The Alpine Menace (15 page)

“What about the other guy?” I asked after Honey had filled several orders from the cocktail waitress. “Did you recognize him?”

“No, he wasn't a regular.” Honey paused to re-pin some of the platinum strands that had fallen into her eyes. “He was a big guy around forty, bald, broad-shouldered. He didn't look like a drinker, though he had a Scotch and soda. He paid for his own, by the way. I remember, because he didn't leave a tip.” She made a comical face.

My brain did some more quick work. The man's description fit Sam Addison. But then it probably fit several thousand men in Seattle.

“Did Ronnie and Mr. Cheap argue? Or were they friendly?”

Honey nodded at someone across the room, presumably a thirsty customer. “Serious. They were both serious.” She picked up a glass, filled it with ice, then squirted what looked like bourbon from the drink dispenser. “Excuse me, Mel needs a refill.”

I'd learned what I was seeking, and maybe a little bit more. Leaving a five-dollar tip and a half-empty glass, I exited the Satellite Room. If Sam Addison—or anybody else—had met Ronnie in the bar, why hadn't my dim-bulb cousin mentioned it? And if it was Sam Addison, why had they engaged in an earnest conversation?

As I got into the Lexus, it dawned on me that there could be another suspect in the case. If Sam Addison had been with Ronnie around ten-thirty or eleven, he'd also been near the murder scene. But off the top of my head, I couldn't think why Sam would kill Carol.

I decided to sleep on it.

Easter Mass at St. James Cathedral was standing room only. I ended up near one of the exits, craning to see the altar, which had been repositioned in the middle of the church. At five-foot-four, I couldn't see much more than the occasional bobbing of heads. The music was lovely, however, a far cry from Annie Jeanne Dupré torturing the ancient organ at St. Mildred's.

The weather, however, was another matter. Clouds had rolled in and the wind was blowing from the west as I drove the short distance to the city jail. At a stoplight, I checked my messages on the cell phone. I thought Vida might have called, but there was no word from her. Instead, a terse male voice informed me that there had been an emergency regarding my cousin, one Ronald Mallett. Could I contact the jail as soon as possible?

With gloom to match the skies, I parked the car and hurried to the reception area. A plump black woman
with very short hair was on duty. She checked my ID, then became less officious.

“Your cousin Ronnie tried to kill himself last night,” she said in a low voice. “He's in the infirmary.”

My knees sagged. I scarcely knew my cousin, but the news had the power to unsettle me. “How? By hanging?”

“No,” the woman replied. “He stabbed himself through the ear with a fork.”

“A fork?” My voice was incredulous.

“Yes.” The woman remained very serious, though I suspected it took some effort. “The forks here have three tines. Apparently, he broke off the ones on each side and rammed the rest of the fork into his ear.”

In almost thirty years of journalism, I'd never heard of anyone using a fork to commit suicide. There had been a surgeon in Portland who had tried to drown himself in the Willamette River, but had waded back to shore when he discovered the water was extremely cold and he was afraid he'd catch pneumonia. One of the Gustavsons in Alpine had eaten chokecherries, but they were so bitter that before he poisoned himself, he threw up all over his suicide note. And then there was Milo's ex-brother-in-law who had hit himself over the head with a ball-peen hammer, but had fallen unconscious long before he was dead.

A fork, however, seemed like a means of destruction suited to Ronnie. So did his failure to do himself in.

“How is he?” I asked, my nerves beginning to steady.

“He punctured an eardrum,” the woman replied, allowing herself a small smile. “He may suffer some hearing loss. Would you like to see him?”

“Of course.”

She gave me directions to the infirmary, which was on another floor. Ronnie was in a large ward with perhaps another half-dozen patients. He had a big bandage on his head, an IV in his hand, and appeared to be asleep.

There was no visitors’ chair, though a stone-faced
guard stood at the end of the bed. I nodded at the man; he acknowledged me with a flicker of his eyelids.

“Ronnie?” I said softly.

No answer. I tried again.

Ronnie's eyes fluttered open. “Huh?” He grimaced as he tried to focus on me. “Emma?”

