by Mary Daheim
“Maybe this is their last fling,” I remarked as Stella began to snip at my overgrown coiffure.
Cyndi sniffed. “Maybe. My folks don’t think much of it. They’d like some grandchildren. It looks as if Shane will have them before Wendy does.”
Stella stopped snipping. “Shane? Hey, Cyndi, what’s up with your brother? Is he getting married?”
Cyndi’s smug gaze locked with its mirror image. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Laurie, who was artfully made up and definitely pretty, had a bovine expression. Still, her face evinced interest. “Your brother’s cute, Cyndi. Who’s the lucky girl?”
Cyndi remained cagey. “Oh—somebody. It’s not official. I can’t blow it for him.”
Stella was again concentrating on my hair. “A hometown girl? Is that why he came back to Alpine?”
In reply, Cyndi hummed. Laurie giggled. Stella took two inches off the top of my head. I began to wonder if the new me was going to scare the old me out of my wits.
“Let’s say she’s a mystery woman,” Cyndi finally replied. “No, she’s not from Alpine.”
“Then we don’t care.” In the mirror, Stella gave Cyndi an arch look. “She must be somebody Shane met in Seattle.”
Cyndi hummed some more. Stella had clipped away everything but an inch or so of straight hair. Laurie was down to the last few foils. My nose itched. Stella trimmed the nape of my neck. Her face suddenly hardened. She turned to Cyndi.
“The nurse?” Stella’s voice had a faint rasp.
Cyndi swiveled her head, causing Laurie to drop the last foil. “Did I say that?”
“No.” Stella’s expression was somber. “I sure hope you didn’t, sweetie. Your parents would have a fit and fall in it.”
Cyndi resumed admiring her newly highlighted hair. “So? They like to talk about being broad-minded. Equality, and all that. What difference does it make?”
Stella was running a comb through my shorn, damp locks, or what was left of them. She didn’t notice my horrified reaction. “I’ll tell you what difference—it’s one thing to treat other people equal. It’s another to intermarry. You end up with half-breeds, that’s what. And those poor kids go through life not knowing what race they belong to. It’s hard, believe me. My brother married a Korean girl. He met her in Seoul after the war, and they’ve got two kids. They live down in the Willamette Valley in Oregon, and I can tell you it’s been rough. Of course, they’re grown up now, and one’s a computer programmer in Portland and the other’s an orthodontist, but they put up with plenty of guff along the way.”
Cyndi said nothing; I felt obligated to comment: “It sounds as if they turned out fine.”
Stella gave an eloquent shrug. “Oh, sure, now that they’re grown and have families of their own. But as kids—I’m telling you, it was one thing after the other. They got called Slant Eyes and Sloop and everything else.” Quizzically, she stared at her own image. “Or was it Slop? Slope? I forget.”
“It was the Fifties,” I noted dryly.
“It was rough.” She moved to Cyndi’s chair as Laurie stepped aside. “That looks terrific, sweetie. You’ve got nice hair, but it needs just that extra touch of color to make it shine.”
Cyndi nodded. Relaxing in the chair, she allowed Laurie to style the gleaming gold tresses. The effect was charming. “I like it,” Cyndi announced, untying the smock she wore over her clothes. “Now let me out of here. I need a cigarette.”
Cyndi and Laurie proceeded to the front desk. Stella watched them out of the corner of her eye. “Marriage is tough enough without going into it under a handicap,” Stella muttered. “I hope Shane knows what he’s doing.”
In the mirror, I saw my closely cropped hair and wondered if Stella knew what she was doing. With a flick of the wrist, she created a sweep of bangs, then flipped a tendril of hair in front of each ear. A bit of brushing heightened the whole effect, and a swish of spray held it in place. Suddenly, I smiled. I looked younger, even prettier. Well, younger, at least. Stella stood back to admire her handiwork.
“Can you manage that?” she asked.
“Maybe.” I didn’t sound very certain.
“Try it for a week,” Stella urged. “If you can’t, we’ll do a really soft body perm.” She turned to the front of the shop, where Cyndi Campbell was about to make her exit. “Thanks, sweetie. Knock ’em dead. But don’t forget what I told you about Shane and his bride-to-be.”
