by Mary Daheim
Somehow, I was surprised. As I got in line behind Ione Erdahl, I wondered if twenty grand was worth killing for. It wouldn’t be for me.
But then I wasn’t a killer.
Chapter Sixteen
“WE’RE GOING OUT for dessert,” Vida announced at the exact moment I hit the printer key on my word processor. “We won’t have dinner because we might die.”
I had no idea what Vida was talking about. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “I still have to find out what Milo’s up to.”
Vida leaned one hand on my visitor’s chair. “Thelma and Elmer invited us to dinner. Elmer, it seems, took a fancy to you, which is very rare for him. It must be your peculiar politics. Anyway, only wild horses could drag me to eat an entire meal at their house. You wouldn’t believe what that kitchen looks like. But dessert is safe. Thelma usually makes something out of a box.”
I had no earthly desire to spend part of my evening with Elmer and Thelma Petersen. But Vida had made the commitment for me, and I knew I was stuck.
“What time?” I sighed.
“Six. They eat at five. That’s because they go to bed so early.”
It was now almost four-thirty. I must have been looking fretful because Vida shook a finger at me.
“You don’t have to finish your homicide story until tomorrow. If Milo had anything new, he would have called. I’ll pick you up at ten to six.” In her splay-footed manner, Vida exited my office.
The printer was still spewing out copy when the phone rang. I hoped it was Milo, if only to get me off the hook with the Petersens.
But it was a woman, and she sounded upset. At first I couldn’t understand a word she said. Then she collected herself.
“Susan Lindahl? Remember, you and your friend were here last week? In Everett?”
Susan must have thought I was a moron. “Oh, yes, of course. What is it, Susan?”
Susan uttered a strange little squawk. “I … I’m so upset. I’ve spent the last half hour trying to calm down Alison. I really don’t know anyone else in Alpine except you and Mrs. Runkel….” A sob broke through in her voice; I waited for her to go on. “Your sheriff was here this afternoon with a search warrant. Howie wasn’t home. He’s putting in some cabinets at an industrial park near Marysville. What am I going to tell him when he gets home?”
Distractedly I pushed my overlong bangs off my forehead. “It’s routine, I imagine,” I said, lying through my teeth. “If the sheriff wanted to talk to Howie, he’d have tracked him down.”
“He’s coming back, around six. He’d still be here if he hadn’t taken some things to the police lab downtown.” Susan’s voice trembled, but she seemed to be getting the upper hand on her self-control.
“What things?” I asked, ready to jot down information.
“Some of Howie’s clothes. His shoes. A hairbrush.” She paused, and I could distinctly hear her swallow. “And a piece of rope.”
I bit my lower lip. “Milo Dodge is very thorough.” It was the only comforting thing I could think of to say to Susan Lindahl.
“But why! What’s going on over there in Alpine? You own the newspaper; you must know what the sheriff’s thinking.” The quaver had gone out of Susan’s voice, but she still sounded frantic.
I had scribbled Milo’s haul in my little notebook. For a brief, electrifying second I stared at the page. “Don’t get too upset about Sheriff Dodge,” I said, hoping to convey confidence. “He’s just doing his job. As I mentioned, he has to be thorough. Maybe it has something to do with your break-in.”
“That?” Susan’s attitude was scornful. “The Everett police handled it. It was probably kids, maybe even friends of Alison’s. Nothing was taken.”
“How did you know there was a break-in?” I asked in a casual voice.
Now that Susan was off of the subject of Milo Dodge, she sounded more like herself. “There were drawers pulled out, a glass in the kitchen was overturned, one of the living-room lamps had gotten unplugged. As I told you, the police figured it was kids, looking for money or liquor or drugs.”
“How did they get in?”
Susan hesitated before answering. “This is the silly part. Alison’s hair clip broke after she got in the car, and she had to go back to get another one. She swears she locked the door on the way out, but you know how kids are. She was all excited about the open house and she probably forgot. We gave her a little lecture, but as long as nothing was stolen or vandalized, we couldn’t complain too much. It’s a good thing, since Linda was killed right after that.”
