by Mary Daheim
The kitchen was growing warm, oppressive. At last the detectives, the ME, and the photographer finished their tasks. Rojas returned to the kitchen.
“Okay, Emma Lord, how come you happened to show up just as another body hit the deck?”
Since Rojas was looming over me, I stood up. I'm a boss, I know how to use intimidating body language. I rarely do it, of course, because it wouldn't work with my small staff. Especially with Vida. She looms when she's sitting down.
“You may have given up trying to find Carol Stokes's real killer,” I said, “but I haven't. If you ask me, whoever it was has struck again.” I jerked one hand in the direction of the living room, where ambulance attendants were removing the body even as we spoke.
“You didn't answer my question,” Rojas said, un-fazed. He still loomed, being a good eight inches taller. “How did you end up with another corpse?”
“I was trying to explain that,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I've been conducting my own investigation. Henrietta Altdorf had been very helpful, and we were meeting her here for lunch. I talked to her on the phone about eleven o'clock. She was fine, and heading for the grocery store with her neighbor, Aldo Rapp.” I nodded in the direction of the living room, where Mr. Rapp was now talking to Isaacs and O'Brien. “We got here early and found Mr. Rapp at the door. Ms. Altdorf hadn't come to get him yet and he was worried.”
“How'd you get in?” Rojas asked.
“Mr. Rapp has a key. He and Ms. Altdorf each had a key to the other's apartment. I gather they sort of looked out for each other.”
Rojas glanced into the living room. Maybe he was assessing Mr. Rapp in terms of his fitness as a murderer.
The poor old guy didn't look like he could pick up a golf ball, let alone a bowling trophy.
“Did Mr. Rapp hear anything, see anything?” Rojas asked.
“Not that he mentioned,” I replied. “Anyway, he's quite deaf.”
Vida had also risen. “Could we move along now? It's almost two.”
“I can tell time,” Rojas retorted.
In her big plumed hat, Vida actually stood taller than Tony Rojas. “Need I point out,” she said at her most caustic, “that you might consider how these two murders in adjoining apartments could be linked.”
Rojas shot Vida a baleful look, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the kitchen.
“Really!” she exclaimed. “The man has no manners. Why, if I thought my nephew Billy ever treated a witness so disrespectfully, I'd—”
“Vida,” I interrupted, “don't make things worse. Do you want to get locked up for impeding an investigation?”
“Impeding?” Vida cried, her voice carrying not only into the living room, but possibly all the way to the Satellite Room down the street. “We're solving it for them.” She yanked off her hat, sat back down, removed her glasses, and began punishing her eyes. “Oooh! I hate the city! It makes me cross!”
Fifteen minutes later Mr. Rapp was able to return to his apartment, where Vida insisted he call his daughter to let her know what was going on. We were then directed to head for the north precinct to write up our statements. Apparently Mr. Rapp had been allowed to give his verbally.
Vida and I saw him to the door of his unit. “Promise you'll phone your daughter right away?” she said to Mr. Rapp. “And you might consider checking in with your doctor. You've had a very nasty fright.”
“I'm feeling better,” Mr. Rapp said, though I noticed that his hands still trembled slightly on the walker. “I hate to bother people. Dr. Fitzgerald still makes house calls, but I wouldn't want him to come until he's seen his patients at the clinic.”
Vida's eyes grew wide. “A doctor who makes house calls? In the city? He must be very old-fashioned.”
Mr. Rapp smiled feebly. “He is. Dr. Fitzgerald should have retired years ago, but he still sees his longtime patients. Such a wonderful man. Henrietta recommended him when my doctor died. She worked for an obstetrician at the same clinic before she took the job at the hospital.”
“Remarkable,” Vida murmured as we walked to the car. “Even young Doc Dewey has had to give up making house calls. My, my.”
The statements turned out to be a cut-and-dried affair. Rojas and his partner didn't accompany us, and Isaacs and O'Brien apparently returned to their regular patrol duties. We were out of the precinct station by two-thirty, heading back to the Shear Beauty Salon.
