The Alpine Menace

by Mary Daheim

  “Alpine,” I said with a wry smile of my own. “Where I live.”

  “Oh.” Sam looked vaguely embarrassed. “Sorry. But small towns have a reputation for narrow-mindedness.”

  “It's justified,” I admitted. “You're right. I'm sure it was worse for Carol in Alpine, particularly twenty years ago. In fact, we're still a decade or two behind the rest of the world.”

  Sam gave an offhand nod. “Anyway, Kendra and Carol met right after the holidays. Kendra seemed fascinated by Carol. She was seeing life from a whole new perspective. What can I say? The sordidness of it intrigued her. Did I say sordid? That sounds bad. But so what? The meanness, the squalor, the lousy furniture I'd like better than all this expensive stuff Kathy keeps buying. Hell, maybe I'd have liked Carol better, too. She was no phony.”

  “How do you know?”

  Sam turned slightly sheepish. “I met her once. I never told Kathy. But I was curious.”

  “When was that?” I asked, recalling what Roy and Maybeth had said about a bald man without a motorcycle calling on Carol the day of the murder.

  Sam slammed his palms against the edge of the marble counter. “About five hours before Carol got herself strangled. Hell, I missed the Titanic, the Hindenberg, the Lusitania. I didn't get in the way of Lee Harvey Oswald's bullets, I didn't go to the federal building when it got bombed in Oklahoma City. But when do I show up on Carol Stokes's doorstep? Right while she's enjoying the last day of her life. Sheesh!”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  Sam drew back on the stool and grimaced. “Hell, no. They came by to ask if we knew Carol very well. We didn't. What was the point of mentioning my little visit? I wasn't there more than twenty minutes.”

  “What did you think of Carol?”

  Sam shrugged. “She was okay. I mean, she didn't throw me out or pull a gun. Defensive, that's how I'd describe her. I don't think she was very happy to meet me. No brass band, no confetti, no offer of cheap wine from a box.”

  “Did she act afraid? Expectant? Nervous?”

  Pausing, Sam finished his flavored water. I noticed that it was peach. “Not really. Just a little hostile.”

  “Did Kathy ever meet her?” I inquired.

  “No. Kathy didn't want to have anything to do with her. She resented the time Kendra spent with Carol. In fact,” he continued, with a hint of malice in his voice, “that's one of the reasons Kendra moved out and got her own apartment.”

  “Kendra and Kathy quarreled over Carol?”

  “You bet,” Sam replied, getting up and putting his empty bottle into a recycling bin marked GLASS. “Not so much because Kendra tracked her birth mother down, but because Kathy didn't like the amount of time that Kendra was spending with Carol.”

  “A natural resentment,” I noted as Sam leaned against the counter.

  “Natural for Kathy to be resentful,” he said. “Resentful of me sitting on the two-thousand-dollar sofa in the living room, resentful of me balking at another five-figure bank-card statement, resentful of the fact that I've lost most of my hair. You name it, she resents it.”

  Since Sam hadn't sat down again, I sensed that he wanted to get back to his moving. “But you don't know anything about Ronnie and Carol?” I asked, sliding off the stool.

  He shook his head. “Your cousin wasn't there when I saw Carol. If he didn't kill her, I don't know who did. I gathered that Carol ran with a rough crowd.” He paused and grinned. “It takes one to know one. Believe it or not, I used to be pretty rough myself until I got off my dead butt and went to college. If I hadn't had the GI bill after 'Nam, I might have ended up hanging out in bars and bowling alleys, too.”

  “You were smart,” I said, moving out of the kitchen.

  “I was lucky,” Sam said as we went through the dining room with its fine mahogany, plush carpet, custom-made drapes, and collection of imported bric-a-brac. “Or was I?” he added in an ironic tone.

  “People are more important than things,” I remarked, halfway through the handsomely appointed living room.

  “Tell that to Kathy,” said Sam.

  I felt at loose ends after I got in the car. Though Sam had given me Kendra's telephone number at the last minute, I suspected that she wasn't home. Thus I found myself driving back to Ballard, across the canal, and in the direction of Darryl Lindholm's residence in Magnolia.

