by Mary Daheim
The pale blue eyes flickered up at me, then turned away. “I'm a screwup.”
“Who said so?”
Ronnie raised his eyes again, this time with a befuddled expression. “Everybody. I always screw up.”
“Nobody screws up all the time, Ronnie. And everybody screws up some of the time.”
“Not like me.” Ronnie gave an impotent little shrug.
Sadly, I shook my head. I could sit here arguing for a week with Ronnie and not be able to convince him he wasn't a loser. It hadn't taken a homicide to put Ronnie where he was now. The steel bars and high walls weren't his real prison. For thirty-five years he had let his parents, his sisters, his so-called friends and girlfriends tell him he was worthless.
“God, Ronnie,” I said, feeling as powerless as he was, “I wish I could make you believe otherwise. What if I told you I thought you were a good-hearted, decent human being?”
Ronnie chuckled. “I guess I'd wonder why you said that.”
I guess I wondered why I'd tried.
The mother and son next to us were still crying.
“SUCH A CRUEL pattern.” Vda sighed after I'd described my visit with Ronnie. “When it comes to grown men and women, I understand—and it's usually the man, of course—that it's a matter of manipulation. The pattern is established from the onset, with the abuser not keeping a date or showing up three hours late, and then apologizing in such a humble, extravagant way that the other person actually feels even luckier in love. It grows from there, like a cancer, with other, more vicious kinds of abuse, but always the penitence and the promises. I know, I've seen it.”
“It has something to do with domination when it comes to men,” I said as we reached the parking garage to claim the Lexus. “I suspect that Carol—and Maybeth and some of his other girlfriends—had some sort of sexual hold over Ronnie.”
Vida eyed me from under the ostrich plumes. “If you're going to start talking about whips and leather, I'm not getting into the car with you. Really, Emma, sometimes you shock me.”
I didn't, of course. On the other hand, I had to stifle a sudden image of Vida in long black boots, silver studs, and a corset that—
“I'm talking about psychology,” I said, interrupting myself lest I become overwhelmed with mirth. “Anyway, it has more to do with control and self-esteem. Of which my cousin has none. Where do we go from here?” I asked, slipping into the driver's seat.
“I don't know,” Vida admitted. “If only there was a way I could meet Darryl.”
“I can't think of any,” I said, “unless you get Bill Gates's permission to tackle him at work.”
“Do you think I might?” Vida asked as we wound our way out of the garage.
I told Vida I knew next to nothing about the work culture at Microsoft, except that it involved long hours and complete dedication. “Not a kind of drop-in environment,” I added.
“Drat.” Vida was silent until after we'd paid an exorbitant parking fee and were going down Sixth Avenue. As we passed the Sheraton Hotel, she suddenly said, “Roy.”
“Roy Sprague?” I said. “He's probably at work, too. And what could he tell us that Maybeth hasn't already?”
“His version may be different from hers,” Vida pointed out. “I realize he wasn't at the apartment house— supposedly—when Carol was killed, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got some sort of information we haven't yet heard. Where does he work?”
“I don't know. I don't think we asked.” I kept driving north, past the Westin Hotel and the Sixth Avenue Motor Inn.
“Maybeth,” Vida said. “We must find out about that letter to the Addisons. Where does she work?”
Once again, I had to confess ignorance. “I think it was a hair salon, but I forget the name.”
“Hmm,” Vida murmured. “Very well. Let's have one final chat with Henrietta Altdorf before we leave town. She should be able to tell us where these people are employed. I sensed that she was a knowledgeable sort of woman.”
In other words, snoopy, like Vida. “We're grasping at straws,” I said. “Besides, I'll bet Henrietta's on duty at the hospital by now. She's had several days off.”
Undeterred, Vida insisted that I use the cell phone to call Henrietta. I pulled off into a parking space across from the old Seattle Post-Intelligencer building, now home to Group Health Cooperative, one of the country's first HMOs. After getting Henrietta's number from Directory Assistance, I was surprised when she answered on the first ring.
