Trouble in Rooster Paradise (11 page)

“
I understand.”

“
I got me a place over in Greenwood.
Moved my things out. Let Hank stew in his juices.”

“
What else could you do?”

“
That’s right. He keeps beggin’ me
to come back. He tells me things are gonna be different and that
he’s a
new
man.”

And how about a purpose in life to go with that
new man? I thought but did not say. No point in it. She’d have
become instant snow-girl and I’d have to forget about those timely
and cheery refills.

Hank Vordahl was a big, rock-jawed man with
shoulders that could double as a warehouse’s main support beam.
Unfortunately for Verna, Hank’s decisions and actions were those of
a ne’er-do-well. A dreamer of big dreams was Hank Vordahl. The only
successful thing he ever did was to get Verna to believe in his
dreams and marry him. The year before, the owner of an appliance
store downtown needed a delivery man. The guy knew me, so I
recommended Hank for the job as a favor to Verna. The first two
days went okay. On the third day Hank was so sauced he drove that
truck with his lips right through the front window of a café in
West Seattle. Thankfully no one was hurt.

“
So how’s it going?” I
asked.

“
So far so good, Gunnar. But it’s
only been five days, so I figure it won’t hurt for me to give it
another week. Just to be sure. No sense rushin’ things.” She took
in another deep breath and let it out slowly. “He’s gonna have to
start all over again. I told him I expect flowers, candy, wining
and dining. The whole works. We got our first hot date Friday
night. Need another refill, hon?”

When I finished my meal I put a clove in my
mouth and an extra big tip on the counter before I went over and
put a nickel in the payphone.

I called Rikard Lundeen.

“
Things are bad for young Dirk,” he
said as soon as I said hello. “It looks like the hot-tempered fool
might have killed her, son.”

I agreed, but filled him in on what I’d done so
far, only giving him the gist of what I’d learned.

“
So
you
believe he’s
innocent,” he said when I’d finished.

“
What I believe is that something’s
fishy. Finding out what and why looks to be a Herculean
task.”

“
You’re the man for it,
son.”

I told him I wanted to talk with the onlookers
to Dirk’s scrap with Christine. “I can reach two of them with no
problem. The third might be a little challenging.” I gave him the
name.

“
Addison Darcy, that pompous
windbag. We’re old friends.
Old
friends.”

I asked him what he was like.

Mr. Lundeen hesitated. “What do you need to
know, son?”

“
As much as I can. I never know what
might be important going into an interview.”

After a silent moment, he sighed and laughed a
concessionary laugh. “Addison’s a crafty sonofabitch. He’s about my
age—a few years younger. We’re still partners in some interests,
although he’s become a fairly mute one in recent years. He’s the
‘Dar’ in Darlund Apparels. But you probably already knew that, eh,
son?”

I told him I didn’t know that.

“
Addison was always at home, whether
in a boardroom or a bordello. He was a wild one when we were young.
Always a cool businessman, but definitely a rounder who mixed
pleasure with business. I liked the ladies myself, you understand,
and still do, as you know. But when it came to womanizing, it was a
rare one who could keep up with Addison Darcy in his youth. He
married a gal from a New England family. Very old money dating back
to the time of the Revolutionary War. They have two married
daughters who live out of state, but they lost their son in the
war. The boy’s death changed old Addison. Heartache and getting
older finally slowed him down in a way marriage never could. But he
also lost his drive—a certain zest he once had. He’s cut back on
active management of his holdings, divested a bit, and rarely
bothers with new ventures. That boy of his meant everything to him.
Everything.”

“
I understand he’s one of your
neighbors in The Highlands.”

“
A distant neighbor, yes. We were
partners and good friends from nonage to long past juvenescence. We
made business trips and regularly raised hell together a long, long
time ago. But we’ve drifted apart. I rarely see him. He lives in
semi to near-total retirement and cultivates his garden without
fanfare. He attends church most every Sunday now and has settled
into the staid role of community pillar.” Mr. Lundeen laughed.
“What’s the saying son? You wind up fulfilling your destiny in your
desperate attempts to avoid it. When would you like to call on that
boasting bundle of bones?”

“
Any time tomorrow would be
fine.”

“
Give me an hour, son. I’ll set you
up for a visit.”

I thanked him and told him I’d get back to
him.

I called Britt Anderson.

She was all business until she recognized my
voice.

“
My, but you have a very alluring
voice on the telephone, did you know that?” she said.

I told her that I knew that, and that it was a
curse, and that if it mattered to her, flattery made me extremely
vulnerable.

She laughed. A genuine snicker, not a polite
one.

The information I wanted from Britt could have
waited until morning, but I felt like hearing her voice again. I
asked how she was coming along with that list of repeat
customers.

“
It’s waiting for you on my
desk.”

“
Thanks. So very prompt, Miss
Anderson.”

“
At Fasciné Expressions we
specialize in prompt service with a gracious smile. Or haven’t you
noticed?”

“
Oh, I’ve noticed. I’ll be by for
the list tomorrow. But tell me, is an Addison Darcy one of the
names on it?”

After a half-second check she said that he
certainly was. “Is it significant?” she asked.

“
Probably not.” I told her about the
witnesses to Dirk and Christine’s fight.

“
I can help you out with two of
them. I’ll call Guy de Carter and see if I can set you up with a
lunch appointment tomorrow.”

“
You’re too kind, Miss
Anderson.”

I gave her my office phone number to call in
the morning to confirm. “I was hoping to stop by Blanche Arnot’s
this evening.”

“
I’m sure that will be fine with
Blanche,” Britt said. “Let me telephone and tell her you’re coming
by. When exactly do you intend to go see her?”

My Longines said 5:40. I planned a stop home
for a quick bath and change.

