The Alpine Menace

by Mary Daheim

  “It's a terrible thing,” Vida murmured. “She seemed like a very fine woman.”

  “She was, as I recall,” Dr. Fitzgerald said, leading us down a hallway carpeted with an Oriental runner. “A good nurse. Of course it's been twenty years since we worked together.” He paused at an open door. “My wife put the teakettle on. I hope you approve.”

  “Certainly,” Vida said with her toothy smile. “Hot tea is always an excellent idea.”

  The doctor shoved his wire-rimmed spectacles up on his nose and led us into his comfortable study. The shelves were lined with medical tomes on one side, fiction and mostly travel books on the other.

  “We live in violent times,” Dr. Fitzgerald said in a heavy voice. “Do sit. Myra will be along shortly with the tea.”

  “As I explained on the phone,” Vida began, “Emma and I met Henrietta while researching the earlier murder of Carol Nerstad Stokes. Our newspaper, The Alpine Advocate, is planning a special section on what happens when young people move to the city. Rarely is it anything good, and Carol is a case in point.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. Our newspaper? The worst part was that Vida might not be lying. Maybe she really did plan to do such a piece. I foresaw trouble brewing back at The Advocate.

  “I didn't know this Carol person,” Dr. Fitzgerald put in, “though I was aware of her death. Mr. Rapp told me about it.”

  Vida nodded. “Such a sweet little man.”

  We were interrupted by the arrival of Myra Fitzgerald, bearing a very large silver tray. Fortunately, she was a stalwart-looking woman with iron-gray hair and a jutting jaw. The doctor introduced us, and Myra put on a sympathetic face.

  “Honestly, you never know who's next, do you?” she said, setting cups on saucers and pouring tea. “I baked today. One of our neighbors was attacked just down the street a while ago. Sugar cookies and some lemon bars. We had a break-in here just a year ago. I get in this mood every so often, for no reason, to bake up a storm. My sister-in-law's cousin was mugged over by the Ballard Locks last October. Does anyone take lemon?”

  We accepted both tea and cookies. I discovered I was starving; we hadn't yet had dinner, and it was almost seven-thirty.

  “I don't think you ever met Henrietta when she worked at the clinic,” Dr. Fitzgerald said to his wife.

  Myra shook her head. “No, I was too busy with my guild work in those days. Now it's grandchildren. Are you sure you don't need lemon?”

  “Henrietta actually worked for Dr. McFarland, didn't she?” Vida asked, after assuring our hostess that lemon was superfluous.

  Dr. Fitzgerald looked grave. “Yes, that's so. He was an OB-GYN. We had other doctors in the clinic besides myself back then, an internist and two general practitioners. I was one of the GPs. Now there are eight of us, but the rest are all specialists. That's how it goes in medicine these days. No one wants to be a jack-of-all-trades.”

  “It's the money,” Myra put in. “Specialists can charge more. Of course medical care in this country is going downhill. It's a disgrace. Say, I've got a loaf of pumpkin bread in the freezer. Should I thaw it out?”

  We thanked Myra, but declined. “Dr. McFarland handled adoptions,” I said. “Do you remember anything about the baby that a Mr. and Mrs. Addison got through the clinic while Henrietta was working there?”

  Again, Dr. Fitzgerald pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Not particularly. Henrietta only worked at the clinic for about three years. I borrowed her a few times when my own nurse was ill or on vacation, but I really didn't know her all that well. I don't recall the Addisons. They may have gone to the other GP.”

  “There was something peculiar about Henrietta,” Myra said. “What was it, Phil? Didn't she leave under a cloud?”

  Dr. Fitzgerald frowned. “There was something odd about that. Of course, Dr. McFarland could be… difficult.”

  “Yes,” I said, “Henrietta mentioned something like that.”

  “She did?” Dr. Fitzgerald looked startled.

  As usual, Vida was quicker on the uptake than I was. “Shocking, really. But I suppose one shouldn't be surprised.”

  I had no idea what she was talking about. I guessed that she didn't, either. Vida was on a fishing trip that went beyond Henrietta's complaints about Dr. Fitzgerald's tightfisted ways, including his refusal to provide medical insurance.