Cyndi inclined her newly highlighted head and gave us an enigmatic smile.
I had forgotten that Cyndi was also invited to Vida’s dinner party. It didn’t surprise me that she turned out to be a no-show. I was, however, surprised to find her sister standing in for her.
“Cyndi has a hot date with a guy from Everett,” Wendy Campbell Wilson explained to Vida. “It was a last-minute thing, and Mom was afraid Cyndi had screwed up your planning. Besides, Todd is working late tonight, getting caught up before we go on vacation.”
Vida’s reaction was reasonably gracious—for Vida. “Your mother should have come. Now why didn’t I ask her in the first place?”
But Jean and Lloyd Campbell were already going out to dinner, in Sultan. The original guest list had dwindled from six to three, with one substitute. It was not Vida’s style to linger over hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Wendy and Marilynn arrived two minutes after I did. We were immediately hustled into Vida’s dining alcove, with its Duncan Phyfe table and chairs, matching breakfront, and small buffet. Vida had made a crab casserole that tasted like glue. I suspected she hadn’t used real crab, but the artificial kind that looks like surgical tubing. The green salad was fine, since it’s hard to ruin lettuce, tomato, onion, and radishes. The poppy-seed rolls had come from the Upper Crust Bakery, and were delicious. I speculated about dessert, and hoped it was also store-bought, rather than homemade.
Halfway through the glutinous casserole, Marilynn complimented me on my hairdo. Vida had mentioned it when I came in the door, asking if I were trying out for a part as Prince Valiant. “It’s more Peter Pan,” I informed her haughtily. Vida said she liked it. She thought. It would take some time getting used to.
“It makes you look like a pixie,” Wendy declared. “It’s really cute.”
I thanked her, and mentioned seeing her sister getting a foil job. Wendy said that was for the special date. Marilynn wished she’d seen the results, but by the time she got home from work, Cyndi had already left.
“Cyndi was hinting that there are wedding bells in the offing,” I said, an eye on Vida. I hadn’t yet had an opportunity to break the news to her.
Wendy threw back her head and laughed. As ever, there was something ungainly about her manner. “That’s a joke! Cyndi hasn’t even gone out with this guy before. She’s jumping the gun.”
I explained that I meant Shane, not Cyndi. My eyes darted to Marilynn. She looked mildly interested, but composed.
Wendy brushed crumbs off her blue cotton camisole. “Really? I didn’t think my brother was serious. That serious, anyway. Well!”
Vida, who had been arrested in the act of passing more of her odious casserole, gave me a reproachful look, then turned her gaze on Wendy. “I didn’t know Shane was going with anyone. Who is it, Wendy?”
Wendy’s deep blue eyes rested on Marilynn. “Is it a secret? What do you think, Marilynn?”
Still maintaining her composure, Marilynn gave a shake of her head. “It’s not up to me to say. I’m not family.”
Wendy made a helpless gesture. “You see? No formal announcement is forthcoming. We’ll have to wait for Shane.”
Vida looked as if she’d just as soon wait for Judgment Day. “That’s not fair. I can’t abide it when people bring up topics and then let them dangle. It’s a tease. More than that, it’s a challenge when you’re dealing with newspaper people. We can’t stand secrets. Can we, Emma?”
“Uh … No, we can’t.” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. “Basically, we’re snoops. But we snoop in the interest of truth.
”
Wendy seemed unperturbed. She also didn’t seem to mind eating Vida’s casserole. “Then let’s talk about our murders. If you’re looking for truth, there’s where you should start. Who did it? I’ll bet you two know more than the rest of us.”
Our hostess wasn’t diverted from her original purpose. Wendy had thrown down the gauntlet, and Vida was ready to joust. “Very well. Let’s put our cards on the table. As far as we can tell, the only people in Alpine who knew Kelvin Greene were you, Marilynn—” Vida nodded to the guest on her right. “—your brother, Shane—” She nodded again, this time at Wendy on her left. “—and probably your sister, Cyndi. With all due respect, that means the three people who knew Kelvin live under the same roof. Shane and Cyndi were both at home about the time Kelvin was shot. Cyndi met us in the living room when we arrived for dinner, probably within fifteen minutes of the shooting, which very likely took place in the cemetery a block away from the house. Shane appeared shortly thereafter. You, Marilynn, arrived later, claiming to have been with Dolph Terrill at his apartment house by the clinic. Dolph is addled. He couldn’t be precise about time if his life depended on it. Thus, none of you has a real alibi for the murder.”
