by Mary Daheim
I went into the back shop and asked Kip if he could enlarge the photo.
“I was going to do that a little later,” he said, “but if you need it, I’ll do it now.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I want to show it to Milo.”
Twenty minutes later, Kip brought me an eight-by-ten blowup of the wallet-size picture. It was a little fuzzy but revealed much more of the details, such as hair color and maybe the eyes. I was heading through the newsroom when Vida and a woman I’d never seen before came in.
“Ah!” Vida exclaimed with her toothy smile. “How nice! You’re here. This is Diana Hines.”
Diana, a petite and pretty woman about my age, held out her hand. “So you’re Emma Lord,” she said with enthusiasm. “I read your paper whenever I get a chance. It’s a welcome relief to see newspaper headlines that aren’t full of war and terror and scandal.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, shaking her hand, “we do have some crime around here. I understand you own Pines Villa apartments. It’s just a couple of blocks from my house.”
“Really?” The remark seemed to please her. “I inherited the building from my uncle, Harry Sigurdson, a couple of years ago. He owned quite a bit of property in Skykomish County, though you’d never have known it to see him.”
“No,” Vida agreed pleasantly. “Harry was rather close with his money.” Her smile became brittle as she glanced at me. “You may recall, Emma, that he always wore overalls and a favorite straw hat.”
Vida herself was wearing straw, with a big turned-up brim and voluptuous yellow roses. I translated her description of Harry as meaning dirty old clothes and beat-up headgear that looked as if a hungry goat had chewed on the straw.
Diana laughed merrily. “Oh, Uncle Harry was a true character! He didn’t drive, you know. He’d had an old Model A Ford before the Second World War, and he kept that car going for almost forty years. I remember it—holes in the floor and the seats so worn you couldn’t sit comfortably and always breaking down on the highway. I was just a little girl, but I thought it was great fun. After the car finally gave out for good, he never bought another one. He walked everywhere, even as far as Sultan and sometimes Monroe. None of us knew how much money he had until after he died. We were flabbergasted.”
It was obvious that Vida wanted me to have a sit-down with Diana Hines. I invited her to come into my office. Naturally, Vida came along.
When we were all seated, I offered coffee, but Diana shook her head. “Mrs. Runkel and I just finished having tea. She told me the most fascinating story about someone who pretended to be living at Pines Villa. I couldn’t believe it.”
“It’s very odd,” I agreed. “What we want to know is who they are and why they did it.”
Diana nodded. “I stopped at Pines Villa before I met Mrs. Runkel. When I checked on the unit, it was empty with no sign of life. The former tenant worked for you, I understand. I was so afraid we might have had squatters. It happens, you know.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Vida said darkly.
Diana nodded. “That’s so true. It’s why,” she went on, growing very serious, “my husband, Murray, and I’ve decided it might be smart to convert the apartments into condos.”
Vida couldn’t keep her disapproval to herself. “As I told you earlier, I don’t think that’s a good idea. In Everett, maybe, but not in Alpine. Our residents simply aren’t the condo type.”
Diana’s expression was sympathetic. “I think I know what you mean,” she said quietly, “but what is a condo type? There’s really no such thing as a…single category.” Vida opened her mouth to say something, but Diana kept talking. “People who buy condos are old, young, middle-aged, married, single, and usually without young children. They don’t want to take on the upkeep of a home or a garden. If they own a house, they’re better off financially buying a condo. While we were having tea, you mentioned how much you enjoy gardening but that sometimes it’s difficult to keep everything under control, especially in the spring.” Vida again started to say something, but Diana wasn’t finished. “I can see you’re a high-energy person. I’ll bet you can work circles around people half your age. But you must know plenty of folks in your peer group who aren’t as vigorous or conscientious. Take your sister-in-law Mrs. Hinshaw for example. When she recovers from her stroke, she’d be so much better off in her own condo than in a rented apartment.”
Vida finally managed to break in, her voice gloomy. “If she survives.”
Diana laughed softly. “Oh, Mrs. Runkel, if she spends time with you, I’ll bet she has some spunk!”
“I don’t know about that,” Vida said skeptically.
