by Mary Daheim
I tried not to wince at the exaggeration. Billings and Plancich, however, didn't seem impressed.
“Small-town law-enforcement types don't have the training or experience we've got here,” Plancich said with a swagger that was undoubtedly aimed at Kendra. “We can't afford to take too much time solving cases. Our detectives are overloaded as it is. We all are. It's a tough job. Dangerous, too.”
“So,” Vida said, now smiling her Cheshire cat grin, “you must all be relieved when the solution to a homicide is so easy.”
“This kind of killing usually is,” Billings said, making a gesture that took in the entire apartment. “Domestic homicides are the simplest of all.”
“Yes, yes,” Vida agreed. “How convenient. For you, that is. Let me think—Rojas, that's the name of the detective who was in charge, correct?”
Both officers nodded. “Good man,” Plancich said. “He doesn't have very many open cases.”
“How nice for him,” said Vida. “Of course,” she added somewhat slyly, “you can't blame us for having our own doubts. Family, you know. So hard to believe that one of your own can be a killer.” She put an arm around me. I wondered if I should burst into tears.
Next to Vida, Kendra was showing signs of impatience. Apparently, the officers were no match for Gavin Odell. “Hey, everybody, I've got to get to work on this place.” She gave the policemen a big smile. “Thanks for everything. I'm sorry I put you to so much trouble just now.”
“No problem,” Billings said, again tipping his hat. “It's kind of nice to come around here when everything's calm for a change.”
“Oh?” Vida's nose seemed to twitch. “Were you often called to Carol's apartment?”
“Ah…” Billings grimaced. “Two, three times maybe. Domestic violence. No arrests. They always seemed to have calmed down by the time we got here.”
“That's often the case,” Vida said. “Kiss and make up. So tiresome for you, though. Was Carol ever badly injured?”
“Carol?” The officers exchanged quick glances. “No,” Billings said. “But he was.”
Billings and Plancich left after that. I sensed some tension between them as they headed back to their patrol car. Billings apparently had spoken out of turn.
We waited for the patrol car to pull out, which took a few minutes, since it looked as if the partners were checking in with their squad. Before we parted with Kendra, she asked if she could have the hat. Vida refused.
“Why, I've had this hat for over twenty years,” she declared. “It would be like losing a family member. Look in the Sears catalogue. I'm sure you'll find some similar items.”
Kendra hadn't looked enthusiastic.
Finally, when we got into the Lexus, Vida was agog. “Don't you see what that slipup by the police means? Carol was beating on Ronnie, not the other way around. I have to wonder if Roy's scratches and his black eye weren't defense measures by Carol, but attacks on him. And the whole case against your cousin is flimsy indeed, based on a common history, not solid evidence.”
“That's what it sounds like,” I admitted. “I wonder if they'd let me talk to Ronnie over the phone. I'd like to give him some encouragement.”
“By all means,” Vida urged. “It's suppertime. Where shall we go? You can call from there.”
I remembered that there was a rather good grill over on Aurora that also had a full-service bar. Vida might scold, but I could use a drink. It had been a very long day, and the worst was yet to come.
While Vida mulled over the menu, I phoned from the restaurant. It took what seemed like forever to have the jailers put Ronnie on the phone, and when I heard his voice, there was no life in it.
“Tell me something,” I said, knowing that there was a time limit to our conversation. “Did Carol beat you?”
“Huh? What do you mean?” Ronnie sounded confused.
“Did she hit you, throw things, try to punch you out?”
A long pause. “She could get real mad.” Another pause. “Sometimes, yeah, she'd whale on me. It was no big deal. I can take care of myself.”
“Did you ever call the cops?”
“Huh? The cops?” This time I could hear Ronnie suck in his breath. “Well… maybe we called once. Somebody else upstairs might've called, too. We were kinda loud.”
I decided not to pursue that line of questioning. I figured I already had the answer. “We're making progress,” I said, putting enthusiasm into my voice. “We think the police investigation was a knee-jerk reaction. There's no real evidence against you, Ronnie.”