“Well, isn't this nice?” Henrietta exclaimed. “I could use some company. I don't have to go back to work until tomorrow. Stop by and I'll make sandwiches for lunch, if you give me half an hour or so to run down to Safeway and back.”
I accepted the offer. “By the way, Henrietta, do you know where Maybeth and Roy work?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Maybeth works at a beauty salon out by Sears. Shear Beauty, I think it's called. Roy has a job installing appliances.” She paused. “Drat, I can't remember which one. It's been around a long time, though.”
Vida was pleased with the luncheon invitation. “What did I tell you? Henrietta is a very helpful sort of person.”
I smiled at Vida, then decided to check for messages on the cell phone. There was only one, and it was from Ed Bronsky.
“Where are you, Emma?” Ed demanded in a vexed tone. “I've been trying to call you off and on for days. Leo said you'd gone back to Seattle. Are you sure you're still running The Advocate? Anyway, I gave Scott my big story yesterday just before deadline. The series is set for summer, two years from now. Oh, I know it seems like a long way off, but I guess it takes a while to draw all those cartoon figures. And guess what? They're going to use my face on Chester White, the hero pig.”
“They could have used Ed's entire body,” I said, passing the phone to Vida so that she could listen to my former ad manager's long-winded message.
“Honestly,” she said after I'd told her how to switch the phone off, “wouldn't you think Ed would be embarrassed?”
“Nothing embarrasses Ed,” I responded as we headed north on Aurora. “As long as he's getting attention, you could tar and feather him and shoot him out of a cannon.”
“So true,” Vida agreed. “So depressing. Is Shirley going to be Mrs. Chester White?”
“I suppose.” I was less concerned with the casting of Mr. Ed—or was it now Mr. White?—than with how many inches of copy Ed had conned out of poor, unsuspecting Scott. My newest staff member wasn't used to dealing with Ed.
The Shear Beauty Salon was tucked into a strip mall a couple of blocks from the Sears store between Aurora and Greenwood. Vida and I sat out in the parking lot for a few minutes, debating how we should handle Maybeth while she was on the job.
“It's almost eleven-thirty,” Vida said, checking her wristwatch. “She may have a break coming up. I don't think we should both go in. Shall I?”
“Only if you bring her out to the car,” I admonished. “I don't want to miss anything.”
“Of course,” Vida said, getting out of the Lexus. “I wouldn't dream of hogging the conversation.”
Vida wasn't gone more than three minutes before she stalked back into the parking lot. “Maybeth goes to lunch at one. She didn't act very accommodating.”
I frowned at my watch. “We're supposed to be at Henrietta's a little after twelve. This is going to be a tight squeeze. At least it won't take us long to get to the apartment, but we'll be early.”
“No harm in that,” Vida said. “Perhaps I could meet Mr. Rapp.”
That wasn't the worst idea Vida had ever had, so we drove away toward Greenwood. To my surprise, Mr. Rapp was leaning on his walker outside of Henrietta's unit.
“Miss Lord,” he said in surprise when Vida and I came around from the parking area out back. “I didn't expect to see you again.”
I introduced Vida, then noticed that Mr. Rapp's brown, nutlike face wore a worried expression. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
Mr. Rapp put his
full weight on the walker and frowned. “I'm not sure. Henrietta very kindly asked if I'd like to go to the store with her. That was over half an hour ago. I waited and waited, but she never came to fetch me. Did you notice her car out back? It's light blue, one of those Japanese models.”
“I saw a blue car,” Vida put in. “A smallish sedan. It was the only one in the lot. Would that be it?”
“Probably,” Mr. Rapp replied, looking more worried by the second. “No one else in the building has one like it.” He held the walker with one hand and reached into his pocket with the other. “I have a key to Henrietta's. She has one to mine, in case I fall… or something. Do you think I should… ?” He extracted a small silver ring with a horse's head charm.
I winced. The drapes were drawn in Henrietta's apartment, and despite the traffic out on Greenwood, a strange quiet seemed to have settled around the small apartment house. “Maybe you should,” I said, trying to hide my sudden alarm. “Henrietta might have had some kind of accident. I take it she doesn't respond to your knock?”
