by Mary Daheim
“I don't have a list,” I admitted.
Vida scowled. “Really, Emma, that's not very organized of you.”
“Look,” I said, taking out the hand-tooled Navajo leather wallet Ben had given me for Christmas, “until we talked to Maybeth, I wasn't convinced that Ronnie was innocent.”
“And you are now?” Vida queried.
“No,” I said, leaving a tip on the table and getting up, “it takes more than an unintentional slip from somebody we don't know to ensure Ronnie's innocence. In fact, Maybeth thinks he did it. The only reason I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt is because I don't think he'd go to all this trouble to run me down and ask my help unless he really didn't kill Carol Stokes. Besides, it bothers me that some goon is using Ronnie for a punching bag at the jail.”
“If Ronnie did commit the murder, he'd still be desperate,” Vida pointed out. “More so.”
“I suppose,” I admitted, then looked at Vida sideways. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course,” Vida declared, her navy blue duster flapping at her calves as we left the café. “Where's the daughter?”
“Carol's daughter, the one who found the body?” I shrugged. “I've no idea. Maybe she's the one who's cleaning out the apartment.”
The Lexus was parked two doors away, just out of a bus zone. Vida didn't say anything until we reached the car. Then she stood at the passenger side, staring up Phinney Avenue. “What's that?” she finally asked, pointing across the street and down a couple of blocks. “Is that the Norse Home?”
“Yes,” I replied, following Vida's gaze in the direction of the Lutheran retirement residence. “Why?”
“Olive Nerstad,” Vida said. “She married Burl Ner-stad's older brother Burt and moved to Seattle. Burt committed suicide by jumping off the Bainbridge Island ferry a few years ago. I can't think why. Nobody heard he was sick, so what excuse could he possibly have for killing himself? Anyway, I heard that Olive moved into the Norse Home sometime after Burt died.”
I gritted my teeth. Even though she disdained my hometown as a vast and faceless metropolis, Vida still managed to find connections to people she knew. For all I knew, Olive Nerstad was a shirttail relation. Vida's extended family seemed to surface everywhere. If I should ever climb the Himalayas, I wouldn't be surprised to find a Runkel or a Blatt or a Gustavson pumping some hapless sherpa for the local gossip. “You want me to make a U-turn in the middle of Phinney and drive down there?”
“Why not?” Vida said, now getting into the car. “There's not a great deal of traffic. I'm rather surprised.”
Dutifully, I turned the Lexus around, headed south, and found a place in the parking lot that was reserved for visitors. I had no idea what Vida expected to find out from Olive.
“Do you keep in touch?” I asked warily as we approached the front desk.
“Not recently,” Vida admitted. “She stopped sending me Christmas cards after Burt jumped. They never found him, you know. I think that upset Olive. She may be a little… queer.”
The pert young blond who welcomed us looked like she was about sixty years away from becoming a permanent resident. I wondered if it ever occurred to her that someday her eyes would fail, her joints would stiffen, and her hair would turn to gray. I'd thought about it on nursing-home visits, and my reaction was to run away as fast as I could, while I still could. But I knew I couldn't ever run far enough or fast enough.
The atmosphere at the Norse Home wasn't gloomy, however. A handsome couple in their seventies nodded and smiled at the receptionist as they headed out for the evening. Notices on a big bulletin board called attention to choral practice, square dancing, and travel. Considering that Norwegians in particular seem to live to be about a hundred and ten, I supposed that many residents looked forward to a long and happy life. At least I liked to think so.
Olive Nerstad was in Apartment 205. Apparently, she was accepting visitors, so we took the elevator to the second floor. The door to her unit was covered with a floral wreath and a wooden cutout of a duck. Vida rang the bell, then tapped her foot as we waited.
The woman who opened the door had bleached-blond hair and a suspicious expression. “Vida Blatt?” she said, glowering with sharp blue eyes. “What are you doing here? I never liked you.”
“I can't think why not,” Vida retorted, unruffled by the remark. I, however, was taken aback, with visions of ancient, simmering Alpine feuds spinning through my brain. “What did I ever do to you, Olive?” Vida asked.