This time, we both went inside to see Maybeth Swaf-ford. She was cutting an elderly Vietnamese woman's hair and refused even to look at us until she'd finished.
“I don't like being stood up,” she declared in a low, angry voice after her client had headed up front to pay the bill. “Especially when I'm doing you a favor. What do you want? Make it quick.”
“I think we'd better speak privately,” Vida said, looking solemn.
“Why? I don't have any secrets around here.” May-beth swung a hand in the direction of the three other hairdressers who were plying their trade along the mirrored wall.
“Trust me,” Vida urged. “We have shocking news.”
Maybeth looked taken aback. “About what?” Her belligerence faded.
Vida gestured toward the rear of the salon. “Is there a room back here where we could speak? It won't take long.”
Maybeth sighed. “Yeah, the coffee room. Come on.”
The coffee room was small, windowless, and dirty. Maybeth sat down at the Formica-covered table. We sat opposite her, where used paper cups, empty snack-food bags, and soda-pop cans cluttered the scarred surface.
“What's shocking?” Maybeth asked.
Vida cleared her throat. “Henrietta Altdorf has been murdered.”
Maybeth's stare was incredulous. “No shit!” she exclaimed.
Before Vida could reprimand her for her language, before I could explain, Maybeth slid off the chair and collapsed in a dead faint.
A WATERCOOLER STOOD at the far end of the room under a calendar with the theme of World Wrestling Federation Hunks. I filled a paper cup from the cooler and dumped it over Maybeth's head. It probably wasn't Red Cross– approved first aid, but Maybeth twitched, sputtered, and flailed her arms.
“Jesus!” she gasped. It had taken her at least a couple of minutes to become oriented and coherent. “What is this? A serial killer?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Here, let me help you back into the chair.” Putting one arm around her waist and the other under her armpits, I managed to hoist her into a sitting position. “Do you have any idea who might be killing your fellow tenants?”
Maybeth, who had started to tremble, shook her head. “No. God. No.”
Vida, who had remained seated, shoved some of the debris out of the way and leaned across the table. “Come, come, Maybeth,” she said, not unkindly, “you must have some idea why Carol and Henrietta were murdered. It can't possibly be a coincidence or the work of a madman.”
Maybeth didn't reply. She sat there staring at the battered Formica, looking as if she might cry. We waited at least a full minute, but Maybeth remained silent.
“How about this?” I finally said. “Has anybody moved 243 out of the building in the last few months? A disgruntled tenant, let's say?”
Slowly, Maybeth shook her head. “No,” she said at last. “Everybody there, even the college kids, have been renting for at least a year.”
“A stalker?” Vida suggested.
Again, Maybeth shook her head. “Not that I ever heard of. We found a homeless guy passed out by the Dumpster, but that was months ago.”
“Were Carol and Henrietta close?” I asked. “I mean, closer than just neighbors?”
Maybeth frowned at me. “What do you mean by that? Something kinky?”
“No,” I replied. “I mean, did they share confidences?”
“Not that I ever knew,” Maybeth said, drawing herself up in the chair. “Jeez, I could use a drink. I wonder if Annabelle would let me go home? I only got two more clients today.”
“But ther
e must be a connection,” I insisted.
Maybeth, however, didn't answer. Instead, she got up on wobbly legs and left the coffee room.
“The police will question her,” Vida murmured. “No doubt they'll interview everyone in the building.”
“I don't think anybody was around, except Mr. Rapp,” I noted. “Wasn't Henrietta's the only car in the parking lot?”
“You're right,” Vida agreed, getting up from the table. “I certainly hope those detectives do a more thorough job this time. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.”
We went out into the salon, where Maybeth was talking to a hawk-faced woman at the front desk. Presumably it was Annabelle, and she was the boss or the owner or maybe both. Annabelle, however, didn't seem very sympathetic.
Maybeth saw us and made a face. “I have to stay until four,” she said. “You'd better go.”
We didn't have much choice. Annabelle was glaring at us with beady black eyes. I apologized to Maybeth for bearing bad news, then we exited the Shear Beauty Salon.