Mr. Rapp shook his head. His hands were shaking, too. He shoved the key ring at me. “You do it, please. I'm afraid I feel a bit queer.”
I was feeling queer, too. To make matters worse, I've never had a knack for unlocking doors. After almost ten years I still have trouble getting into my own house, especially when I'm tired or frazzled.
“Oh, here,” Vida snapped, seizing the key chain, “let me do it.” With a deft motion, she tripped the lock and opened the door.
The sun had come out just a few minutes earlier. It was directly overhead and sent shafts of golden light into the unit's living room. Specks of dust stirred in the air, but Henrietta Altdorf wasn't moving. She was facedown on the floor, with a patch of dark red matting her hair and neck. At her side lay one of the bowling trophies I had seen on my earlier visit.
“Don't come in,” I cried as Mr. Rapp began his laborious entrance into the living room.
It was too late. Mr. Rapp had already gained the threshold and could see Henrietta's still form between Vida and me. He shuddered, let out a terrible little cry, and crumpled to the floor. The walker fell to one side.
“Oh, my!” Vida gasped, rushing to Mr. Rapp. “We must call a doctor. And the police.”
Stunned and confused, I gazed helplessly around the room in an effort to find Henrietta's telephone. Finally, I spotted it on a side table next to the recliner. With trembling fingers, I dialed 911. In an anguished voice, I relayed the urgent need for both the medics and the police.
Mr. Rapp, however, was coming around. Vida had propped him up against the door frame and was chafing his hands.
“Water,” she said. “Get a glass of water. And put the teakettle on. I must have some hot tea. This is terrible, terrible. Henrietta seemed like such a nice woman.”
It seemed to take forever to find a glass, but I finally got one out of the last cupboard I searched. The teakettle was on the stove, so I switched on the burner. Then I raced into the living room and handed the glass of water to Vida, who proffered it to Mr. Rapp.
“Is she… ?” he whispered.
Despite my revulsion, I was trying to find a pulse. As I'd feared, there was none. “Yes, I'm afraid so,” I said in an unnatural voice. I put a hand over my face, but remained down on one knee beside Henrietta's body. The least I could do was say a prayer. It was also the only thing I could do. What was worse, the terrible feeling crept over me that if it hadn't been for my well-intentioned meddling, Henrietta might still be alive.
After determining that Mr. Rapp hadn't broken anything, Vida and I managed to settle him on the sofa. As the distant wail of sirens sounded, I smelled something hot. Rushing into the kitchen, I saw smoke coming out from under the teakettle. Apparently it had been empty when I'd turned it on. Feeling like an idiot, I yanked it off the stove and put it in the sink. The medics arrived just after I made sure the kettle hadn't been ruined.
The male-and-female team checked first to make sure that Henrietta Altdorf was beyond help. Then they examined Mr. Rapp. They were still gently probing when the police and firefighters arrived a couple of minutes later.
The patrol officers were also evidence of equal opportunity employment. A black male named Isaacs and an Asian female named—oddly—O'Brien surveyed the carnage with unfathomable expressions.
“You touch anything?” Isaacs asked after he'd made a call on his cell phone.
I nodded. “The stove. A glass. The teakettle.” The apartment still smelled as if an arsonist had been let loose. “Oh—and the phone. But not the body or the alleged weapon.”
The hint of a smile touched Isaacs's broad face. “You found the deceased?”
“We all did,” Vida put in. I noticed that her eyes were moist, and realized that Vida had never come upon a corpse before. “Mr. Rapp had a key. We thought Henrietta had had an accident. She was supposed to take him to the grocery store and then meet us for lunch.”
“Let's sit at the kitchen table,” O'Brien suggested in a brisk voice. She was younger than her partner, and might have been pretty if she'd worn makeup. “Mr. Rapp—is that his name?” She saw us nod. “He can stay where he is for now.”
Officer O'Brien was thorough. After checking IDs, taking down our addresses and occupations, she sought out the most recent details first—our time of arrival, our reason for being at the murder scene, if we'd seen or heard anything, and finally, how we knew the victim.
Vida started to answer, but for once, I interrupted, and with a question of my own. “Are you aware that another murder took place next door about three weeks ago?”