“You said I was a beanpole,” Olive replied, still not opening the door more than six inches. “That's because you were always fat.”
“I never was fat,” Vida asserted with a lift of her chin. “I was big for my age.”
“You still are,” Olive shot back. “Why are you here? And who's that hiding behind your fat frame?”
Vida rustled the duster. “It's this coat. It makes me look… large. Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder. “This is Emma Lord. Her cousin may have killed your niece.”
The shock tactic worked. Olive stepped back from the door and stared. “What? Carol?”
Vida took advantage of catching Olive off guard and marched into the apartment. It was a tidy, if crowded room with solid furnishings, probably as many as Olive had been allowed to bring from her family home.
“Well, well,” Vida noted, taking in every upholstered chair, beribboned lamp shade, and mahogany table. “You certainly crammed your belongings into this place. How long have you been here, Olive? I forget when Burt jumped.”
“I don't,” Olive snapped. “It was June fourteenth, 1992. Burt never liked you, either.”
“I never cared much for him,” Vida replied, seating herself on a sofa that was covered in a bright yellow, pink, and green floral print. “Goodness, how ever do you get around with all this furniture?”
“Easily,” Olive said, still standing. “I'm slim, remember?”
Olive was indeed slim, and tall, too. She looked like someone who had dieted all her life, but maybe it came naturally. Except for a few wrinkles, she could have passed for sixty-five, but I guessed her to be five to ten years older. Her features were sharp and plain, but carefully made up, as if Olive expected a steady stream of visitors.
“So what's this about Carol?” Olive demanded. “I heard she was dead. It doesn't surprise me.”
“Really,” Vida murmured. “And why is that?”
Slowly, Olive moved to an armchair that matched the couch. “Carol liked trouble. Don't pretend you don't know why she left Alpine. You always liked knowing everything, Vida Blatt.”
“I've been Vida Runkel for going on fifty years,” Vida asserted. “Yes, of course I know why Carol moved away. Did you see much of her? She lived only a mile or so from here.”
Olive's head jerked around in my direction, where I'd settled in next to Vida on the couch. “Who did you say you were? What's this about a cousin who killed Carol?”
“Actually, I didn't say—” I began, but Vida interrupted.
“We'll get to that, Olive. Tell us about Carol.”
Olive scowled at Vida. “You never let anybody get a word in edgewise, do you, Vida? Why should I tell you anything? You've brought a stranger, a killer's cousin, in here, and you expect me to reveal all the family secrets. Go on with you!” She waved a thin hand at Vida, then folded her arms across her flat breast and sat back in the armchair.
I could sense the convoluted thought processes going on in Vida's busy brain. “Emma and I believe that her cousin is innocent. That's why we're here. We'd like to talk to Carol's daughter. Do you know where she is?”
Olive's eyes narrowed, then her face relaxed. “Innocent, huh? I'll bet. Is he the moocher who was living off of Carol?” She paused, then looked at me. “I have to admit, I can't see much of a family resemblance to that cousin of yours. You don't talk much, do you?”
“Sometimes,” I said dryly.
“I can't say as I blame you, with her around.” Olive paused a
gain, then turned back to Vida. “I'm not sure where Kendra—the daughter, such a crazy name—lives. With her parents, I suppose.”
“Her parents?” I echoed, proving that I really could come up with something on my own.
Olive nodded, seemingly pleased at the surprise she'd created. “That's right. Carol gave her baby up for adoption. She never seemed interested in what happened to her kiddy until she heard from Kendra a few months ago. Then Carol started asking me questions, but what did I know after the arrangements were made? Then Carol and Kendra got together, and Carol brought her over to meet me and show her off. Believe me, it was a rare visit. Carol usually paid no attention to her widowed aunt.”
“Was Ronnie with them?” Vida asked.
Olive shook her head. “No, but Kendra complained about him, always hanging around and being a pest.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Oh—a month or so ago,” Olive replied. “The next thing I knew, Carol had gotten herself killed. It was in the paper, so was the obituary. I didn't go to the funeral, though. I had stomach flu.” Olive's annoyed expression indicated she was sorry to have missed such a dramatic event.
