by Mary Daheim
“I was Stella’s two o’clock today,” I said, hoping to enhance Becca’s memory.
“Oh, wow!” Becca exclaimed, ushering us inside what looked like a very basic three-room unit. “You were the one who found the body! And—” She stopped, obviously embarrassed at her emotional collapse. “I was a mess. Oh, wow, it should have been you instead of me!”
I assumed she referred to her crying jag. “I may have been in shock,” I said, which was possibly true. But I wasn’t given to tears. The last occasion I’d lost complete control was when Tom Cavanaugh announced he couldn’t leave his wife. That was the first time he’d made that statement. It had taken place twenty-three years ago. I’d cried so much that I became physically ill, which alarmed the OB-GYN who was caring for me in the first trimester of my pregnancy. The thought of my emotional outburst harming my unborn child taught me a tough lesson: I would never, ever let anything or anybody upset me so much again. And I hadn’t. Perhaps I’d lost part of myself in the process, but at least I hadn’t given it away.
With her eagle eye, Vida scanned the small living room’s appointments. I did the same, if less swiftly. Becca had only recently moved back to Alpine, and the unit had a temporary air, along with the scent of incense. It was furnished with what looked mostly like castoffs, devoid of order or harmony. Judging by the clutter, there wasn’t much sign of housekeeping, either.
Becca moved a stack of magazines from an ancient armchair and a pile of clothes from the brown-and-white-striped sofa. “Sit down, please. I was just going to walk over to the Grocery Basket and get something for dinner. I didn’t feel like eating until now.”
Vida chose the armchair. I was stuck with the sofa, and after I sat down, I realized I might be stuck in it as well. The springs were nonexistent, and I sank so low that my knees almost obstructed my vision. I realized why Vida had selected a different seat.
Becca got a folding chair that was propped against one wall. After she set it up, she asked if we’d like something to drink. Vida declined for both of us.
“We aren’t staying long,” she explained. “I’m sure Sheriff Dodge asked you a great many detailed questions this afternoon. But we may not have access to his official reports until it’s too late to meet our deadline for Wednesday publication. Do bear with us if we go over tiresome ground.” Vida was suddenly uncharacteristically self-effacing.
Becca picked up a bottle of mineral water from behind a haphazard pile of CDs. “That’s cool. What can I tell you?” Unlike her coworker Laurie, Becca seemed eager to talk.
“You were informed about the appointment change?” Vida inquired, loosening the fleecy scarf around her neck.
After taking a drink of mineral water, Becca nodded. “Sure. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t know either of those clients. I’m just getting reacquainted with Alpine.”
“Yes,” Vida said with a tight little smile. “You left town for several years.”
“It’s good to be back.” Becca didn’t look at either of us, but seemed fascinated by a poster showing the harbor of Rio de Janeiro.
Vida’s eyes followed Becca’s. “You didn’t go to Rio, did you?” she asked in a faintly startled voice.
Becca laughed. “No. But I worked for an airline for a while.” She shifted on the chair, perhaps uneasily. I couldn’t be sure. “I like working with people. That’s why I decided to train as a cosmetician.”
Deciding it was time to act like I was something other than Vida’s ventriloquist’s dummy, I asked Becca if she’d had an opportunity to chat with Kay Whitman.
“Sort of,” Becca replied. “It was the usual stuff—I ask what problem areas they have with their skin, if they have any allergies to skin-care products, then I explain about the facial. I try not to talk too much. A facial should be mellow, relaxing.”
Vida looked disappointed. “So Kay Whitman didn’t tell you anything about herself?”
“Not really. She said she probably had spent too much time in the sun.” Becca’s hand automatically strayed to her own smooth cheek. “I said she must not be from around here. She just laughed.”
Vida was sitting with her elbow on one knee and her hand propping up her chin. “Tell us this, Becca. You’re an expert. What can you discern from a woman’s face?”
Becca was puzzled. “You mean—about how she takes care of her skin? Or—what?”
“Let’s put it like this.” Vida sat back in the armchair. “A person’s face is a road map of life. Where do you think it had taken Kay Whitman?”
