by Mary Daheim
Ronnie expelled a big sigh, then another groan. “It was Darryl Lindholm, Carol's ex from way back. He finally wanted to marry her.”
DARRYL LINDHOLM WAS certainly a name from out of the past, the young man who had abandoned Carol Nerstad and her unborn baby. I was so surprised that I actually stumbled against the bed, causing Ronnie to wince and groan one more time.
“When did he come back into the picture?” I asked in astonishment.
Ronnie gave what appeared to be a shrug. “I dunno. I'm not sure he was ever out of it.”
“What do you mean?” Gingerly, I perched on the edge of the bed. These stand-up interviews were wearing me down.
“Carol'd been seeing him off and on for years,” Ronnie explained. “At least, that's what I figured when this Darryl character showed up one night about two months ago.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering what Vida would make of this revelation.
“I guess he still liked her.” Ronnie's mouth turned down. “He'd been married and divorced a couple of times. Carol laughed it off, but I think she got a kick outta him hangin’ around. 'Specially since she had their kid with her.”
I tried not to get distracted by the sobbing family that had gathered around the last bed in the row. The little drama didn't seem to disturb the stone-faced guard. If I poked him with a safety pin, would he react? “Does Darryl live in Seattle?” I asked.
“I guess,” Ronnie said, his voice still lifeless. “Carol didn't tell me nothin’ about him.”
“But you knew Darryl was Kendra's birth father, right?”
“He told me that,” Ronnie said, “not Carol.”
“Had Kendra met him?”
“Maybe. I guess.” Ronnie was losing interest in the subject.
“Why did Darryl want to see you?” I persisted.
Ronnie grimaced. “He's a jerk.”
“That's the wrong answer.”
My cousin—oddly enough, I was beginning to think of him as an actual relative—wriggled awkwardly in the bed. “Like I told you, he wanted to marry her. He was tellin’ me to butt out.”
The sobbing at the last bed was growing louder and more intense. Unlike a hospital, there was no curtain to pull for privacy. “So why didn't you tell the police where you were while Carol was getting herself killed?”
“Say what?” Ronnie put a hand to his injured ear.
I repeated the question more loudly. Ronnie turned away. “It was none of their damned business.”
“Ronnie…” I was getting exasperated. “If you'd told them about meeting Darryl Lindholm, you wouldn't be here. What's the big secret?”
Ronnie didn't answer. The sobbing subsided as a doctor hurried to the bed.
“If you don't tell me, I'm leaving,” I declared. “Leaving, as in going back to Alpine.”
He finally looked at me again. “You won't tell?”
“Of course not,” I lied. The group by the last bed had withdrawn into a small cluster of bowed heads and slumped shoulders. A nurse had joined the doctor.
“Darryl wanted to buy me off,” Ronnie said, showing a spark of anger. Or maybe it was indignation. “Like I was some kinda boy toy.”
“That's what upset you so?” Ronnie was full of surprises, few of them good.
“Yeah, sure. Why shouldn't it? A grand, like I was some cheap whore. You'da thought he'd offer me five figures, right?”
I sighed. The doctor was now speaking to the circle of visitors. They sighed. Or so it appeared.
“You think I'm gonna tell anybody that?” Ronnie said with anger in his voice. “A stinkin’ grand. I told him to fuck off.”
Though I was appalled at Ronnie's unconcern in the face of serving an unjust prison term, I took his wrath as a good sign. Near the last bed, the family members clung to each other and began moving away. The nurse was pulling a sheet over the patient's face.
I took that as a bad sign.
The guard kept looking straight ahead.
I tried to convince Ronnie that he had to tell his attorney about the meeting with Darryl Lindholm. Ronnie refused to agree, but by the time I left he seemed to be weakening. Naturally, I would tell Alvin Sternoff myself. But first, I had to track down Darryl Lindholm.
There was only one listing under that name in the Seattle directory. Darryl G. Lindholm lived in Magnolia, just south of Ballard and the Lake Washington Ship Canal. I dialed his number from the lobby, but wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. It was Easter Sunday, after all.
