The Alpine Fury

by Mary Daheim

  I actually forgot to tell Vida about Milo’s visit to Parc Pines until the next morning. In my defense, Vida had been caught up in writing the funeral story, which we’d feature prominently in the next edition. When I mentioned the condos, Vida turned thoughtful.

  “We should go over there. We should have done it sooner. It might be well to study the layout of the complex.” Vida looked at her watch. “It’s almost eleven. Are you free?”

  I had never been inside Parc Pines, but I was certain that Vida had. There was nowhere in Alpine that she hadn’t been. I hesitated, then caved in. The Jag was parked a few places closer to the front door than Vida’s Buick. It took less than five minutes to get down Front Street and climb Alpine Way to the Parc Pines complex. The condos are off my own Fir Street, but five blocks west, facing the entrance to the expensive homes in the Pines development. Pines Villa, the apartment building where Carla lives with Marilynn Lewis, is separated from the condos by a high cedar fence and some decent landscaping.

  Unlike most condos in the city, the security at Parc Pines is minimal. There are only twelve units on three stories built around a courtyard that, Vida informed me, contains a swimming pool and sauna. We parked on the street and made our way up a winding walk lined with Oregon grape and butterfly bush. Vida buzzed for Ella Hinshaw, who was somehow related to her by marriage.

  Ella let us in after the second buzz. She was close to seventy, with a startling blue rinse, and wing-shaped glasses that contained hearing aids. I vaguely recognized her from sightings around town.

  “Vida!” she exclaimed, offering a hug. “I haven’t seen you since Labor Day weekend! I missed the last Cat Club because I had the flu.”

  Vida’s Cat Club was a collection of women who got together once a month to trash the rest of the town, and then, according to Vida, spent the following day exchanging phone calls trashing each other.

  Ella’s condo was tidy but jammed. I guessed she was a widow who’d moved from a big house that had been able to accommodate her many possessions. I could scarcely find room to swing my legs as I sat in a high-backed chair covered with a fabric that looked like damask.

  “You’ve had a terrible tragedy,” Vida said, getting straight to the point. “Emma and I are covering the murder story. Did you know Linda well?”

  Ella assumed a shocked expression. “I was so stunned when I heard the news that I almost fainted! Imagine! In Alpine! What’s this world coming to? You’re not safe in your own bed!”

  Vida let Ella run down. “Did you know Linda well?” she repeated.

  “Luckily, no.” Ella squirmed a bit on one of a pair of matching love seats. “I mean, if I had, I would have fainted. From grief.”

  “But,” I put in, “you must have been acquainted. You have condo-owner meetings and such, I believe.”

  Ella looked as if she’d like to disavow any knowledge of Linda. “Well, yes. But Linda worked all day and she wasn’t what I’d call the outgoing type. Very businesslike at the meetings, always trying to hurry people along and get to the point.”

  I had a twinge of sympathy for Linda. “You didn’t visit with her on the weekends or in the evenings?”

  “Not really.” Ella sighed deeply, as if she suddenly regretted her failure to make friends with Linda. “I don’t go out much at night. A good thing. It’s not safe.” Under her heavy pullover with its crewelwork at the neck, Ella shuddered. “It’s not as if I’d see her coming and going. On the ground floor, we each have our separate entrances. The people who live on the second and third floors go in the back way, off Maple Lane. There’s an elevator next to the courtyard.”

  Surreptitiously Vida checked her watch. “Which was Linda’s unit?”

  “One C,” Ella replied. “I’m One A. Maybe you noticed.”

  Vida nodded. “I’ve been here before.”

  “Of course you have!” Ella exclaimed. “How silly of me! I had Cat Club in May.”

  “April,” Vida corrected, but Ella didn’t seem to hear her. “Were you home the night Linda was murdered?”

  Ella put a hand to her flat bosom. “I was! Watching TV and crocheting. To think that poor girl went off and got herself killed while I enjoyed Jeopardy! Isn’t life cruel?”

  “Beastly,” Vida retorted. “You and the other residents were questioned by the sheriff’s men, I presume.”

  “Oh, yes! Just like on TV. Well,” Ella amended, “not quite. Sam Heppner isn’t exactly Andy Griffith, is he?”

