s really nice. Don’t you remember when I went to their wedding a year or so ago?”
If Carla recalled the event, she pretended otherwise. “I’ll bet he looks like Mr. Porkery. Or is a complete dweeb.”
“Dwayne’s both, but he treats Beverly like a queen. Looks aren’t everything, Carla. Neither is personality.” Ginny’s face was slightly flushed.
“It’s nice to have one or the other,” Carla retorted.
“I’d settle for a decent guy with a job about now,” Ginny replied. She dumped Leo’s mail on his desk and tromped out of the news office.
The rain was drumming on the roof. Withdrawing to my office, I found Leo right behind me. He sat down, and from across the desk I noted that his eyes were slightly bloodshot. It was probably best not to ask any questions. I kept telling myself that what Leo did in his private life was none of my business. Certainly he seemed stone-cold sober this morning.
“It’s not a bad idea,” he said without preamble. “It’s lucrative. Hell, singles have more money than married people. Not that you won’t get a few of those, looking for some action on the side.”
I scowled at Leo. “That’s one of the reasons I don’t like it. We’re not a dating service, we’re a newspaper.”
Leo snorted. “Shit, just about everybody runs personals these days. What makes this rag so high-and-mighty? Besides the fact that you’re running it?”
I narrowed my eyes at Leo. “That’s the bottom line.”
Leo shrugged. “Fine. So how’s your love life, babe? You got the guys standing in line taking a number?” Before I could utter a stinging rebuke, Leo grinned and held up a hand. “Hold it, I’m not insulting you. That’s my point. You’re single, you’re smart, you’re damned attractive, you’re a lot of fun when you’re not trying to take my head off. But look at this place.” He swept an arm around my little office. “No pictures of handsome hunks, no phones ringing off the hook, no flowers with discreet little notes tucked amid the greenery. If you can’t get a date, who can? Without help, I mean.”
As far as I was concerned, the only thing that made a dent was the remark about flowers. Primly I wrote myself a note to stop by Posies Unlimited and get something for Linda’s funeral. It was the least I could do.
“I’ll think about it,” I said through prissy lips. “I’m always interested in new sources of revenue.”
“Ginny’s sharp,” Leo noted, his bloodshot eyes regarding me with more amusement than I liked. “Don’t discourage her when she comes up with new ideas.”
In truth, Ginny’s imagination wasn’t her strong suit. She had had her last idea the previous spring when she’d suggested that Alpine perk up its economy and its image by holding a Summer Solstice Festival, rather than the somewhat arcane Loggerama. To my credit, I had supported her, and presented the proposal to the chamber of commerce. They were still mulling.
Leo mistook my silence for disagreement. “Look, how many single guys move to Alpine? Not counting yours truly, of course. The newcomers are all families, mostly commuters to Everett and Monroe. When was the last time you saw a strange man in Alpine?”
“About five minutes ago when you came into my office,” I retorted, then had a sudden flashback. My attitude changed swiftly. I leaned toward Leo, unfortunately knocking over the stack of mail with my bosom. “Leo—remember the man we saw at the Venison Inn last week? The one you had the waitress check out?”
Leo was eyeing my bosom. He seemed to approve. I ignored him. “Sure, why?” He didn’t raise his eyes.
Somewhat awkwardly, I crossed my arms over my chest. “Didn’t you say he looked like a banker?”
Leo’s expression was droll. “That I did. He looked like a stuffed shirt, which could translate as a banker. So?” His forehead creased as he finally stared at my face.
The phone rang before I could respond. If I have someone in my office, I usually let the call trunk over to Ginny. But I was anxious to hear from Milo Dodge. I grimaced at Leo in apology, and picked up the receiver.
It was Milo, all right, and he had news. I was elated, despite the fact that we had already gone to press. By next week’s edition, we might have wrapped up the homicide investigation. Then again, we might not. Ever.
“Linda was killed between seven P.M. and midnight Friday,” Milo said in his driest tones. I guessed that he was reading from the medical examiner’s report. “There’s no indication of sexual assault or of intercourse in the last twenty-four hours. There’s no sign of a violent struggle, which indicates she was taken by surprise and possibly wasn’t afraid of her killer.” At this point, Milo paused, not unlike a puppy expecting to be praised for performing a cute trick.
