by Mary Daheim
“It could mean a couple of things,” I said. “That Carol wasn't fit to be anybody's mother. Or that Henrietta didn't believe Kendra was Carol's daughter.”
“Now, why would she think that?” Vida remarked. “This is very puzzling.”
“That's so,” I agreed as we found ourselves in stop-and-go traffic, “but I felt I was lucky to get anything at all out of Ronnie. It took some doing, believe me. At first, all he could talk about was painkillers that Henrietta had given them. I suppose she got the pills through the hospital.”
“Oh!” Vida snapped her fingers. “That's it! I remember now what was said earlier. It was Mr. Rapp, talking about his doctor. He told us that Henrietta had recommended him because she'd worked with him—a Dr. Fitzgerald, wasn't it?— at the same clinic where she'd worked for the OB-GYN.”
“That's right,” I said, not sure of Vida's point. “So what?”
“Really,” Vida huffed, “you're being rather dim. OB-GYNs handle adoptions. What if this doctor Henrietta worked for was the one who found a baby for the Addisons?”
I considered the idea. “It's possible. Olive Nerstad might know. He was her doctor, right?”
“Kathy Addison said his name was McFarland,” Vida said. “I believe he died not long ago. But it would be easy to check to see if a Henrietta Altdorf had worked for him at the clinic around the time of the adoption.”
“It would,” I said dryly, “if it weren't after five. I'll bet the clinic staff has gone home for the day.”
“Tell me again how to use your cell phone,” Vida commanded, reaching into my handbag. “I'm going to call right now.”
I gave her the simple directions. Then, while waiting for yet another interminable stoplight, I watched her face fall.
“The answering service,” she said, switching the phone off without bothering to speak to whoever was taking the clinic's calls. “Drat.”
An idea occurred to me. Years ago in Portland, I'd had a friend who worked as a nurse for a dermatologist. The office staff automatically switched incoming calls over at five, whether they were still there or not.
“Try the backline,” I said. “Dial the same number, but go up one digit on the last one. You might be able to get through.”
Vida looked at me as if I'd just turned water into wine. “Very clever,” she said, clicking away on the phone. “Ah!” She rocked back and forth in the passenger seat. “Yes, I'm calling for Dr. Fitzgerald. Is he in?”
Vida stopped rocking. “Oh.” Her face fell again. “I see. Tell me, is there anyone in the clinic who worked there twenty years ago?” Pause. “Really. Yes, people do tend to come and go these days. Thank you.”
“Well?” I asked, feeling as if Vida's disappointment was contagious.
“Only Dr. Fitzgerald has been there that long,” she said, “and he's left for the day. I suppose we could call him at home. He makes house calls, after all.”
“Maybe he's seeing Mr. Rapp,” I suggested. “We might kill two birds with one stone at the apartment house.”
“An excellent idea,” Vida responded, brightening. “Goodness, all these cars! However do people put up with this traffic? I'd go quite mad.”
“So would I. It's been a long time since I've had to fight freeways and bridges,” I said. “That's one thing I don't miss about the city.”
“I wouldn't miss any of it,” Vida declared as we finally reached the left-hand turn for Greenwood Avenue. “It's a dismal place. Most depressing, not to mention dangerous.”
Arguing was pointless. Alpine was bedeviled by family feuds, gossip, backbiting, an economy that still hadn't been completely resuscitated by the advent of Skykomish Community College, and intermittent violence, which seemed all the more painful because it involved people you knew. But Vida would never admit that small towns, particularly hers, could be anything but utopia.
So instead of contradicting her, I merely mentioned my exclusion from the local bridge club. “You'd think they would have gotten over it by now,” I said. “It's been five months. They certainly found out that I didn't kill Crystal Bird.”
The allusion was to the homicide of Amber Ramsey's mother, who had attacked me in her scurrilous self-published newsletter. Briefly, everyone in town—except maybe Vida herself—considered me the prime suspect.
“But they thought you might have killed her,” Vida said. “Now they're embarrassed.”