  “It's not an uncommon problem in the medical profession,” Dr. Fitzgerald said with a sigh. “So much pressure, so much stress—and the drugs are readily available. Luckily, Barney—Dr. McFarland—went through treatment not long after Henrietta left. He stayed clean for the rest of his life, as far as I know.”

  The account had taken an unexpected turn, one that I couldn't see helped us much as far as Carol Stokes and Henrietta Altdorf were concerned.

  “I always wondered,” Myra remarked, “if Henrietta wasn't blackmailing him. Maybe that was why I felt she left under a cloud. What do you really think, Phil?” She paused and waved a lemon bar. “Do you think these are too tart? I should have used more sugar, but you know what recipes are these days. Does anybody kitchen-test anymore?”

  “Dubious,” said Vida, who regularly complained that many of the recipes she received through the mail had to be inedible.

  “Blackmail?” Dr. Fitzgerald was looking bemused. “Myra, sometimes you have a very wicked mind. I shouldn't think blackmail was involved, though. Dr. Mc-Farland's habit was no secret at the clinic. His patients, of course, were another matter. Still… ”

  “You've always been poor at bringing home office gossip,” Myra said in reproach. “All that doctor-patient confidentiality.” She turned to Vida and me. “Don't you think he could at least confide in his wife?”

  “I should hope so,” Vida said, no doubt having in mind the thumbscrews she regularly applied to her niece Marje Blatt, who worked for Doc Dewey.

  “Now I am curious,” Myra declared. “Really, I haven't had a decent source of information since Gail Morris retired ten years ago. Whatever happened to Gail, anyway? Here,” she added, passing the cookie plate. “Have some more. Next time I'm making snickerdoodles.”

  “I don't think Gail went anywhere.” Dr. Fitzgerald chuckled. “She came into some money, as you may recall, and bought one of the first condos by the Ballard Locks. She kept working for another fifteen years, but still retired early.”

  “I should have kept in touch,” Myra said with a shake of her head. “But that's when the grandchildren started coming. I think I'll bake chocolate-chip cookies when they come for the weekend.”

  Vida was making for the door in what I thought was a rather hasty fashion. “So lovely,” she murmured. “So gracious of you to invite us. It's been a genuine pleasure.”

  I suppose I looked as surprised as the Fitzgeralds. “Must you go so soon?” Myra asked. “I was thinking about fixing ice-cream sundaes.”

  “It's a long drive to Alpine,” Vida said. “We both have to work tomorrow. Lovely cookies, delicious lemon bars, excellent tea. Goodbye now.”

  I had no choice but to make my own hurried farewell and follow Vida out the door.

  “What got into you?” I asked, settling behind the wheel.

  “Gail Morris,” Vida replied, rapidly paging through Henrietta's old address book. “I did my arithmetic. Gail must have bought her condo at least twenty-five years ago. Henrietta ought to have her number in here. Ah! It's an SU prefix. What did that stand for?”

  “Sunset,” I replied. “It was mainly for Ballard.”

  Vida read off the address. It was another ten-minute drive. “We haven't eaten,” I protested, “and you're right, it's getting late. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “We ate cookies,” Vida retorted. “And yes, I feel we're getting somewhere. The Fitzgeralds weren't a complete washout.”

  This time I made the phone call. Gail Morris sounded intrigued by my explanation. But she was about to leave for the evening.

  “What can I tell you about Henrietta?” she inquired. “Lo
rd, I hadn't thought about her in ages. I can't believe she was murdered. I saw it on the news this evening.”

  “It's complicated,” I said, wishing the cell phone wasn't trying to break up on me. We were parked off Twenty-fourth Avenue by Larsen's Bakery in Ballard. “Basically, I'm curious about why she quit the clinic. She told me it was a matter of money and benefits.”

  Gail laughed. “I guess you could say that. Lord, this isn't funny, is it? I mean, the poor woman is dead. Maybe I shouldn't say anything.”

  “It might help find her killer,” I said. “In fact, if you know anything about her, you ought to inform the police.”