Certainly, it was the strangest Easter in my experience. On the surface, the Resurrection didn't mesh with bar-hopping, Ronnie's self-destructiveness, and a corpse hauled off before my eyes. Except, of course, that it did. In life there was death, and in death there was life. My spiritual side, slim as it may be, was being buried under my cousin's sea of troubles. But Ronnie was all about Easter, too.
I didn't leave a message on Darryl's machine. His announcement had been terse and to the point: “I'm out or on the phone. Leave your name and number.”
Next I tried Alvin Sternoff. I assumed he was Jewish; therefore, maybe he'd be home.
He was, and sounded harried. “An alibi?” he said after I related all that I'd learned on my recent adventures. “Darn, why didn't he say so? This Darryl is Carol's ex-husband?”
“No,” I corrected him. “The husband's out of the picture. So far, anyway. Darryl's the ex-boyfriend, originally from Alpine. He's the father of Carol's daughter. There's also Roy, a recent ex-boyfriend who's now dating May-beth, the next-door neighbor.”
“Boy, this is confusing,” Alvin said. “Carol must have had something going for her.”
“You realize that Maybeth's lying—or maybe just mistaken—about when Ronnie left the apartment,” I pointed out.
“She is? Wow.” Alvin paused, apparently trying to sift through my information. “But after Ronnie left, whoever came next got into it with Carol and then left her still alive?”
“We don't know that for sure,” I said. “I'll be confronting Maybeth again this afternoon.”
“Maybe I should come,” Alvin said, though he sounded dubious.
“No need,” I assured him. “I'll let you know what I find out.”
“Would you?” Relief was evident in his tone. “I'm having dinner with my folks over in Bellevue. On Sundays, they always eat around three. They hate it when I'm late.”
“That's fine,” I said with a smile. Alvin might be disorganized, but he seemed like a very sweet young man. I wished I knew a suitable young woman. But then he probably already had a girlfriend. “We'll be in touch.”
It was noon, but I wasn't hungry yet. On my way out to Maybeth's, I took a detour and drove to my old neighborhood. Sentimentality doesn't run strong with me, but I was curious. How did the present occupants of my old family home spend a cloudy Easter Sunday?
Just as I turned the corner, the rain started, small, harmless drops dotting the windshield. A boy about seven and a girl not more than three were searching the garden for eggs. Two women, both in their thirties, stood on the porch. By the old hydrangea bush, a bearded man with rimless glasses cheered on the children. An older woman in an apron held open the screen door and spoke to one of the younger women. I kept going, not just trying to avoid attracting their attention, but because an SUV was pulling up behind me. It parked under the maple tree, and in my rearview mirror, I saw two more children jump out onto the parking strip while a man and a woman emerged carrying covered dishes. It was a cozy, charming scene, but faintly foreign to me. We Lords had enjoyed a private celebration, usually feasting on ham or roast beef. There were always plenty of leftovers. That had seemed like a good thing at the time. In retrospect, maybe it wasn't. If family and friends had been allowed into our little circle, we wouldn't have had so much food to spare. Maybe that would have been a better thing.
Increasing my speed, I turned at the corner to head north and west to the Greenwood district. Skirting Green Lake, I wondered about the Addisons. Were they celebrating Easter toget
her? Or was Sam holed up in a drab motel while Kathy sat proud and alone in their immaculate house? Was Kendra making mad, passionate love with Gavin Odell at her new apartment?
A block from my destination, I pulled over to call Vida. She'd be back from church, but probably not yet en route to whichever relatives were hosting Easter dinner.
“My, my!” she exclaimed. “You certainly have garnered some interesting information. Especially regarding Darryl Lindholm. I wonder what he's been up to all these years. It's dreadful when people move away and lose touch. Divorced, you say? Twice? What does that tell you?”
“He's a pain in the butt?”
“Emma, your language is deteriorating in the city,” Vida scolded. “Perhaps the divorces indicate that Darryl never got over his first love.”
“Carol?” I was doubtful. “She sounds like a real bit… of goods,” I added hastily. “Women who beat up on men aren't any better than men who beat women.”
“Frustration. Thwarted love. Perhaps they were meant to be together.” Vida's voice had taken on a lilting note. Clearly, she had slipped into one of her pearls-and-lace romantic moods. “You, of all people, should know what I mean.”
