The Alpine Menace (28 page)

“No, it's a family album,” I said. “Just for me and for Ben.” I left Adam out. As far as I knew, my aunt and uncle weren't aware of my son's existence.

“You sure?” Still the wary note. “I thought you was going to be a writer.”

“I were,” I felt like saying, “but grammar don't run in the family.” How could this woman have been my father's sister? They were like day and night, light and dark, a handsome stag and a big fat cow.

“I work on a newspaper,” I said, “but this has nothing to do with my job. It's strictly personal. I wanted to include you and Uncle Gary and your children. What can you tell me about them?”

It took my aunt a few moments to round up her thoughts, which I assumed were scattered around the floor like so many loose marbles. “Lucy's in Dallas. This third husband works in some factory there. They got five kids between them. Or maybe six, I forget. Leah got the one boy, must be in high school by now. I forget his name. I ain't heard if her divorce is final, but that was a while back. She's up north, Montana. One of those towns that begins with a
B
.”

Butte? Billings? Bozeman? It didn't matter. I barely remembered the Mallett girls, except as a pair of pale, nondescript entities who spent a lot of time pointing at people and talking to each other from behind their hands.

“And Ronnie?”

“Ronnie's up north, too, still in Seattle, I think. We ain't much at writing letters and it costs too much to call. Say, how're you affording all this?”

“I've saved up a bit,” I lied, wishing Vida wasn't leaning so close that it must look as if we were both wearing the same ostrich-plumed hat. “Tell me, Aunt Marlene, does it make you at all sad to have your children so far away?”

“Ha!” My aunt started to laugh, then choked, and began coughing. “Sorry. Cigarette smoke went down the wrong way. What was that? Sad? Hell, no. Me and Gary
always wanted some peace and quiet. You don't get none of that when you're raising three kids. Oh, the girls weren't so bad, but Ronnie was a pistol. Always into something. He drove me and Gary nuts. I can't tell you how many times Gary had to get out the old strap. With the girls, it was different. All Gary had to do was show it to 'em.”

Good old Uncle Gary, I thought, my heart sinking. Poor Ronnie. No wonder he was scared stiff of what blow life would bring him next. No wonder he lived with a woman who beat him up. No wonder he didn't mind that Bubba was treating his head like a cantaloupe. At least there were guards to finally call off the bully; at least there was medical attention.

“School of Hard Knocks, huh?” I said feebly.

“You bet. How else can you bring 'em up proper?”

If she didn't know by now, there was no point in telling her. Anyway, it was too late. The damage had been done. And no wonder Ronnie didn't care if he was found guilty—he always was, in his parents’ bloodshot eyes. I suspected he'd been framed before, many times, by his silly sisters.

“Thanks, Aunt Marlene,” I said. “This has been very helpful.” It had, in a pathetic, tragic way.

“Sure. Say hello to Bob when you see him.” She hung up before I did.

“Bob,” I echoed dumbly. “I think she meant Ben. Not that it matters.”

Vida had caught most of the conversation at the other end. As we walked the two blocks to the jail, she agreed with my assessment. “An occasional swat on the bottom until a certain age,” she said. “That's permissible in my opinion. Why, I've even been tempted to give Roger one—but not since he got older.”

Forty lashes wouldn't deter Vida's evil grandson. If
ever a child had needed a good paddling somewhere along the line, it was Roger. But the poor kid had been coddled and pampered by both parents and grandparents. It was he who wielded the whip in the Runkel family.

“You're upset,” Vida remarked with sympathy. “You never guessed that Ronnie was abused?”

“I hardly ever saw him,” I replied. “Three, four times, maybe. He was so much younger, and Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene didn't live close by.”

Vida held on to her hat as the wind blew up from Elliott Bay. “Such a shame when families don't stay close.”

“It happens,” I said tersely. “Uncle Gary worked for the state, though I don't know exactly what he did. The Mallets aren't all that old, middle sixties, I think. He must have taken early retirement.”

“Disability, I'll wager,” Vida said as we entered the building that housed the jail. “How long have they been in Arizona?”

