by Mary Daheim
She gave a nod. “Which brings us to the Addisons themselves. Why would either of them kill Carol?”
“Because she'd created a wedge between Kendra and her adoptive parents? Because they hated her for the attention Kendra was giving Carol? Because Sam had a perverse lust for Carol and felt guilty? Because Kathy is menopausal and had a hot flash that went awry?”
Vida sprinkled more salt and pepper on her fried eggs. “That's the trouble. It's so difficult to get inside other people's minds. We can't know for certain what demons are driving them.”
“I think we know Darryl's,” I said. “He's racked with guilt and still in mourning. He was trying to create another family for himself.”
“Yes,” Vida said thoughtfully, “out of what he'd started in the first place with Carol. That makes sense. Not having seen Darryl since he was a teenager, I can't judge how the years have changed him. I'll rectify that this afternoon.”
“Darryl works at Microsoft,” I pointed out. “It's Wednesday. He won't be home until evening, and by then, we'll be headed back to Alpine.”
“Hmm.” Vida rested her chin on her fist. “I could call him tonight after I get home, but that's not as good as a firsthand impression. Tell me exactly what you thought of Darryl.”
Darryl's angry expulsion of me from his condo had colored my assessment. I ran the tape backward in my brain and reflected on his manner when I'd first met him. He'd been suffering then, after his visit to the cemetery. He'd needed someone to talk to, a grieving man with a heavy heart.
I expressed those thoughts to Vida. “I liked him. He seemed like a straight-arrow type. Responsible, reliable. He's got a good job, and even if he lost his real home, the condo is very nice and didn't come cheap.”
“In other words,” Vida said dryly, “not Carol's type anymore.”
“No. But he does have an explosive temper and I would guess that he's living on the edge. That makes him unpredictable, not to mention altering his good judgment.”
“Grasping at the past,” Vida murmured. “Understandable. But dangerous.”
I couldn't dispute Vida's opinion. Still, I didn't want Darryl to be the killer. “We're at loose ends,” I announced. “Maybeth, Roy, Darryl—they're all at work. Henrietta Altdorf may be, too. We've run out of interviewees. What do we do next except visit Ronnie?”
“Henrietta,” Vida said in a musing tone. “We have only her word for it that she was at work that night, correct?”
“Surely the police questioned her about that,” I said.
“But took her at her word,” Vida noted. “As we did.”
“Surely you can't suspect Henrietta?” I said, flabbergasted. “What kind of motive could she possibly have?”
Vida shrugged as she chewed the last of her sausage. “A quarrel between her and Carol over the noise and carryings-on? Henrietta works long hours. She needs her sleep. And she's no spring chicken.”
“That's not much of a motive,” I remarked.
Vida's expression grew enigmatic. “Hidden agendas. Dark secrets. Forbidden passions.”
I made a face at my House and Home editor. “You're off base on this one,” I said. “Henrietta is a very straight-arrow kind of person.”
“You just said the same thing about Darryl,” Vida pointed out.
So I had. We were still going in circles. As we left the restaurant, the shabby man was standing by the driveway into the parking lot. We had no choice but to go right by him.
“Got any spare change?” he mumbled.
Reacting to the Good Samaritan's example in the restaurant, I reached into my wallet and handed the man two one-dollar bills. He mumbled his thanks as I started to move on.
Vida, however, was not so easily gulled. “See here,” she admonished, “you look like a healthy specimen. Why don't you have a job?”
The man, who must have been asked that question before, just stared past Vida.
“The economy is quite good,” she went on, “so I don't understand why you aren't employed. Do you drink?”
The man kept staring, his watery gaze fixed on Aurora's busy traffic.
“Really!” Vida huffed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” She stomped away in her splayfooted manner.
“You should have saved your breath,” I remarked after we'd gotten into the Lexus. “He doesn't want to work. And he probably couldn't hold a job. I suspect he has mental problems.”
We reached the driveway just in time to see the object of Vida's disdain get into the backseat of a Yellow Cab and drive away.
Our immediate destination was the jail to check on Ronnie. Vida, however, was warring with herself about seeing my cousin again.