Becca sucked in her breath. “Wow! I’ve never thought of it quite like that! But you’re right, Ms. Runkel—skin’s a true indicator. It can show how much you drink, eat, smoke, do drugs—whatever.” Letting her head fall back, Becca gazed up at the ceiling, which could have used a plastering job. “Ms. Whitman—Kay—is—was—in her midforties. Northern European ancestry—I can tell that from skin tones. She was right about spending time in the sun, but I don’t think it was lately, maybe when she was younger. No drugs, no smoking, but she drank some. Small broken veins you can only see under the big magnifier indicate that. She didn’t take extra care with her skin as a rule, but so many women don’t. Good diet, though, fresh fruit, not too much red meat. She should have drunk more water. Most women don’t, especially the ones over fifty. She didn’t exercise, either—I could tell that just from looking at the rest of her—very little muscle tone. She had a basic T-zone problem, which is common—oily around the nose area, much drier in the rest of the face. She worried—her forehead was too wrinkled for her age. Not a really happy person, because she didn’t have the laugh lines.” Becca lowered her head. “How am I doing?”
“Marvelous,” Vida replied, and sounded as if she meant it.
“Thanks.” Becca took another drink of water, living up to her own advice. “Let’s see—what else? Sex is a puzzle. You can’t tell much, only that if a woman cares about her looks, she’s getting some. Or wants to. That’s about it, I guess. Except for the two little scars.”
“Scars?” I echoed.
Becca nodded. “There was one over her left eyebrow and another at the corner of her mouth, same side. They were hardly noticeable, except under the light. Ten years old, at least. She didn’t mention them, and neither did I. It’s not my business to ask unnecessary questions.”
Briefly, Vida and I looked at each other. In our business, we had to ask all the questions—necessary, embarrassing, provocative, insipid.
“What time did you leave her alone?” Vida queried.
Becca shook her head in a forlorn manner. “Sheriff Dodge asked that, too. I’d done a mini-facial on Dixie Ridley at one, so she was gone by one thirty-five, one-forty. Ms. Whitman came in about a quarter to two. I told Stella it was fine to take her early. We must have started about ten to. It takes twelve minutes to do the prelim stuff and apply the mask. I told the sheriff I left the room a couple of minutes after two o’clock.”
That made sense to me. I’d been almost ten minutes late for my appointment. I’d probably discovered the body at two-eleven, two-twelve. The window of opportunity for the killer was very narrow.
Vaguely, I recalled my own euphoric feeling as I crossed Front Street. “You left the salon through the front door?” I asked, wishing I’d been more observant.
“Sure,” Becca replied. “That’s the only way out. The rear entrance is always locked, except when the deliveries come.”
I was trying to conjure up the scene on Front Street during my two-block trek between The Advocate and Stella’s. “You didn’t see anyone unusual when you went to the Burger Barn?”
Becca laughed again. “Unusual? In Alpine? I saw Crazy Eights Neffel, wearing a sombrero and mukluks. Does that count?”
It didn’t in Alpine. Crazy Eights was our local loon. His antics weren’t worth much, even for Vida’s gossipy “Scene Around Town” column.
Vida put both hands on the frayed arms of the chair and got up. “You’ve been very helpful, Becca. We both thank you. Would you li
ke a ride to the Grocery Basket?”
Becca preferred to walk. She said she needed the exercise. “Usually, I work out at the gym next door,” she explained. “But tonight—well, I was still kind of disturbed. You know what I mean?”
Unfortunately, Vida and I did.
“Becca’s wrong,” Vida asserted as we headed down First Street to The Advocate, where my Jag was still parked. “There are other ways to leave the salon. And thus, to enter it.”
“You mean through Sky Travel or the medical supply place?” I said, noting that the snow was getting thicker again.
“Exactly,” Vida agreed as we passed the darkened public library. “Not to mention the foyer door. If you use the stairs entrance instead of the elevator, you can get into the rear of the building. The law office and the rest of the tenants on the other floors have their own rest rooms, but that wasn’t always so. Besides, they still have to come down to take their deliveries out back on Pine Street.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “In other words,” I said slowly, “almost anybody could have come in that way without being noticed.”