“Yes. How do you feel?”

“Crappy.” He closed his eyes.

“Why did you pull such a stunt?” I asked, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Why not?”

“Because I know you didn't kill Carol. I've got your alibi virtually established.”

“Big deal.” He moved awkwardly in the bed, one hand at the bandage by his right ear. The guard scarcely blinked. Maybe he wasn't real, just a cardboard cutout with battery-operated features.

“Don't you care?” I demanded. “Isn't that what you asked me to do? Why else am I here?”

He groaned a bit, then opened his eyes again and made a feeble effort to sit up. “My head sounds like there's a Harley in it. Can I have some water?”

I held the plastic carafe for him while he drank through the straw in fits and starts. “Tomorrow morning,” I said, “I'm going to see Detective Rojas and tell him what I've found out. We'll see if they can drop the charges. Wouldn't you like to get out of here?”

Ronnie took one last sip, then pushed the carafe away. “Did you get Buddy from those Chinamen?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Not yet,” I admitted. “Buddy's fine. Mr. Chan's grandchildren love him.”

Ronnie looked dubious. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I said, not telling him that the children's affection could be an obstacle to Buddy's return. “Buddy's safe and sound in Lake City.”

“Know what we did last year?” Ronnie's voice brightened slightly. “Me 'n’ Buddy went to one of those Easter egg hunts for little kids. I let Buddy help the kids find eggs. They were all blind, see, so Buddy'd sniff out the eggs before the beeper things could go off so the kids'd hear where they were. Buddy was great. The kids loved him.”

“Buddy sounds like a wonderful dog,” I said. “Ronnie, you have to tell me something. Who did you meet at the Satellite Room the night of the murder?”

What little color there was in Ronnie's face drained away. “How'd you know about that?”

“I've been investigating, remember? Isn't that what you wanted me to do?”

Ronnie winced. “Yeah, yeah, but… Does it matter?”

“Does what matter?” I was getting impatient.

“Who I met?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. “It matters a great deal. Who was it?”

Ronnie expelled a big sigh, then another groan. “It was Darryl Lindholm, Carol's ex from way back. He finally wanted to marry her.”

D
ARRYL
L
INDHOLM WAS
certainly a name from out of the past, the young man who had abandoned Carol Nerstad and her unborn baby. I was so surprised that I actually stumbled against the bed, causing Ronnie to wince and groan one more time.

“When did he come back into the picture?” I asked in astonishment.

Ronnie gave what appeared to be a shrug. “I dunno. I'm not sure he was ever out of it.”

“What do you mean?” Gingerly, I perched on the edge of the bed. These stand-up interviews were wearing me down.

“Carol'd been seeing him off and on for years,” Ronnie explained. “At least, that's what I figured when this Darryl character showed up one night about two months ago.”

“Why?” I asked, wondering what Vida would make of this revelation.

“I guess he still liked her.” Ronnie's mouth turned down. “He'd been married and divorced a couple of times. Carol laughed it off, but I think she got a kick outta him hangin’ around. 'Specially since she had their kid with her.”

I tried not to get distracted by the sobbing family that had gathered around the last bed in the row. The little drama didn't seem to disturb the stone-faced guard. If I
poked him with a safety pin, would he react? “Does Darryl live in Seattle?” I asked.

“I guess,” Ronnie said, his voice still lifeless. “Carol didn't tell me nothin’ about him.”

“But you knew Darryl was Kendra's birth father, right?”

“He told me that,” Ronnie said, “not Carol.”

“Had Kendra met him?”

“Maybe. I guess.” Ronnie was losing interest in the subject.

“Why did Darryl want to see you?” I persisted.

Ronnie grimaced. “He's a jerk.”

“That's the wrong answer.”

My cousin—oddly enough, I was beginning to think of him as an actual relative—wriggled awkwardly in the bed. “Like I told you, he wanted to marry her. He was tellin’ me to butt out.”