“He's quite useless in terms of information,” she said as we passed the old site of Frederick & Nelson, which had been transformed into Nordstrom's flagship store. It was one change I deeply regretted. In its heyday, F&N had been on a merchandising pedestal all by itself, a full-fledged department store that sold everything from English lawn mowers to the latest Paris fashions.
“I know Ronnie isn't very helpful,” I admitted. “I'm only going to see him because I feel an obligation. I'd really rather not come back down here over the weekend.”
“We may have to,” Vida said, and I knew it was true. “If I could figure out some way to get Ronnie to stay with the pertinent facts. If,” she added with a big sigh, “he'd just divulge some facts in the first place. It's rather like he can't grasp reality, isn't it? What has made him hide from facing up to life?”
I swiveled around to look at Vida. Fortunately, we were at a stoplight in the middle of Fifth Avenue. “That's it. Ronnie's hiding. He's hiding in jail.” I paused as the light turned green and also to organize my thoughts. “He finds the world a scary place. Serving time doesn't seem to bother him much. Now, why would anyone feel that way?”
“Because life has become unbearable,” Vida suggested. “Because it always was.” It was her turn to twist around in the seat and look at me. “You mentioned that his parents live in Arizona. Why not call them? After all, you are their niece.”
I wondered why I hadn't done it earlier. But Ronnie's vague references to his mother and father had suggested that he'd virtually lost touch with them.
“I will,” I said. “Maybe I should do it before we see him. We're early for visiting hours, so we have some time to kill.”
Much of that time was taken up finding a parking place that wouldn't bankrupt me. I had to park the car deep in the bowels of a garage two blocks away from the county-city complex, which meant that the cell phone probably wouldn't work. Thus, I ended up using a pay phone in the building's lobby.
It took Directory Assistance several minutes to search for Gary Mallett in what I assumed was the greater Phoenix area. He was finally located in Apache Junction, apparently a suburb.
It was only when I heard Uncle Gary's whiskey baritone that I realized I didn't know how to begin the conversation. Would he remember his niece from Seattle? Did he know that his son was in jail? Would he care?
“Who?” he rasped into the phone.
“Emma Lord,” I repeated, grimacing at Vida, who was leaning on the stall of the next booth. “Your wife's niece. From Seattle. Martha and Ray's daughter.”
“Ray? He's been dead for years. Plane crash or some damned thing. You got the wrong number.”
I gritted my teeth. Uncle Gary sounded as if he were already in the bag at ten A.M. “Let me speak to Marlene,” I said, investing my voice with what I hoped was authority.
“Marlene?”
Good grief, the man was drunk and deaf. What a combination. And, as I recalled, he was stupid, too. “Your wife. Mrs. Mallett.”
Uncle Gary turned away from the phone, his words muffled. I assumed he was calling for Aunt Marlene. After what seemed like an interminable wait, a husky voice reached my ear.
“Who's this?” demanded my aunt.
Marlene Lord Mallet had always been on the heavy side. I pictured her weighing about thr
ee hundred pounds, wearing a muumuu, with flip-flop sandals. “It's Emma, your niece,” I said. “Ray's daughter. You remember Ben and me?”
“Of course I do,” Aunt Marlene retorted. “What do you want? If you're stranded, we can't get you. Gary don't drive no more. His legs got too bad.”
Hoisting those cases of Old Snootful will do that, I thought nastily. “No, I'm in Seattle. When was the last time you spoke with Ronnie?”
“That little shit?” Aunt Marlene, all warmth and charm, paused. “A couple of years ago, maybe. I forget. Why do you want to know?”
It didn't seem like a good idea to tell Aunt Marlene that her son was in jail on a homicide charge. Obviously, her opinion of Ronnie wasn't very high.
I fabricated. “I'm doing a family retrospective, and I'd like to—”
“A what?” Aunt Marlene cut in. “You're expecting? How old are you anyway?”
“It's like a family tree,” I said, wishing my patience wasn't on such a short leash, “only with old pictures and souvenirs. Tell me about what it was like raising Ronnie and his sisters.”
