by Mary Daheim
“What about the noises?” Milo persisted.
“I was chilling in the hot tub,” Aaron said. “I guess it was the front door. Right here.” He rapped on the sturdy wood with its calla-lilly window. “By the time I grabbed a towel, there was nobody here. Then I heard somebody around the side of the house, sort of stumbling around in the snow. I went back inside and put on a pair of pants and some boots. By the time I got out on the deck, I heard the same noise, only more toward the front of the house. I came back out here and that's when I saw the car start down the road. It wasn't parked all the way up behind my van, like you are. It was just down there, by the bend.” He pointed to the road a few yards beyond Vida's Buick.
Milo nodded. “That's it? You call that a break-in?”
“I call it damned weird,” Aaron shot back, sounding almost like a normal person. “Who comes sneaking around like a freaking burglar and won't say who it is? Hey, Dodge dude, you think it's fun to stay in this place after my wife got killed?”
I kept forgetting that Crystal had still been legally married to Aaron at the time of her death. Mr. Weed didn't strike me as a typical widower.
“You can take off after your trial,” Milo said, and poked a finger at Aaron. “It's set for January fifth, you know. Meanwhile, Merry Christmas.” The sheriff turned on his heel and almost bumped into Vida. “Let's go,” he muttered. “I'm done here.”
“Aren't you going to look for footprints?” Vida asked.
“Hell, no,” Milo shot back. “Do you really think Pot-head in there heard anything besides what runs around in his burned-out brain?”
“I'll look,” Vida declared, and moved quickly down the steps and around the side of the house.
Milo, however, was getting into the Cherokee. “Come on, Vida, get your damned car out of the way. I've got another call, out by Cass Pond.”
But Vida wasn't deterred. I watched her for a moment, then joined Milo by the Cherokee. “What about Nat Cardenas?” I inquired. “Could he have been the person snooping around?”
Milo frowned. “You mean to see if there was more dirt on him? No. What's the point? We have those computer disks, and we'll hang on to them until he's cleared. Then he can have them and throw them in the Dumpster. For all we know, he may be telling the truth. Those women are only friends. Like us.” He shot me a perverse look.
Vida reappeared, waggling a finger at Milo. “There definitely are footprints,” she announced. “Medium-sized. Aaron wasn't hallucinating.”
“I never said he was,” Milo retorted. “Not exactly. I mean he could have heard ten people outside, and by the time he wandered around in his usual daze, they'd given up. Face it, the guy's unreliable.”
“Still,” Vida began, “I should think you'd—”
Milo silenced her with an emphatic wave of his hand. “Forget it. There was no crime. It's not against the law to knock on somebody's door and then, when they don't answer, to go looking around the rest of the house. Conley's van is parked right there.” He gestured at the dirty white vehicle that had almost run me down. “Whoever it was had a right to assume he was home. End of story. Now let's get the hell out of here.”
We did, with Milo turning back toward Alpine and the Buick heading west to Startup. Ten minutes later, we were at Paula's place. Vida had never been there, and, as expected, her reaction was critical.
“This was the Merrill farm, fifty years ago,” she said, tromping to the door in her sturdy overshoes. “The Merrills were peculiar. They raised goats, but refused to sell them. By the time Marva Merrill died back in ‘sixty-two—Curtis had passed on in ‘fifty-eight—the goats were living in the house and Marva was sleeping in the barn. Ruby Siegel—she was in Sultan at the time, but had lived in Alpine many years ago—told my mother that the whole place smelled like an abattoir. Ruby never should have moved. She was bored in Sultan, which is why she joined the Ku Klux Klan and the Communist party. She didn't believe in either of them, but the meetings kept her busy. Unfortunately, she once got mixed up on the dates and appeared in her bedsheet at a Communist rally. The party members chased her all the way across the highway and down to the cemetery before she could tell them who was wearing the pointy hat.”
I shook my head in an incredulous manner. Smalltown ways could still amaze me.
Vida was already at Paula's front door. “All this glass,” she said with a sweep of her hand. “Whatever happened to the walls?”