  Vida was starting to look grim. “Didn’t anyone see or hear anybody that night?” Her tone implied that not all of the Parc Pines residents could be as dim as Ella Hinshaw.

  But Ella shook her head. “These condos are built very sound. Arnold Nyquist put them up, and he never skimped. Quality, that’s what, through and through. I must say I paid a pretty penny to buy in here. But I never hear a thing. Of course, I am a wee bit deaf.”

  “As a post,” Vida muttered. In a louder voice, she pressed her earlier point: “You’re certain no one saw Linda come or go that night? Or anyone visiting her?”

  Ella now regarded Vida with a smirk. “Come, dear, if anyone would have heard about it, it would be you. Isn’t Billy Blatt our nephew?”

  Briefly I tried to make the family connection between Bill Blatt and Ella Hinshaw. I recalled that Bill’s mother, Mary Lou, had been born a Hinshaw. If Ella had married Mary Lou’s brother—or uncle—then … I gave up. Vida’s family tree had too many branches for me to climb.

  “… unlikely, with the ground-floor entrances all on different sides of the complex.” Apparently Ella was explaining why no one at Parc Pines had seen Linda or her visitor on that fateful Friday night.

  Seemingly satisfied, Vida stood up. “One small favor, Ella,” she said, managing to resurrect her peculiar brand of charm. “Can you show us the outside entrance and the garage? Oh, and Linda’s condo, of course.”

  Ella turned a trifle pale. “But we can’t go in! It would be … ghoulish!”

  “It would probably also be illegal without approval from the sheriff,” Vida responded, heading for the door. “You’d better get your coat, Ella. It’s down to thirty-five.”

  But Ella demurred. “All I need is another sweater. Come along, Vida, dear. We’ll go out the back way. It won’t be so cold.”

  Vida glanced at me in surprise. “I didn’t know there was a back way,” she whispered as Ella went to fetch her extra sweater. “Interesting. Perhaps.”

  Ella’s kitchen had sliding glass doors that opened up onto the courtyard. There was a small lanai that led to a walkway that went around the inner walls of the complex. Standing at the bright blue iron railing, I saw that the pool was covered to protect it from the weather, but some hearty Scandinavian type in bathing trunks was heading for the sauna.

  “That’s Mr. Bjornsen from Two B,” Ella said. “He’d swim all winter, if we’d let him.”

  Ella led us around the corner past another condo. “One B,” she remarked. “Marisa Foxx. The lady lawyer. Very mannish.”

  Vida sighed and rolled her eyes. But when we were about to turn the next corner, we saw the elevator. It was built into a pillar of concrete that ran up to the third deck. Directly across the walkway was an open corridor. And next to it was One C, Linda Lindahl’s condo. Vida moved swiftly to peer in the floor-length windows, but all of the drapes were closed.

  “Drat,” she groaned, turning back to face Ella and me. “Very well, let’s see that outer door.”

  Ella led the way again. The narrow hallway was the length of Linda’s unit. It took a moment for Ella to get the door open. When it finally swung wide, there wasn’t much to see: another short walkway, small shrubs, frostbitten flowers, and Maple Lane, a cul-de-sac off Fir Street that ended where the Pines Villa Apartments began.

  Vida went outside to check the security arrangement, such as it was. There was a list of names and condo numbers, each with a buzzer and a tiny speaker.

  “If you come in this way, you simply ring the o
ccupant, correct?”

  Ella nodded. “Whoever you’re visiting pushes a button to let you in. The entrance itself is primarily for the residents on the second and third floors.”

  “But your name is here. So is Linda and Ms. Foxx and”—Vida squinted at the fourth listing—“the Hansons. Goodness, I don’t know these Hansons.” Momentarily Vida seemed bewildered.

  “They’re new,” Ella said, coming to Vida’s rescue. “All our names are listed here because of deliveries. If we’re not home, the post office and UPS and all those other carriers will leave parcels in this box.” She indicated a large chest beside the door, then pointed to Vida’s left. “There’s the entrance to the garage. I don’t drive anymore, so I don’t use it. I think it’s one of those automatic things, though.”

  “Probably.” Vida was surveying the steel mesh grid. “All right, take us down there on the elevator. Please.”

  Ella complied. It appeared that the L-shaped parking area was built around the base of the pool. The other half of the L was used for storage and utilities and equipment, Ella explained.

