by Mary Daheim
Sam slowly came over to where I was sitting. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to knock you out, Emma. That's me all over. If Hitler and Mother Teresa were in the same room, I'd have coldcocked her instead of him.”
Frankly, I was still wary of Sam. “I got in the way,” I mumbled, my jaw feeling stiff. “It's okay. But I don't understand what's going on.”
Vida had completed her call to 911. “I learned the truth from Darryl Lindholm,” she said, sitting on the arm of the couch, “so I raced over here as soon as I could.”
Sam had knelt down next to Kathy. “Did Darryl get a phone call last night, too?” he asked of Vida.
“Yes.” Vida nodded. “And so, I assume, did Kathy.”
“It wasn't the first one, I gather,” Sam said dully. “Not for Kathy, anyway.” Gently, he stroked his wife's motionless hand.
I wasn't following any of this. Maybe Sam had made scrambled eggs of my brain. “What phone calls?” I demanded, wishing my jaw moved more easily.
“From Henrietta,” Vida said. “Calling Kathy, Sam, and Darryl to make threats and trouble over Kendra. Henrietta had gone 'round the bend, poor thing. Which,” she added sadly, “is why Kathy killed her.”
I could hear the sirens coming closer. Sam sat on the floor, his hands hanging slack between his knees.
“I'd never heard of this Altdorf woman before last night,” he said. “She called out of the blue, and told me she was Kendra's real mother. I thought it was a crank and tried to hang up on her. But then she started talking about Dr. McFarland and a dead baby and how she had a right to be Kendra's real mother. It turned out that Kathy had gotten a call, too, even before last night, but she kept it to herself. Hell, when it's bad news, she usually rents a billboard.”
“Henrietta also phoned Darryl,” Vida said. “Poor man, he's a mess. I hated to leave him.”
“Henrietta was telling the truth,” I said to Sam. “Her child was substituted for the baby you and Kathy were supposed to get. You helped pay for Carol's medical care while she was pregnant, didn't you?”
“Yes,” Sam replied, his voice still toneless. “We paid for her care and then for the baby. Kendra didn't come cheap. Nothing at our house was ever cheap.”
The sirens were getting closer. Kathy still wasn't moving. “It was a horrible coincidence,” I said. “Henrietta lived next door to Carol, and when Kendra showed up, she—Henrietta—recognized her right away. Kendra was the spitting image of Henrietta when she was young. I saw Carol's picture,” I went on as the sirens stopped and Vida went to the door. “She and Kendra didn't look much alike. Kendra didn't look like Darryl Lindholm, either. He was the man who got Carol pregnant. I don't know for sure, but I'm guessing that Kendra's birth father was your wife's doctor at the clinic where Henrietta worked. McFarland's dead, too, so we may never know.”
The emergency personnel filed into the basement. I half expected to recognize them, but I didn't. My sojourn in Seattle, even my brief return to Alpine, seemed to be filled with sirens and ambulances and efficient people in uniformed garb.
Vida and I got out of the way while Sam explained what had happened. The medics weren't particularly sympathetic, but didn't waste time berating him. All attention was focused on Kathy. Meanwhile the firefighters and police arrived. Hushed words were exchanged, glances thrown at Sam, at least one sent my way. I was probably being pegged as the Other Woman. They had it all wrong. The other woman was Henrietta, and she was dead.
The medics removed Kathy; the patrol officers stayed. Vida and I identified ourselves as concerned friends from out of town. They regarded us with suspicion, but didn't order us to stay put.
To my surprise, Vida insisted that we follow the ambulance to Harborview Hospital. “Sam's riding with Kathy. We should be there to see him through this. They may arrest him for assault.”
“What about me?” I objected. “My jaw may be broken. Between Sam and Roy shoving and socking me around, I could use some sympathy, too.”
“You can get an ice bag at the hospital,” Vida said blithely as she got into the car. “Come, come, let's go. We don't want to lose sight of the ambulance.”
“We already have,” I announced in my perverse manner. The street was now empty of emergency vehicles, though curious neighbors milled about on the sidewalk. To further pique Vida, I didn't let on that I knew exactly where the ambulance was heading. “So you figured everything out during a five-minute chat with Darryl. I'd applaud, but I might dislocate my shoulder.”
