The Alpine Menace

by Mary Daheim

  “She'll come into the living room,” I pointed out.

  “Of course. Then we'll call on her.” Vida pressed against the exterior wall, her sharp gaze glued to the window, one hand pushing back the cartwheel hat with its profusion of butterflies on the brim. I swear I could see her nostrils twitch.

  Almost five minutes passed before we heard footsteps. Then, somewhat to our surprise, we heard voices, a male and a female.

  “Not alone,” Vida whispered, wiggling her eyebrows.

  “… for the kitchen,” the female voice was saying.

  “Why?” the male responded. “You don't cook.”

  “I will some—” The door closed on the young woman we presumed was Kendra.

  “How long do we wait?” I inquired of Vida.

  She looked at her watch. “Two minutes. I'll time it.”

  We remained silent as the seconds ticked down. Vida was giving me a nod when something moved in the bedroom. I flattened myself against the wall, looking straight ahead through the trees. Vida, however, remained at her post.

  “It's them. Oh, my!”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “They're… My, my!” She gave a faint shake of her head, but kept looking.

  I was about to ask her what was going on, but she was riveted to her small sliver of window. At last, Vida, now bug-eyed, ducked under the sill and crept toward me.

  “I don't think we should call on them after all,” she said under her breath. “I didn't know you could do it that way. Oh my!”

  “SO KENDRA HAS a boyfriend,” Vida said, adjusting the cartwheel hat as we returned to the car. “Goodness, she's certainly promiscuous. Just like her mother. Her real mother, that is.”

  “We don't know that for a fact,” I countered. “The guy in that bedroom may be Kendra's one and only. How old did he look?”

  Vida expelled an impatient sigh. “Young. Early twenties, no more. I really didn't get a very good look.”

  I couldn't resist. “Old enough not to be wearing Bugs Bunny underwear?”

  Vida took offense. “Really, Emma. How do you think of such things?”

  I laughed, but Vida continued in a musing tone. “It's not natural. It's… acrobatic.”

  I ignored the comment. “Let's not come down too hard on Kendra just yet,” I said, heading south on Roosevelt Way. “What do we know about her? Apparently, she was happy to have met her birth mother, which indicates family ties are important to her. We saw her try to reason with her father last night. That means she believes in keeping the peace. She's moved out and gone on her own, which shows she has initiative. The only negative is that she accused Ronnie of hitting on her, which may be true. From what little I've seen of her, mainly a graduation picture, Kendra is very good-looking.”

  “Carol was good-looking as a teenager,” Vida said in a musing tone. “Very fair. She was a Lucia Bride one year at the Lutheran church.”

  “So where did Carol go wrong?”

  “That boy… If only I could remember…” Vida snapped her fingers. “Darryl Lindholm. That's who got Carol pregnant. Quite tall. He played basketball and football for the Buckers.”

  The Buckers was the nickname for Alpine high-school teams. “What happened to him?”

  “The Lindholms were would-bes,” Vida said, using her term for people who would be of a better social standing than they actually were. “They moved to Mount Vernon, where they became active in the bulb business. Darryl went to Pacific Lutheran University in Tacoma. Which, I believe, is why his parents put pressure on him not to marry Carol. It would have interfered with his upward mobility.”

  “So the Lindholms are long gone from Alpine?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Vida replied. “Very sad.”

  Vida always finds cause for grief when someone moves away. Typical of small-towners, she considers such defections a personal betrayal.

  “Where are we going?” she asked abruptly.

  “I don't know,” I said. “It's almost three. We've got hours to kill before we bar-hop.”

  Vida shuddered. “Really… Will it be worse than Mugs Ahoy?”

  Mugs Ahoy is Alpine's most popular tavern, a gritty watering hole on Front Street run by Abe Loomis, whose last name should be Gloomis. Abe is one of the most morose men I've ever met. At first, I couldn't understand how he could tend bar and offer sympathy to his customers as they poured out their troubles. Then it occurred to me that after a few beers, most people want to be told that the misfortunes visited upon them are unique, unparalleled, and couldn't happen to a more pitiful person. Then, by the final call, Abe can actually lift their spirits by revealing the horrible things that have happened to him since they last warmed his bar stools.

  “Worse?” I echoed. “No. All taverns are the same. The tonier ones have become pubs in Seattle.”

