The Alpine Menace (11 page)

“Did you ever see him drunk?” I inquired, silently agreeing with Garvey's assessment.

“A couple of times. He came in late—real late—and had a snootful. Sometimes he looked like he'd been in a barroom brawl. But he wasn't a belligerent drunk. He got even more mellow.”

That didn't surprise me. “Did you ever meet Carol Stokes?”

“No,” Garvey replied, “but Ronnie talked about her a lot. He seemed nuts about her. I never heard him say anything seriously critical.”

“Nothing?” Vida put in. “Not even the usual masculine complaints?”

“You mean ‘She can't cook,’ ‘She spends too much money,’ ‘She always has a headache’ sort of thing?” Garvey shook his head. “Not really. I got the impression he wanted to marry her. It was Carol who wasn't interested. He moved in with her not long after I hired him.”

“Which was when?” I asked.

“A year ago last month,” Garvey answered. “March is the usual time for me to add a couple of people because business picks up when the weather is good. Not the firewood part of it—that's just the opposite—but the roofing jobs. Anyway, Ronnie mostly made deliveries. Not always to the right places, though. He had trouble with numbers. I wondered if he was dyslexic.”

Ronnie might be a number of things, but
killer
didn't seem to be one of them. “If this comes to trial, would you act as a character witness for him?”

Garvey scratched his bald head. “I told his attorney I wasn't sure that I could. I mean, I'd have to be candid. It'd be hard to give Ronnie an outstanding report card.”

“As an employee, yes,” Vida noted. “But as a person?”

Garvey regarded Vida with a serious expression. “I see what you mean. Maybe I could at that. Basically, I always thought he was a decent guy. Maybe that's another reason why I was willing to go the extra mile. Say, who's taking care of his dog, Budweiser?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “The neighbor didn't seem to know, either.”

“That Maybeth?” Garvey said with a frown. “She wouldn't tell you if she did. I figure the dog was one of the reasons they broke up.”

“Maybeth?” I said with a little gasp. “I meant the nurse, Henrietta Something-or-Other.”

“Altdorf,” Vida put in. “What's this about Maybeth and Ronnie?”

“Sorry,” Garvey said with a grimace. “I assumed you knew they used to go together until Maybeth and Ronnie moved into the same apartment building next door to Carol.”

We didn't know that. But it was certainly interesting.

Vida insisted we head straight for Maybeth Swafford. “No more deception,” Vida asserted. “We're going to tell her exactly who we are. Henrietta as well. If we have to.”

It was almost five o'clock by the time we reached the apartment house off Greenwood. The afternoon had turned warm, and Maybeth had her door open. She also had a guest. The man who sprawled on the sofa was close to forty, with long, blond hair, a goatee, and a tattoo on each upper arm. In his wife-beater T-shirt, he looked like the perfect companion to go bar-hopping with Ronnie Mallett.

“What is it?” Maybeth called over the noise of the T V, which sounded as if it were broadcasting a car race or the end of the world. She was sitting on the floor, curled up next to the sofa.

“It's us again,” Vida shouted. “We lied.”

“What?” Maybeth's face screwed up in puzzlement. “Oh—hang on.”

She didn't turn down the TV, but came to the door and stepped outside. “What did you say? I couldn't hear from in here.”

Vida folded her arms across her jutting bosom and took a deep breath. “We lied to you. We're not looking for an apartment for my daughter. Indeed, she's not my daughter, she's a friend. My name is—”

“Hold it.” Maybeth held her hands up as the TV continued to blare. “Slow down. If she's not your daughter,” she went on, nodding at me, “who is she? Why can't she look for herself? Is she crippled or something?”

“We're not apartment hunting,” Vida declared, an impatient note in her voice. “That's not our purpose.”

“You want a house? A rental?”

Taking Maybeth firmly by the arm, Vida led the younger woman farther out onto the walkway. “Emma,” she said slowly as she nudged me with her elbow, “is Ronnie Mallett's cousin. She's come to Seattle to help prove Ronnie's innocence. I'm here to help her.”

Maybeth's blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “Innocent, my butt. Ronnie did it, and that's that. Hey, I don't much appreciate you two nosing around here and asking me a bunch of stupid questions. If you want to lie to people, go pick on somebody else before I call the cops.”

Vida started to dispute the charges, but the blond man had gotten up from the sofa and was coming toward us with a bowlegged walk.

“What's going down, Beth?” he asked, glaring at Vida and me. “Who're these two broads?”

