The Alpine Menace (8 page)

Not for long, I thought as we entered Carol's apartment. Beth, Amy, and Meg hadn't inherited enough of their mother's spunk to stand up to her. But then few people could.

“Daughters must be easier to raise,” Henrietta said, stepping aside to let us cross the threshold. “More thoughtful, too.” She uttered a wistful sigh, then waved a hand. “Imagine,” she went on, shaking her head. “Two weeks ago Carol was alive and happy. Now she's gone. Life's hard, isn't it?”

“You say she was happy?” Vida commented, her gaze taking in the desolate remnants of Carol's life. A half-dozen cardboard boxes, clothes on hangers draped over the back of a chair, furniture that mingled cheap with used, and a big-screen TV that probably cost more than everything else put together. The apartment itself seemed to lie between life and death, half its contents already removed, the other half in transition.

“Happy?” Henrietta repeated. “Yes, I think so, especially after she finally got together with her daughter. I've
lived here six years, and after Carol moved next door about a year ago, she'd come over and have a couple of beers with me after we both got home from work. Once in a while she'd have one too many and start to get… maudlin, I guess you'd call it. She'd talk about the baby she gave away and how she wished she knew what had happened to the child. Then, just a few months ago, who shows up but the daughter? Carol was so excited.”

“So Kendra was the one who sought her mother out?” I asked.

Henrietta nodded. “That's the way it works. Kendra turned eighteen, which meant she could learn who her birth parents were, at least her mother.”

“Did Kendra spend much time with Carol?” Vida asked, pausing in her perusal of the cardboard boxes.

“Some,” Henrietta said. “The truth is, Carol had a boyfriend, Ronnie. He's the one who killed her. Anyway, he was a lazy sort, drank too much, if you ask me, and worked only when he felt like it. I don't think he and Kendra got along. I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled some fast stuff on her.” She winked.

Vida was opening and closing the drapes. The light of midday didn't do much to brighten the small living room. “Men,” she said lightly. “Tsk, tsk.”

“Was Carol a pretty woman?” I inquired, noticing a photo album in one of the cartons.

“Sort of,” Henrietta replied, “at least when she got all fixed up.” The album also caught her eye. “Let's have a look. There must be pictures of her in this. I'll point her out.”

Only the first four pages of the album contained photographs, all apparently taken with the same camera. As it turned out, Carol was in almost all of them.

“See, that's her,” Henrietta said, pointing to a laughing young woman standing by an artificial Christmas tree. “She looks rather pretty there, don't you think?”

The happy face that looked out at me was more piquant than pretty. Carol Nerstad Stokes had big brown eyes, a wide, generous mouth, and an upturned nose. Her hair was short and spiky, the tips dyed a golden blond. She was wearing a tight red sweater and tight black pants that showed off her curvaceous figure. Silver sandals adorned her feet, and I noticed that her toenails were painted a bright red.

“She's very nice looking, really,” I said, and couldn't help but think that Carol must have been the girl who was an answer to Ronnie's prayers. I couldn't think of any other way he'd been able to get such a prize when it came to looks.

“Were you at home the night Carol was killed?” I inquired as we went into the kitchen.

“No,” Henrietta replied with apparent regret. “I was at the hospital. I pulled a sixteen-hour shift that Friday. Somebody didn't show up—these young nurses, you can't rely on them. I used to work in private practice, but doctors are skinflints. Hospital work may have long hours, but the pay and the benefits are better. Imagine— working for a doctor who doesn't offer medical coverage!” She shook her head in a disgusted manner.

The kitchen was small, and apparently had been cleaned up and cleared out. Cupboards stood open and bare; the refrigerator, which Vida inspected, was all but empty.

“The daughter,” Henrietta said, waving a hand at the boxes, which appeared to be filled with dishes, pots and pans, and canned goods. “She was here yesterday, after the police took down that nasty yellow tape. Mr. Chan wants everything out by Wednesday. Come see the bedroom and bath.”