“We should head home,” Vida said, but the words weren't convincing.
“What can we do if we stay in Seattle?” I asked, and then suddenly remembered what I could do. “Alvin,” I said, getting behind the wheel. “He should know about this. Maybe he can get Ronnie out of jail.”
I dialed the young attorney's number. He answered on the third ring, sounding frazzled. The news of a second murder didn't seem to cheer him.
“Gosh, I don't know… I mean, like I'd have to file a motion and… maybe I can get around to it tomorrow. What's tomorrow, anyway? I can't find my calendar.”
“It's Thursday,” I said, never knowing whether to feel sorry for Alvin or charge into his office and give him a swift kick. “Come on, Alvin, do you still believe your client is guilty?”
“Well… no, I don't know if I was ever… I mean, it's my first criminal case and… Tell you what, I'll go see Ronnie tomorrow morning. No, it'll have to be tomorrow afternoon. I've got… hey, who was this other woman anyway?”
I explained. Alvin left me with a vague promise that he'd do what he could. When he could. If he could.
“I have to let Ronnie know,” I said. It was an afterthought, and I felt guilty. Ronnie always seemed to be an afterthought. “I hate to say it, but I think we should go back to the jail.”
Vida nodded. “That's fine. Perhaps Ronnie knows something about Henrietta that we don't. Did you ever inquire?”
“No. I never thought of Henrietta as playing any part in this,” I said, steering the Lexus back onto Greenwood.
“Obviously, I was wrong. There's some connection. But what could it be?”
Vida didn't answer right away. When she did, I noted an odd expression on her face. “Someone said something this afternoon—but for the life of me, I can't recall exactly what it was. Still, I know that it gave me an idea at the time.”
There was no point in prodding Vida; eventually, she'd retrieve the thought without prompting. Meanwhile she berated both of us for not using the opportunity to search Henrietta's personal possessions.
“We had plenty of time,” she asserted, “waiting for those detective fools to finish making jokes and get down to business.”
“You know better, Vida,” I said. “They would have yanked our chain if we'd started shaking down the place.”
“We'd have been more subtle. A trip to the bathroom. A side trip to the bedroom. Really,” she went on, her annoyance building, “what were we thinking of? There were probably things right there in the kitchen that might have proved helpful.”
“Like a slip of paper stuck to the refrigerator with a Mickey Mouse magnet that said, ‘The killer is…’?” I made a face. “I agree, Henrietta knew something dangerous, but I'm not sure it was the killer's identity.”
“Why do you say that?” Vida asked, suddenly tense. “Do you know what you mean?”
To be honest, I didn't. It was one of those utterances that slips out, with no rationale behind it. “Hunh. I guess I meant that Henrietta knew something that was dangerous to the murderer. Maybe something she didn't even realize she knew.”
“Exactly,” Vida said. “Now what on earth could it be?”
“Something she'd overheard earlier, before Carol was killed?” I speculated, negotiating my way through the steady build of the city's early commute. “A quarrel, a visitor, a misdirected piece of mail.” I slapped my hand on the steering wheel. “Damn! We never had a chance to ask Maybeth about that envelope addressed to the Addisons.”
“Please don't swear,” Vida said primly. “Maybeth should be home from work by the time we've seen Ronnie.”
Our departure from Seattle was creeping ever later. Maybe that was just as well. If we left earlier, we'd hit the full commute, no matter which route we took. The two-hour drive wasn't that difficult in good weather. I was, however, uneasy about leaving Amber and Danny alone for too long. One of these days I feared that I'd come home and find my little log house burned to the ground.
Then a brilliant idea struck me. “When Ronnie gets out of jail,” I said excitedly, “if he does, of course, I'm going to introduce him to Amber. They're a perfect match. What do you think?”
Vida looked skeptical. “Isn't he a bit old for her?”
“Ten years, more or less,” I replied. “Anyway, do you really consider Ronnie that much older emotionally?”
“No,” Vida said, not yet getting caught up in my enthusiasm. “Really, Emma, I never knew you to be a matchmaker.”