“The thing is,” Diana continued, “my husband’s health isn’t as good as it might be. Murray had to take early retirement. I’m the one who’s had to do the actual managing of Pines Villa during the past year. We’ve got two grandchildren now, and in the long run, it’d be better for us if we renovated and expanded exclusively for condos. Frankly, the drive from Everett to Alpine can be nerve-racking, especially in bad weather.”
“Why don’t you move here?” Vida asked.
“Oh, no!” Diana exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Our two daughters and the grandchildren live so close to us now. I couldn’t possibly move.” She laughed again. “I was born to be a grandma.”
“Grandchildren are a joy,” Vida declared. “Though,” she added, “only one of mine lives in Alpine, and he’s so busy these days finding a summer job.” She sighed heavily and pushed the straw hat back farther on her gray curls. “Roger’s going through a difficult time, trying to decide on his major.”
In my opinion, the spoiled brat’s major was to avoid working. I often wondered if his role model was Ed Bronsky. But I kept my mouth shut.
Diana was nodding. “Youngsters these days face difficult challenges. Housing, of course, is one of them.”
Vida’s gray eyebrows lifted. “Housing? Roger lives at home with his parents.”
“I meant in general,” Diana said, looking faintly apologetic. “Traditional family dwellings have become so expensive, particularly in the Greater Seattle area. That means most young couples have to move farther away from their workplace, and those commutes are very time-consuming as well as stressful.”
I finally decided to stop playing my frequent role as Vida’s stooge. “We understand that shift. Monroe, even Sultan and Gold Bar and Startup have had an influx of people fleeing the high prices in and around Seattle.”
Vida nodded. “Very wise of them to do so, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t prefer a single dwelling with some property to a boxlike condominium or even one of those so-called town houses. So confining, I think, and not enough room to swing a cat.”
Diana’s expression was neutral. “There is an interesting new factor. I’m referring to the person who works for a big company but stays home. This means that very soon Alpine should expect some kind of population boom. That’s another reason why Murray and I want to convert Pines Villa.”
Vida looked mulish. “If that happens, it’ll come very slowly. Not,” she added hastily, “that Alpine isn’t a wonderful place to live.”
Diana smiled at Vida. “My point exactly. You’d be surprised at how many people around the area have inquired about buying a condo.”
“Yes,” Vida said, unconvinced, “I certainly would. I suppose you can name names?”
Diana nodded. “One of your county commissioners, Alfred Cobb, and his wife, Bertha.”
“Hunh. Alfred is senile and Bertha is only a step behind him.”
Diana wasn’t daunted. “Edna Mae Dalrymple, the librarian.”
“She’s extremely dizzy,” Vida asserted. “Apparently her eyes have gone from reading so many books. Her garden is a disaster.”
Still unfazed, Diana rapidly ticked off the names of other would-be condo buyers on her slim fingers. “Derek and Blythe Norman, Marisa Foxx, Buck Bardeen, Rosemary—”
Vida lurched forward in her chair. “What?”
I tried to maintain an impassive expression, as Diana responded. “Buck Bardeen, a retired air force colonel who owns a small house in—”
“I know,” Vida barked. “Buck is…a good friend. He certainly never told me anything about wanting to buy a condo. This is most unlikely.”
“Goodness!” Diana exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Runkel. I feel terrible.”
“Never mind,” Vida said brusquely. “Excuse me,” she added, getting up from the chair. “I must make some phone calls before the workday is done.”
Diana didn’t watch Vida stalk out of my office, but kept her eyes cast down on her lap. “I am so sorry,” she said softly.
“Don’t worry about it,” I advised, lowering my voice. “Mrs. Runkel doesn’t like change.” I didn’t dare say much more, given Vida’s acute hearing. “I assume,” I said, in my normal tone, “that no one at Pines Villa knows anything about the mystifying Josh and Ginger Roth.”
“No.” Diana remained apologetic. “I asked some of the tenants who were at home today if they’d heard of them.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a mess out of this meeting.”
“It’s not your fault,” I assured her. “The fact that Josh and Ginger Roth clearly don’t want to be found could mean that they don’t exist.”