“Do you know who handled the funeral arrangements?” Vida inquired.
Again, Olive shook her head. “It wouldn't be that Ronnie. He wouldn't have enough sense. Maybe Kendra, along with her parents. Their name is Addison. I think they live near Green Lake.”
“Do you have an address?” Vida asked.
Another shake of the head from Olive. “If Kendra is like the rest of the young people nowadays, I wouldn't expect to hear from her again. Especially not now, with Carol dead.”
Grudgingly, Vida admitted that was so. “Did you keep the news story about Carol's murder?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact,” Olive said, picking up what looked like a daybook stuffed full of clippings and letters, “I did.” A glance showed lengthy obits with names like Skylstad and Nygaard and Lundquist. I suspected that Olive kept a record of her world in that dog-eared book. “You want to see it?” she asked.
Vida said she did. When she had finished the two-inch article, she handed it to me. It contained the bare facts, that Carol Stokes, thirty-four, had been found dead in her Greenwood-area apartment, and that her alleged boyfriend, Ronnie Mallett, thirty-five, was being held for questioning.
“Here,” Olive said, giving Vida another clipping. “You might as well read this, too.”
We both did. The second story was equally brief, relating that Ronnie had been charged with second-degree homicide and was being held in jail, awaiting a trial date.
Vida returned the article to Olive, then stood up. “Thank you. You've been somewhat helpful.”
“Hunh,” said Olive, also rising from her chair. “That's my middle name. You'd have thought Carol'd be more grateful after all these years.”
“Yes?” Vida said.
“She came here when she was expecting,” Olive said, her face suddenly showing its age. “By here, I mean to Burt and me in Seattle when we lived in Crown Hill. Carol stayed with us until she had the baby. We were the ones who helped her arrange the adoption through my doctor. I had some fibroids in my uterus that had to be taken out. Then, after all we'd done, she took off and never came 'round again until she was getting married to that Marty Stokes. I figured she wanted a big present out of us. The next thing we knew, she divorced him. Carol shows up again, broke and with no job. We helped her some more. Real saps, Burt and I were. But then we never had kids of our own. Probably because of those fibroids. Six, seven years went by, not a peep out of her until Burt died. She did come to the memorial service, I'll say that. Maybe she thought he left her money. He didn't. The next thing I know, she comes around, asking about the adoption and what I remembered about it. Then she shows up with Kendra, and two weeks later Carol gets herself killed. Didn't I say she liked trouble?”
“So you did,” Vida remarked, now at the door.
“You always liked other people's trouble, as Burt used to tell me,” Olive said, one hand on her hip, the other on the doorknob. “It's no wonder he didn't like you.”
“Actually,” Vida said in a deceptively mild tone, “he did. Burt asked me to go steady when I was a junior in high school.” With a rustle of her duster, she departed.
“Is that true?” I asked when we reached the elevator. “About Burt?”
Vida gave a single nod. “Certainly. I turned him down. Sour grapes, on his part, saying he didn't like me. If, in fact, he really said that.”
At the desk, Vida asked the pert blond for a Seattle directory. “There's a Sam Addison, on Ashworth,” she murmured. “Is that close to Green Lake?”
“Very,” I replied. “It's about a block or two off Green Lake Way. I grew up nearby.”
“You did?” Vida seemed intrigued. “You must show me your family home.”
“And swing by the Addison place?” I asked slyly.
“Well… perhaps.”
We were less than five minutes away from the far side of Green Lake. I drove the old familiar route with a sudden surge of memories flooding my brain. Woodland Park, the tennis courts, the picnic tables, the playing field, and the modest but well-kept neighborhood that faced Green Lake Way. We drove up Fifty-fifth to Meridian, which had been a sleepy little two-block business district in my youth. The grocery stores were gone, replaced by trendy restaurants and an organic produce market. The building that had housed a design school and the Texaco service station had been razed for what looked like the start of condominiums. Only a revamped Briggs Pharmacy, the Jehovah's Witness Hall, and Leny's Tavern remained.