Maybeth pointed at me. “She's Ronnie Mallett's cousin. The other one's a big snoop.”

“Get lost,” the man ordered. “We don't hang with killers.”

“Maybe you should,” Vida snapped, oblivious to contemporary slang. “For all we know, you
are
the killer. Ronnie didn't do it.”

“Where's Budweiser?” I demanded, finally getting a word in edgewise.

The man had started to pull Maybeth back inside, but he stopped. “The dog?” He glanced at his supposed girlfriend. “Where is he, Beth?”

“Dead, I hope. That stupid mutt nearly drove me crazy when Ronnie left him tied up out back. He'd bark and bark and bark, sometimes all night. Between the barking and fighting, it's a wonder I can hear the TV. Thank God that animal shut up after Ronnie left that night. I get a killer headache with my allergies.”

The phrase seemed apt. I pressed Maybeth about Bud-weiser's whereabouts.

“I think Mr. Chan took him away,” she said, shooting us another hostile look.

“Jeez, I hope not,” the man said. “I liked that dog. I'll take him. Call Chan.”

“Come on, Roy, you don't really want to—” May-beth's words were cut off as Roy slammed the door in our faces.

“Roy?” Vida looked like a dog herself, a bloodhound on the scent. Her nose actually twitched. “Didn't you tell me that Kathy Addison said that Roy was the name of Carol's ex-beau?”

“I did,” I said, marveling anew at Vida's mind for detail. “If Carol stole Ronnie from Maybeth, did she offer Roy as a consolation prize?”

“That's what it seems like,” Vida said as we walked away from the building. “Of course, it could be a different Roy.”

Vida had stopped just short of the Lexus. “We forgot about Henrietta. Shall we go back and ask her what she knows about Roy and Maybeth and Carol?”

“We might as well,” I agreed. “We still have time to kill. Maybe I can call Mr. Chan about the dog. I'd like to give Ronnie some good news.”

Vida looked askance. “You aren't thinking of taking him home with you? What about those dreadful cats you acquired?”

“First things first,” I said as we returned to the apartment walkway. “Let's hope Henrietta isn't on duty.”

She wasn't. “Five days off,” she said, ushering us inside. “That's what I get after a long shift. It's nice. How about some coffee?”

We declined. Then Vida launched into her tell-all tale about who we really were and what we wanted. Luckily, Henrietta's reaction was different from Maybeth's. She laughed her head off.

“I never!” she exclaimed, her face turning red from laughter. “That's a hoot. You two sure had me fooled.”

“I feel bad about the deception,” I said. “It wasn't fair to you.”

“Don't be silly,” Henrietta asserted, waving a hand. “Let's face it, I lead a dull life. Work in the OR, listen to the doctors talk about their golf game and their stock investments, come home to an empty apartment, watch TV—why, nothing exciting has happened to me in years until lately.” She paused and grew serious. “That sounds terrible, like Carol's death was some kind of entertainment. Sorry. Anyway, the cops talked to me, a nice detective was here, and now you folks. It makes my day.”

“Tell us about Maybeth and Ronnie,” Vida urged.

“Well.” Henrietta settled back in the easy chair, which was like its owner—solid, comfortable, and showing traces of wear. At her side, a cup of coffee stood next to a family portrait, presumably of her son, his wife, and child. “I don't know much about it,” she went on. “One day about a year ago Maybeth moved in. I guess Ronnie moved in with her, though I didn't see much of him. The
next thing I know, about a month later he was with Carol. She'd dumped Roy Sprague, which was no big loss, if you ask me. They were always fighting, and I think he beat her up. A couple of times I saw him with long scratches on his face and once with a black eye. Carol had probably tried to defend herself. She and Ronnie fought, too. Frankly, Carol was kind of hard to get along with when it came to men.”

“Men can be difficult,” Vida noted.

“Can't they?” Henrietta made a face. “I've had three husbands, and only the first one was worth a damn, even if he did up and die on me at the age of thirty. Still,” she added wistfully, “it's not much fun to live alone.” Her quick glance took in the room, which was full of memorabilia, knickknacks, and a trio of bowling trophies. There were photos of a Hawaiian beach, the Inner Harbour at Victoria, BC, Hurricane Ridge on the Olympic Peninsula, and Mount Rainier with the wildflowers in bloom. The ceramic figurines that sat on end tables and shelves looked as if Henrietta had made them herself, all kinds of colorful creatures to keep her company during long, lonely days.