Diana sighed. “It’s way out of my league.” Her hazel eyes roamed around my cubbyhole. “I suppose I should start back to Everett. The commuters will be on the road by now.”
“I think we sent you on a fool’s errand,” I said as we both stood up.
“Oh, no.” She smiled, but not as brightly as before. “When I heard about Mrs. Hinshaw’s stroke, I wanted to talk to Debbie Murchison, who lives next door. You probably know Debbie—she’s a nurse at the hospital here.”
I nodded as we strolled out of my office. “I’ve run into her a few times.”
“Unfortunately,” Diana explained, “Debbie took a long weekend to visit a young man she’s been seeing who lives in Mount Vernon. She isn’t expected back until this evening. But she’s working tomorrow, so she’ll find out about Mrs. Hinshaw. I’d like to have her keep an eye on the poor lady when she gets home.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” I said, noting that Vida was on the phone but her eagle eyes flicked in our direction as we passed her desk.
I walked Diana to the front entrance and waved her off. She hadn’t been able to shed any light on the Roth puzzle, but there was an interesting story in her proposal for condo conversion of Pines Villa. I’d save it for next week, after I talked to some of the people who’d expressed an interest in changing lifestyles. I’d even risk facing Vida’s wrath by calling Buck Bardeen.
I didn’t realize that it was what Diana Hines hadn’t been able to tell me was a piece of our homicidal puzzle. I wouldn’t find out why until it was almost too late.
NINE
CURTIS AMBLED INTO THE NEWSROOM JUST AFTER FOUR-thirty. “You still got that picture of Dylan Platte?” he asked, leaning in the doorway to my office.
“Kip took it back,” I said. “He blew it up.”
“He might as well,” Curtis said. “That’s not the dead guy. Mrs. Platte wants the original.”
“You mean,” I said, “there’s no doubt that the real Dylan Platte is the one who got picked up for speeding?”
Curtis looked annoyed. “Didn’t I say so earlier?”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but you must attribute that statement to the Sacramento DMV. This is a very touchy story, and we don’t want to take the fall in case somebody else has made a mistake.”
“I know, I know,” Curtis said impatiently. “You think I want to get sued?”
“Of course not.” I tried to be pleasant. “Any idea who the victim really is?”
Curtis shook his head. “The only ID he had on him was the driver’s license and a couple of phony credit cards in Platte’s name. The vic—I pick up cop talk real fast—used the credit cards for the motel and the car rental at Sea-Tac Airport.”
“But not for his flight?”
My reporter shook his head again. “Dodge or whoever is going to check flights out of the Bay Area that came into Sea-Tac just before the car was rented.”
“Maybe the dead man didn’t come from there,” I suggested.
Curtis shrugged. “Dodge is sending the airlines a photo of the Mystery Man. Kind of grim, isn’t it? I mean, since he’s dead.”
“That can’t be helped,” I pointed out. “I wonder if we should run it?”
“Won’t the readers get all squeamish and complain?”
“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s possible that somebody around here knows him or at least has seen him—besides the Harrises at the motel.”
“Oh—I don’t know.” Curtis scratched his cheek. “It seems gruesome to me.”
“Murder is pretty gruesome,” I remarked. “We can run the pix on page three. Kip can give you the original. Are you going to see Mrs. Platte, or have you already interviewed her?”
“She didn’t come down to the station,” Curtis replied. “I talked to her brother, Grant, for a couple of minutes.”
“Graham. Graham Cavanaugh.” I paused to let my irritation seep into my reporter’s foggy brain. “What kind of quotes did you get?”
“He didn’t have much to say, except that he’d never seen the dead guy before in his life. Hey,” Curtis went on, gesturing with his thumb, “I should sort through my notes and get out of here. It’s going on five.”
“Whoa.” I motioned for him to come closer. He took a couple of reluctant steps and fidgeted with a loose button on his shirt. “How did Graham explain why Kelsey didn’t know that her husband was alive and well and driving too fast on Highway 2?”
Curtis looked peeved. “He didn’t. He told me his sister was a real ditz. She’s lucky to know where she is, let alone anybody else.”
I pressed my lips together. “Fine. Go sort your notes.”