We trooped after Henrietta. The bathroom, like the rest of the rooms in the unit, was small and cramped.

Kendra had cleared it out, too, though the tiles and tub needed a good scouring.

“Did you talk to Kendra?” I asked.

“Just to say hello,” Henrietta replied, leading us into the bedroom. “She seemed in a big rush. Not that she's the chatty type. You know these young people—they think you're nosy just because you show some interest.”

“Indeed,” Vida murmured. “So touchy. By the way, did you attend Carol's funeral?”

Henrietta made a face. “Such as it was, out at the cemetery. I felt an obligation, and as it turned out, I was right. Very few of her friends showed up, but no family except for her brother, who came up from California to make the arrangements. Of course it was during the day, so I suppose some of those people who used to hang out around here had to work.
If
they work,” she added.

“Did you know any of them?” I asked.

Henrietta shook her head. “It was a young crowd,” she replied. “Late twenties, early thirties. They weren't interested in an old coot like me.”

“The brother,” Vida breathed, snapping her fingers. “In California. What was his name?”

“Charles,” Henrietta put in. “Chuck, they called him. He was in a big hurry to get back to San Jose or San Mateo or one of those Sans down there. Typical Cali-fornian, full of himself.” She stopped to stare at Vida. “You know him?”

“Ah… No,” Vida fibbed. “Not really.”

I remembered to ask about the dog, but I had to be cagey since I wasn't supposed to know he existed. I brought up the subject by noting that the carpet and some of the upholstery had been chewed.

“That darned dog,” Henrietta said as we finally moved out of the tiny hallway and into the bedroom. “He drove me crazy when they left him tied up outside. Sometimes
he'd bark half the night, especially if they forgot to let him in. I haven't seen him since the night of the murder.”

The double bed had been stripped, the closet had been cleaned out except for some shoes, and it looked as if Kendra had been working on the bureau when she quit. One drawer was bare except for a sachet, but the others were still full. The white wicker dressing table was also partially emptied.

“Does Kendra have an apartment?” I inquired as we headed back into the living room.

“I don't think so,” Henrietta replied. “She graduated from high school last June, but she still lives at home as far as I know.”

“Where did Carol work?” I asked, realizing that Vida hadn't joined us.

“At a seafood packing place in Ballard,” Henrietta told me. “Carol mentioned she was trying to get Kendra a job up in Alaska for the summer at a cannery. The pay's so good, you know.”

“Carol seems to have taken a real interest in her daughter's life,” I remarked as Vida entered in her splayfooted manner.

Henrietta nodded. “She did for a fact. I suppose she was trying to make up for all those lost years.”

“Where was the body found?” Vida asked, surveying the room as if she could make a corpse materialize before her eyes.

“There,” Henrietta said, pointing to the floor in front of the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. “I peeked in when the door was open and saw the outline. It must have been chalk, because it's gone now.” She turned to look at the big-screen TV. “You'd think Kendra would get that out of here before somebody steals it.”

“Is there a problem with burglars?” I asked.

“Oh—no, not really,” Henrietta said, obviously
embarrassed lest I be frightened off. “It's like anyplace else, especially when there's a vacancy. You know, Kendra mentions the big TV to her friends and one of them is into drugs and the next thing you know, they break in and steal what's not nailed down. Generally, I mean. We haven't had much of a problem. Not at all.”

“What exactly is the rent?” Vida asked.

Henrietta looked relieved by the change of subject. “Six seventy-five, plus the usual damage deposit, first and last month's rent. You know the drill, I imagine.”

“Oh yes,” Vida said breezily. “But we don't want Emma feeling rushed.”

“Of course not,” Henrietta agreed, letting us out and locking the door. “Maybe you could come by Wednesday, after Kendra's finished.”

“What a good idea,” Vida enthused. “You've been very helpful.”

“Could I get your number?” Henrietta asked. “So I can tell Mr. Chan.”

