by Mary Daheim
“So the original appointment was made for Honoria Whitman?” I asked, discreetly taking a notebook out of my purse. Somewhere, in the rear of the building, I could hear a series of noises. Doc Dewey and the ambulance had probably arrived.
Stella answered for Becca. “That’s right. Honoria called this morning. She doesn’t usually come here, you know. It’s easier for her to go to Sultan or even Monroe to get her hair cut. But she wanted to try the facial.”
Honoria’s choice struck me as odd. It was likely that her regular hairdresser, either in Sultan or Monroe, would provide facials. Why drive an extra twenty miles to Alpine?
I was about to ask that question when the front door to Stella’s Styling Salon shook, rattled, and rolled. Stella, Becca and I all jumped. Even Laurie, who was still trying to cope with the appointments, seemed startled.
The glass in the door threatened to shatter. Stella was on her feet, but before she could reach the front of the salon, a voice reverberated from outside.
“Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo-hoo! Are you there? Open up, please! It’s me—Vida Runkel!”
Stella obeyed. She could hardly do otherwise. My House & Home editor had spoken, and in Alpine, her word was law.
“Half the town is outside, gawking and freezing to death,” Vida declared after we had informed her what was going on. Not that she needed informing—having heard the ambulance siren, Vida had rushed to the sheriff’s office. Bill Blatt, another deputy who is also her nephew, had sketchily filled her in. “Really, people are such ghouls! From what I hear, this poor dead woman isn’t even from Alpine!” Vida made it sound as if the death of a nonresident couldn’t possibly count in any official census.
“It’s Honoria’s sister-in-law,” I said, surprising myself with the note of apology in my voice.
Vida bristled. “I didn’t know Honoria had a sister-in-law! Really, now! Why is she so secretive? Is it because she’s from California?”
“Her brother’s here, too,” I noted. “Did you see them at the sheriff’s office?”
Under the brim of her blue derby, Vida rolled her eyes. “They’re being held incommunicado. Jack Mullins sent them into Milo’s office until all this is sorted out.” She lowered her voice and shot me a conspiratorial look. “Is this the brother who was in jail for you-know-what?”
I blinked. “I don’t know. Honoria could have ten brothers. Whoever it is must be visiting. I haven’t heard anything about it from Milo.”
Vida snorted. “Maybe Milo didn’t know. He and Honoria haven’t been quite as cozy as they used to be. Or so I’ve been led to believe.” From behind her big tortoiseshell framed glasses, Vida gave me her gimlet eye.
I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “The romance is a little rocky,” I admitted.
There was no opportunity for Vida to expand on her remark. Jack Mullins reappeared from the rear of the salon. He was looking official—until he saw Vida. I knew he was about to ask her how she had gotten inside the shop. But of course he thought better of it, and zeroed in on Stella.
“Sheriff Dodge is still with Doc and the body,” Jack said, running a hand through his short red hair. “We’ve got quite a crowd out back on Pine Street, including Janet Driggers, who is yelling her head off.”
Janet was the wife of the local undertaker. A brassy, ribald woman, she worked part-time at Sky Travel, which was also located in the Clemans Building. I marveled that she, too, hadn’t tried to barge through Stella’s front door.
“So,” Jack went on, “would you prefer to come over to the sheriff’s office, or stay here?”
Stella drew back in the chair. “For what?”
“Questioning,” Jack replied. Seeing Stella bridle, he offered her a placating smile. “It’s just routine. We have to take statements. You, too, Emma,” he added, glancing in my direction.
Stella sighed, then heaved herself out of the chair. “All right. I’d rather do it across the street. Laurie, are you finished with your calls?”
Laurie wasn’t. She couldn’t reach Dot Parker or Lois Hutchins. Neither had answering machines. What should she do? Her helplessness was almost touching.
Stella ruffled her dyed blond locks with an agitated hand. “Try again from the sheriff’s. Let’s get this over with. I want to go home and have about four martinis.”
“I don’t drink martinis,” Laurie protested.
“I don’t care,” Stella said abruptly. “Good God, what’s Richie going to think?”