  It turned out to be a condo, not a house, and was nestled into the side of the hill that overlooks the area known as Interbay. While Magnolia Bluff is primarily a neighborhood of conservative people and expensive homes, its east side rises out of an industrial area which includes the railroad yards and the city's roundhouse. The complex where Darryl lived was relatively new, probably built about the same time as the surrounding condos and apartments that flanked the hill.

  His unit was on the ground floor, with a buzzer security system. I stood outside the wrought-iron gate, pressed the button, and waited. There was no answer. Glancing down the street, I noticed a car making a U-turn by the sharp curve at the corner. It was a black Taurus. I began to worry as I started to walk back to the Lexus.

  But my concern was short-lived when I heard the roar of a motorcycle coming up the steep, winding street. Feeling like a third-rate spy, I hid behind a camellia bush and watched the rider stop in front of the garage with its wide grilled entrance. A moment later the grille rolled up and the man I presumed to be Darryl rode inside.

  After almost five minutes I pressed the button again. An unsteady masculine voice asked me to identify myself.

  “I'm Emma Lord, from Alpine,” I said. “I'm conducting interviews with people who've moved from there to the big city. You know, twenty years after.” All things considered, it wasn't exactly a lie.

  “This isn't a good time,” Darryl said, his voice still shaky. “Could you come back tomorrow?”

  “No,” I replied, “I have to be in Alpine to put out the newspaper. I'm the editor and publisher.”

  Maybe I impressed Darryl. In any event, I could hear him heave a big sigh. “I don't know why you're interested in me, but come on in.”

  I heard a buzz, then tried the gate, which swung easily. The path to the condo entrance was edged with primroses and hyacinths. Darryl Lindholm stood in the front door, a tall, strapping man dressed in blue jeans and a Sonics sweatshirt. He must have been a Mariner fan as well, since he sported the same type of blond goatee that went along with his Buhner-bald head.

  “Sorry I was abrupt,” he said, ushering me into a sunken living room that was plainly, if tastefully furnished. “Easter is a bad day for me.”

  I looked closer at my host. His eyes were red, and though his complexion was ruddy, he looked ill. “Are you okay?” I asked, genuinely concerned.

  Darryl shook his head. “Not quite. I'll be better after a shot of tequila. Do you drink margaritas? I can whip some up in the blender.”

  It seemed wise to acquiesce to Darryl's offer. Somehow, I'd expected him to be belligerent, arrogant, even hostile.

  “Sure,” I said as he motioned for me to sit in one of two small leather settees that were separated by a matching ottoman. “I really appreciate you letting me see you.”

  “Frankly, I can use the company,” Darryl said as he went behind the bar that divided the living room and kitchen. “It doesn't do any good to mope by yourself.”

  It dawned on me that Darryl wanted to talk. To me, to anybody. If this wasn't his lucky day, maybe it was mine. I wondered how I could level with him and admit my real reason for being in his condo. Maybe the tequila would give me courage.

  “Holidays are difficult for many people,” I said. “They can bring back some unhappy memories.”

  “You're damned right,” Darryl replied, then stopped speaking as he turned on the blender. “This is my first Easter without my family,” he continued, returning to the living room with our drinks. “Christmas was even worse. I was just returning from the cemetery now. It's our wedding anniversary.”

  “What happene
d?” I inquired, tasting my drink. It was delicious, with just the right amount of salt applied to the glass's rim.

  Darryl bent his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Is this going to be part of your story?”

  I took another swallow of margarita. “Probably not. I don't necessarily want painful material.”

  “This is painful,” he said with a big sigh. “But if you don't want to hear it—”

  “I do,” I interrupted. “It sounds as if you need to talk about it.”

  “I'm told it helps,” Darryl said with a wry expression. “So far, no luck.”

  “What happened to your family?”

  Settling himself into the matching settee, Darryl cradled his drink. “It was a year ago June. My wife, Astrid, and I were on vacation with our two boys, Jason and Damien. We were heading out of Glacier Park in the evening when the sun hit me like that!” He'd set the glass down on the ottoman and punched his right fist into his left palm. “I was blinded. I lost control of the car and we crashed into a big RV. Astrid and the boys were killed outright.” His voice was shaking again. “They were only six and four.”