Curtis sauntered off. I shut down my computer, grabbed my purse and yellow cardigan, and hurried out through the newsroom. Curtis was slouched behind his desk; Vida was on the phone again; Leo was heading to the back shop.
“I’m gone for the day,” I announced over my shoulder.
Vida’s head snapped up. “What?” she called, putting her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.
I kept moving, my hiring of Curtis Mayne gnawing at my brain. How in the hell had he ever gotten out of the University of Washington? I wondered. Had standards fallen that far? Or was he smart enough but just plain lazy and unmotivated? By the time I reached the sheriff’s office, I’d worked up a full head of steam.
“Where’s Dodge?” I demanded.
“Oooh!” Jack Mullins exclaimed. “Somebody looks a little crabby.” He whistled and rolled his eyes at Lori Cobb. “Better buzz the boss man, kiddo. The lovely Ms. Lord looks fit to spit.”
“I’m not mad at you,” I declared. “I’m mad at myself. You must all be wondering if I lost my mind.”
Jack chuckled. “You refer, I think, to your recent hire. You’re right—he’s probably not up for a Pulitzer Prize real soon.”
“I should never have allowed him to cover this story,” I grumbled as Milo loped out of his office, coffee mug in hand.
“What’s up?” he asked, looking vaguely bemused.
“My temper,” I said. “I’m an imbecile.”
“No,” Milo countered, “but you can be a pain in the ass. What’s wrong?”
“Curtis Mayne,” I snapped. “You haven’t noticed?”
Milo drained the dregs from his mug into a coffee can under the front counter. “You hired the last one for his looks. This one doesn’t have that much going for him. He doesn’t seem to have shaken off his frat boy mentality. Give him time.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “It was way too soon to let him take on a homicide story. Can we talk?”
Milo glanced up at the big clock on the far wall. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll buy
you a stiff drink. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll buy you a steak at the Venison Inn.”
I considered the offer. “Okay. I’ll meet you there. But could you bring that picture of the victim with you? I want to run it.”
Lori flinched. “Ugh.”
“Hey,” Jack pointed out, “the dead guy doesn’t look half as bad as any of our three old fart county commissioners.”
“Jack!” Lori cried. “You’re talking about my grandfather!”
“Oops!” Jack put one hand over his mouth and the other on Lori’s shoulder. “Sorry. I forgot he put you on the dole.”
I rushed outside, leaving Milo’s employees to their own personnel problems. I all but ran to my car two blocks away, got in, and drove off to the Tall Timber Motel. I had yet to see the murder site. I also wanted to talk to Minnie and Mel Harris.
At almost five o’clock, Minnie was busy behind the desk, checking in at least two separate parties. A woman holding a fussy baby was sitting in one of the small lobby’s armchairs while a toddler boy tried to pull the leaves off a potted philodendron. I caught Minnie’s eye. She acknowledged me with a quick smile; I pointed in the direction of Dylan Platte’s unit; she nodded once; I went outside and walked to the end of the two-story building.
There was no crime scene tape, but the door was locked and the drapes on the single window were pulled shut. I presumed the unit was still off-limits. There must have been blood on the carpet or the furnishings, but Minnie and Mel could take care of that problem rather easily. Meanwhile, I guessed that the Harrises had pleaded with Milo to remove any outward signs of the homicide that could deter business.
A logging truck rumbled by, coming off the Icicle Creek Road and headed for Jack Blackwell’s mill. The load of second-growth trees was made up of depressingly small trunks compared with the virgin timber I recalled from my youth. But the smell of the freshly harvested evergreens was just as sweet.
A dozen cars were already in the motel parking lot, half of them from out of state. I looked across Front Street to the liquor store, Taco Bell, and Bayard’s Photography Studio. A couple of years ago, Kip MacDuff had acquired the technology to develop our own newspaper pictures instead of farming them out to Buddy Bayard. He and his wife, Roseanna, had never quite forgiven us for our defection. Furthermore, I hadn’t lived up to my promise to run some of Buddy’s photos in the Advocate. As long as Scott Chamoud was on the staff, I hadn’t needed freelance work. So far, Curtis hadn’t proved to be more than adequate in his approach to photographs. Maybe it was time to make peace with Buddy.