“Don't be snide,” Vida retorted. “You're just angry because you couldn't see the forest for the trees. Will you please get going?”
“What did Darryl tell you?” I demanded, taking my time to start the car.
“Another blow for the poor man,” Vida sighed. “Darryl never knew that Carol's baby—his baby—died until Henrietta called him last night. Carol didn't know it at the time, either. It wasn't a stillbirth. There were severe breathing complications. The baby—a boy, actually— died the day after Carol got out of the hospital. She was never informed. In fact, she had asked that she not be told anything about the baby, including its sex, so that she couldn't form any sort of attachment. Then Henrietta became obsessed, wanting Kendra all to herself. And to think I thought she was a nice woman!”
“You were wrong.” My voice was tinged with spite. Still it was rare for Vida to be mistaken in her judgment of others; usually, she tended to be overly critical.
“I can guess why the fake nail was in Carol's apartment,” Vida said.
“So can I. Maybeth lost it when she confronted Carol with what she'd heard through the wall when Henrietta and Carol had it out. That's why Maybeth wrote to the Addisons. She wanted to get back at Carol for stealing her boyfriend.”
We were cruising along Fifteenth, past the driving range that had been built over an old garbage dump. Maybe some changes were for the better. “You've figured out the fabric scrap, I'm sure.”
“What?” Vida seemed rattled.
“The so-called women's suiting that Kendra found,” I said, at my most patronizing. “After all, you are the House and Home editor.”
“Well, naturally… I suppose…”
“An upholstery sample,” I crowed, “that Kathy dropped after she got the tell-all letter from Maybeth and came to see Carol to find out if any of it was true.”
“Yes, well, certainly,” Vida said, still flustered. “Are you sure we're going the right way?”
“Positive,” I replied. We'd reached the turnoff to lower Queen Anne. I cut up through the west side of the hill, heading for Mercer, the crosstown street that would eventually take us to Harborview.
“You knew that Kathy was following us in the Taurus,” Vida remarked, her aplomb restored.
“I do now,” I said. “I mean, when I saw the Taurus parked in front of Sam's, I thought it belonged to him. I never saw the car that was parked in the Addison garage when I was in the alley waiting for you. The door was pulled down.”
“Such a silly stunt,” Vida remarked as we drove past the opera house and the home of Pacific Northwest Ballet. “Kathy might have known we wouldn't be scared off so easily.”
“She wasn't trying to scare us,” I said, turning onto Fifth Avenue and driving past the Space Needle and under the Monorail. “Kathy was desperate to know what we were up to. She may have thought we'd found out something she didn't know.”
“Nonsense,” Vida shot back. “If anything other than frightening us, she wanted us out of the way at the apartment house. Just about every time she followed us, we were headed in that direction. Thus she couldn't go there to have a showdown with Henrietta. We were thwarting her.”
“Make up your mind,” I said, turning on Denny Way to head for Capitol Hill. Thousands of darkened apartment and condo windows stared blindly out over the city. I felt a pang. I belonged there, not in a burg like Alpine, where I could count the multiple-dwelling complexes on two hands.
“Does it matter which is right?” Vida replied, br
istling. “Like Henrietta, Kathy had become unhinged.”
“Let's hope she's not also dead,” I put in, “because only she can tell us what happened with Henrietta.”
“She'll be fine,” Vida responded, still testy. “A slight concussion, that's all. You'll see.”
“Vida, do you always have to be right?”
“It's better than always being wrong,” she snapped.
“Are you saying I'm always wrong?”
“No, of course not. But you can be very pigheaded.”
“I can be pigheaded? And you're not?”
“I try to keep an open mind.”
“Vida…”
We had reached our destination. Harborview Hospital sits on the edge of what is known as Pill Hill, overlooking downtown and Elliott Bay. It looked like a fortress in the dark, a citadel to ward off death, with a special wing to keep the mental cases away from the rest of us who refused to admit that we were crazy, too.
I pulled up at the main entrance and waited for Vida to get out of the car.