“The goats ate them?” I suggested.
“Hardly,” Vida said, pushing the doorbell. “At least two other owners lived here before your friend Paula came along.”
Victor didn't seem to be answering the door. “Maybe he misplaced his crutches,” I said.
Vida rang the bell again. “Maybe he's antisocial.”
Still, no response. I moved down the wide porch and peered through a window that was decorated with wild roses. “He's there, sitting in a recliner.”
“Is he alive?” Vida asked in an irked tone.
“He's moving. He just turned a page in his book.”
“Oh, for heaven's sake!” Vida rattled the door handle. Surprisingly, it opened.” Yoo-hoo!” she called. “Mr. Dimi-troff? You have company.”
“I don't want company,” Victor called back in his deep, accented voice. “Go away.”
“Don't be so ornery,” Vida commanded, striding into the living room. Paula had removed all but the necessary walls and beams to open up the house into a continuous large room. Only the bathroom was enclosed. Vida took it all in, and looked disapproving.
“Mr. Dimitroff,” she said, planting herself in front of Victor, “you remember us. From The Advocate.”
Victor remembered, but didn't look pleased at the recollection. “Paula is not here. She is at the college.”
“We didn't come to see Paula, “Vida said, now exuding charm. “We came to see you. Goodness, are you quite comfortable? That recliner seems to be at an awkward angle.”
“It's broken,” Victor replied in a petulant tone. “Paula is not always a conscientious housekeeper. She should be more vigilant concerning repairs.”
“Let me,” Vida said, bending down. “Shift your leg away, if you will.”
Despite his skeptical expression, Victor complied. Vida yanked at the footrest, gave it a tremendous pull, stepped on it with her considerable weight—and, amazingly, it reverted to its proper place.
“There! Much better.” She smiled ingratiatingly at Victor. “Now, shall we chat?”
Victor looked uncertain. “Chat? Why should we chat?”
“We've just been to Crystal's cabin,” Vida said, sitting down in an antique wooden rocker. “Aaron Conley had called the sheriff to report a break-in. There hadn't actually been such a thing, but it got us to thinking.”
It had? I marveled to myself. I hadn't been thinking much of anything, except wondering if I could use Paula's phone to call Tom about lunch.
“Anyway,” Vida went on, shedding her tweed winter coat, “we wondered about the night Crystal was killed and your auto accident. Is it possible that you actually went to Crystal's cabin and interrupted another break-in? Or was it the murderer?”
The color drained from Victor's face. “You are saying that I am the murderer?”
Vida uttered an uncharacteristic fluttery laugh. “Heavens, no! I mean that you may have encountered the person who killed Crystal. Which is why you were so upset and went off the road.”
To my surprise—but probably not to Vida's—Victor looked shaken as well as pale. “What do you mean?”
“I've been perfectly clear,” Vida asserted. “I believe that you drove up to Crystal's cabin the night she was killed. Either you found her already dead, or you heard her talking to the killer. Which was it, Victor? You can tell us. We aren't the police.”
“Then why should I tell you anything?” he asked in a belligerent tone.
Vida started to speak, but I interrupted with a brainstorm. “Because you are a creative genius. Because you shou
ldn't keep trivial things to yourself. They clutter the mind and fetter the soul.” I didn't dare look at Vida; my soft-soap blather was, as my father used to say, enough to gag a goat. A Merrill goat at that. “Because,” I continued, on a shameless roll, “you don't need to be bothered with the menial matters that vex the rest of us.”
Victor was no fool. The gleam in his eyes told me that. But I'd managed to prick his ego just a little. He closed his eyes and exhaled, as if the letting out of breath was preface to unburdening his troubled heart. Or something like that.
“I saw no one,” he began, his voice growing even deeper. “There was no answer to my knock, yet I knew there was someone inside. This person made much noise. Of course I thought it was Crystal. There was no car parked there, except for hers. I couldn't understand why she didn't come to the door, so I went around the side of the house. The hot tub was running, I could hear it. I called to Crystal, but she didn't respond.” He paused, passing a hand over his high forehead. “There was a tree near the deck, so I started to climb it in order to get up high enough to see into the hot tub. Alas, I kept slipping, then I heard what sounded like the slamming of a door. I started back to the front of the house and saw a figure running down the road. I could not recognize who it was, but I knew it wasn't Crystal. Too large, in every way.”