Among other things, Richie Magruder was Stella’s husband and the deputy mayor. The latter title was mostly honorary, except when the real mayor, Fuzzy Baugh, was out of town or suffering from a heart attack or in the bag. Dutifully, I followed Stella and Jack out of the salon. The snow was now coming down hard, which was just as well, because it apparently had sent most of the curious onlookers scurrying for cover.
We trudged across Front Street, with Becca and Laurie bringing up the rear. Once inside the sheriff’s office, Jack turned to Vida.
“Ah … Ms. Runkel, we don’t need to question you. You weren’t involved in finding the body or on the premises at the time of the murder.”
Vida nodded sagely. “So it is murder, then?” She nodded again.
“What I’m saying,” Jack went on after clearing his throat, “is that … well … you don’t need to be here.”
Vida smiled blandly. “But I do. This is news.”
“Emma—Ms. Lord—is already here,” Jack pointed out.
Vida’s smile was ingenuous. “Of course she is. But she can’t be objective.” Her gray eyes raked Jack, then landed on me. “She found the body. She could be a suspect. I’ll be handling this story.” Her smile turned into a simper. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Lord?”
Even I never argued with Vida.
The previous year, Skykomish County had passed a bond issue for renovations to the sheriff’s office, along with additional equipment and a much-needed deputy. While I had aggressively pushed the proposition from its inception, I hadn’t been optimistic. There were too many families living in borderline poverty and too much concern over jobs to squeeze extra monies out of the tax-payers. But local residents had risen to the occasion and voted yes in a close election. Construction had begun in May, with completion by September 1. The usual delays and obstacles had pushed the date to mid-November. Now Milo Dodge had expanded office space, more secure jail facilities, an updated computer system, a full-time receptionist, and the extra deputy. Dustin Fong had joined the Skykomish force the previous spring, and was slowly but surely easing into the job. As an emigré from Seattle, he was considered a bit strange; as an Asian-American, he was definitely labeled exotic. But like all nonnative Alpiners, including me, he would try to meld with the rest of the community. So far, he seemed to be achieving his goal with quiet determination.
Dustin had been given the task of keeping Honoria Whitman and her brother from going nuts. While they awaited official news, the duo had stayed in Milo’s office, drinking coffee and asking unanswerable questions. By the time the rest of us arrived from Stella’s Styling Salon, the Whitmans had guessed the worst. They knew something terrible had happened to Kay, but they weren’t sure what or how or why.
The salon group was taken one by one into the sheriff’s new interrogation room. This was a more formal, officially intimidating area, but it didn’t spare us from Milo’s swill-like coffee. I passed. The truth was, like Stella, I would have preferred a drink. Or at least a soda from the Burger Barn. I’ve never understood Americans’ dependence on coffee or the British reliance on tea in times of crisis. Installing a brandy machine would be more helpful.
Having discovered the body, I was the first to be questioned. Jack Mullins had been assigned to the task, at least temporarily. We hadn’t gotten past the time of my appointment when Milo entered the room. He looked disconcerted and immediately lighted a cigarette. Jack made his exit, with a self-deprecating nod for me.
The sheriff glanced at Jack’s brief notes. “Okay,” M
ilo said with a sigh, “you got there a little after two. What happened next?”
I told him. It didn’t take long. My gaze kept falling on Milo’s cigarette. He had been responsible—thus I rationalized—for my resumption of smoking over a year ago. But I’d managed to quit—again—the previous summer. Now I was beginning to think that had been a bad idea.
“You didn’t see anybody in the corridor?” Milo asked, exhaling a small blue cloud.
“No.” For the first time I considered the corridor itself. “I’m not even sure where it goes. I’ve used the women’s room a couple of times when I’ve been at Stella’s, but I never paid much attention to the rest of the building’s rear area.”
Having gotten control of himself, Milo was now very much the no-nonsense law officer. “It runs the width of the building,” he explained without inflection. “There’s a men’s room at the other end, by Sky Travel. The fire exit is used for deliveries. All the first-floor tenants have direct access to the back corridor except for the optician on the corner. They have to go around through the travel agency.”