Marilynn and Wendy had both listened to Vida with a growing sense of alarm. The difference between them was that Marilynn looked hurt; Wendy seemed angry.
“Are you saying my brother or my sister could have killed that jerk?” Wendy demanded.
Vida wore her most owlish expression. “Somebody did. And murdered Wesley Charles as well.” Vida offered me more casserole. I took it only to keep the peace, such as it was.
Still appearing offended, Marilynn spoke to Vida but looked at me. “I certainly didn’t shoot Kelvin—or Wesley. As far as Wesley is concerned, Emma knows I was with her—or still at the clinic when it happened.”
“That’s true,” I admitted, thrusting aside a nagging doubt. Something bothered me, but I couldn’t think what it was.
“I can’t speak for my brother or my sister,” Wendy huffed. “I wasn’t there. Todd was late getting home from the PUD, and I was grading papers to kill time. If you want alibis for Shane and Cyndi—which is ridiculous—ask my folks. They were there.”
Vida inclined her head. “So we think. But we don’t know that, do we?”
Wendy had crumpled her linen napkin, which she now hurled onto the table. “Oh, for God’s sake! Now you suspect my parents? Vida, you’re out of your mind!”
“I didn’t say I suspected Lloyd and Jean,” Vida replied calmly. “I’m saying that if your siblings are relying on your parents for an alibi, we don’t know if they can provide one.” Ignoring Wendy’s irate expression, Vida turned back to Marilynn. “Do you know why Kelvin Greene was laid off by Fred Meyer?”
Marilynn frowned. “I thought he quit. Winola said he never stayed anywhere very long.” She stared at her plate. Considering what was on it, I marveled it didn’t stare back. “Now that I think about it, there was some trouble. Winola said it was unfair. She … ah … thought it might have been racially motivated.”
“Do you remember the trouble?” Vida had lowered her voice. She sounded coaxing.
Marilynn shook her head. “No. I was all wound up in my own troubles. I suppose I was ready to make the break with my old life and didn’t want to take on any new garbage. I guess I ignored Winola’s complaints.”
“Jeez.” Wendy Wilson plunked her elbow on the table and almost upset her water goblet. “What’s Kelvin’s job got to do with his murder? I’m sorry I brought this up. Let’s talk about something nice, like who got knocked up lately around here.” She leaned toward Marilynn. “Hey, you’d know that. You work at the clinic.”
Marilynn looked aghast. “I can’t breach patient-doctor confidentiality,” she retorted. “Why can’t we talk about something other than scandal?”
Vida stared at Marilynn. “Why should we?”
I felt it was my duty to intervene. “People do, in other places. You know, art and books and music and politics.”
Vida lifted her chin. “You aren’t in other places, Emma. You’re in Alpine.”
So I was. With Vida around, I couldn’t forget. Even when I wanted to.
I can’t say that dinner was a success. On the other hand, I suppose it wasn’t a failure. There were no deaths. Dessert had been a delectable plum crisp from the Upper Crust. The conversation had dwindled to a predictable discussion of marriage, divorce, remarriage, and the intertwining relationships that resulted thereof. I’d felt that Marilynn would be excluded, but she was an eager student. She had been in Alpine just long enough to know some of the parties involved, or at least a few of their relatives.
Wendy and Marilynn left around ten. I offered to stay and help Vida clean up. She demurred, but not vehemently, so I began clearing the table.
“Why,” I inquired when we both reached the kitchen, “did you ask that question about Kelvin and Fred Meyer?”
“A hunch,” she replied, rinsing off plates under the faucet. “Shane and Kelvin both left Fred Meyer about the same time. Now is that a coincidence or what?”
The thought had not occurred to me. “Winola would know,” I suggested.
Vida nodded. “You have her number, don’t you? It’s Kelvin’s phone, as I recall.”
It was eight minutes after ten. “She might be up,” I ventured.