  “That sounds much nicer,” Vida said, looking fretful. “Why couldn't your cousin have aspired to higher things?”

  I had no answer for that, but suddenly said, “Lynn-wood,” then signaled for a right turn onto Northgate Way. “We're going to see Garvey Lang.”

  “The roofer that Ronnie worked for? A splendid idea. Will he be there?”

  “Somebody will,” I said, heading for the freeway. “He also has a wood yard. Garvey can't be the only one who knows Ronnie.”

  Vida agreed. I noticed that she had grown pensive again. “I've never read those racy romances.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugged. “Still, one wonders…” Vida lapsed into silence, so I let the subject drop.

  The suburbs change and spread so fast around Seattle that I always get lost. We stopped at a gas station to get directions, but the young man who came out to the car had never heard of Garvey Lang, a roofing company, or a wood yard. He only worked in Lynnwood and lived in Bothell.

  We stopped next at a 7-Eleven, where the Pakistani behind the counter had barely heard of Lynnwood. The phone book had been stolen from the booth outside, so we went on to a Plaid Pantry. The spike-haired girl at the register had gone to high school with somebody named Garvey—or maybe it was Carvey—but couldn't help us. I finally found a directory at a pay phone by a Safeway store. The address for Lang's Roofing meant nothing. Thankfully, a checker with a Bob Marley hairstyle in the express lane told me how to get there.

  We drove through the maze of malls, bucking heavy traffic and interminable stoplights. Vida complained constantly, a staccato accompaniment to the overhead street signs, the merging lanes, the bored expressions on the other drivers.

  “The city indeed! We must be miles from Seattle. Where's Everett? Where are we?”

  “Still in Lynnwood,” I said. “I hope.”

  Lang's Roofing was located in an unpretentious house that had been converted into a commercial enterprise. Garvey's Firewood was next door, behind a chain-link fence. There was a sign in the window of the house: OPEN.

  Two men, one young, the other late-middle-aged, stood staring up at roof samples that wrapped around the display room. Behind the counter, a burly, bald man of fifty was calculating what were probably roof dimensions.

  “Garvey Lang?” I asked.

  The man took off his glasses and smiled, revealing either perfect teeth or excellent dentures. “Can I put a roof over your head, young lady?”

  I pretended to be flattered, then had to disappoint Garvey Lang. As Vida tapped her foot, I lowered my voice and explained my connection to Garvey's erstwhile employee.

  “Ronnie's cousin, huh?” Sadly, Garvey shook his head. “Hang on. Let me get Hank out front.”

  Hank was probably Garvey's son. Same build, same smile, signs of early male-pattern balding. He took over as Garvey led us behind the counter and into a crowded office that featured a flowering cactus.

  “You the aunt or the mom?” Garvey asked Vida.

  Vida bridled in the armchair our host had provided.

  “My word, no. I'm no relation to either of them.” Her glance in my direction eloquently dism
issed me as kin.

  Tactfully, I explained that we worked together, but didn't say what we did. The word newspaper can close as many doors as it opens.

  “I have to be honest,” Garvey said. “Your cousin wasn't real reliable. He was often late, some days he didn't show up, he'd get the delivery addresses fouled up. I wish I could say better.”

  “But you kept him on,” I said. “Why, if he was such a screwup?”

  Garvey let out a heavy sigh. “I felt sorry for the guy. I had a kid brother like him. Maynard. He dropped out of high school, got into all kinds of trouble—nothing really serious—but it upset our folks. So I brought him into the business. It just didn't work out. Maynard was always screwing up, even got into a fistfight with a customer. I had to let him go. Two weeks later he got drunk, crossed the center line in his pickup, and killed himself and two other people out on 99. That was fifteen years ago. I never forgave myself. I see a lot of Maynard in Ronnie Mallett. I guess I kept thinking maybe this time I could make a difference. It looks like I was wrong, huh?”

  “No,” Vida declared. “We're not certain that Ronnie killed Carol Stokes. And you were right to fire your brother. He could have caused you to lose your business.”

  Garvey smiled at Vida. “But I'd still have my brother.”

  “Not necessarily,” Vida said. “He sounds self-destructive. Like Ronnie.”

  Thanks Vida, I thought. He's not one of your squirrelly relatives, so butt out. Of course, I had to be fair. Without Vida's prodding—for the sake of “family”— I might not be here in the office of Lang Roofing, listening to the owner pour out his soul.