I pictured the Clemans Building floor plan in my mind. The building was old, and named for the town founder, Carl Clemans. Its three stories included Stella’s, Sky Travel, and the optician, all of which faced Front Street. The local medical supply store was at the rear, with its entrance on the side street. In the center of the structure was a small foyer, an elevator, and a staircase. The second floor was occupied by the Doukas law firm, an architect, and an accountant. The third and top story housed several small offices, including a loan company, an environmentalist group, a consignment shop, and an antiques store.
I had a question of my own for Milo. “Are you saying anybody could have come in off the street and gone through the back way to get to the facial room?”
Milo shook his head. “No. That’s kept locked, except for deliveries. Whenever UPS or whoever comes by, they have to buzz from a box on Pine Street. The tenant getting the delivery comes to unlock the door. I had to ask Will Stuart at the medical supply place to let Doc Dewey and the ambulance drivers in.”
Almost unconsciously, I made the connection: Will Stuart was Nancy Dewey’s brother. He had owned Alpine Medical Supply almost as long as Nancy’s husband had practiced medicine in Alpine. It was a fortuitous arrangement, especially for Doc Dewey and his brother-in-law. It was also profitable in an area where many loggers had lost more than their jobs over the years. Even strangers unfamiliar with Pacific Northwest lifestyles can tell they’re in a timber town by the number of men with missing digits and limbs.
“You’re certain she was dead when you opened the door?” Milo inquired on a cloud of smoke.
“I didn’t take her pulse. Jeez, Milo, she was limp as a rag.…” I paused, vividly recalling Kay Whitman’s bloodied body.
“You didn’t touch her?” Milo’s hazel eyes were fixed on my face.
I winced. “I sure didn’t. I got as far as the threshold. I was looking straight at her. Her head was propped up on a pillow or something. It didn’t take long to see that her throat had been cut and …” I shook myself, trying to erase the awful picture from my mind’s eye.
“Did you see anyone at all—somebody who didn’t belong in the building?” Milo’s expression was even more stolid than usual.
“No.” I knew the sheriff had to go by the book, but his attitude annoyed me. “If I had, wouldn’t I have said so?”
Puffing on his cigarette, Milo shrugged. “Witnesses get hysterical. They don’t always remember what they’ve seen. Or else they think it isn’t important.”
I leaned across the almost new pine table. “Milo—it’s me, Emma. Not some dizzy goof like Laurie or maybe Becca. Perception is part of my job.”
“You’re still a witness.” Milo’s expression was inscrutable.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” I said, trying not to sound testy. “Why don’t you tell me about the weapon?”
“What’s to tell?” Milo stubbed out his cigarette with great care. “We don’t know anything about the weapon yet. I can only tell you that it was sharp.” A glint of irony showed in the sheriff’s hazel eyes.
“No kidding.” I wasn’t amused. “That rules out an emery board or an orange stick, I suppose.”
Milo frowned. “What’s an orange stick?”
“Never mind. Get a manicure someday. Then you’ll find out.”
Glancing at his reasonably well-kept nails, Milo made a face. “What’s wrong with clippers?” he muttered, then resumed his official attitude. “Did you go into the women’s room?”
“No, I never intended to. I was heading for the changing room.”
“Did you go in there?”
“No. I found the body first. What would you expect me to do—walk away, change into a smock, and have Stella tend to my tresses while another client is lying dead in the back room?” Now my tone was definitely sarcastic. “ ‘Oh, by the way, Stella,’ ” I said, mimicking myself, “ ‘did you know there’s a stiff on the facial table? I wouldn’t try pushing that neck-firming cream you’re selling out front if I were you.’ ”
“That’s not funny.” Milo had turned severe. “Did you recognize the victim?”
“I don’t know the victim,” I answered, no longer caring if I sounded waspish. Noting that Milo’s color was deepening, and aware that it signaled an impending outburst, I tried to simmer down. “Frankly, it would be impossible to recognize anybody—even if I knew them—when they’re all covered with goop and wrapped like a mummy.”