“A man?” Vida interrupted.
“Perhaps. It was very dark. And,” Victor added on a note of candor, “I was startled. Even afraid.”
“So what did you do then?” I asked.
Victor cleared his throat. “I started back to the front door. But before I could get up the stairs, I heard the motor of a car. Whoever had fled must have been parked off to the side of the road. I hadn't noticed when I arrived. There is, you see, a sort of … what do you call a space to turn around or avoid running into a car coming from the other direction?”
“Turnout will do,” I offered.
“Yes,” Victor agreed solemnly, “a turnout. So I proceeded up the stairs and discovered the door had been left wide open. Perhaps the noise I made outside had frightened off the other person. I went inside, calling for Crystal, looking in the other rooms, going to the deck because I'd heard the hot tub running. Then—” He stopped, closed his eyes once more, and took a deep breath. “Then I saw her. There was no doubt that she was dead. I went quite berserk, I think. Frankly, I do not recall exactly what I did next. I assumed I'd just crossed paths with a killer. Would he return? Was I also to die at the hands of a madman?”
“Or woman?” Vida put in.
Victor frowned. “A woman? Perhaps. But dubious. In any event, I tried to find the phone. Crystal had one of those portable phones, and in my shock and distress, I could not find it. So I weep for a while, and then I am again afraid. I leave, driving back to the highway with tears in my eyes and shaking in my limbs. That is why I crashed the car. I was in terror and sick with grief.”
“But,” I pointed out, “you didn't mention finding Crystal to the deputy.”
“No,” Victor said in a sad voice, “I did not. I was afraid, you see. I thought the police would believe that I had killed her. In Europe, the police are not always understanding. Or so was my experience when I lived there many years ago.”
“Poor man,” Vida said with what sounded like genuine sympathy.
Victor finally met Vida's gaze. “I almost crashed many times before I reached the main highway. The road is crooked, narrow. Indeed, I missed a tree by millimeters. That's when I saw where the car could have been parked.”
Paula's two Siamese cats, Rheims and Rouen, came out from behind the counter that divided the kitchen and living room. They slithered across the floor and came to rest at Vida's feet. She is not a cat lover, and gave them an intimidating look. The cats stayed in place. They always seem to know who hates them most.
Cars were parked in strange places outside of Crystal's cabin on the night of the murder, then, according to Aaron, again this morning.
The thought of Aaron brought another question to mind. “How well do you know Crystal's husband?”
“Husband?” Victor frowned. “Which one?”
“The second one, Aaron Conley.” I eked out an encouraging smile. “He spoke rather sharply to you after the funeral. We talked about it later, at the reception. You criticized his kind of music.”
“Justifiably,” Victor responded. “That kind of so-called popular music is grease that escapes from the roasting pig.”
“Yes,” I said without conviction. The cats were now rubbing against Vida's boots. She gave them each a nudge, but they persisted. “Aaron and Crystal were never divorced. Perhaps you knew that.”
Victor shrugged. “It is of no importance now, is it?”
“Not to you,” I said carefully, “though I wondered how you knew Aaron.”
“I didn't,” Victor replied. “It is only his kind of music I know. Trash, excrement, debris on the musical path to what really matters in composition.”
“I see.” I didn't, but the musical path seemed to have reached a dead end as far as I was concerned. “May I borrow your phone?”
Victor hesitated, then gave a nod. On my way to the counter divider where the phone was kept, I picked up Rheims and Rouen. They wriggled in my grasp and let out that unearthly piercing cry that is typical of the Siamese breed.
As I walked away, I heard Vida mutter, “Wretched pests. Of what use are they?”