Vida nodded. The rumpled derby stayed in place and I absently wondered if she’d be able to set it right again. “You were going to Stella’s about the time that the killer must have gone into the building. Unless, of course, he or she had been hiding out someplace inside. What—or who—did you see?”
We were passing the post office and the forest service offices. At the next corner and across Front Street loomed the solid if unimpressive granite bulk of the Clemans Building. As we kept moving I also saw the Skykomish County sheriff’s headquarters. The lights were on and Milo’s Cherokee Chief was still in its usual spot. It was now covered with new snow. Milo was probably covered in confusion, as well as paperwork.
“I didn’t see a damned thing,” I finally admitted. “I was thinking about Emma Lord, Free Woman.”
“Oh, dear.” Vida stopped for the red light at Front and Fourth. “Well, I’m not going to offer advice.”
Of course Vida already had. Having met Tom Cavanaugh four years earlier, she had developed what I now considered an inexplicable affection for him. With a complete disregard for her usual hardheaded common sense, Vida had decided that Tommy, as she called him, and I were made for each other. In early January, when I’d first told her of my irrevocable decision to move on with my life, Vida had insisted I was being hasty. It was useless to remind her that I’d waited over twenty years for Tom to leave Sandra. “Life’s not a measuring stick,” she’d declared. “It’s like a river, running wherever the current takes it. You can’t count the years, you simply move with the ripples and rapids.”
For once, I had no idea what Vida was talking about. In fact, I figured that she’d succumbed to some romantic influence under her recently acquired suitor, Buck Bardeen. Buck was the brother of Henry Bardeen, the ski-lodge manager. Colonel Bardeen was also retired from the air force, a widower, and courageous enough to take Vida on her own terms. They had met in a roundabout way through our personal ads, which made me feel vaguely responsible for their future. With less reason, Vida always acted as if she were responsible for mine.
“There’s no point in talking about Tom and me anymore,” I said pointedly. “I’m starving. Let’s go eat at the Venison Inn.”
Vida had parked next to my Jag, which was also covered with snow. There was a light on at the newspaper office. “Did you forget to flip the switch?” Vida asked.
“No.” We got out of the car. The door was unlocked. Cautiously, we went through the front office where Ginny usually held sway, and entered the newsroom.
Leo was at his desk, working on the computer. He looked up in surprise. “Hey—what’s up?” Leo asked around the cigarette he held between his lips.
“Investigative reporting,” Vida replied tersely. “My, but you’re diligent.”
Leo ignored the sarcasm in Vida’s voice. “I have to be. At the last minute Platters in the Sky decided to hold a post-Valentine’s Day sale. They took inventory over the weekend and came up with a bunch of old tapes they couldn’t unload.”
I’d forgotten that Tuesday was St. Valentine’s Day. We’d run a special insert the previous week featuring ads with the usual hearts, cupids, and amorous lovers. Vida had written a feature on local couples who had been married for over fifty years. Carla had put together a photo story on newlyweds. I’d coaxed Father Dennis Kelly, my pastor at St. Mildred’s, to write a piece on the real St. Valentine, or both of them, since historical data indicated there were two saints with the same name.
“We’re going to dinner,” I informed Leo. “Want to join us?”
Leo shook his head. “Thanks, but I was in the middle of my Cordon Bleu cheese sandwich when they called from Platters. I’ll take a rain check, okay?”
“Sure.” I started for the door. Vida was already there.
“Hey,” Leo called. “Some guy came in about ten minutes ago with a personal ad. He seemed a little weird. You might want to check him out when he comes back tomorrow. I’m not sure Carla can tell the difference between normal and otherwise.”
I was puzzled as to why Leo hadn’t taken the ad himself. While Ginny handled all our classifieds, Leo was, after all, our ad manager. “What’s he coming back for?” I inquired.
“I couldn’t find the forms in Ginny’s desk. Carla’s moved everything. Ginny will be pissed.” Leo put his cigarette out and shifted his concentration to the computer screen.