  “Ohh… I'm leaving for Europe tomorrow,” Gail said. “I've always wanted to see the tulips in Holland. I don't want to get mixed up in this, but if I tell you and you feel it's pertinent, you can pass it along to the police, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay.” Gail sighed, a sound that ended in a squawk given out by my phone. “Henrietta left because she was pregnant. Forty years old, unmarried at the time, refusing an abortion because she'd been an OB-GYN nurse, and many of them simply don't believe in it. They've spent their careers making sure babies arrive alive. But you'd think she'd have known better than to get knocked up at her age, especially being a nurse.”

  I gave Vida, who was doing her best to listen in, a wide-eyed stare. “What happened to the baby?” I asked.

  “She'd already raised one kid, and didn't want to start over at forty-odd, particularly not on her own,” Gail replied. “What else could she do? She had Dr. McFarland put the baby out for adoption.”

  WE HAD MORE to chew on than our dinner when we stopped to eat at a Coco's Restaurant not far from the entrance ramp to I-5. Unfortunately, Gail Morris hadn't worked for Dr. McFarland, but she was certain that he'd handled the adoption of Henrietta's baby. Henrietta, meanwhile, had tried to keep her condition a secret. She'd been more embarrassed than ashamed, and had quit the clinic in her fifth month. Gail thought the baby was a girl, but once Henrietta left, they sort of lost touch.

  “I was in the middle of a divorce at the time,” Gail had explained. “Being a buddy was something I couldn't handle. If I hadn't inherited some money, I don't know how I'd have raised my own two kids.”

  She'd never heard who had adopted Henrietta's baby. Gail didn't pay much attention to the OB-GYN side of the clinic. She had enough to do working for Dr. Gregory, one of the other GPs. And no, she didn't recall any patients named Addison.

  “Is it too much to guess that Kendra was Henrietta's child?” I ventured as our entrées arrived.

  Vida looked up from her gravy-covered pork sandwich. “Certainly not. It makes perfect—if unfortunate— sense. But what happened to Carol's baby?”

  “As you know,” I said, “I asked Gail. She thought it had been a stillborn, but she wasn't sure. Again, she was all caught up with her own problems back then.”

  “And Dr. McFarland's nurse moved away,” Vida said thoughtfully. “I suppose she wanted to get out of the city.”

  “Gail thought she'd gone to L.A.,” I said dryly. “Anyway, she got married, and Gail didn't know her husband's name. I don't think asking for ‘Joan’ would get us very far with Los Angeles Directory Assistance.”

  “No, of course not,” Vida said, still thoughtful. “This certainly casts a different light on Carol's murder. Not to mention Henrietta's.”

  “We're stuck for now,” I said, glancing at my watch, which showed that it was after nine. “As it is, we won't get home until after eleven.”

  “We can't go home,” Vida declared, her jaw set. “We're going to have to spend the night again.”

  “Vida,” I began, “that's impossible. I've missed two days of work in the past week. I can't spend any more time on this right now. We can come back over the weekend. Scott is too inexperienced to put out the paper by himself, and Leo's got his hands full with the advertising.”

  “Then go,” Vida said. “I'll stay.”

  “What about your section? Who's going to do House and Home?”

  “I told you. It's virtually complete,” she responded, looking dogged. “Besides, I've got plenty of filler and handouts.”

  “That's not what your readers expect,” I pointed out. “You, of all people—”

  Vida waved a hand. “You're forgetting Maybeth. Do you want to see her dead, too?”

  “I don't know what Maybeth has to do with all this, frankly,” I said. “She wrote a letter to the Addisons. A foolish letter, I suspect. Now she's gone off the deep end.”

  “You don't know what that letter said,” Vida argued. “It may not have been foolish. But Maybeth is a fool for not telling us—or the police. What we need to do now is talk with Sam Addison. And Darryl, too. How much would a taxicab cost to go from here to Magnolia?”

  We were clear out at the county line, well beyond the city limits. “It'd be cheaper to buy a car,” I said, then threw down my napkin. “Okay, you win. But we're not spending the night. We'll go see Darryl—or at least you will. Meanwhile I'll call Kendra to get her father's phone number and address.”

  Kendra was at her apartment. She actually seemed pleased to hear from me. Since she didn't express any reaction to Henrietta's murder, I assumed she didn't know about it. I decided not to tell her. Not yet. The poor girl had troubles of her own, some of which she had yet to discover.