As I picked up the receiver, the cats escaped and raced off to their food dishes by the stove. Back in my log house against the mountains, the phone rang four times before again switching over to the answering machine. This time I left a message, saying that I would meet Tom at the diner around one. Maybe he'd figure out that I was trying to call him. On the other hand, it was almost twelve-twenty. He'd probably already left and was sitting in a booth at the diner, twiddling his thumbs.
Vida had put her coat back on and was starting for the door, offering profuse thanks to Victor along the way. I, too, thanked him, and then we were gone.
“Whose car was pulled off the road?” Vida asked as we got into the Buick.
“Your guesswork in approaching Victor was brilliant,” I remarked. “Mine wasn't so bad, either. The car belonged to Nat Cardenas.”
“Of course.” Vida put the Buick into reverse and turned around. “So Nat wasn't drunk, and Victor wasn't as bad a driver as he pretended. Now, why didn't Nat call the police when he discovered that Crystal was dead?”
“The same reason that Victor didn't,” I replied. “He was upset, in shock, and afraid that he'd be the prime suspect. Incidentally, you're making an assumption.”
Vida's head swiveled. “Which is what?”
“That Crystal was dead when Nat got there.”
“True.” She grew thoughtful as we headed out onto the highway. “You know him better than I do. Would he do anything as insane as killing Crystal? You've said he's very political.”
“That's right, but it cuts both ways,” I answered. “He was protecting his reputation. Let's say he went to see Crystal to reason with her, beg, plead, whatever. She laughed in his face. She certainly laughed in mine. So Nat goes berserk and—” I stopped and shook my head. “It doesn't wash. The murder was carefully planned. I think you were right the first time. He found Crystal dead when he got there and then conducted his search. He came up empty and left in a panic. Maybe he heard Victor outside. All that tromping around and tree climbing must have made some noise. Victor isn't exactly a puma cat.”
“Cats!” Vida exclaimed. “Especially Siamese. How do people put up with that awful cry they make? It's inhuman.”
“That's because they're cats,” I said. “Paula adores them. She's had them as long as I've known her. She couldn't keep cats in some of the other places she lived, especially apartments.”
“Silly,” Vida declared. “Can you imagine what they'd do to Cupcake?”
I could, and it was not a pretty sight. Yellow feathers drifted before my eyes. “Paula named them af
ter two of the French cathedrals, Rheims and Rouen. For the stained glass.”
“Ridiculous,” Vida scoffed. “How can you be friends with anyone who'd name their pets after windows?”
I decided to drop the subject. We were passing the turnoff to Crystal's cabin again. All seemed quiet, but of course it was impossible to see beyond the first bend in the road. Who had been hanging around the cabin this morning? One of the Eriks clan? Dean Ramsey? Paula? No, not Paula. She drove a minivan. But I could imagine her stopping by to ask Aaron for a keepsake. As strange as it seemed, Paula had been fond of Crystal.
“We're going at this all wrong,” I declared. “Instead of motive, we should be looking for a certain type of person, someone with an organized mind, an eye for detail, and a lot of patience.”
“Not to mention,” Vida said as we passed the Skyko-mish Ranger Station, “someone who had no qualms about pinning the murder on you.”
“Which reminds me,” I said in a waspish tone, “I hold you at fault for getting my poor Jag wrecked. You and Milo both, with your goofy plan to make people think I really did do it.”
“Nonsense!” Vida huffed. “You agreed. How could we know someone would behave so viciously?”
“Viciously?” The word brought me up short. “It was vicious, wasn't it? I wonder. What if it wasn't just an irate subscriber? What if the killer did that to my car?”
“To what purpose?” Vida asked.
“I'm not sure. Maybe to make it look as if people really think I killed Crystal. Reinforcing the idea.” I gave an impatient wave of my hand. “Never mind. I don't want to sound paranoid.”
“Personalities,” Vida mused as she turned off to Alpine. “You're quite right. Let's consider the Eriks clan. April appears to be a bit insipid, though I suppose that may mask something more sinister. Mel is mentally lazy. I see nothing cunning about him. Melody, I suspect, is easily led, especially by her brother. Yes,” she said with emphasis, “I could see the two of them planning such a crime. Or Thad, acting alone.”