“Aren't you going to park?” she asked. “I saw a sign that said the lot was on the other side of the hospital.”
“I'm not staying,” I said, glancing at my watch, which indicated it was almost ten-thirty. “I'll pick you up in an hour or so. In fact, let's say midnight.” Vida should have given Sam Addison all the comfort he could stand by then.
“Where are you going?” Vida demanded, half out of the Lexus.
“Never mind,” I said. “By the way, I assume you know who killed Carol.”
Vida leaned down to stare through the passenger window. “What?”
“Never mind,” I said, and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I could see Vida shaking a fist. No doubt she was dying of curiosity, for several reasons.
She should have known where I was headed, however. There was only one place I could go, that I should go: I drove to the freeway and Kendra's apartment in the north end of the city.
Despite the late hour, there was a light on in Kendra's unit. Maybe she was with Gavin Odell and didn't want to be disturbed. But I had to disturb her, upset her, too. And all I could wonder as I climbed the wooden stairs was, Why me, Lord?
However, it appeared that Kendra was alone. She was wearing a short chenille bathrobe and the TV was on. A half-empty glass of milk sat on an end table and a bag of pretzels was on the floor next to the sofa.
I asked Kendra if she had any liquor on hand. We were both going to need it before we finished the evening's business.
Naturally, Kendra looked alarmed. “There's some wine,” she said. “Gavin bought it. What is it? You look awful, Ms. Lord.”
“Call me Emma. Call me Awful.” I followed her into the kitchen. Kendra might have wine, but she didn't have wineglasses. I watched while she poured Merlot into two juice tumblers.
“Can you be candid with me?” I asked as we sat down in the living room.
Kendra clicked the remote to turn off the set, then stared at me. “About what?”
“About your feelings for your parents—all of them.”
Kendra started to answer, then shut her mouth and shook her head. “No deal. I want to know what's happened first. Is it Mom?”
“Kathy, your adoptive mother?”
“Right.” Kendra's voice was tight and there was fear in her eyes.
“She may have committed a crime,” I said. “Your father—Sam—had to hit her. She's at the hospital.”
Kendra had taken a gulp of wine, which caused her to make a face. “Dad hit Mom? That doesn't sound like him. What do you mean, she committed a crime?”
“She may have killed Henrietta Altdorf, the nurse who lived next door to Carol.”
“What?” Kendra was stunned. She had to set the glass down on the end table because her hands were shaking.
“Henrietta was murdered late this morning. Did you know her?”
Kendra folded her hands in her lap. She was wearing a brave face, perhaps telling herself that I was nuts. “That older lady who was always butting in?” she said. “Yeah, I met her a couple of times. She gushed over me. I hate gush. God, is this real?”
I was seated in a big white chair across from Kendra's place on the sofa. I leaned forward, wishing I dared sit next to her and put an arm around her shoulders.
“Henrietta probably was your real mother, your birth mother. Carol Stokes's baby died a few days after he was born.”
The brave look collapsed, sinking somewhere inside Kendra's lacerated heart. “No! That's a lie! My mother told me I was her daughter! My mom and dad knew she was! You're crazy!”
I shook my head. “Ask your dad. Both your dads. Of course,” I continued slowly, “neither of them is your birth father. He was probably your adoptive mother's OB-GYN at the clinic that handled your adoption. That's where Henrietta was a nurse before you were born.”
Tears had welled up in Kendra's eyes. “I don't get it,” she said, sounding frantic. “Why did everybody lie to me?”
“They didn't know,” I said. “Kathy Addison wanted a daughter, isn't that right?”
The tears were falling, but Kendra nodded. “She… always said… girls were easier… to raise.”
“I'll admit, I don't know what would have happened if Carol Stokes had given birth to a healthy boy. But she didn't, and about the same time Henrietta had a girl. She and Dr. McFarland made the switch. I don't know if it was illegal, but there could have been problems. The Ad-disons had paid most of Carol's medical expenses. Dr. McFarland may have been in a bind. Not only did he probably get a nurse in his clinic pregnant, but he was a drug abuser, so he may not have been in his sane and sober mind. At any rate, the substitution was made and the adoption papers were filed with the court. Dr. McFar-land had to lie. I suspect he was under tremendous pressure from Henrietta and he caved. Also, he knew how desperately your mother wanted a child after all her miscarriages. Carol's baby died after she left the hospital. She didn't know the truth, neither did your adoptive parents. You can't blame them. They didn't lie, because they never knew.”