“That's supposed to make me feel better?” I shot back. My former bridge partners weren't, for the most part, stupid women. To be fair, I understood that only a minority of them had insisted on my expulsion. The point was that these few, these callow, these easily prejudiced members of a narrow-minded clique had prevailed. I liked to think it wouldn't have been that way in the city.
“They'll come 'round,” Vida said easily. “You'll see.”
I uttered nothing more than a snort. We were back at the apartment house, where two unmarked city cars were pulled up out front, blocking the driveway.
“Forensics people,” I said, forgetting about the bridge club. “We'll have to find a place on the street.”
We finally did, but had to leave the Lexus a block and a half away. There was no crime-scene tape posted yet on Henrietta's unit and the door was closed. Vida buzzed the button at 1-C. We waited for Maybeth to answer.
Roy Sprague, looking disconcerted, opened the door. “It's you,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a person welcoming the Grim Reaper. On second thought, maybe that's who he expected.
“Is Maybeth home?” Vida asked in her most chipper voice.
“She's lying down,” Roy replied, nodding in the direction of the bedroom. “She's whipped. What's going on around here? We're moving out. This place has one of them curses on it.”
“Do you suppose,” Vida wheedled, tipping her head to one side and trying to look coy, “we might come in for just a minute? We found Henrietta's body, you know.”
“Oh.” If Roy had known, he'd either forgotten or not made the connection. The offhand remark served as our password, however. “Well… yeah, sure, come on. Want a beer?”
“No, thank you,” Vida responded just as I said that it sounded like a great idea.
Vida glared at me while Roy went to the fridge. “You're driving,” she murmured. “Is this wise?”
“One beer a drunkard does not make,” I said. “What's more, I'd like a beer right now.”
“You don't drink beer,” Vida countered.
“I don't, at least not very often. Should I have asked for a Singapore Sling?”
“A what?” Vida said, puzzled.
Roy came back into the living room and handed me a bottle of Henry Weinhard's pale ale, which was a bit tonier than I'd expected. “Maybeth called me at work, so I took off early,” he said. “She got home before I did, but wouldn't come in by herself. Hell, I never seen her so scared. This whole thing's really got her down.”
“She took it hard,” I said. “She passed out when we told her about Henrietta.”
Pulling on his beer, Roy nodded. “That's why we're leaving. Tomorrow. I don't care what that Mr. Chan says. This place ain't safe.”
I offered Roy my most pleading expression. “Do you think we could ask her one quick question?”
Roy looked skeptical. “About what?”
“About a letter she wrote a while back, to Kendra Ad-dison's parents.”
Roy tipped his head back and scratched under his chin. “You mean the blonde babe who hung out with Carol? Jeez, I don't know why she'd write a letter to them. May-beth's no letter writer. You sure?”
I produced the dirty envelope from my handbag and pointed to the return address. “Are you sure you don't know anything about this?”
“Hell, no,” Roy said emphatically. “Weird.” He stood up, clutching his beer bottle by the neck. “Let me see if Maybeth's awake.”
She was. Much to Vida's displeasure, only I was allowed to go into the bedroom. I figured that was because I drank beer and Vida didn't. It made
me one of the gang.
Maybeth was cowering under a quilt, looking terrified. “What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
The only place to sit was on the double bed. I still had the envelope in my hand. “What was in this?” I inquired calmly.
Maybeth, who had started to sit up, fell back against the pillow. “Jesus! Where'd you get that?”
“At the Addison house,” I replied, still calm. “Why did you write to them? Was it about Carol? Or Kendra?”
Maybeth rolled over, buried her face in the pillow, and began shrieking. Roy came charging into the room.
“What's going on?” He grabbed me by the shoulder. “What did you do to her? Get the hell out!”
I was yanked off the bed and shoved in the direction of the door. Tripping over my own feet, I fell flat on my face. Vida jumped up from her chair and rushed to my side. Roy was somewhere behind me, fussing over Maybeth.
“Emma!” Vida cried. “What's this? Are you all right?”
Both knees hurt, as did one of my elbows. “I'm okay,” I gasped, struggling to get up.
Carefully, Vida pulled me to my feet. Maybeth was still shrieking and Roy was trying to calm her.