“Then why am I in the slammer?”
“Because you got railroaded,” I replied. “Oh, I found out where Budweiser is. He's with Mr. Chan's son and grandchildren.”
“They'll eat him,” Ronnie said in a dismal voice. “That's what those Chinamen do. They eat cats and dogs.”
“Not Peter Chan,” I declared. “He's as American as you are.”
“I'll bet. They're all alike.”
“I'll try to get Budweiser back as soon as I can,” I promised.
“Hunh. I'll bet. I mean,” he added hastily, “they won't let him go. Buddy's probably already in the soup pot.”
“Stop that, Ronnie,” I ordered. “We've learned a lot of things in the last twenty-four hours, all to your benefit. Tonight we're going to check with the bars to find you an alibi.”
“Yeah, sure.” He paused again, then sighed. “Wish I was there. Damn.”
Either Ronnie's telephone time was up, or he had hung up on me.
“Really,” Vida said after I'd ordered a vodka gimlet, “if you plan on drinking this evening, why on earth are you ordering an alcoholic beverage now?”
“I don't have to drink in a tavern,” I said. “I can order a soda or coffee, just like you will. Besides, we aren't going bar-hopping for a couple of hours. Vodka goes through your system much faster than any other kind of liquor.”
“What an appalling piece of knowledge!” Vida exclaimed. “You've researched drinking? Emma, I'm shocked.”
“No, you're not.” I grinned. “It goes back to my college days, when it was very important to know how much you could drink without puking all over your date.”
“Aargh!” Vida looked as if she might become ill from listening to me.
While we waited for our orders I checked to see if I had any messages on my voice mail. Somewhat to my surprise, there was one from Milo.
“Just thought you'd want to know,” he said in his familiar drawl, “the O'Neills and the Harquists got into it last night at the Icicle Creek Tavern. Stubby O'Neill is in the hospital with two broken arms. Ozzie and Rudy Har-quist are in jail. The tavern's damned near wrecked. Hope you're having fun in the city.” He ended the conversation with an upbeat note to his voice, which indicated that he was probably looking forward to a romantic evening with his new love.
I relayed the information to Vida, who was aghast, but not for the reason I might have anticipated. “Is that what we're in for tonight? I thought people in the city merely shot each other or used knives.”
“Not all the time,” I replied with a straight face. “Blood feuds aren't as common here. Aren't you a little bit surprised about the O'Neills and Harquists? I thought things had calmed down between them.”
“Apparently not,” Vida said. “Cap Harquist and his boys have been logging over in Idaho off and on for the past few years, but I guess they came back to stay this winter. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the feud broke out again.”
Fifty years ago, when logging was king in Skykomish County, Paddy O'Neill and Cap Harquist had worked together for one of the now-defunct logging companies. They had been best friends who'd had a falling-out—not over a woman or money or who was going to buy the next beer—but over a billy goat named Ted. The goat was Cap's pride and joy. He'd put a bell around the animal's neck and a straw hat on its head. One night Ted got loose out on the Burl Creek Road. Paddy, who was drunk, ran his truck over Ted. The only thing that didn't get f
lattened was the hat. Cap never forgave Paddy, and the feud was on.
Paddy was now in his eighties and confined to a wheelchair. Cap, however, was still robust at seventy-seven. There were three O'Neill sons and two Harquist scions. They had all gone through school together, fighting every inch of the way until the high-school principal expelled all of them. Now in middle age, the five men still picked fights with each other. Sometimes Cap joined in. Fortunately, there were only daughters in the third generation. They were mostly teenagers, and contented themselves with making cruel remarks about their enemies’ weight, complexions, and wardrobes. I had to wonder whether the physical or the emotional abuse was more damaging.
“So silly,” Vida remarked after our orders had arrived.
“It was always a relief when either one or the other of the families left Alpine to work somewhere else. Of course,” she added, more softly, “it wasn't a good sign for the local economy.”