“I don't know that, either,” I admitted in a miserable voice that surprised me. “And I can't figure out how my father and his sister could have been so different.”

“That's not surprising,” Vida said as we headed for the elevator. “My husband and his brothers were all very different. Drink, that's what can happen. Ernest never took more than a glass of wine. But the rest of them…” She glanced at me and rolled her eyes.

Maybe that was the answer. Gary Mallett had changed Marlene Lord. I didn't remember either of them as ever being young. Mainly, I remembered Ronnie, hopping around in that sack at the rare family picnic. He had lost that race, too.

“My mother's brothers are good people,” I said, going on the defensive. “They live in Texas and Colorado now, but I keep in touch with them and my cousins.” I paused,
aware that I was exaggerating. “Well, at least at Christmas. We exchange cards and letters. But I'm not ashamed of that side of the family.”

“Your mother's side,” Vida murmured as we got into the elevator. “Then who all was at the family picnic on your father's side?”

“There were other cousins,” I said. “My father's aunts and uncles and cousins. But we were never close. People died, they married, they moved away. The picnic was the last time I ever saw most of them.”

“Sad,” Vida intoned. “So sad. No wonder you—” She bit off the words and I eyed her with curiosity.

But Vida shook her head. “Nothing. Here we are,” she added, striding out of the elevator.

Somewhat to my surprise, Vida had decided not to see Ronnie. Her mind had been made up by my conversation with Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene.

“This is strictly family business,” she asserted in uncharacteristic fashion. “I can't possibly insert myself into this matter.”

As Ronnie entered on his side of the table, I noticed that not only was his bandage smaller, but he also seemed to have shrunk. In fact, the pale blue walls of the visiting area appeared as if they were encroaching on him, destined to squeeze out whatever life was left in Ronnie Mallet.

His first question was about Budweiser. I related my visit with Mrs. Chan and how her husband had found the dog at the door to the apartment the morning after the murder. It was
some
news, if not the bad news that Buddy was still missing.

“Good ol’ Buddy,” Ronnie said with the hint of a smile. “He never goes far. I wonder how he got loose?”

“I don't know,” I said, then stared at my cousin. “You had him tied up?”

Ronnie nodded. “Out back. He never liked that, but I
was kinda bushed that night. I didn't feel like takin’ him for his usual run.”

According to Maybeth, Buddy had stopped barking after the fight between Ronnie and Carol was over. “Did you let Buddy loose after you left the apartment to go drinking?”

“Naw.” Ronnie's expression was rueful. “I was mad, so I just took off. Anyways, I don't like lettin’ him run. There's too much traffic on Greenwood. He might get hit. And I sure couldn't let him into the apartment with Carol. She'd have kicked him out, just to get even with me.”

“What started the fight, Ronnie?”

“I thought I told you,” he said with a frown. “Carol wanted me to pitch in more.”

“With money?” I asked, aware of a painful reunion next to us, apparently between mother and son. Both were crying.

“Money 'n’ other stuff,” Ronnie said, now mumbling. “You know, stuff around the apartment.”

“You didn't want to contribute more?”

“I was already payin’ most of the rent,” Ronnie said, his voice now helpless. “She bought most of the groceries, but I gave her money for them, too. I did lots of stuff around the apartment, like takin’ out garbage and doin’ dishes. And so what? She always said I did it all wrong.”

“You loved her despite all that?” My voice had grown very soft.

Ronnie shut his eyes. “Yeah, I guess. She could be real sweet when she wanted to.”

“But she hit you, didn't she, Ronnie?”

He lowered his gaze. “Sometimes.”

“Did you hit back?”

“No.” He paused, still avoiding my gaze. “I'd push her sometimes. You know, to keep her from whalin’ on me.”

“Why did you put up with that kind of treatment?”

“Well… maybe I deserved it.”

“Maybe you didn't,” I said.

The pale blue eyes flickered up at me, then turned away. “I'm a screwup.”

“Who said so?”