The sobbing at the last bed was growing louder and more intense. Unlike a hospital, there was no curtain to pull for privacy. “So why didn't you tell the police where you were while Carol was getting herself killed?”

“Say what?” Ronnie put a hand to his injured ear.

I repeated the question more loudly. Ronnie turned away. “It was none of their damned business.”

“Ronnie…” I was getting exasperated. “If you'd told them about meeting Darryl Lindholm, you wouldn't be here. What's the big secret?”

Ronnie didn't answer. The sobbing subsided as a doctor hurried to the bed.

“If you don't tell me, I'm leaving,” I declared. “Leaving, as in going back to Alpine.”

He finally looked at me again. “You won't tell?”

“Of course not,” I lied. The group by the last bed had withdrawn into a small cluster of bowed heads and slumped shoulders. A nurse had joined the doctor.

“Darryl wanted to buy me off,” Ronnie said, showing
a spark of anger. Or maybe it was indignation. “Like I was some kinda boy toy.”

“That's what upset you so?” Ronnie was full of surprises, few of them good.

“Yeah, sure. Why shouldn't it? A grand, like I was some cheap whore. You'da thought he'd offer me five figures, right?”

I sighed. The doctor was now speaking to the circle of visitors. They sighed. Or so it appeared.

“You think I'm gonna tell anybody that?” Ronnie said with anger in his voice. “A stinkin’ grand. I told him to fuck off.”

Though I was appalled at Ronnie's unconcern in the face of serving an unjust prison term, I took his wrath as a good sign. Near the last bed, the family members clung to each other and began moving away. The nurse was pulling a sheet over the patient's face.

I took that as a bad sign.

The guard kept looking straight ahead.

I tried to convince Ronnie that he had to tell his attorney about the meeting with Darryl Lindholm. Ronnie refused to agree, but by the time I left he seemed to be weakening. Naturally, I would tell Alvin Sternoff myself. But first, I had to track down Darryl Lindholm.

There was only one listing under that name in the Seattle directory. Darryl G. Lindholm lived in Magnolia, just south of Ballard and the Lake Washington Ship Canal. I dialed his number from the lobby, but wasn't surprised when he didn't answer. It was Easter Sunday, after all.

Certainly, it was the strangest Easter in my experience. On the surface, the Resurrection didn't mesh with bar-hopping, Ronnie's self-destructiveness, and a corpse hauled off before my eyes. Except, of course, that it did. In life there was death, and in death there was life. My
spiritual side, slim as it may be, was being buried under my cousin's sea of troubles. But Ronnie was all about Easter, too.

I didn't leave a message on Darryl's machine. His announcement had been terse and to the point: “I'm out or on the phone. Leave your name and number.”

Next I tried Alvin Sternoff. I assumed he was Jewish; therefore, maybe he'd be home.

He was, and sounded harried. “An alibi?” he said after I related all that I'd learned on my recent adventures. “Darn, why didn't he say so? This Darryl is Carol's ex-husband?”

“No,” I corrected him. “The husband's out of the picture. So far, anyway. Darryl's the ex-boyfriend, originally from Alpine. He's the father of Carol's daughter. There's also Roy, a recent ex-boyfriend who's now dating May-beth, the next-door neighbor.”

“Boy, this is confusing,” Alvin said. “Carol must have had something going for her.”

“You realize that Maybeth's lying—or maybe just mistaken—about when Ronnie left the apartment,” I pointed out.

“She is? Wow.” Alvin paused, apparently trying to sift through my information. “But after Ronnie left, whoever came next got into it with Carol and then left her still alive?”

“We don't know that for sure,” I said. “I'll be confronting Maybeth again this afternoon.”

“Maybe I should come,” Alvin said, though he sounded dubious.

“No need,” I assured him. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

“Would you?” Relief was evident in his tone. “I'm having dinner with my folks over in Bellevue. On Sundays, they always eat around three. They hate it when I'm late.”

“That's fine,” I said with a smile. Alvin might be disorganized, but he seemed like a very sweet young man. I wished I knew a suitable young woman. But then he probably already had a girlfriend. “We'll be in touch.”