I agreed. Only one mill remained in Alpine. For those whose vocation was logging, it meant working elsewhere, either in another forest or driving their trucks between far-flung destinations. Hard times had hit Alpine in the early eighties, as the last of the great harvests were completed and the environmentalists got their way. The song of the mill whistle and the rumble of the rigs had all but faded into history.
“The women in those families are as bad as the men,” Vida said between mouthfuls of lamb chop. “Vicious. Mean-spirited. Very few brains between them.”
“I hope Scott Chamoud knows about all this,” I said. “He certainly wouldn't have the background.”
“Of course not,” Vida agreed. “I've never sat him down to give it. Luckily, we'll be back on Monday.”
I sipped my gimlet and fretted. My youthful reporter was a city boy, from Portland, Oregon. He was unwise in the ways of small towns. Knocking on an O'Neill or a Harquist door could prove dangerous. I took the cell phone out of my handbag and dialed Scott's number.
He wasn't in, so I left a message. Then I remembered that he was going home for Easter to be with his family.
“Damn!” I struck myself on the forehead. “Scott's out of town. What was I thinking of?”
“So he is.” Vida frowned. “Well, we have until Tuesday to cover the story. Unless,” she added with a tilt of her head, “you want to go home now.”
“No. We can't.” The half-finished filet on my plate suddenly didn't look so appetizing. “I'm negligent. We shouldn't have left The Advocate so stripped of manpower. Here we are, running around on what may be a wild-goose chase, and—”
“You know it's not.” Vida gave me a hard stare from under the cartwheel's brim. “We've made considerable progress.”
“Ronnie doesn't think so,” I pointed out.
“But we have.” Vida put her fork down and rested her chin on her hands. “See here, Emma, I'm the last person to slight The Advocate. Not to be overly dramatic, but we may be saving your cousin's life. If you feel so strongly about this ridiculous brawl, then I can return to Alpine immediately on the bus. There's one that gets into town at ten-twelve, as you well know. What do you think?”
I was torn. It was true that we had most of Monday and Tuesday to cover the story. But it was a big one by Alpine standards, and we'd have to be very careful so that none of the feuding participants got mad and sued us. Milo would have the basic facts, but none of the details. Only Vida knew the full background.
“I'd prefer not going it alone here,” I said slowly. “Hard news isn't your usual beat.” Indeed, Vida's rare front-page stories always contained the flavor of her House and Home section. If I let her write up this one, I'd have to edit it closely to make sure we didn't get descriptions of what the brawlers were wearing, where they'd gone on their last vacation, and what kind of peanuts had been served at the Icicle Creek Tavern.
“Let me call the bus depot,” I said, getting up to use the pay phone. I was wary of mounting charges on the cell. “I think the bus makes at least one stop out here on Aurora.”
I was right. The local that went over Stevens Pass was due some ten blocks south in twenty minutes. We hurriedly finished our meal, paid the bill, and drove off in the Lexus.
“I really hate to see you go,” I said. “What will you do for Easter tomorrow?”
Vida chortled. “Inflict myself on one of my relatives whom I was trying to avoid. It'll be fine. I don't like leaving Cupcake alone this long anyway.”
Cupcake was Vida's canary. “Edith Holmgren's feeding the cats,” I said. Edith was a widow who lived across the street and one door down. We had never been particularly friendly until I acquired Rheims and Rouen. Then I discovered that she owned seven cats, and apparently didn't become chatty with anyone who wasn't a cat lover.
“Edith.” Vida sneered. “She enters those silly cats in the county fair every year. They've never won so much as an honorable mention. Scruffy animals, if you ask me. One of them is cross-eyed.”
We were five minutes early at the bus stop. I pulled into a passenger loading zone. “I'll wait until you get safely on the bus.”
Vida started to say something, interrupted herself, and murmured, “Of course. The hookers. And their pimps.”
“Right. Not to mention the drug deals going down on a Saturday night.”
“Goodness. The city. I'll be glad to get home. So reassuring.”
Since Vida's early return was triggered by mayhem, violence, and her desire to be in the thick of things, I had to suppress a smile. “Alpine. So quiet. So harmonious.”