Ronnie raised his eyes again, this time with a befuddled expression. “Everybody. I always screw up.”

“Nobody screws up all the time, Ronnie. And everybody screws up some of the time.”

“Not like me.” Ronnie gave an impotent little shrug.

Sadly, I shook my head. I could sit here arguing for a week with Ronnie and not be able to convince him he wasn't a loser. It hadn't taken a homicide to put Ronnie where he was now. The steel bars and high walls weren't his real prison. For thirty-five years he had let his parents, his sisters, his so-called friends and girlfriends tell him he was worthless.

“God, Ronnie,” I said, feeling as powerless as he was, “I wish I could make you believe otherwise. What if I told you I thought you were a good-hearted, decent human being?”

Ronnie chuckled. “I guess I'd wonder why you said that.”

I guess I wondered why I'd tried.

The mother and son next to us were still crying.

“S
UCH A CRUEL
pattern.” Vda sighed after I'd described my visit with Ronnie. “When it comes to grown men and women, I understand—and it's usually the man, of course—that it's a matter of manipulation. The pattern is established from the onset, with the abuser not keeping a date or showing up three hours late, and then apologizing in such a humble, extravagant way that the other person actually feels even luckier in love. It grows from there, like a cancer, with other, more vicious kinds of abuse, but always the penitence and the promises. I know, I've seen it.”

“It has something to do with domination when it comes to men,” I said as we reached the parking garage to claim the Lexus. “I suspect that Carol—and Maybeth and some of his other girlfriends—had some sort of sexual hold over Ronnie.”

Vida eyed me from under the ostrich plumes. “If you're going to start talking about whips and leather, I'm not getting into the car with you. Really, Emma, sometimes you shock me.”

I didn't, of course. On the other hand, I had to stifle a sudden image of Vida in long black boots, silver studs, and a corset that—

“I'm talking about psychology,” I said, interrupting myself lest I become overwhelmed with mirth. “Anyway, it has more to do with control and self-esteem. Of which
my cousin has none. Where do we go from here?” I asked, slipping into the driver's seat.

“I don't know,” Vida admitted. “If only there was a way I could meet Darryl.”

“I can't think of any,” I said, “unless you get Bill Gates's permission to tackle him at work.”

“Do you think I might?” Vida asked as we wound our way out of the garage.

I told Vida I knew next to nothing about the work culture at Microsoft, except that it involved long hours and complete dedication. “Not a kind of drop-in environment,” I added.

“Drat.” Vida was silent until after we'd paid an exorbitant parking fee and were going down Sixth Avenue. As we passed the Sheraton Hotel, she suddenly said, “Roy.”

“Roy Sprague?” I said. “He's probably at work, too. And what could he tell us that Maybeth hasn't already?”

“His version may be different from hers,” Vida pointed out. “I realize he wasn't at the apartment house— supposedly—when Carol was killed, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got some sort of information we haven't yet heard. Where does he work?”

“I don't know. I don't think we asked.” I kept driving north, past the Westin Hotel and the Sixth Avenue Motor Inn.

“Maybeth,” Vida said. “We must find out about that letter to the Addisons. Where does she work?”

Once again, I had to confess ignorance. “I think it was a hair salon, but I forget the name.”

“Hmm,” Vida murmured. “Very well. Let's have one final chat with Henrietta Altdorf before we leave town. She should be able to tell us where these people are employed. I sensed that she was a knowledgeable sort of woman.”

In other words, snoopy, like Vida. “We're grasping at straws,” I said. “Besides, I'll bet Henrietta's on duty at the hospital by now. She's had several days off.”

Undeterred, Vida insisted that I use the cell phone to call Henrietta. I pulled off into a parking space across from the old
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
building, now home to Group Health Cooperative, one of the country's first HMOs. After getting Henrietta's number from Directory Assistance, I was surprised when she answered on the first ring.

“Well, isn't this nice?” Henrietta exclaimed. “I could use some company. I don't have to go back to work until tomorrow. Stop by and I'll make sandwiches for lunch, if you give me half an hour or so to run down to Safeway and back.”