“Get the hell out!” Roy shouted at us as he gave May-beth a little shake. “Get out before I throw you out!”
Vida had turned mulish, but I steered her toward the front door. “Come on,” I said, limping a bit. “Give it up. We lost that round.”
“Oooh…” Vida swiveled this way and that, heard Roy yell at us again, and finally followed me outside. “I hate to let a bully tell me what to do,” she said angrily.
“I've been thrown out of better places lately,” I muttered. “Like Darryl's condo in Magnolia.”
“Yes,” Vida began, then stopped as Tony Rojas came out from 1-A, Henrietta's unit.
“You again?” he said, obviously not pleased.
Vida's arm shot out in the direction of 1-C. “Have you interrogated the occupants in this apartment?”
“Why do you ask?” There was a weary note in Rojas's voice.
“Ms. Swafford knows more than she's letting on,” Vida retorted, jerking away the envelope I'd managed to hold on to despite my tumble. “Here, ask her about this. It was sent to the adoptive parents of Carol Stokes's daughter.”
Rojas eyed the envelope dubiously. “So? Maybe the Swafford woman knows the Addisons.”
“She doesn't.” Vida actually stamped her foot. “That is, not in a social context. I'm quite certain this has something to do with Carol's murder. Maybeth Swafford is absolutely terrified. I'm sure she believes she'll be the next victim.”
“Really.” Rojas put the envelope in his inside pocket. Apparently, he didn't think it was serious evidence or he would have been more careful. “Where'd you get this anyway?”
I explained.
Rojas slapped his hand against his forehead. “Christ! Who are you? Hanging out in alleys and going through the garbage—aren't you two a little old for Nancy Drew?”
“I told you,” I said between clenched teeth, “I'm trying to help clear my cousin of a murder charge. What's so weird about that?”
Rojas sighed. “Ever hear of private detectives? That's what most people do when they want a secondary investigation. All this amateur sleuthing crap can get you into big trouble.”
I feigned contrition, which wasn't too difficult since my knees hurt like hell and I felt sorry for myself. “You're right, but somebody had to help Ronnie. He's pretty much alone in the world. Are you going to talk to May-beth and her boyfriend?”
Rojas glanced at the door to 1-C. “I stopped by there about an hour ago, but nobody answered.” He paused, perhaps trying to figure out if I was a serious menace or just a bumbling idiot. “Yeah, I'll talk to them.”
“You better hurry,” Vida put in. “They're moving out. That's how frightened Maybeth is.”
“Hunh.” Rojas glanced at 1-C again. “Okay, if it makes you feel any better, I'll go talk to them now.”
We stood on the walkway while the detective buzzed Maybeth and Roy. Nothing happened. Rojas buzzed again. Still nothing. Then he hammered on the door and shouted, “Police!”
From where we were standing, I couldn't hear what was being said from inside the apartment. Rojas could, though, because he was leaning down, listening through the door.
“If that's the way you want it,” he said at last, “that's the way we'll do it.” Rojas started back down the walk. “The guy in there says no dice unless we come back with a warrant.”
“Why,” Vida demanded, “don't you arrest him for withholding evidence?”
Rojas laughed and tapped his suit jacket where the envelope reposed. “On this? Not a prayer. Still, I want to ask them some questions, even though I don't think they were around today when the murder occurred.”
“They weren't,” I said, then added, “that I know of.”
Rojas gave single nod. “Okay. Now run along. And stay out of trouble. We're handling this just fine.”
I didn't ask him why Ronnie was still in jail.
* * *
I'd turned to leave when Vida let out a sudden yelp. “Oh! I forgot my asthma medicine!” She caught Rojas by the sleeve. “Do you mind? I believe I left it in Henrietta's bathroom.”
Rojas grimaced. “What does it look like?”
“It's blue,” she said. “No, it's green. Or did the doctor give me the maroon one this time? My, my—I'm not sure.”
“What is it?” Rojas asked, impatience showing on his face. “Pills? A bottle?”
“No,” Vida responded vaguely. “It's one of those… oh, you must know what I mean.” She made some indecipherable gestures with her hands. “It's a whatchamacallit.”