Aunt Marlene snorted. “Are you kidding? It was like hell. Isn't that what raising kids is all about? Say,” she said, lowering her voice, which had grown suspicious, “what are you doing? Is this for some book?”
“No, it's a family album,” I said. “Just for me and for Ben.” I left Adam out. As far as I knew, my aunt and uncle weren't aware of my son's existence.
“You sure?” Still the wary note. “I thought you was going to be a writer.”
“I were,” I felt like saying, “but grammar don't run in the family.” How could this woman have been my father's sister? They were like day and night, light and dark, a handsome stag and a big fat cow.
“I work on a newspaper,” I said, “but this has nothing to do with my job. It's strictly personal. I wanted to include you and Uncle Gary and your children. What can you tell me about them?”
It took my aunt a few moments to round up her thoughts, which I assumed were scattered around the floor like so many loose marbles. “Lucy's in Dallas. This third husband works in some factory there. They got five kids between them. Or maybe six, I forget. Leah got the one boy, must be in high school by now. I forget his name. I ain't heard if her divorce is final, but that was a while back. She's up north, Montana. One of those towns that begins with a B.”
Butte? Billings? Bozeman? It didn't matter. I barely remembered the Mallett girls, except as a pair of pale, nondescript entities who spent a lot of time pointing at people and talking to each other from behind their hands.
“And Ronnie?”
“Ronnie's up north, too, still in Seattle, I think. We ain't much at writing letters and it costs too much to call. Say, how're you affording all this?”
“I've saved up a bit,” I lied, wishing Vida wasn't leaning so close that it must look as if we were both wearing the same ostrich-plumed hat. “Tell me, Aunt Marlene, does it make you at all sad to have your children so far away?”
“Ha!” My aunt started to laugh, then choked, and began coughing. “Sorry. Cigarette smoke went down the wrong way. What was that? Sad? Hell, no. Me and Gary always wanted some peace and quiet. You don't get none of that when you're raising three kids. Oh, the girls weren't so bad, but Ronnie was a pistol. Always into something. He drove me and Gary nuts. I can't tell you how many times Gary had to get out the old strap. With the girls, it was different. All Gary had to do was show it to 'em.”
Good old Uncle Gary, I thought, my heart sinking. Poor Ronnie. No wonder he was scared stiff of what blow life would bring him next. No wonder he lived with a woman who beat him up. No wonder he didn't mind that Bubba was treating his head like a cantaloupe. At least there were guards to finally call off the bully; at least there was medical attention.
“School of Hard Knocks, huh?” I said feebly.
“You bet. How else can you bring 'em up proper?”
If she didn't know by now, there was no point in telling her. Anyway, it was too late. The damage had been done. And no wonder Ronnie didn't care if he was found guilty—he always was, in his parents’ bloodshot eyes. I suspected he'd been framed before, many times, by his silly sisters.
“Thanks, Aunt Marlene,” I said. “This has been very helpful.” It had, in a pathetic, tragic way.
“Sure. Say hello to Bob when you see him.” She hung up before I did.
“Bob,” I echoed dumbly. “I think she meant Ben. Not that it matters.”
Vida had caught most of the conversation at the other end. As we walked the two blocks to the jail, she agreed with my assessment. “An occasional swat on the bottom until a certain age,” she said. “That's permissible in my opinion. Why, I've even been tempted to give Roger one—but not since he got older.”
Forty lashes wouldn't deter Vida's evil grandson. If ever a child had needed a good paddling somewhere along the line, it was Roger. But the poor kid had been coddled and pampered by both parents and grandparents. It was he who wielded the whip in the Runkel family.
“You're upset,” Vida remarked with sympathy. “You never guessed that Ronnie was abused?”
“I hardly ever saw him,” I replied. “Three, four times, maybe. He was so much younger, and Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene didn't live close by.”
Vida held on to her hat as the wind blew up from Elliott Bay. “Such a shame when families don't stay close.”
“It happens,” I said tersely. “Uncle Gary worked for the state, though I don't know exactly what he did. The Mallets aren't all that old, middle sixties, I think. He must have taken early retirement.”