  I counted the parking places, which were numbered for each condo. There were an extra half dozen for guests. Linda’s One C slot was the fourth space down from the elevator. Vida stared at that empty parking place for a long time.

  “It is cold down here,” Ella said suddenly, hugging herself and her two sweaters.

  Vida, however, didn’t move. It was only when I began strolling back to the elevator that she wrenched herself away. She put a hand on Ella’s shoulder.

  “You’re right. It’s very cold. You shouldn’t be here, Ella. You’ve had the flu.”

  We got in the elevator. It rose slowly to the first floor. When we emerged onto the walkway, with the rain falling steadily into the open courtyard, I felt as if I’d come up out of a cave.

  Or a tomb.

  Chapter Eleven

  THAT FRIDAY WAS one of those days when Vida stuck to her diet. “I forgot to mention that Ella has the brains of a bee,” she said, waving a celery stick at me. “But she’s nosy. I thought that might help.”

  “She’s also deaf,” I said, wondering why I’d bothered to pick up a taco from our local ersatz Mexican eatery at the mall. It looked utterly unappetizing in its sea of salsa and pale sour cream.

  “The problem is,” Vida went on, munching away at the celery, “Ella couldn’t see anyone come in or out of Linda’s condo. Nobody could, because her ground-floor entrance is at the back.”

  After returning to the Jag, I’d drawn a quick floor plan of the condos. Sitting at Ed’s desk, I studied it with a critical eye. “That’s not entirely true,” I noted. “Marisa Foxx has a window that looks out back onto Maple Lane.”

  Vida frowned in an effort of concentration. “You’re right, she would. All the condos are at right angles to each other. You know her, don’t you? Doesn’t she go to your church?”

  “I’ve seen her at Mass, but I don’t actually know her.” I hesitated, aware that if there is one professional in the world who doesn’t believe in candor, it’s a lawyer. “Should I go see her?”

  Apparently Vida was operating on my wavelength. “No,” she sighed. “If Marisa Foxx saw anything suspicious, she would have told the deputies. Attorneys usually feel compelled to be forthcoming with law enforcement officials. Unless their clients are involved, of course.”

  Our tour of Parc Pines seemed to have been in vain. Vida finished her fodder, then headed off to cover the monthly group birthday celebration at the Lutheran retirement home. Ginny and Carla were still out at lunch, and Leo was working on an ad at Barton’s Bootery. I was choking down the last of my so-called taco when Denise Petersen drifted in.

  “This is for Mr. Walsh,” she said, handing me an ad mock-up that commemorated Linda Petersen Lindahl. “Dad said I was supposed to bring it over here Tuesday, but I forgot. Does it matter? I mean, Aunt Linda’s still dead, right?”

  “As far as I know.” I tried to keep any inflection out of my voice. I could imagine the scene that had ensued at the bank when Larry discovered that his daughter had neglected to deliver his sister’s memorial. There was a slip of notebook paper attached with a handwritten message: Denise—For Leo Walsh. ASAP. Thanks. I wondered if Denise knew what ASAP stood for, or if she thought it was a description of Mr. Walsh.

  Uninvited, Denise dropped down into the vacant chair next to Leo’s desk. “It’s too busy at the bank today. It’s nice to have a holiday, but then there’s such a rush afterwards. Before, too. Maybe I should quit and get a job at Safeway. I heard they needed extra checkers for the holidays.”

  The mock-up that Larry—or Marv, or both—had put together for Linda was in simple, good taste. Judging from the long pageboy hairstyle, her photograph probably dated from at least five years ago, but she looked softer as well as younger. The wording was brief: IN MEMORIAM. LINDA PETERSEN LINDAHL. THE BANK OF ALPINE. Except for the dates of her birth and death, there was nothing else in the black-bordered layout.

  I hardly caught what Denise had just said. “Safeway?” I looked up. “But the bank’s going to be shorthanded. Christie is going on vacation and Linda’s … dead. Wouldn’t you be leaving your dad and granddad in the lurch?”

  Denise shrugged. “They’ll find somebody. Lots of people are out of work in Alpine. Besides, I hate the bank. Let my stupid brothers work there. It would serve them both right. They’re such jerks.”