  “Dear God,” I whispered. “That's horrible.”

  Darryl didn't speak for several moments, but stared off toward the massive stone fireplace behind me. I knew he was reliving the moment, as he must have done a thousand times. My heart went out to him.

  “I walked away,” he said in an awestruck voice. “I only had a few bruises. It was incredible. It was all wrong. It should have been me.”

  “My parents were killed in a car accident,” I said softly. “They were barely fifty. I thought my world had ended.”

  “It's different with kids,” Darryl said. “Kids shouldn't die before their parents.”

  “I know.” I, too, went silent.

  It was Darryl who spoke first. “Just when life seems to be going along pretty good, you get screwed. I had a lousy first marriage, and was glad we didn't have kids. Then I met Astrid when I went to work for Microsoft. She was a terrific woman, smart, pretty, full of life. She quit work when we had the boys. We could afford to, because I was making good money. It was like the American dream. Until the nightmare hit.”

  So Darryl hadn't been divorced twice, only once, and then widowed. I was so caught up in his tragedy that I almost forgot why I had come.

  “Did you keep your job?” I asked, for lack of any way to comfort him.

  He nodded. “I needed the routine. Besides, it's a good job. But I sold our home in Redmond, furnishings and all. I couldn't stand being over there on the Eastside with all those memories. I moved in here… when? I lose track of time now and then.”

  “Are your parents still alive?” I asked. “I heard they moved to Mount Vernon and went into the bulb business.”

  “That's right,” Darryl said, obviously forcing himself to get a grip on his emotions. “Dad sold the business last year and retired. They're traveling in Europe right now.”

  He uttered a bitter laugh. “Which is why I spent Easter at the cemetery instead of with them. But that's okay, they deserve the trip. My folks have always worked hard. Losing their grandchildren damned near destroyed them. They needed to get away.”

  I'd almost finished my margarita. It hadn't given me courage or much of a buzz. I hated myself for what I was about to do. It couldn't be avoided; it was the reason I'd come.

  “Darryl,” I said with effort, “may I ask if it helped you at all to finally meet your older child, Kendra Addison?”

  Darryl recoiled in the settee. His ruddy complexion turned a dark red. “Get out!” he cried, his arms flailing. “Get out!”

  I did, as fast as I could.

  Getting into my car, I saw the nose of the black Taurus down at the corner. But before I could drive that far, it had turned around and disappeared.

  THE BLACK TAURUS'S ghostly appearances were upsetting. I had yet to glimpse the driver. Who would want to follow me? The first answer that came to mind was the killer. That was a very disturbing thought, though someone who killed with a drapery cord might not be otherwise armed.

  Winding down the hill, I couldn't catch sight of my tail. I considered turning off onto a side street, but my recollection of Magnolia was that because of the bluff's irregular topography and some peculiar city planning, there were plenty of unexpected deadends. I didn't need to get trapped in a cul-de-sac.

  I thought about going to the nearest police station, but the only one I remembered was not far from my old neighborhood and had been turned into a community center and library several years ago. Frustrated, I kept driving.

  Easter Sunday was becoming dangerous, as well as depressing. My hasty retreat from Darryl Lindholm's condo had seemed like the prudent thing to do. He looked absolutely murderous, and I didn't want to tempt fate. Besides, I felt like a fool. Until I mentioned Kendra's name, Darryl had seemed like a gentle soul, mourning the loss of his wife and sons, considerate of his parents, an ordinary hardworking man who had suffered a great loss.

  Then he'd changed into something menacing. Unfor-148 tunately, the revelation made me realize that he could have killed Carol Stokes in one of those lightning flashes of rage. Which meant that whoever was following me couldn't be the murderer. My mind was going around in circles.

  Needing to think, I pulled the car into a parking lot in front of a neighborhood strip mall. It was after four o'clock, and unless I got hold of Kendra, I had nothing else to do for the rest of the day. As much as I enjoyed the city, it didn't make sense to while away the hours in Seattle.