  “Do you feel that Ronnie is capable of murder?” I asked.

  Garvey sighed again. “Who isn't? I mean, I wonder about that. Under certain circumstances, I figure just about anybody could kill somebody else. I'll admit, though, I never thought of Ronnie as a violent guy.”

  “Did you ever see him drunk?” I inquired, silently agreeing with Garvey's assessment.

  “A couple of times. He came in late—real late—and had a snootful. Sometimes he looked like he'd been in a barroom brawl. But he wasn't a belligerent drunk. He got even more mellow.”

  That didn't surprise me. “Did you ever meet Carol Stokes?”

  “No,” Garvey replied, “but Ronnie talked about her a lot. He seemed nuts about her. I never heard him say anything seriously critical.”

  “Nothing?” Vida put in. “Not even the usual masculine complaints?”

  “You mean ‘She can't cook,’ ‘She spends too much money,’ ‘She always has a headache’ sort of thing?” Garvey shook his head. “Not really. I got the impression he wanted to marry her. It was Carol who wasn't interested. He moved in with her not long after I hired him.”

  “Which was when?” I asked.

  “A year ago last month,” Garvey answered. “March is the usual time for me to add a couple of people because business picks up when the weather is good. Not the firewood part of it—that's just the opposite—but the roofing jobs. Anyway, Ronnie mostly made deliveries. Not always to the right places, though. He had trouble with numbers. I wondered if he was dyslexic.”

  Ronnie might be a number of things, but killer didn't seem to be one of them. “If this comes to trial, would you act as a character witness for him?”

  Garvey scratched his bald head. “I told his attorney I wasn't sure that I could. I mean, I'd have to be candid. It'd be hard to give Ronnie an outstanding report card.”

  “As an employee, yes,” Vida noted. “But as a person?”

  Garvey regarded Vida with a serious expression. “I see what you mean. Maybe I could at that. Basically, I always thought he was a decent guy. Maybe that's another reason why I was willing to go the extra mile. Say, who's taking care of his dog, Budweiser?”

  “I don't know,” I admitted. “The neighbor didn't seem to know, either.”

  “That Maybeth?” Garvey said with a frown. “She wouldn't tell you if she did. I figure the dog was one of the reasons they broke up.”

  “Maybeth?” I said with a little gasp. “I meant the nurse, Henrietta Something-or-Other.”

  “Altdorf,” Vida put in. “What's this about Maybeth and Ronnie?”

  “Sorry,” Garvey said with a grimace. “I assumed you knew they used to go together until Maybeth and Ronnie moved into the same apartment building next door to Carol.”

  We didn't know that. But it was certainly interesting.

  Vida insisted we head straight for Maybeth Swafford. “No more deception,” Vida asserted. “We're going to tell her exactly who we are. Henrietta as well. If we have to.”

  It was almost five o'clock by the time we reached the apartment house off Greenwood. The afternoon had turned warm, and Maybeth had her door open. She also had a guest. The man who sprawled on the sofa was close to forty, with long, blond hair, a goatee, and a tattoo on each upper arm. In his wife-beater T-shirt, he looked like the perfect companion to go bar-hopping with Ronnie Mallett.

  “What is it?” Maybeth called over the noise of the T V, which sounded as if it were broadcasting a car race or the end of the world. She was sitting on the floor, curled up next to the sofa.

  “It's us again,” Vida shouted. “We lied.”

  “What?” Maybeth's face screwed up in puzzlement. “Oh—hang on.”

  She didn't turn down the TV, but came to the door and stepped outside. “What did you say? I couldn't hear from in here.”

  Vida folded her arms across her jutting bosom and took a deep breath. “We lied to you. We're not looking for an apartment for my daughter. Indeed, she's not my daughter, she's a friend. My name is—”

  “Hold it.” Maybeth held her hands up as the TV continued to blare. “Slow down. If she's not your daughter,” she went on, nodding at me, “who is she? Why can't she look for herself? Is she crippled or something?”

  “We're not apartment hunting,” Vida declared, an impatient note in her voice. “That's not our purpose.”

  “You want a house? A rental?”

  Taking Maybeth firmly by the arm, Vida led the younger woman farther out onto the walkway. “Emma,” she said slowly as she nudged me with her elbow, “is Ronnie Mallett's cousin. She's come to Seattle to help prove Ronnie's innocence. I'm here to help her.”