In such moods, Vida always rhapsodizes on my love affair with Tom Cavanaugh. No matter how many times Tom keeps postponing our long-desired union, his excuses make perfect sense to Vida. Indeed, whatever reason he gives is, in her opinion, evidence of his sterling character. Sometimes, I want to strangle both of them.
Which brought me back to Carol's murder. “I'm on my way to see Maybeth again,” I said. “I know she's lying, or at the very least, she made a mistake about when Ronnie left the apartment.”
“An unreliable sort of person,” Vida agreed. “Are you certain Ronnie won't try to kill himself again?”
“He'll be watched,” I replied, “and no, I'm not certain. The man is utterly spineless. If he does manage to get out of jail, what will become of him?”
“He needs a good woman,” Vida declared, still on her pink cloud. “Someone who can straighten him out. Oh, I know the fallacy of trying to change people—but occasionally, it's a matter of not having had an opportunity. Have you spoken with his parents?”
“No,” I replied. “They're in a retirement community in Arizona. I don't think Ronnie hears from them much. And from what I remember, they'd be no help.”
“Which is why Ronnie never had an opportunity,” Vida said. “Tsk, tsk.” She paused for a moment. “A fork. Really, now. That brings to mind my husband's cousin Elmo. Years ago he tried to strangle himself by winding the suspenders on his overalls around his neck and jumping up and down. So futile. So silly.”
I inquired about the Harquist-O'Neill feud. Vida hadn't had time to learn much, though she'd found out that Stubby O'Neill would be released from the hospital Monday, and that Milo was going to let the two Har-quists out of jail in time for Easter dinner.
“So where are you headed?” I asked as the wireless connection started to break up.
“Ah…” The hesitation was unusual for Vida. “Buck is cooking dinner for me.”
“I thought he wasn't getting in until late,” I said.
“His plans changed,” Vida replied. “One of the grandchildren came down with chicken pox. Whatever's wrong with your phone?”
“Technical difficulties,” I said as the noise grew louder and more frequent. “I'll check in later. Happy Easter, Vida.”
The rain was coming down harder when I approached Maybeth's door. Roy Sprague, attired only in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, answered my buzz.
“Do I know you?” he asked with a frown.
“Sure. I'm the Easter Bunny. May I hop in?”
My attempt at humor didn't make Roy laugh, but it befuddled him. He stepped aside, then asked if I was a friend of Maybeth's. Having gained access to the apartment, I became candid.
“I was here yesterday,” I confessed, “with my friend. I'm Ronnie's cousin.”
“Oh.” Recognition dawned on Roy, and it didn't seem to please him. “Hey, what is this? Why're you bugging us? Ronnie's toast.”
“I don't think so,” I said, and sat down in an armchair before Roy told me I couldn't. “I know what Carol did to you, Roy, and what she did to Ronnie. But I doubt that either of you would kill her for it. You're both… gentlemen.” It wasn't true, but it sounded better than weasels.
The bit of flattery seemed to have some effect on Roy. “Hey, it wasn't all that bad. What can women do except scratch and claw and slap? It's no big deal.”
“What's this?” Maybeth stood in the hallway door, her red hair wet and her thin flowered robe clinging to her curves. “You again?”
Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, I smiled widely. “Maybeth, I must apologize for misleading you. I'm in a real pickle.”
“So?” She reached behind the door and grabbed a bath towel, which she wrapped around her head. “Why should I care?” On bare feet, she padded into the living room and flopped down on the sofa next to Roy.
“You should care about the truth,” I said, my smile disappearing. “You must know that by lying, you can be charged with obstructing justice. I don't want to see you get into trouble.”
“What am I lying about?” Maybeth demanded with a pugnacious expression. “Why should I?”
“It may be a mistake,” I said reasonably. “Look, we can probably clear this up in two minutes. Tell me again what you remember about the night Carol was killed.”
Maybeth uttered an obscenity under her breath, then poked Roy. “If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have been around when all this crap went down. But oh, no, instead of going dancing, you played poker with your lame friends out on 99 until four in the morning. You lost, too.”