  With one eye on the rearview mirror watching for the Taurus, I drove back to the motel, gathered up my luggage and Vida's, and checked out. It cost me half a night's stay since noon was the regular departure time, but I figured that if I headed back to Alpine, I could work all day Monday to make sure we could meet our deadline, and return to Seattle Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday, pub day, was always slow, except for the crank calls and irate letters that followed the paper's delivery.

  Before leaving the motel, I called the jail infirmary to check on Ronnie. He was doing fine, the voice on the other end said, and would be transported back to his cell on Monday. I left word that I would see him Tuesday, probably in the late afternoon.

  Out in the parking lot, I scanned the cars for a black Taurus. There were two of them. Through the rain, I couldn't tell if either was occupied. Confronting the person who'd been tailing me could be dangerous. I'd already had one scare with Darryl Lindholm. I decided not to test my luck. Surely the Taurus wouldn't follow me to Alpine.

  There were two routes I could take out of town. Usually, I'd cross Lake Washington on the Evergreen Point Bridge and hook onto Highway 2 at Monroe. But I could also go due north on I-5, until I hit the interchange for the Stevens Pass Highway. On a whim, I chose the latter, if slightly longer, direction. There was a stop along the way that I felt obligated to make for Ronnie.

  Peter Chan's address in Lake City wasn't far from the freeway. His house was a tidy split-level, half-brick, half-frame on a side street. The rain had stopped by the time I arrived. Two young boys were riding bikes in the driveway. The smaller boy's bike had training wheels.

  A chain-link fence surrounded the yard, but I went directly to the driveway. The older boy eyed me with curiosity.

  “Hi,” I said, “I'm Emma. Are your mom and dad home?”

  “Hi,” the older boy said. “I'm Kendall. That's Schuyler. He's dopey.” Kendall nodded at his brother, who'd just run his bike into the fence. “Mom's inside, making dinner. Dad's looking for the dog.”

  My heart sank. “Is the dog's name Budweiser?”

  Kendall's handsome little face looked mystified.

  “Bud? Buddy?” I suggested.

  “It was,” Kendall said with a show of relief. “But we call him Tubby. That's 'cause he isn't. He likes to eat all the time. Dad says he hasn't been fed much lately.”

  “But Buddy—I mean, Tubby—has run off?” I asked.

  Schuyler had
gotten off his bike and was banging it up and down on the driveway. “I want Tubby! Mr. Fields ran over Sunshine with his truck, and we got promised a new dog. Where's Tubby?”

  “You'll wreck your bike, dork,” Kendall said to his brother. “Dad's looking for Tubby, like I said. Stop that.”

  A pretty Asian woman in jeans and a loose-knit sweater came out through the open garage and eyed me warily. “Are you trying to find an address?” she asked.

  I was getting tired of my usual introduction, but I rattled it off anyway. “Ronnie's worried about Buddy,” I concluded. “I thought I'd see if he was okay, but I understand he's gone.”

  “I'm Jenny Chan,” the young woman said, and held out a hand. She smelled of basil and oregano, no doubt evidence of the meal she was preparing. “The dog ran off while we were at church this morning. He must have leaped the fence.”

  “And your husband's still looking for him?” I remarked as the boys returned to cruising the driveway on their bikes.

  Jenny gave me a wry look. “Not exactly. He looked earlier, but no luck. Pete's gone over to see his parents for a while. Frankly,” she went on, lowering her voice, “I don't care if we ever find Buddy or Tubby or Blubby or whatever he's called. Our last dog just about ruined the garden. He was a serious digger.”

  Jenny's statement cheered me slightly. “If you do find Buddy, could you let me know?” I handed her one of my business cards. “That's a toll-free number to the newspaper in Alpine. I know my cousin will be delighted to take him back.”

  “Sure,” Jenny said, slipping the card into the pocket of her jeans. “But I'll bet he won't be found. He may be trying to get back home, and he'll be lucky to survive in all this traffic. To be honest, he's not a very bright dog.”

  Like dog, like master, I thought. “Thanks, Jenny,” I said, and headed down the driveway.

  “Mom,” Kendall called, “if Tubby doesn't come back, can we get a snake?”