“How’s she doing?” I inquired, thinking of the pale-faced little girl at the Lutheran church.
“Oh—it’s hard to say. At this age, kids tend to keep things inside, I think. She seemed to be doing all right until this afternoon when your sheriff showed up. That really threw her.”
I allowed that Milo’s search would certainly be upsetting. We chatted briefly, mostly about the trauma of adolescence. In the end, Susan thanked me and admitted that perhaps she’d overreacted.
She hadn’t, of course. But there was no need for her to know that. Yet.
Thelma Petersen served dessert in the living room, which was probably just as well. Vida’s warning about the kitchen had practically caused me to lose my appetite anyway. I tried not to cringe as I examined the watery chocolate pudding that was slipping and sliding in a slightly dingy cranberry glass dish.
We spent the first fifteen minutes with Thelma and Vida discussing Linda’s funeral. Elmer sat in silence, slopping up pudding. Once or twice, I caught him watching me with a wary eye. If this was Elmer Petersen’s way of extending friendship, I wondered how he showed hostility.
And then I found out. Somehow, after I drifted off course from the conversation, Vida and Thelma had started talking about the old days.
“You remember that dance, Vida,” Thelma was saying. “You wore green tulle.”
“It was my first grown-up dress. My mother made it.” Vida looked oddly wistful.
“What a shame the big fight spoiled everything.” Thelma glanced in her husband’s direction. “Not that I blamed Elmer. After all, the dance was in his honor because he was going overseas. He looked ever so handsome in his Navy uniform, didn’t he, Vida?”
“Very,” Vida replied, while I tried to conjure up a picture of Elmer Petersen ever looking like anything but two hundred pounds of potatoes stuffed into overalls. “Marv was jealous, of course. He was too young to serve.”
“He was too young to drink,” Thelma declared heatedly. A half century apparently hadn’t cooled her ire at her brother-in-law. “Sneaking punch, that’s what he did. And then he tried to kill Elmer!”
“Dutch courage,” Vida remarked, chasing her pudding around the dish. “Marv wanted to be a hero, too. And I think he had a crush on you.”
“Nonsense! I was way too old for Marv.” Thelma simpered just a bit. “Those were the days, weren’t they, Vida?”
Vida inclined her head. “Well … if you number putting Marv in traction among your most memorable moments, then I suppose we had a good time. Frankly, I thought Elmer would have killed Marv if their father and Stilts Cederberg hadn’t broken up the fight.”
“It was fierce.” Thelma’s seamed face softened at the memory. “But of course, Elmer and Marv never got along.” She turned again to her husband. “Did you, Elmer?”
To my amazement, Elmer had been listening. Perhaps his wife’s favorable attention had improved his diction. Or maybe I was getting used to the Petersen mumble. “I come back from the Pacific with a bum knee. Marv sits at home all safe and sound, then votes for Dewey. To hell with him.”
I sensed that Vida was about to make a stinging retort. “Say, where’s Goldwater?” I asked brightly.
Elmer’s nostrils twitched as if he were testing the air to make sure the goat wasn’t still in the house. “Tied up again. Goldwater should stay outside. Otherwise, he steps on the chickens.”
The chickens, however, were also absen
t. The only creature that strolled through the living room was a part-Persian cat with suspicious amber eyes and a shaggy brown coat. The cat brushed my legs, hissed at Vida, and settled down on a bare spot in front of the fireplace.
“That’s Mamie Eisenhower,” Elmer announced. “She’s one dumb cat. Ornery, too. I had to put Ike to sleep.”
Vida had stood up. “Really, Elmer, you’re very disrespectful. It isn’t funny to name animals after our presidents and their wives and famous statesmen.”
Though Thelma and I had both risen, too, Elmer remained seated. “Aw, come on, Vida,” Elmer said, and actually chuckled. “If you had a jackass, you’d call him Bill Clinton.”
Vida was buttoning her coat. “I think not.” She put on her knit stocking cap. “If I had a jackass,” she said with a tight little smile, “I’d call him Elmer Petersen.”
“Really, he does get my goat. So to speak.” Vida was still irritated as we wound down the Icicle Creek Road’s smooth new surface. It had been snowing off and on all day, but the plows had been busy.