Vida started to say something, but I interrupted, offering my cell-phone number. Henrietta thanked us, complained about the unkempt landscaping, thought better of it, and allowed that the landlord probably had someone coming in as soon as the weather turned nice.

“I gave her the cell number in case she thinks of something about Carol that we ought to know,” I explained after we got into the car. “What were you going to do?”

“Tell the truth,” Vida said, looking affronted. “That we were down from Alpine. That you're moving here to start a new job.”

“Vida,” I said, amazed, “that's not the truth.”

“Part of it is,” Vida retorted. “Though your answer may have been better. Less complicated.”

“It'd be better if we'd been up-front with all these people,” I grumbled. “Now we have to pretend, not to mention lie through our teeth. I don't like it.”

“They wouldn't speak so freely if we didn't,” Vida responded.

“Not that we learned much, except that Ronnie's reputation is in the drain as far as most of them are concerned,” I pointed out, turning off onto Greenwood Avenue. “In fact, this was a waste of time.”

“No, it wasn't,” Vida said, looking smug.

“What do you mean?”

“While you were checking the furniture and the boxes,” she began, “I was studying the windows.”

I was puzzled. “The windows? What for? To see if someone could look in?”

“No, no,” Vida replied. “I don't think Carol was one to open the drapes. Did you notice how faded they were in the living room? The short ones in the bedroom were, too. But you miss my point. I was looking at the drapery cords.”

My brain finally clicked. “For the murder weapon?”

“Exactly,” Vida said, still smug. “They were all intact, and very worn.” She turned to look at me as we stopped for the traffic light at Eighty-fifth and Greenwood, the neighborhood's major arterial. “Which means, of course, that Carol was killed with a cord that did not come from her apartment. What do you think of that?”

A
S USUAL
, V
IDA
had a point. If Ronnie had wanted to kill Carol, he would have used whatever was at hand. Indeed, since she was strangled, he could have used his bare hands. For the first time, I saw a small light at the end of the tunnel.

“We've got to talk to the investigating officers,” I said. “I'll call and see if they're in on a Saturday.”

Tony Rojas was the primary on the Stokes case. He was gone until Monday, having taken a three-day weekend for Easter. I relayed the news upon returning to our table at the Twin Teepees, a stone's throw from Green Lake. The sixty-year-old eatery was a landmark, with its colorful wigwams enclosing the dining room and bar. In my youth, it had been a hangout for motorcycle cops, though I didn't see any in evidence that afternoon.

“I feel stymied,” I told Vida. “We have to be back in Alpine Monday.”

“Not first thing, though,” she pointed out. “Haven't you taken the morning off?”

“Yes,” I hedged, “but—”

“Then so shall I,” said Vida, finishing her lunch of liver and onions. “My section is in good shape. I have that long feature on Dolph and Mamie Swecker's trip to Miami. The part about how they got mugged by a twelve-year-old takes up at least six inches by itself. It took some doing to explain—discreetly—that the mugger was their nephew
and they didn't file charges despite the fact that Dolph never got his watch back. I realize the Sweckers hadn't seen their relatives in several years, but wouldn't you have thought they'd send pictures?”

“So what do we do in the meantime?” I asked, still feeling frustrated.

Vida was studying the dessert menu. “They have pie,” she said. “I know I shouldn't go off my diet, but it
is
Easter. And I rarely bake at home.”

Which, I thought idly, was a good thing. The only time I'd eaten a pie baked by Vida was when I first came to Alpine and she invited me over for dinner. She told me it was a rhubarb pie, but I didn't believe her. It tasted like broom straw, and the crust could have been used to resole a pair of caulking boots. For all the recipes she ran on her page, for all the kitchen hints and menu plans, Vida could not bake, broil, braise, or cook.

“Go ahead,” I urged. “Try the pie.”

“I think I will,” she said with a decisive nod. “And you?”

“I'm good,” I replied, never having been much of a dessert lover. Besides, my appetite was waning. Despite Vida's discovery, we didn't seem to be making much progress in clearing Ronnie's name.