Wiping at her eyes, Kendra remained silent for a long time. I guessed that she was trying to sift through everything I'd told her. I wouldn't have blamed the poor girl if it took her a week.
“But the crime… ? The murder? Did I hear wrong?” she finally asked in an anguished voice.
“I don't think so,” I said, wishing it were otherwise. “It seems that after Carol's death, Henrietta became obsessed. She'd seen how much you liked Carol; she wanted you to like her in the same way, as your mother. She had a son, but he rarely visited her. I suspect she'd grown lonely and bitter. You can imagine her shock when she saw you next door.” I opened the photo album that I'd brought in from the car. “Look,” I said, pointing to the picture of the young and pretty Henrietta, “isn't she your spitting image?”
“Oh, my God!” Kendra recoiled from the album and put her hands over her face.
“Anyway,” I continued, retrieving the album, which had fallen next to the pretzels, “she began making phone calls to Darryl Lindholm, to your adoptive father, to your adoptive mother. Did she call you?”
Kendra dropped her hands. Her face was blotchy and wet with tears. “No. Why?”
“Then she must have gotten your father's number from your mother,” I said.
“He has a listing,” Kendra replied. “He just got a phone yesterday.”
“Bad timing,” I murmured. “Henrietta told all of them the truth about your birth. She may have made demands. Money, perhaps, or simply that she be acknowledged. It sounds as if your adoptive mother went off the deep end. She'd already suffered through having you form an attachment with Carol. Now Carol was gone, but another woman had claimed you as her own. I think your mother snapped and went out to see Henrietta this morning. I also think she'd called on Carol earlier, after receiving a letter from Maybeth Swafford. Maybeth overheard Henrietta and Carol arguing about which one of them was your mother.”
Kendra shuddered. “
A month ago,” she said, her voice dragging. “It was right after I moved out. Mom was so upset about me leaving—she thought I was too young to be on my own. I came back to the house to get some more of my stuff one afternoon just after the mail delivery. Mom was white as a sheet. I asked her what was wrong—she said that the store had made a mistake on the bill for the new drapes and that Dad would be furious if he thought she'd actually spent that much. It sounded typical, the way they fought over the house all the time, so I didn't think anything about it.”
I nodded. “It was probably Maybeth's letter, which sent her rushing off to see Carol. I don't know how Carol would have handled the situation. Maybe she didn't believe what Henrietta had told her about your birth. I suspect that both Kathy and Carol would have been into denial. They may even have formed some sort of bond.”
“Mom never mentioned it,” Kendra said dully.
“The visit to Henrietta turned out differently,” I said, speaking softly. “Either Kathy called on Henrietta more than once, or she was working at the hospital on earlier attempts. But today, everything went wrong. Henrietta must have rebuffed her, or maybe she was insulting, angry, unmoved by your mother's pleas. Whatever the cause, your mother—your adoptive mother—hit her with a bowling trophy and killed her. It may even have been self-defense. We'll have to wait and see when Kathy regains consciousness.”
Kendra was slumped against the back of the sofa. “This is a nightmare,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“I know. Your adoptive mother's at a difficult age. Some women have terrible emotional problems during menopause.”
Again, Kendra was silent for some time. “So she killed Carol, too? I can't believe it. I can't believe any of it.”
I shook my head. “You don't have to believe all of it. I don't think Kathy killed Carol.”
Kendra stared at me. “Then who did?”
“Henrietta,” I said, then added, “I know, because of the dog.”
BUDWEISER HAD PLAYED his role in the murder of Carol Stokes. While both Henrietta and Maybeth had complained about the dog, Henrietta had been the most vehement. Perhaps too vehement, because she'd made an effort to soften her stance on Buddy by mentioning that she thought it was cute when Ronnie had put a funny hat on the dog. The remark had struck a false note at the time.