“Disability, I'll wager,” Vida said as we entered the building that housed the jail. “How long have they been in Arizona?”
“I don't know that, either,” I admitted in a miserable voice that surprised me. “And I can't figure out how my father and his sister could have been so different.”
“That's not surprising,” Vida said as we headed for the elevator. “My husband and his brothers were all very different. Drink, that's what can happen. Ernest never took more than a glass of wine. But the rest of them…” She glanced at me and rolled her eyes.
Maybe that was the answer. Gary Mallett had changed Marlene Lord. I didn't remember either of them as ever being young. Mainly, I remembered Ronnie, hopping around in that sack at the rare family picnic. He had lost that race, too.
“My mother's brothers are good people,” I said, going on the defensive. “They live in Texas and Colorado now, but I keep in touch with them and my cousins.” I paused, aware that I was exaggerating. “Well, at least at Christmas. We exchange cards and letters. But I'm not ashamed of that side of the family.”
“Your mother's side,” Vida murmured as we got into the elevator. “Then who all was at the family picnic on your father's side?”
“There were other cousins,” I said. “My father's aunts and uncles and cousins. But we were never close. People died, they married, they moved away. The picnic was the last time I ever saw most of them.”
“Sad,” Vida intoned. “So sad. No wonder you—” She bit off the words and I eyed her with curiosity.
But Vida shook her head. “Nothing. Here we are,” she added, striding out of the elevator.
Somewhat to my surprise, Vida had decided not to see Ronnie. Her mind had been made up by my conversation with Uncle Gary and Aunt Marlene.
“This is strictly family business,” she asserted in uncharacteristic fashion. “I can't possibly insert myself into this matter.”
As Ronnie entered on his side of the table, I noticed that not only was his bandage smaller, but he also seemed to have shrunk. In fact, the pale blue walls of the visiting area appeared as if they were encroaching on him, destined to squeeze out whatever life was left in Ronnie Mallet.
His first question was about Budweiser. I related my visit with Mrs. Chan and how her husband had found the dog at the door to the apartment the morning after the murder. It was some news, if not the bad news t
hat Buddy was still missing.
“Good ol’ Buddy,” Ronnie said with the hint of a smile. “He never goes far. I wonder how he got loose?”
“I don't know,” I said, then stared at my cousin. “You had him tied up?”
Ronnie nodded. “Out back. He never liked that, but I was kinda bushed that night. I didn't feel like takin’ him for his usual run.”
According to Maybeth, Buddy had stopped barking after the fight between Ronnie and Carol was over. “Did you let Buddy loose after you left the apartment to go drinking?”
“Naw.” Ronnie's expression was rueful. “I was mad, so I just took off. Anyways, I don't like lettin’ him run. There's too much traffic on Greenwood. He might get hit. And I sure couldn't let him into the apartment with Carol. She'd have kicked him out, just to get even with me.”
“What started the fight, Ronnie?”
“I thought I told you,” he said with a frown. “Carol wanted me to pitch in more.”
“With money?” I asked, aware of a painful reunion next to us, apparently between mother and son. Both were crying.
“Money 'n’ other stuff,” Ronnie said, now mumbling. “You know, stuff around the apartment.”
“You didn't want to contribute more?”
“I was already payin’ most of the rent,” Ronnie said, his voice now helpless. “She bought most of the groceries, but I gave her money for them, too. I did lots of stuff around the apartment, like takin’ out garbage and doin’ dishes. And so what? She always said I did it all wrong.”
“You loved her despite all that?” My voice had grown very soft.
Ronnie shut his eyes. “Yeah, I guess. She could be real sweet when she wanted to.”
“But she hit you, didn't she, Ronnie?”
He lowered his gaze. “Sometimes.”
“Did you hit back?”
“No.” He paused, still avoiding my gaze. “I'd push her sometimes. You know, to keep her from whalin’ on me.”
“Why did you put up with that kind of treatment?”
“Well… maybe I deserved it.”
“Maybe you didn't,” I said.