“It's too bad it's dark,” Vida remarked as I slowed down by the huge maple that stood in front of my old home. The tree was in bud, its gnarled trunk taking up most of the parking strip, its old roots raising parts of the sidewalk. “This was your house?” Vida asked, leaning forward to look past me. “It's rather nice.”
The Craftsman bungalow dating from the World War I era had received a coat of paint and a new roof since I'd last seen it ten years ago. Ben and I had made a sentimental journey before I moved to Alpine and he was transferred to the mission church in Tuba City, Arizona. After our parents had been killed in a car wreck eighteen years earlier, we'd sold the house to a newly married couple who were expecting. I had no idea who lived there now, but the lights were on and a small station wagon was pulled into the garage out back.
“Did Ronnie ever visit here?” Vida asked.
It was the furthest thing from my mind. “Ronnie?” I thought back, peeling the years away. “Yes, once or twice when he and his sisters were very young. They tore the place up. My parents were furious, but Aunt Marlene and Uncle Gary didn't do a thing to stop them.”
“Memories,” Vida murmured. “Family. How sweet.”
I ignored the remark. My recollections were very different from Vida's fixation. Ben and me, plundering our presents under the tree on Christmas morning, our mother's Thanksgiving turkey roasting in the gas oven, our father loading us into the secondhand sedan on Sunday mornings to attend Mass at St. Benedict's. The irony that one of the altar boys was Tom Cavanaugh, who lived in a neighborhood two miles away in Fremont, but belonged to the same parish. He and I hadn't realized that until many years later when we were in bed.
“We didn't do a lot of things with the rest of the relatives,” I said. “Dad had only the one sister, Marlene, and Mom had a brother who lived in Olympia and another in California. There wasn't much of an extended family to mingle with.”
“A pity,” Vida said, still gawking at the house and what she could make out of the garden, which was fairly large but well kept up. “Youngsters need aunts and uncles and cousins. It makes life so much richer.”
“We had us,” I said, feeling defensive. “Our own little quartet. It was enough.”
Vida didn't respond, even though I knew she disagreed. Reversing down to the intersection, I took a left to head for Ashworth, just a few blocks away.
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“You didn't plan on visiting the Addisons tonight, did you?” I asked Vida.
“Nooo,” Vida replied, peering at her watch. She refused to read the time from the digital clock on the dashboard, having often expressed her disapproval of “unnecessary gadgets” in the newer automobiles. “It's after nine. We might be imposing.”
The Addison house was a larger version of my old home, with stone pillars on the front porch. The lights were on there, too, and the front door was open. I was halfway into the curb when a man carrying two cardboard boxes came rushing down the front steps. A plump woman followed, screaming and waving her arms.
“Goodness!” Vida exclaimed. “What's this?”
The man, who was big and balding, dumped the boxes on the parking strip, opened the trunk of a Honda sedan, and was about to pick up the boxes again when the woman kicked him in the rear end. He whirled around and made as if to grab her, but swore instead. She swore back. Then, apparently noticing my headlights, they both stopped and stared.
To my dismay, Vida rolled down her window and leaned out. “Yoo-hoo! Is this the way to the zoo?”
“The zoo's closed!” the man shouted.
“No!” Vida cried. “That can't be! Are you sure?”
He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Yeah, it's after dark. You'll have to come back tomorrow. It's right over that way.” His arm shot out to his left. “Just follow Fiftieth Street.”
“You don't have a map, do you?” Vida asked.
“Not handy,” the man replied, impatient. “’ Scuse me, I'm busy here.”
The woman, meanwhile, had picked up the boxes and was scurrying back into the house. He didn't notice until she reached the door, which slammed shut behind her.
“Damn!” The man pounded a fist into his palm. “Damn, damn, damn!”
“Dear me,” Vida said. “Is there a problem?”
“You bet,” he said, already rushing back to the house. We watched as he beat both hands against the door and yelled, “Kathy!” several times.