I was still curious. “Was his personals ad kinky?”
Glancing up, Leo almost managed to conceal his impatience. “Personal ad, not personals ad.” The distinction was made between the standard classifieds and our special matchmaking section inaugurated by Ginny the previous spring.
“What was it?” I pressed. “ ‘Thank you, St. Jude’?”
“No.” Leo was again eyeing his computer graphics. “That was part of the weirdness. The message was, ‘One down, one to go.’ The guy seemed to think it was hilarious. He thought everything was hilarious, including the fact that I had a deadline to meet. That’s why he was so damned weird.” Leo turned to glare at Vida and me.
Vida, however, was looking owlish. I knew what she was thinking. “Who was he?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Duchess.” Leo was no longer hiding his exasperation. “We didn’t get to the name-and-address routine because I couldn’t find the freaking form. I’ve never seen him before in my life. Average height, average weight, brown hair, jeans, parka, boots, and six bricks shy of a load. Now go stuff yourselves and let me get this little hummer put together.”
There was no point in being miffed. Vida and I understood deadline pressures. We headed through the snow to the Venison Inn.
“That’s very suggestive,” Vida declared after we were seated in a booth by the windows.
“It’s probably a coincidence,” I said, but without conviction. “ ‘One down, one to go’ could mean anything. Our imaginations have been stirred by Kay Whitman’s murder.”
Vida had picked up a menu. Over the top of the plastic-covered offerings, all I could see were her eyes and derby. “That may be so,” she said dryly. “But isn’t it enough?”
Chapter Four
ON TUESDAY, VIDA wanted to go to Startup to interview Honoria and the other surviving Whitmans. But we were up against deadline, and a round trip would have taken too much time out of her workday. She had to content herself with a telephone call to Honoria’s converted summer cabin down the highway.
Unfortunately, Honoria couldn’t talk long. She and her brother and mother were trying to make arrangements for sending Kay’s body back to California. There was a delay by the sheriff’s department, which Honoria found hard to understand. She and Milo were good friends. Why couldn’t he expedite matters for her?
“Naturally,” Vida informed me after Honoria had rung off, “I couldn’t answer her question, except with the obvious reply that Milo has to follow procedure. It strikes me that Honoria d
oesn’t realize a crime has been committed.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said, looking up from the front-page layout on my computer screen. “Honoria’s very intelligent. She must understand that Milo has to treat this like any other homicide.”
Vida, who had exchanged her derby for a maroon slouch hat, seemed intent on defending Honoria. “It hasn’t sunk in. Shock, I should guess. It isn’t up to us to judge how she reacts. She’s had more than her share of grief over the years.”
That was indisputable. Honoria had moved to Startup from Carmel. She had been married to an abusive man who had pushed her down a flight of stairs, crippling her for life. Her brother, in turn, had exacted revenge by killing the husband. Apparently, Trevor Whitman had gone to prison for his deed.
“You know, Vida,” I said in a musing voice, “we don’t really have all the facts about Honoria’s background. It occurs to me that what we do know is pretty sketchy.”
Vida fingered her chin. “That’s true. Honoria is a very private sort of person. I respect that. I think.”
So did I. While I didn’t consider myself as tight-lipped as Honoria, I also tended to keep my private life to myself. Honoria’s reticence could be annoying, but I understood her feelings. While it wasn’t unusual for people to keep their misfortunes to themselves, Honoria was also secretive about good news. The previous September, she had won a ten-thousand-dollar award from the state for her pottery. The only reason I ever learned about it was that I received a press release about the prizes from Olympia. When I called to congratulate her and ask why she hadn’t informed us, Honoria had said she didn’t think anyone in Alpine would be interested. Her reaction had struck me as more narrow than modest. But what I admired most was her courage and determination. Thanks to the specially equipped car, the electric wheelchair, and the alterations she had made in her house, Honoria was able to lead an active, independent life.
“Milo must know more about her past,” Vida mused. The thought seemed to annoy Vida. She didn’t like it when someone knew something she didn’t. “Tomorrow is our easy day. Why don’t we drive down to Startup?”