“That’s what I figured.” The color was still in Milo’s face, but he didn’t sound angry. In fact, his words were leaden. Watching him closely, I could see the worry in his eyes. Indeed, his attitude seemed to verge on fear.
Suddenly I knew what the sheriff was thinking. But before I could say so, he spoke again:
“Honoria and her brother stopped by to inspect our new quarters. She mentioned that her sister-in-law had taken her appointment at Stella’s.” Milo’s voice began to drag. “My point is that the victim was unrecognizable. So did the killer make a mistake?”
I waited for Milo to continue. But either he wouldn’t or he couldn’t. Still, I knew what he meant and why he looked so troubled. At the last minute Kay Whitman had taken her sister-in-law’s appointment. If the murder was premeditated, the killer might not have known of the change. Under all that cosmetic camouflage, he or she wouldn’t have been able to tell one Whitman from another.
Maybe Honoria shouldn’t have been drinking Milo’s bad coffee in the sheriff’s office down the hall. Maybe someone had intended to put her in the hospital morgue instead.
Chapter Two
VIDA WAS so angry that she sat on her derby. We had finally returned to The Advocate around three-thirty. When Milo was finished questioning me, he insisted that Vida and I both leave. Naturally, we protested, arguing our rights as members of the press. But Milo was firm—we couldn’t sit in on the interrogations, we weren’t allowed to disturb Honoria and her brother, and we were in the way. Whatever hard news came out of the initial interviews would be passed on to The Advocate in plenty of time for our Tuesday-afternoon deadline.
I’ll admit that it wasn’t easy for me to concentrate. I’ve covered my share of homicides, both in Alpine and during my sixteen years with The Oregonian. When I first started on the metro beat in Portland, a veteran reporter told me never to think of the victim by name. You can’t take any kind of personal interest in the deceased, he’d advised. He always referred to the dead person as The Stiff. But I’d never quite been able to dissociate myself. This time it was even harder. I didn’t know Kay Whitman, but I knew her sister-in-law and I’d found her body. Nevertheless, we had a paper to put out. When Vida returned to the office, I considered reminding her that we had other things to do in order to meet our Tuesday deadline.
Vida, however, was in no mood to be diverted. She had stomped back to the office in her splay-footed manner, banged the door open, removed
her derby, flung it across the room, where it landed on her chair—and then sat on her hat. The crushed felt object that now reposed in her hands curbed her temper. But she was still indignant.
“Imagine! My own nephew, Billy, sitting right there guarding the door to Honoria and her brother, Whoozits! Whatever is the matter with Milo? Ooooooh!” Vida dumped the crumpled derby under her desk, whipped off her glasses, and began to rub violently at her eyes.
My ad manager, Leo Walsh, came into the news office with a folder of promotional mock-ups cradled in his arms. Taking in Vida’s distress, he grinned.
“What’s wrong, Duchess? Has the Burl Creek Thimble Club been unmasked as a front for hookers?”
Vida was not amused, either by the nickname or the remark. “Where have you been, Leo?” she demanded. “You’ve no right to behave in such a flippant manner when someone has been brutally murdered two blocks away from this very office.”
Leo’s seamed face registered disbelief. “What are you talking about? I’ve been doing the car lots on the other side of town. We’ve got Presidents’ Day promotions coming up, remember?”
“Of course I remember,” Vida snapped. “I can even remember when we celebrated our presidents’ birthdays separately.”
“You can probably remember the presidents,” Leo quipped. Seeing the fire flare in Vida’s eyes, he quickly backtracked. “I mean, which ones we honor, Washington and Lincoln. Most younger people—kids, that is—think it’s a generic holiday, for all the presidents.” Leo was speaking faster and faster, obviously trying to save himself from Vida’s wrath. “You know—like All Saints. But they don’t know what that is, either. And you’re a Presbyterian anyway.” Now virtually mumbling, he went to his desk, where he opened the big folder and began studying his vehicle ads. “I got the trucking place, too,” he said in a more normal voice. “The trouble is, who’s going to buy those secondhand logging rigs these days?”