“I live alone,” Vida said quietly. “It suits me fine. For the most part.”

“Divorced?” Henrietta asked.

Vida looked faintly shocked. “Widowed. For almost twenty years.”

“Oh.” Henrietta wore a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like you were one of the lucky ones. I guess you still miss him.”

“I do indeed,” Vida replied.

“Anyway,” Henrietta went on, “Roy'd show up now and then at Carol's and there'd be a big row. Then, around Christmastime, he and Maybeth started seeing each other. It seemed kind of natural. Two people who'd
been unlucky in love finding each other. To be honest, I thought it was sweet.” She winked.

“Do Maybeth and Roy fight?” I asked.

Taking a sip of coffee, Henrietta shrugged. “I can't really say, with Carol's apartment between me and May-beth. I wouldn't call her—what's the word?— docile, I guess, but she's not as ornery as Carol could be.”

“Do you know if Roy had had any contact with Carol before she was killed?” I inquired.

Henrietta frowned. “Let me think—I did see him at her door one night when I came home late from work. That was probably a week or so before the murder. Carol wouldn't let him in. At least not while I was outside.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “Roy may have still had the hots for Carol?”

“Or just wanted to cause trouble,” Henrietta said. “He strikes me as a bully.” She drummed her fingernails next to her coffee cup on the end table. “I didn't speak very well of your cousin, Emma. May I call you that?” She saw me nod and went on. “Sometimes I tend to sum up people kind of fast. He was lazy and he drank and all that, but the only reason I thought he killed Carol was because the police said so.”

“You don't agree?” I asked.

Henrietta's expression was uncertain. “Let's say that if you have doubts, then I shouldn't be so hasty. Ronnie seems like the most likely suspect, but I'd never think of him as having what you call a killer instinct. Does that make sense?”

I didn't say that
killer instinct
wasn't always necessary when it came to murder. Sometimes people killed out of frustration, stupidity, blind rage. They murdered almost by accident, and grieved as much as any loved one's survivor. Instead, I agreed with Henrietta. “He's much too easygoing.” It seemed to be true, but in fact, she probably knew Ronnie better than I did.

She nodded. “He seemed too laid-back. The few times I saw him and Carol together, he treated her real nice. Of course they did fight, but I figure it was Carol who started things.”

Once again, I inquired about the dog, and asked if I could get Mr. Chan's number. Henrietta knew it by heart and told me to use the phone in her bedroom. “Ronnie was real fond of that dog,” she said. “He taught it to do tricks. Last Christmas he got Budweiser one of those red-and-green hats with bells on it. It was real cute, even if the dog was a pest.”

I left Vida to continue the conversation and made my way into the bedroom. It took some explaining to make Mr. Chan understand who I was and what I wanted. His English wasn't proficient. At last he told me that the dog was at his son's place in Lake City. It was unclear whether or not they intended to keep the animal, but I got Peter Chan's number and called his home in the city's north end.

Peter, who sounded as if he'd been born in this country, was in, but hedged about Budweiser. The younger Chans had two boys, five and seven, who liked the dog. He told me to call back in a week or so.

Vida and Henrietta were discussing Kendra when I returned. Apparently, Vida had told our hostess about the new apartment and the boyfriend.

“Shenanigans,” Henrietta said with a wink.

“Of a most peculiar sort,” Vida asserted. “Whatever happened to classic lovemaking?”

Henrietta let out a gusty laugh. “Variety's the spice of life. A little innovation can perk things up. If you know what I mean.” She winked again.

Vida apparently didn't know. But instead of showing disapproval, she moved uneasily on the sofa. “Perhaps,” she allowed, then changed the subject. “You never saw Kendra with the boyfriend?”

“I hardly saw Kendra,” Henrietta replied, looking
pained. “She seemed pleasant enough, but not one to visit with the likes of me. You know how these young folks are. If you've got a few wrinkles and a couple of gray hairs, they think you should be put to sleep.”

“So true,” Vida sighed, feeding into Henrietta's opinion of The Young, even though I knew of no one in Alpine, regardless of age, who would dare ignore my House and Home editor.

“Look here,” Henrietta said as she showed us to the door, “if you have any more questions or if I can help you in any other way, feel free to stop by. I don't go back to work until Thursday.”

We assured her we'd be in touch. She was smiling as we headed for the parking lot, but when I glanced over my shoulder a moment later, Henrietta's shoulders were slumped, and her expression was sad.