“Emma!” Vida turned sharply. “At least the O'Neills and the Harquists are still alive!”
“I know.” I laughed, then saw what looked like the outline of an approaching bus. “Here you go. I won't forget your luggage.”
Halfway out of the car, Vida glanced at me over her shoulder. “You be careful. I mean it.”
“I will. Hurry, the bus has a green light.”
I could see a couple of hookers near the bus stop, looking tired and bored. A few yards away, a homeless man was propped up against a low concrete wall. Three teenagers carrying a very large and very loud ghetto blaster boogied down the street. This was not Vida's turf; I wasn't even sure it was mine anymore.
Just as Vida moved closer to the curb, a man approached her from the other direction. He appeared to be middle-aged, with a beard and wearing jeans and what looked like a gold 49ers jacket. He spoke to Vida, who rebuffed him with a swing of her purse. The man slunk away in the same direction he had come. He must have been panhandling. I let out a sigh of relief.
The big silver vehicle pulled in ahead of me. I couldn't see Vida get on, but a moment later the bus edged into traffic, and she was gone. To a far, far better place—at least I knew that's what Vida was thinking.
Now I had to go it alone.
AFTER VIDA LEFT, I felt lost. I sat in the passenger loading zone for a couple of minutes, vaguely watching the motley crew that plied Aurora. A patrol car slowed down as it came by, and I assumed the officers were going to check out the pimps and hookers. Instead, they all but stopped to stare at me. Then they picked up speed and drove on. Apparently, a well-dressed middle-aged woman in a new Lexus wasn't considered a threat to the justice system.
At last I headed off to cruise the bars of Greenwood. Ronnie had mentioned Freddy's, which was on a corner at a major intersection. There was parking in back, but I decided to find a spot on the street. The Lexus might be a magnet for rowdy drunks staggering out of the bar.
Freddy's was also a restaurant, the kind where you could get a tough steak and a shriveled baked potato after you'd managed not to pass out in the bar. They served hard liquor as well as beer and wine. I sat down at a table slightly larger than a silver dollar and ordered the first brand I could think of. Which was, naturally, Bud-weiser. This was no place for Seattle's famous micro-brews or exotic foreign imports. If I'd asked for a Harp's, they would have probably brought me a ukulele.
Naturally, I felt conspicuous. And nervous. To give
my hands a task, I went to the cigarette machine and bought a pack of Winston Ultra-Lights. If Vida had been with me, depraved would have been the least of the adjectives she'd have used to describe me.
At going on nine o'clock, the large, utilitarian bar was about half-full. Twenty years ago Freddy's had been some kind of Masonic hall. I didn't know how many metamorphoses it had gone through since, but I doubted that any of the subsequent owners had spent much on decorating. Except for the usual neon beer signs and a couple of scenic paintings that looked as if they'd been done by the numbers—but not necessarily in order—the bar was strictly minimalist. I was already depressed, and I hadn't yet been served.
My waitress came toward me, walking as if her feet hurt. She was a dishwater blond on the plump side, probably about my age. The lines in her pale face showed the usual road marks of a life lived hard and unhappily. I took advantage of her mild expression of curiosity.
“Do you know Ronnie Mallett?” I asked, hoping I looked friendly.
She frowned. “Is he the guy who offed his girlfriend?”
“Allegedly,” I replied. “I'm his cousin Emma. Who did he hang out with around here?”
The waitress glanced around the room. “See that guy with the long red hair sitting with the older bald guy? That's Morrie. He and Ronnie bowled together sometimes.”
“Good,” I said, spotting Morrie at a table near the jukebox. “Anybody else?”
“Mmm… I don't think so. Wait—there's a guy at the bar—I can't think of his name. He's the one with the obvious butt crack.”
Great. “Great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “You've been a real help. I think I'll mingle, okay?”
“Sure. You running a tab?”
I shook my head and went for my wallet. Leaving a hefty tip, I decided to start with Butt Crack. Fortunately— I guess—the bar stool on his left had just been vacated.