“I think he’s kind of … ah … unique.” It seemed the only positive word that fit Elmer Petersen.
“It’s a wonder Thelma hasn’t killed him,” Vida remarked, turning off by the high school. “But I do feel sorry for her and Elmer. And especially Marv and Cathleen. I’m going to make a casserole and take it over to them tomorrow night.”
Like most of her cooking, Vida’s casseroles are wretched. The Petersens probably would feel worse if they ate it. But the thought would be there. And they could always order a pizza.
“My clam casserole,” Vida was saying to herself. “I have some frozen geoducks I could use.”
Vida was lucky that I’d outgrown my car sickness when I was twelve. We were now on Fir Street, approaching my house. I hadn’t yet mentioned the call from Susan Lindahl. I knew Vida would have a violent reaction to Milo’s search warrant. It wouldn’t have been a good idea to call on the Petersens while Vida was all worked up over Thelma’s nephew.
As we pulled up in front of my house, I asked Vida to come in for a cup of tea. She protested, saying she should go home and eat.
“Just pickups,” she said, using the terms she applied to almost anything that wasn’t screwed into the frame of her refrigerator. “That pudding wasn’t very filling.”
But I persisted. “I’ve got something to tell you, Vida. I’m worried.”
Curiosity overcame hunger. Vida sat down at my kitchen table while I related the phone call and its ominous portent. She listened in silence, making no comment until I was done.
“Milo was going back to the Lindahls’?” Vida finally gasped. “What for? To arrest Howie or merely to question him? Oh, Emma, I don’t like this one bit!”
“Neither do I,” I said, sinking tea bags into hot water. “Milo could be on the right track, but there are so many things—little things, I’ll admit—that indicate he isn’t. I don’t want to see him make a fool of himself, especially now when the bond issue is going before the county commissioners.”
The phone rang. I hurried into the living room to answer it. Carta’s roommate, Marilynn Lewis, was on the line.
“Emma, I’m sorry to bother you, but Carla’s come down with the flu. I’ve seen dozens of cases at the clinic this fall, and there’s no way she can come to work tomorrow. I thought I’d give you some notice since you’re close to your deadline.”
Marilynn was a good nurse and a good friend. She had moved from Seattle to Alpine the previous spring. Her African-American heritage had created some nasty problems at first, but after six months, she seemed to be easing into small-town life.
“Thanks, Marilynn,” I said. “Tell Carla to get well. I know you’ll take good care of her.”
“I’ll try.” She paused, and I heard a moaning voice in the background. Marilynn spoke again: “Carla says to tell you she brought some—what are they?—oh, contact sheets back from Buddy Bayard’s studio. They’re on her desk if you need them.”
I thanked Marilynn, then hung up, and informed Vida of Carla’s illness.
“That tears it,” Vida said. She’d made the tea in my absence and now took a long sip. “We’ll be shorthanded tomorrow, and heaven only knows how much of your time will be devoted to the homicide case. Let’s go down to the office and get a head start.”
“Tonight?” I was taken aback. Once again, I had to remind myself who was boss. But Vida was right. Either we could work for a couple of hours tonight, or face the possibility of a very long Tuesday.
We didn’t linger over our tea. It was seven-thirty when we turned on the lights and the heat in the Advocate office. The next thing I did was call the sheriff’s office. Bill Blatt informed me that Milo hadn’t yet returned from Everett. He and Jack Mullins had been gone since before three o’clock.
“Are you in communication with Milo?” I asked, feeling the onset of a minor panic attack.
“Not since he was at the lab in Everett,” Bill replied. “That was around four-thirty. He and Jack probably went somewhere to eat.”
I was sitting at Carla’s desk. Across the room, Vida watched me with narrowed eyes. “Is that my occasionally dim nephew, Billy?” Seeing me nod, she picked up her phone. “Now see here, Billy, the minute you hear from Sheriff Dodge, you let us know. We’re at the office. This is very important.” She slapped the phone back into place. “I trust it is,” she said, eyeing me rather doubtfully.