  I didn’t know Denise’s older brothers. They’d been away at college most of the time I’d been in Alpine. If they hadn’t been expelled by now, maybe they were smarter than their sister.

  With an exaggerated air, Denise hoisted herself to her feet. “I should head back to work. The line was pretty long when I left.” Suddenly she stopped, giving me a puzzled look. “What did you say about Christie? She’s not going on vacation. She already went, last August, to Cabo San Lucas. It’s all she talked about when I first came to work at the bank.”

  It was too much to expect that Denise Petersen would be aware of anyone’s plans but her own. There was no point in arguing. “Thanks for the mock-up, Denise. I’ll see that Leo gets it.”

  “Leo?” Denise was looking blank. “Oh, Mr. Walsh. Right. Thanks. ’Bye.” She drifted out of the office, as aimlessly as she had entered. I almost wished that Ginny had shown up so that she could pounce on Denise and claw her into reality.

  Vida returned around three, looking smug. I asked if she’d unearthed a hot item at the retirement home birthday party. To my surprise, she had—at least by her standards.

  “Leona Hanson was celebrating her eighty-first,” Vida said, unloading her camera. “Her great-nephew and his wife have moved to Alpine. They’re the Hansons I didn’t know in One D at Parc Pines. His name’s Walt, and he works for the State Fisheries Department. She’s Amanda, and is going to work for the post office when the holiday rush starts. I don’t think Leona approves.”

  “Of what? The post office?”

  Vida ignored my flippancy. “Leona says Amanda wears very short skirts. Tight, too. She foresees Trouble, capital T. Walt still has to finish up duties from his previous assignment in Eastern Washington, so he’s often away from home. Now, how can I work the Hansons into ‘Scene Around Town’?”

  Offhand, I couldn’t think of any way that wouldn’t invite a libel suit. “Wait until Amanda starts at the post office,” I suggested. “Then you can do one of your bits about ‘… a new face at the blah-blah.’”

  Vida gave a nod. “I suppose. I do miss the Welcome Wagon. Before Durwood Parker drove it into the river, we always found out about newcomers right away. I detest not knowing who’s who.”

  I left Vida to her group birthday story and returned to my cubbyhole. It was late afternoon when I got around to calling Milo Dodge to see if he had any new information. This time Dwight Gould answered.

  “If you want to catch him, look out your window,” Dwight said. “The sheriff’s just across the street, at the Bank of Alpine.”


  “Maybe,” Vida allowed after I’d passed on Dwight’s information, “Milo is … banking.” Standing by my desk, she caught sight of a cigarette butt Leo had left in the ashtray. With a repugnant gesture, she emptied it into my wastebasket. “Really, Emma, how can you let that man smoke in the office? It’s such a disgusting habit!”

  I offered Vida a lame little shrug. “It’s no more disgusting than Ed’s eating habits. Smoking just smells worse. Sometimes.”

  Vida shuddered. “Advertising people are very odd. When I first came to work here, Marius Vandeventer had a young man from—”

  The phone rang, and on the hope that it was Milo, I answered. But the sheriff wasn’t on the other end. To my surprise, it was his light-o’-love, Honoria Whitman.

  We exchanged somewhat effusive, though genuine, greetings. Then Honoria, in her charming, well-bred way, came to the point:

  “I’m worried about Milo. We had dinner in Sultan last night and he seemed terribly upset about the lack of progress in this murder case. Do you suppose we could get together and talk about it? I’ll treat you to a meal at the Dutch Cup. Tonight, unless that’s short notice. I realize that you must be awfully busy….”

  “You’re making my sides ache.” The words sprang out of my mouth. “I mean, my social life isn’t exactly putting me in an airplane spin. Sure, that sounds fine.” Noting Vida’s frankly curious expression, I felt a twinge of guilt. “Shall I pick you up?” My voice dropped a couple of notches, as if I could spare Vida’s feelings.

  “You don’t need to.” Honoria was proud of her independence with her specially rigged car and high-tech wheelchair.

  “But your place is right on the way into Sultan. Why take two cars?” It was true; I would have made the same offer to someone who wasn’t physically handicapped.

  “All right,” Honoria agreed. “You know the turnoff. Be careful, the road is rather muddy and some potholes have developed since you were here a year ago last summer.”