“Not much,” Roy said. “Hell, I raked in two large the week before.”
“Which you didn't spend on me,” Maybeth noted, and poked Roy again, only harder.
“How about it?” I said, wondering if Maybeth beat up Roy, too.
“About what?” Maybeth's blue eyes narrowed.
“What you heard the night of the murder.” Once again, my patience was being tested.
“Oh, that.” Maybeth lighted a cigarette from a pack lying on the floor. “It was around nine, maybe a little after. Ronnie and Carol were fighting—I could hear her yelling at him through the wall. Then he slammed out and she kept on yelling. That's it.”
I nodded slowly. “That matches what you told us earlier. But Maybeth, if Carol was still yelling when Ronnie left, how could he have already killed her?”
Maybeth paused with the cigarette halfway to her full lips. “He came back, obviously. I didn't hear him, but that's what he must have done.”
I shook my head. “You don't know that for certain. Look, Ronnie has an alibi for nine o'clock. He was at Freddy's. Terri saw him there at eight-thirty. You must have been mistaken about when he left. Would you swear in court that it was Ronnie you heard fighting with Carol around nine?”
Maybeth rubbed at her hair with the towel. Her phony nails had been painted a deep purple and curved slightly at the tips. “Ronnie's kind of a low talker,” she admitted. “Sometimes when they argued, it was hard to hear him.”
I didn't point out the obvious: If Ronnie and Carol hadn't quarreled, Maybeth probably didn't hear Ronnie leave before eight-thirty. “Did you hear anyone— anything—to indicate Carol had another visitor?”
“Well, I heard somebody,” she asserted, the full lips pouting. “Even Carol wasn't bitchy enough to argue with herself.”
“Maybe it was the bald guy,” Roy said, getting up to go out to the kitchen.
“Which one?” Maybeth called after him.
“The one with the bike,” Roy replied, returning with a can of beer. “It's a black Honda, early eighties model.”
“I'd have heard him,” Maybeth responded. “That bike is loud. It must have been the other guy.”
From what little I'd seen of Sam Addison, he didn't strike me as the biker type. Of course,
you never knew. “Is the biker's name Darryl?” I asked.
Maybeth shrugged. “I never met the guy. But I think he and Carol had something going on the side.”
That sounded more like Darryl. Then again, you never knew. “Did the biker come around often?” I inquired.
“Not really.” Maybeth poked Roy. “Hey, where's mine?” She pointed to the beer can. Obediently, Roy got up and went back to the kitchen. “Two, three times. You could always hear him coming. I only saw the other bald guy once. He knocked on my door by mistake.”
“Was he a little older?” I asked as Roy came back with Maybeth's beer and one for me. I couldn't refuse his unexpected hospitality, so I thanked him and boldly lighted a cigarette. I was beginning to feel like one of the gang. Maybe I should get some acrylic nails from Stella's Styling Salon when I got back to Alpine.
“You mean older than the biker dude?” Roy said. “Yeah, a few years. The guy with the Honda was late thirties, maybe forty. It's hard to tell when guys are bald, 'cause you don't know if they really are or they just shaved their heads. Unless you get real close, that is.”
“When was the last time you saw either of them?” I asked.
The couple exchanged glances. “Biker dude was here on a Saturday, maybe a month ago,” Roy said.
Maybeth nodded. “He stayed about an hour.”
“I assume he was calling on Carol,” I noted. “Was Ronnie home?”
“No,” Roy answered. “Ronnie was shooting pool. I ran into him at Goldie's down on Forty-fifth.”
“Did Carol and the biker quarrel?” I asked, taking a sip of beer.
Maybeth giggled. “Heck, no. They were real quiet. I figured they were doing something else.”
“And the older bald man?” I said. “Has he been here lately?”
Maybeth nodded. “He was here the day Carol got killed.”
I'd taken a drag on my cigarette and was so startled that I choked. “He was?” I said in a strained voice. “When?”
Maybeth removed the towel from her damp hair and tipped her head to one side. “I'd just come home from work at the salon. It was six, six-fifteen. I didn't see him leave. Who are all these guys anyway?” She asked the question as if she'd only become curious about Carol's male visitors in the last two minutes.