I made a rueful face. “I’m still piecing my theory together. If I explained it to you, would you laugh?”
“Certainly not. We can talk as we work. Shall we start with layout? The copy’s in good shape, except for the rest of your homicide piece and any late-breaking news.” Vida had come over to Carla’s desk. The House & Home section was the one part of the paper that was still laid out by hand. Vida refused to learn either the computer or the word processor.
I was tearing open the envelope from Buddy Bayard’s studio. “Let’s see if Carla has anything we can use,” I said. There were dozens of contact prints, maybe eight rolls with thirty-six exposures each. “We could use a good snow scene. Something that says Thanksgiving, too. I don’t imagine Carla got much out of that small fire.” I handed half of the contact sheets to Vida.
Using a magnifying glass to study the prints, Vida wore a dubious expression. “Trees, trees, trees—the girl’s obsessed with trees. She should have been an arborist. I’ll admit, she’s got some interesting composition in … Oh!” Vida dropped her magnifier. “Look, Emma, quick! What do you make of this?”
I usually don’t need an enlarger to see contact prints, but this time I wanted to be sure. Squinting through the glass, I saw a truck parked behind a car. The truck belonged to the state highway department; the car had been owned by Linda Lindahl.
“It’s Maple Lane,” Vida said excitedly. “See—there’s the walk to Linda’s unit. There’s the shrubbery between the condos and the apartments. It was dark, but Carla used some very fast film. She must have taken this from her deck.”
I was transfixed. “There’s no one in the car. But it looks as if someone might be sitting in the truck. We’ve got to get these blown up right away.”
Vida, however, was trailing a finger down the contact sheet. “Look—here’s the truck again, parked almost where we did, in front of Parc Pines on Alpine Way. The cab’s empty.” She paused, noting the exposure numbers on the sheet. “Number three is Maple Lane, number six is Alpine Way. The pictures taken in between are telephoto lens work. Carla was shooting down Alpine Way, to Old Mill Park. Then she switched over to the mall.”
I had already punched in Carla’s number. As I expected, Marilynn answered. “Ask your patient when she took the pictures from her deck,” I requested, after first making sure that Carla was still alive.
Away from the phone, I could hear Marilynn’s pleasant voice and Carla’s croaking response. Then Marilynn relayed my reporter’s message. I asked Marilynn if Carla was sure. A brief croak was in the affirm
ative.
Still clutching the receiver, I stared at Vida. “Carla says it was a week ago Friday. The night Linda Lindahl was killed.”
Vida was holding her head. “Why didn’t Carla tell us about these pictures?”
Naturally, I’d asked myself the same question. But Carla had shot so much film, in so many places, and been so indifferent to everything but her own little world, that I wasn’t surprised. Besides, it hadn’t been discovered until today that Linda was probably killed at her condo.
“Marilynn,” I said, again speaking into the receiver, “do you think Carla could talk to me for just a minute?”
Marilynn was dubious. “She can hardly hold her head up. In fact, she’s got it hanging over a basin.”
Feeling like the ultimate callous employer, I asked if Marilynn could hold the phone to her roommate’s ear.
“This must be some hot set of pictures,” Marilynn remarked. “Is there something X-rated in Alpine that I don’t know about?”
But Marilynn didn’t expect a serious answer, and the next thing I knew, Carla’s feeble voice was on the line. “What is it? Make it quick, I’m dying.”
“Did you see Big Mike Brockelman drive his truck from Maple Drive around the block to Alpine Way?”
A violent retching noise assaulted my ear. I arched my eyebrows as Vida quietly picked up her phone to listen in. She made a face. Then Carla spoke in a series of gasps:
“Sort of … I know the truck … moved … because I didn’t want … a blur of … headlights … so I changed angles and … took some … long-distance shots of … Old Mill Park.” Carla paused and uttered a heartrending sigh. “Then I saw the truck in front of Parc Pines, so I took another shot.”
“Did you see Mike Brockelman get out of the truck?” I tensed, waiting for Carla’s answer.
“No.” The single word was barely audible.
“But he must have,” I countered. “In the second photo of the truck, he’s not in the cab.”