Vida’s response was to stare at the white Trimline phone that hung on the opposite wall. I shoved a handful of silverware into the dishwasher and went in search of my handbag, which was in the living room. Winola’s number was on a notepad in a side pocket. Two minutes later I was waiting for Winola to answer my call.
On the fourth ring, her drowsy voice came over the line. I wasn’t completely prepared. Vida and I hadn’t parted from Winola on amicable terms. The bilge I’d concocted about asking how Kelvin’s funeral had gone was dismissed in favor of honesty:
“Winola, this is Emma Lord in Alpine. As you may have heard, another man you knew has been killed up here. Wesley Charles?”
There was a little shriek at the other end. It seemed Winola didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t watch the news on TV. Perhaps she didn’t read the papers. The story was only twenty-four hours old, and word might not have filtered down through the big-city grapevine.
“You mean that dude who killed Jerome?” Winola’s voice sounded hollow.
“That’s right.” I explained about the escape and the shooting. I told her how Marilynn Lewis and I had been at the scene. If Winola had doubts about my acquaintanceship with Marilynn, this anecdote surely should put them to rest. “I’m worried about Marilynn,” I said, and it was true. “This case needs to be solved quickly, if only to stop the hate mail she’s getting.” I didn’t mention the more ominous reason. “I only have a couple of questions.”
Winola now sounded fully awake, if sullen. “Like what?”
I took a deep breath. “Do you think Wesley Charles killed Jerome Cole?”
Vida was watching me closely. Winola took her time to answer. “They say he did,” she finally replied. “If I had to decide, I say he didn’t, ’cause he got no balls. But maybe it was an accident.”
I signaled to Vida, showing her that Winola was being ambivalent. “Why did Kelvin get laid off last April?”
Winola uttered a half snort, half sigh. “That. He was set up. They say he stole from the stockroom. They lie. Kelvin did some bad things, but he never stole stuff. What’s to steal? Toys? Lawn furniture? Slug bait?”
“The store carries some big-ticket items,” I pointed out. “Jewelry. Electronics. Cameras, I think.” I tried to visualize the last Fred Meyer I’d been in, a store near Richmond Beach in Seattle’s North End. “Nintendo games. CDs and tapes and calculators and radios. Small appliances.”
Winola wasn’t impressed by the inventory. “Kelvin didn’t work with that stuff. He stocked the clothes and the toys and the garden section. Christmas trees, too, and decorations during the holidays. I tell you, he was se
t up by some white guy that didn’t like him ’cause he was black.” She sounded emphatic.
“Who was the guy?” I asked, an idea buzzing in my brain.
“Some kid in the stockroom. I don’t know his name.” She’d turned sullen again.
My shoulders sagged. My idea wasn’t panning out. I had one last inspiration: “Winola—where did you and Marilynn go the night Jerome got killed?”
“A friend’s place,” she answered. “A friend of Marilynn’s.”
I pressed on. “Who was it?”
“A white dude. That Shane she kind of liked. I don’t know why. I never thought he had it goin’ on.”
Maybe he didn’t, in Winola’s estimation. But Shane Campbell definitely had something going on, somehow. As I hung up, I felt the first of the pieces begin to fall into place.
Chapter Thirteen
LETTERS FROM BIGOTS hadn’t struck me as appropriate dinner conversation. Neither Vida nor I had brought up the subject during the evening. It wasn’t until Milo called Saturday morning that I learned Marilynn had turned the latest mailings over to his office.
“The usual bilge,” he said in his laconic voice. “Mostly unsigned, though I can figure out who some of them are.”
I pounced. “Who?”
“You don’t want to know, Emma. In fact, you could probably guess. They’re typical, mainly written out of fear. These people have nothing against Marilynn Lewis as a person. It’s what she represents. You know—stereotypes. I’m not very good at putting it into words, but you get the idea.”
I did. Marilynn Lewis was a symbol, mostly of negativity. Why did people always think of the bad, rather than the good? Why think in stereotypical terms at all? Marilynn Lewis wasn’t a gang member, on welfare, or working the streets. Neither was she a famous singer, dancer, or athlete. She was Marilynn Lewis, R.N., educated, middle class, and, like too many women of every race, religion, and creed, inclined to fall in love with the wrong man. It could happen to anybody, and didn’t I know it. The human heart didn’t care what color of skin hid its wayward beat.