I, also like a puppy, responded. “In other words, she knew him. Or her.”
“Possibly.” Milo was being the noncommittal lawman. With an astute look, Leo made his exit. “Time of death is difficult to pinpoint in this case because of weather conditions. The cold slows down rigor. That’s why there’s a five-hour window. The murder probably occurred near the site where the victim was found, since the only external evidence on the clothing was dirt, underbrush, and other matter indigenous to the locale.”
I was silent for a few moments after Milo finished. “So either Linda’s car was driven back to the condo by her killer or she went there with him—or her—of her own free will.”
“Right.” I could hear Milo slurping coffee.
“In the M.E.’s opinion, could a woman have done it?”
“He won’t commit himself.”
“Which means?”
“Anything’s possible.”
“What about crime-scene evidence? Or from the car?”
“What we’ve got is being examined by the lab technician in Everett.”
“Such as?”
“Nothing spectacular.” Milo sounded vexed. “Let’s face it: We haven’t made much progress. In fact, we’re damned lucky to have gotten this far. Snohomish County is barely keeping afloat with their own forensics reports. I’ve had to push, kick, and shove to get this out of them. At least the Petersens can hold the funeral tomorrow.”
I remembered to tell Milo about Dan Ruggiero. The sheriff was not impressed. “So you and Vida went to the Lumberjack Motel to bug Minnie Harris? And you and Louie saw this guy at the Venison Inn? So what?”
“Leo,” I said, glad that my advertising manager had left the office. “Not Louie. Jeez, Milo, pay attention.”
“Ruggiero checked out Thursday morning. Make your point.” Milo was definitely annoyed.
Maybe he had a reason. Dan Ruggiero couldn’t have murdered Linda Lindahl. “Vida’s checking on him,” I muttered. “When she gets back from … wherever she is. Say, could Andy be a news story in the next paper?”
“Andy?” Milo now sounded puzzled. “Cederberg? You mean the lousy driver at John Engstrom Park?”
“Andy finally reported it, right? Anyway, he told me about it, so it’s a matter of record. How should we use it?”
Milo snickered. “Put it on the sports page. ‘Andy seven, Car zero.’ Andy didn’t get
hit, did he?”
Milo’s attitude was starting to irk me. The sheriff prefers to deal only in facts. He seldom allows himself the luxury of letting his imagination roam free. I gather it’s an occupational hazard. “Andy was lucky. The point is, was it an accident or deliberate? Could Andy’s near-miss tie in with Linda’s murder?”
“That’s stretching a point,” Milo replied. “It was dark, it was foggy, Andy was wearing a black overcoat. We’ve got newcomers who don’t know how to drive in local weather conditions. Or how to walk. Look at Louie.”
“Leo.” I was gritting my teeth. But I knew when to run up the white flag. “Okay, so we’ll drop it for now. Are you going to check the closets of suspects for dirt particles that match Linda’s clothes?”
Milo’s tone turned grim. “Have you ever heard of probable cause! We’d need a search warrant, and we have no legal grounds to get one.”
I knew Milo was right. “What about Big Mike Brockelman? Did you interview him last night?”
“After you left, I bought him a beer.” The sound of Milo whacking his coffee mug against something solid resonated in my ear. “He was home in Monroe Friday night. He says his wife backs him up. Or will, when she gets home from visiting her mother in Walla Walla.”
I brightened. “You mean he admitted he was seeing Linda?”
“I didn’t say that.” Milo’s voice held a warning note.
I knew better than to push Milo too far. He wasn’t obligated to tell the press everything, and we both knew that in certain types of investigations, discretion was necessary. “Are you going to ask Mrs. Brockelman about her husband’s whereabouts?”
“If we have to. We aren’t that far along yet. Anyway, she won’t be back until next week. Hey, I’ve got to run. There’s snow up at the summit and three cars just landed in the ditch. No serious injuries. You want Carla to take a picture?”
By the next edition, thirty cars might have gone off the road. I decided against sending Carla. Besides, I didn’t want to give her any ideas about plunging off Stevens Pass in a dramatic bid for tragic fame.