  Sam Addison was living in the basement of a friend's house near Seattle Pacific University. Since SPU is located at the bottom of Queen Anne Hill, he was only a few minutes away from Darryl Lindholm's condo in Magnolia.

  “I'll drop you off at Darryl's,” I told Vida, “and then go see Sam Addison. But I won't drive off until I know Darryl will let you in.”

  “He'll be surprised, but polite,” Vida said blithely. “After all, I did know him when he was a boy.”

  Vida knew everyone in Alpine when they were boys, girls, puppies, or piglets. Feeling about ready to drop from weariness, I took the freeway back into town, exited at Fiftieth Street, crossed over into Ballard one more time, waited for the bridge over the ship canal to go up and then down again, zipped by the commercial fishing fleet at the wharf, wound around the ramp to Magnolia, and finally reached Darryl's condo.

  “Good luck,” I said. “Just don't get him riled or I'll be picking your spare parts up from the curb.”

  “Nonsense,” Vida said, and got out of the car.

  Sure enough, Darryl let her in. I waited a few minutes to see if he'd give her the bum's rush, but nothing happened. With lingering misgivings, I drove the short distance to the address Kendra had given me for her other father. Not that either of them was her real father, I thought, at least the way things were unfolding.

  The older house where Sam had moved was on a steep side street, three stories of eclectic renovation. There was a light on in the daylight basement, though the upper stories lay in darkness.

  There was also a black Ford Taurus parked outside.

  When I'd first seen Sam Addison what seemed like eons ago, he'd been driving a Honda. Of course there were hundreds of black Tauruses in the city; there was no reason to think that this was the one that had been following me.

  Still, I hesitated. Sam Addison could have two cars. The people who lived in the rest of the house or next door or down the street might own a Taurus. After several minutes of procrastinating I steeled myself, got out of the car, and walked to the basement door.

  There was no bell. I knocked and waited. No one responded. I knocked again, harder. Through the mottled glass in the door's window, I could see a large form approach. The door opened slowly, revealing a disheveled Sam Addison.

  “Emma!” he cried. “Oh, my God!”

  A car screeched behind me. I turned quickly to see a Yellow Cab with a turbaned driver behind the wheel. A passenger burst out of the backseat. It was Vida.

  “Wait, Emma, don't go in! The killer is in there!”

  Shunning his fare, the frightened cabdriver tore off down th
e street just as Sam Addison yanked me across the threshold and slammed the door. I could hear Vida yelling outside.

  Sam's new digs had probably been a rec room. The furnishings were sparse and makeshift. It was a far cry from the beautifully decorated house on Ashworth. As Vida pounded on the door, I stared at Sam. There was a terrible gleam in his eyes and his mouth drooped at the corners. He looked as if he'd gone mad.

  “Emma,” he repeated, his voice now low and jagged. “You shouldn't have come here.”

  “I guess not,” I said, swallowing hard.

  Vida was screaming for somebody to open the door. I started to turn, but Sam caught me by the shoulder.

  “No,” he said with a frightening calm. “No more. I can't take any more. It's over.”

  I'd never figured Sam Addison for the killer. Maybe I could reason with him or at least stall until Vida got help. But as I tried to conjure up the right words, Kathy Ad-dison entered through a door at the rear of the room.

  “God!” she cried. “Not you! Why can't you leave me alone?” She dove at me, her hands outstretched, her fingers like talons.

  Sam had released me. I ducked to one side, trying to elude Kathy. The blow that Sam sent flying struck me on the jaw. I could still hear Vida yelling as I crashed to the bare floor.

  I must have been unconscious for only a few seconds. When I came to, Kathy was lying sprawled on an old tweed couch and Vida was looming over me.

  “You didn't exactly miss,” she was saying to Sam, “but you missed Kathy the first time. Sit down, Sam. We really ought to call the police and perhaps an ambulance.”

  Sam was leaning against the wall, his hands clenched on top of his bald spot. “I had to stop her,” he mumbled. “She might have killed Emma.”

  Kathy wasn't coming around. After Vida helped me to a chair, she checked for the unconscious woman's pulse.

  “She's alive,” Vida said, picking up the phone from an apple crate that served as an end table. “When you hit her, she fell in such a way that she struck her head on this.” She pointed to the apple crate's sharp, rough corner.