“It's not matchmaking; it's self-defense,” I countered. “They might do each other some good. Ronnie would have to grow up and act responsibly. Amber would move out of my house. I think it's brilliant.”
“You're dreaming,” Vida said.
Maybe I was. But at the moment it sounded good.
As I sat across from Ronnie for the second time that day, he listened to the news of Henrietta's murder with confusion rather than shock.
“That nurse next door?” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I don't get it.”
“Henrietta must have known Carol better than I realized,” I said. “Can you think of anything Carol might have confided in Henrietta that would have put her life in danger?”
Ronnie didn't bother to reflect. “Nope.”
“Come on, Ronnie,” I urged. “This is important. Did they talk to each other sometimes?”
“Nope.” He reached up to adjust his bandage. “My ear still hurts. I need some painkillers.”
An idea occurred to me. “Did Henrietta ever give you or Carol painkillers?”
“Huh?” Ronnie rubbed at his upper lip. “Yeah, maybe a coupla times. I hit my head on a ladder on the truck once. That nurse said she had something to help. I forget what she gave me, but it worked. Then another time Carol dropped a case of smoked tuna on her foot at the seafood place where she worked. Carol got some of those pills, too.”
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Far as I remember,” Ronnie replied. “How's Buddy?”
“Fine.” I'd forgotten about Buddy. For all I knew, he was decorating the grillwork on somebody's car. “You're sure? Henrietta didn't drop in often?”
Ronnie shook his head. “Nope. Never, far as I remember. I went to her place to get them pills.”
Apparently, Ronnie hadn't yet drawn any conclusions about Henrietta's murder. “Do you realize that there's a good chance you may be able to get out of here soon?” I asked.
“Huh?” Ronnie looked blank. “How come?”
“Because,” I said patiently, “the police will figure out that there must be a connection between two murders that occurred next door to each other. Since you were in jail when the last one happened, you couldn't have done it. Thus they'll realize you probably didn't kill Carol, either.”
“I didn't,” Ronnie said simply.
“I know that,” I said, still patient. “But it would help a lot if you could remember more about Henrietta and Carol.”
“Carol di
dn't like Henrietta,” Ronnie said after a long pause. “She said she was a busybody. One time—I forgot till now—Carol went over there to borrow a lightbulb. It was a month or so ago. She was gone for quite a while, and I thought maybe she'd run to the store instead. Anyways, when Carol came back, she was all wrought up. I asked her how come, but she wouldn't say. She just got mad at me and…” He ducked his head.
I could guess the rest. Carol had taken her anger and distress out on poor Ronnie. It's a wonder he hadn't asked Henrietta for more painkillers.
“Did Carol say what got her so upset?” I inquired.
Ronnie shook his head again. “Not really. But I think she got riled up over something Henrietta said about Kendra.”
“Kendra?”
“Yeah. I never seen Carol so pissed off. She was almost cryin’. She called Henrietta a big fat old liar.”
I was surprised by the incident, amazed that Ronnie could have forgotten about it until I prodded him. But Carol must have thrown many a temper tantrum. Maybe Ronnie only recalled them in relationship to his own wounds.
“Do you,” I asked slowly, “remember anything at all that Henrietta said to Carol about Kendra? Any phrase, any words?”
This time Ronnie put some effort into his response. “It was hard to catch, what with Carol carryin’ on so. But maybe it was something like… I don't recall exactly… but like ‘There's no way Kendra could be your daughter.’ ”
I frowned at Ronnie. “Do you know why Henrietta said that?”
“Nope.” Ronnie fished out a cigarette from behind his undamaged ear. “Can I go back now?”
“Sure,” I said, and tried to smile.
He seemed relieved as he stood up and signaled to the guard. Maybe he felt safer in prison. At least nobody there pretended to love him.
“WHAT ON EARTH could Henrietta have meant?” Vida demanded as we once again headed north. I'd driven up and down Aurora so often lately that I swore I recognized some of the hookers. Vida had already been scanning the cars behind us to see if she could spot the Taurus. She'd seen two of them since we'd left downtown, but both had disappeared along the way.