O'Brien nodded slowly. “It wasn't on our shift, but we know about it.”
“My cousin Ronnie Mallett was accused of the crime,” I said, going on to describe how I'd gotten involved. “My colleague”— I gestured at Vida— “and I have been doing some investigating of our own because we don't believe Ronnie's guilty. I think Ms. Altdorf's murder proves our point.”
O'Brien made no comment. Isaacs had now joined us, but didn't sit down. “You say you only met the victim a few days ago?” he asked.
“Yes,” Vida replied, jumping in before I could say anything. “This past weekend. I might point out—since Carol Stokes's murder wasn't on your shift—that Henrietta wasn't home at the time of the slaying. She told us she'd been working that night at the hospital.”
Both Isaacs and O'Brien remained impassive. I assumed they understood her point, which was that if there was a connection between the two killings, it wasn't because Henrietta had been an eyewitness. At least not as far as we knew.
“Are you planning to leave town soon?” O'Brien asked.
“Yes,” Vida answered. “We're returning to Alpine later this afternoon. I must say, the city is a very violent place. I can't imagine living here. I'd never feel safe.”
The remark didn't go down well. Isaacs scowled and O'Brien's eyes hardened. At least they owned a couple of expressions besides those of department-store dummies.
“You'll have to make a statement at the station,” Isaacs said. “Do you know where the north precinct is?”
I did. It wasn't far from the Greenwood district, and just west of the Northgate shopping center.
“Can we do that now?” I asked.
“We'll go with you,” O'Brien said. I thought she seemed pleased by the idea. Maybe she was fantasizing about shackling Vida to a tree while we waited. “The detectives are on their way, along with the ME and the photographer. Do you know if the victim had any family?”
“A son, in Puyallup,” Vida replied. “His name might not be Altdorf. I believe Henrietta had been married more than once. You might try her address book. There's also a wife and grandchildren.”
Isaacs gave an abrupt nod just as the teakettle finally sang. It struck an odd note, a painfully happy death knell burbling Henrietta's demise.
“What about Mr. Rapp?” I asked. “Does he have to come, too?”
O'Brien glanced out into th
e living room, where Mr. Rapp was still talking to the medics. “Yes. He reached the scene first, didn't he?”
“We all discovered the body at the same time,” Vida said. “Surely he can be left at home. He's quite old and frail.”
“We won't use a rubber hose on him,” O'Brien said, though there was no humor in her tone. “Hey, Dave,” she said to her partner, “here come the 'tecs.”
Tony Rojas and a burly fair-haired man in his late forties lumbered into the apartment. They were trailed by a young woman with photographic equipment and a much older man who carried a black satchel.
“Your turn,” Rojas called to the officers. “You missed the first one.” He seemed inappropriately cheerful.
“Just when we were going to lunch, too,” Isaacs shot back. “You owe us, Tony. Why not send for a pizza?”
“Oh!” Vida looked furious. “Can you imagine?” she said to me in her usual stage whisper. “Would Milo act like this? He has more sense.”
The police contingent ignored us and went about their business. I made tea, but wasn't allowed to enter the living room to offer Mr. Rapp a cup. Since the apartment was getting crowded, the firefighters stepped outside. Maybe, I thought as my nerves steadied and my temper frayed, they were going for a smoke.
Tony Rojas frowned when he finally saw me. “I know you. What's your name?” he demanded. “You some sort of ambulance chaser?”
“Emma Lord,” I replied. “We met at your office. Are you going to arrest Ronnie Mallet for this murder, too?”
Rojas turned his back on me and went into the living room. O'Brien and Issacs joined the rest of the police contingent. There were more ribbings and chuckles. Vida looked fit to spit.
“This is dreadful,” she said. “How can they make jokes when poor Henrietta is lying there dead?”
“It's how they survive,” I said. “Would you want their job? They have to put distance between themselves and the cruelty they encounter every day.” It was true of journalists, too, which is why many reporters are considered hard-bitten and cynical.
Given Vida's career as House and Home editor, she couldn't quite empathize. “Callous, that's what I call it,” she declared.