I watched the little scene with amusement, knowing that Vida didn't have asthma and therefore didn't have any asthma medicine. Finally, Rojas relented.
“I'll have to go in with you,” he said, then held up a hand to me. “Stay put. This can't take long. I've got personnel working inside.”
I nodded assent, then heard a diffident Vida ask if she might use the bathroom while she was there. “So awkward,” she remarked. “So embarrassing to have to ask.”
Less than five minutes later Vida emerged, looking a trifle smug.
“Well?” I said. “Are you still wheezing?”
“I'd be chortling if I thought I'd found anything worthwhile,” she said, the smugness gone. “All I could manage was to slip from the bathroom to the bedroom and snatch an address book and a photo album.”
“You couldn't fit a metal box or a file folder into your purse,” I said with a smile. “You were lucky to have gotten what you did. I'd have thought the police would have confiscated the address book.”
“Not yet,” Vida said as we reached the Lexus.
Just in case Rojas might have discovered the missing items, I moved the car around the corner. Vida was flipping through the address book first.
“Drat,” she said. “This is an old book. These phone numbers still have prefixes with letters, like LA and SU. The police must have taken Henrietta's more recent one.”
“What about the album?” I asked.
“It's fairly full, unlike Carol's,” she said, “though of course there may have been others we never got to see at her apartment. Henrietta was more organized. These first pictures seem to go way back. Many of them are tourist sites, just like the ones on her walls. Victoria, Mount Rainier, the Olympics, the ocean. Here's a nice-looking young man on a horse. Perhaps that's one of her husbands. Henrietta must have taken most of these, since she's not in them. Ah! Here's a group shot of nurses, no doubt a graduating class. They wore uniforms then. How nice.”
“Doc Dewey still has his nurses wear uniforms,” I pointed out.
“No caps, though,” Vida said. “No smart navy-blue capes with red lining. Such a shame, all this casual… What's this?”
“Where?” I leaned over to look. In between photos of Grouse Mountain and Grand Coulee Dam was a picture of Kendr
a Addison. “I'll be darned,” I said. “How did that get in here?”
Vida didn't answer right away. “It's not Kendra,” she finally said through stiff lips. “See here, she's wearing what we used to call Capri pants and her hair is much more stylized. Bouffant, really.”
Jarred, I sat up straight. “Then who is it?” I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.
Vida, however, didn't say anything. She continued to page through the album. “Here,” she said, still sounding tense, “could this be Henrietta?”
It was a picture of a young woman with a baby. She was pretty, with short red-gold hair and a plumpish figure. “It might be,” I said. “Take another look at that nurses’ graduation picture.”
We spotted Henrietta Altdorf in the second row. She was thinner and younger than in the picture with the baby. But she definitely looked like the girl in the Capri pants—which meant that she bore a startling resemblance to Kendra Addison.
Vida announced that we had to track down Dr. Fitzgerald. We drove up Greenwood to Holman Road and found a service station with a telephone directory that hadn't been stolen or torn to shreds. Dr. Philip Fitzgerald's clinic was just off Market Street in Ballard; his residence was out in North Beach, about a ten-minute drive from where we were now parked.
“I'll call first,” I said.
“Let me,” Vida urged. “I'm more in his age group.”
I wasn't sure what that had to do with interviewing Dr. Fitzgerald, but it seemed to work. Vida returned from the pay phone looking pleased with herself.
“He remembered Olive Nerstad.” She beamed. “Such a kindly sounding man. He'd love to see us.”
That was probably an overstatement, but we drove off under a spring sky that was beginning to cloud over. The Fitzgerald house, a well-kept Colonial with twin sets of pillars along the full front porch, was at the bottom of a hill, with a view of Puget Sound.
The doctor met us at the door. He looked about seventy and was wearing a black cardigan over a pale blue shirt and gray flannel slacks.
“Come in, ladies,” he said, almost sounding as if he were indeed glad to see us. “We were very sorry to hear about poor Henrietta. I saw her not long ago, when Mr. Rapp had a fall in his kitchen.”