“
Would seven o’clock tonight be too
late?”

“
I’m sure it will be fine. You’re in
luck in two ways. Blanche has become more of a homebody since her
husband died, and she’s always been a bit of a night
owl.”

“
You sound like you know her pretty
well.”

“
Oh yes. She and my aunt were very
close despite the difference in their ages. They shared the same
passion: they performed with a local theater group. Blanche helped
me a great deal with my aunt during her decline. I think seeing
Alexis fall apart was as hard on her as it was on me. When
Blanche’s husband passed away shortly afterwards, it was extremely
unsettling for her. It was as though she’d been cut from her
moorings. It’s one of the reasons I asked her to work for us. I
thought a new focus in life would be a good distraction for
her.”

Britt told me a few snippets from Blanche
Arnot’s theatrical past. “I think you’ll like her. But be warned,
she’s …
quaint
.”

We bantered a bit and then I thanked her and
hung up.

“
You two were sure getting cozy with
each other, weren’t you?” Kirsti yelped with delight.

I pretended to ignore her question as I
swallowed the last of the pastrami sandwiches she’d brought me. I
then took a sip of the bottled water she handed me and decided to
shift her mind in a different direction.

“
My friend Walter Pangborn had a
high regard for our landlady. Actually, Walter was in love with the
woman.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes,
really
. But Mrs. Berger
didn’t seem to have the slightest clue as to Walter’s true
feelings.”

“
Oh, come on, Gunnar, a woman
knows.”

“
Well, it sure didn’t
show.”

“
Trust me.”

“
Walter had been a boarder at the
Berger’s for years. From a few remarks he let slip, his feelings
had developed after Otto Berger died. Hell, it took Sten Larson and
me months to make sense of the obvious indications.”

“
Who’s Sten Larson?”

“
Mrs. Berger’s nephew. He was a
boarder too.”

“
And so what were these obvious
indications?”

“
Little things. Walter’s agreeing to
write Mrs. Berger’s play—which meant spending an hour or more every
Sunday brainstorming with her as she reminisced and created; his
siding with her in discussions at mealtimes, however ludicrous her
opinion; his chuckling at her idiotic anecdotes; his despondent
retreats to his room when she went out on the occasional date. Why
she didn’t see it was beyond me.”

“
Trust me. She saw it.”

“
Well, eventually …
yes.”

“
What do you mean?”

“
I’ll get there, Blue Eyes. Be
patient.”

She stuck out her lower lip in a playful pout
of resignation.

“
Walter and Mrs. Berger were close
in age, and I fully understood his physical attraction to her. She
had a handsome, angular face, with those classic planes and
hollows. She had long slim legs with taut calves, and though the
sand was in mid-drain at that time, her hourglass proportions were
still suited for a passable fan dance.”

“
It sounds like you made quite the
study of her yourself. Why am I not surprised?”

“
Well, I’ll confess to my own
disturbing moments of lusty curiosity when it came to Mrs. Berger.
In my dreams she was often making a play for me or trying to lure
me into bed.”

Kirsti looked horrified. “She had to be twenty
years older than you.”

“
I’ll admit to some ambivalence,
Blue Eyes. But, age disparity sometimes has a way of disappearing
in amorous half-light.”

Her eyes eluded me for a few moments of puzzled
silence. I finally interrupted.

“
But what I didn’t understand was
why a learned and sophisticated man like Walter so ardently adored
a crass and poorly educated ex-stripper.”

“
Oh, come on, Gunnar. I think it’s
sweet. That whole ‘opposites attract’ thing.”

“
Maybe so. But I filed the whole
thing somewhere between Sweet Mysteries of Life and Riddles of the
Orient.”

B
efore the war my home had
been a fifth floor studio apartment on Eighth Avenue, north of
Seneca. I worked a lot of out-of-town jobs for the Bristol Agency,
so my tiny little flat was literally a place to hang my hat and
flop between assignments. It was Walter Pangborn who steered me to
Mrs. Berger’s boardinghouse after my discharge.

I met Walter in 1939. Actually I
found
him. His estranged sister had hired a Philadelphia detective firm
that had arranged assistance from the Bristol Agency. We’d been
told Walter was badly burned on one side of his face and body, so I
was braced for how he’d look. What I wasn’t prepared for was his
reaction when I called at the Berger’s house in Ballard.

At that time Otto Berger—the man who’d deprived
the burlesque world of its bump and grind queen—was still alive.
After Otto relayed to Walter my name and mission, he returned to
the front door and said in his faint German accent, “Walter thanks
you, but he wishes to stay lost.”

I was not deterred. I figured Walter for a
twilight trekker. He proved to be an after-dark ambler.

I followed him to The Moonglow Eats on First
Avenue, where I’d had my conference with Rikard Lundeen. After he’d
ordered, I sat on a stool beside him, asked for coffee I didn’t
need, and struck up a conversation. Walter wasn’t embittered or
unsociable, as I’d expected. I explained to him that his sister had
become infirm and simply wanted to make amends. He listened
graciously, thanked me for my efforts, and told me the matter now
rested with him—a polite way of saying “butt out.” I never bothered
to ask what he did about his sibling, but I’d made a good friend
that night.

Walter embodied the wisdom of not judging a
book by its cover. Thereafter, every week or two, I’d pop in at the
Bergers’ or at one of Walter’s nighttime lairs to visit with him.
At his suggestion, I came to live at the Bergers’ after the
war.

Mrs. Berger’s house was what they call the
Classic Box style—a two-story gabled-roof affair originally built
by a prosperous shingle mill owner around the time Teddy Roosevelt
led the Rough Riders. Otto Berger enclosed the porch and painted
the place forest green to set it apart from the blander hues of its
immediate neighbors.