  Maybeth's blue eyes widened, then narrowed. “Innocent, my butt. Ronnie did it, and that's that. Hey, I don't much appreciate you two nosing around here and asking me a bunch of stupid questions. If you want to lie to people, go pick on somebody else before I call the cops.”

  Vida started to dispute the charges, but the blond man had gotten up from the sofa and was coming toward us with a bowlegged walk.

  “What's going down, Beth?” he asked, glaring at Vida and me. “Who're these two broads?”

  Maybeth pointed at me. “She's Ronnie Mallett's cousin. The other one's a big snoop.”

  “Get lost,” the man ordered. “We don't hang with killers.”

  “Maybe you should,” Vida snapped, oblivious to contemporary slang. “For all we know, you are the killer. Ronnie didn't do it.”

  “Where's Budweiser?” I demanded, finally getting a word in edgewise.

  The man had started to pull Maybeth back inside, but he stopped. “The dog?” He glanced at his supposed girlfriend. “Where is he, Beth?”

  “Dead, I hope. That stupid mutt nearly drove me crazy when Ronnie left him tied up out back. He'd bark and bark and bark, sometimes all night. Between the barking and fighting, it's a wonder I can hear the TV. Thank God that animal shut up after Ronnie left that night. I get a killer headache with my allergies.”

  The phrase seemed apt. I pressed Maybeth about Bud-weiser's whereabouts.

  “I think Mr. Chan took him away,” she said, shooting us another hostile look.

  “Jeez, I hope not,” the man said. “I liked that dog. I'll take him. Call Chan.”

  “Come on, Roy, you don't really want to—” May-beth's words were cut off as Roy slammed the door in our
faces.

  “Roy?” Vida looked like a dog herself, a bloodhound on the scent. Her nose actually twitched. “Didn't you tell me that Kathy Addison said that Roy was the name of Carol's ex-beau?”

  “I did,” I said, marveling anew at Vida's mind for detail. “If Carol stole Ronnie from Maybeth, did she offer Roy as a consolation prize?”

  “That's what it seems like,” Vida said as we walked away from the building. “Of course, it could be a different Roy.”

  Vida had stopped just short of the Lexus. “We forgot about Henrietta. Shall we go back and ask her what she knows about Roy and Maybeth and Carol?”

  “We might as well,” I agreed. “We still have time to kill. Maybe I can call Mr. Chan about the dog. I'd like to give Ronnie some good news.”

  Vida looked askance. “You aren't thinking of taking him home with you? What about those dreadful cats you acquired?”

  “First things first,” I said as we returned to the apartment walkway. “Let's hope Henrietta isn't on duty.”

  She wasn't. “Five days off,” she said, ushering us inside. “That's what I get after a long shift. It's nice. How about some coffee?”

  We declined. Then Vida launched into her tell-all tale about who we really were and what we wanted. Luckily, Henrietta's reaction was different from Maybeth's. She laughed her head off.

  “I never!” she exclaimed, her face turning red from laughter. “That's a hoot. You two sure had me fooled.”

  “I feel bad about the deception,” I said. “It wasn't fair to you.”

  “Don't be silly,” Henrietta asserted, waving a hand. “Let's face it, I lead a dull life. Work in the OR, listen to the doctors talk about their golf game and their stock investments, come home to an empty apartment, watch TV—why, nothing exciting has happened to me in years until lately.” She paused and grew serious. “That sounds terrible, like Carol's death was some kind of entertainment. Sorry. Anyway, the cops talked to me, a nice detective was here, and now you folks. It makes my day.”

  “Tell us about Maybeth and Ronnie,” Vida urged.

  “Well.” Henrietta settled back in the easy chair, which was like its owner—solid, comfortable, and showing traces of wear. At her side, a cup of coffee stood next to a family portrait, presumably of her son, his wife, and child. “I don't know much about it,” she went on. “One day about a year ago Maybeth moved in. I guess Ronnie moved in with her, though I didn't see much of him. The next thing I know, about a month later he was with Carol. She'd dumped Roy Sprague, which was no big loss, if you ask me. They were always fighting, and I think he beat her up. A couple of times I saw him with long scratches on his face and once with a black eye. Carol had probably tried to defend herself. She and Ronnie fought, too. Frankly, Carol was kind of hard to get along with when it came to men.”