The Alpine Menace (16 page)

It was noon, but I wasn't hungry yet. On my way out to Maybeth's, I took a detour and drove to my old neighborhood. Sentimentality doesn't run strong with me, but I was curious. How did the present occupants of my old family home spend a cloudy Easter Sunday?

Just as I turned the corner, the rain started, small, harmless drops dotting the windshield. A boy about seven and a girl not more than three were searching the garden for eggs. Two women, both in their thirties, stood on the porch. By the old hydrangea bush, a bearded man with rimless glasses cheered on the children. An older woman in an apron held open the screen door and spoke to one of the younger women. I kept going, not just trying to avoid attracting their attention, but because an SUV was pulling up behind me. It parked under the maple tree, and in my rearview mirror, I saw two more children jump out onto the parking strip while a man and a woman emerged carrying covered dishes. It was a cozy, charming scene, but faintly foreign to me. We Lords had enjoyed a private celebration, usually feasting on ham or roast beef. There were always plenty of leftovers. That had seemed like a good thing at the time. In retrospect, maybe it wasn't. If family and friends had been allowed into our little circle, we wouldn't have had so much food to spare. Maybe that would have been a better thing.

Increasing my speed, I turned at the corner to head north and west to the Greenwood district. Skirting Green Lake, I wondered about the Addisons. Were they celebrating Easter together? Or was Sam holed up in a drab motel while Kathy sat proud and alone in their immaculate house? Was Kendra making mad, passionate love with Gavin Odell at her new apartment?

A block from my destination, I pulled over to call Vida. She'd be back from church, but probably not yet en route to whichever relatives were hosting Easter dinner.

“My, my!” she exclaimed. “You certainly have garnered some interesting information. Especially regarding Darryl Lindholm. I wonder what he's been up to all these years. It's dreadful when people move away and lose touch. Divorced, you say? Twice? What does that tell you?”

“He's a pain in the butt?”

“Emma, your language is deteriorating in the city,” Vida scolded. “Perhaps the divorces indicate that Darryl never got over his first love.”

“Carol?” I was doubtful. “She sounds like a real bit… of goods,” I added hastily. “Women who beat up on men aren't any better than men who beat women.”

“Frustration. Thwarted love. Perhaps they were meant to be together.” Vida's voice had taken on a lilting note. Clearly, she had slipped into one of her pearls-and-lace romantic moods. “You, of all people, should know what I mean.”

In such moods, Vida always rhapsodizes on my love affair with Tom Cavanaugh. No matter how many times Tom keeps postponing our long-desired union, his excuses make perfect sense to Vida. Indeed, whatever reason he gives is, in her opinion, evidence of his sterling character. Sometimes, I want to strangle both of them.

Which brought me back to Carol's murder. “I'm on my way to see Maybeth again,” I said. “I know she's lying, or at the very least, she made a mistake about when Ronnie left the apartment.”

“An unreliable sort of person,” Vida agreed. “Are you certain Ronnie won't try to kill himself again?”

“He'll be watched,” I replied, “and no, I'm not certain. The man is utterly spineless. If he does manage to get out of jail, what will become of him?”

“He needs a good woman,” Vida declared, still on her pink cloud. “Someone who can straighten him out. Oh, I know the fallacy of trying to change people—but occasionally, it's a matter of not having had an opportunity. Have you spoken with his parents?”

“No,” I replied. “They're in a retirement community in Arizona. I don't think Ronnie hears from them much. And from what I remember, they'd be no help.”

“Which is why Ronnie never had an opportunity,” Vida said. “Tsk, tsk.” She paused for a moment. “A fork. Really, now. That brings to mind my husband's cousin Elmo. Years ago he tried to strangle himself by winding the suspenders on his overalls around his neck and jumping up and down. So futile. So silly.”

I inquired about the Harquist-O'Neill feud. Vida hadn't had time to learn much, though she'd found out that Stubby O'Neill would be released from the hospital Monday, and that Milo was going to let the two Har-quists out of jail in time for Easter dinner.

“So where are you headed?” I asked as the wireless connection started to break up.

“Ah…” The hesitation was unusual for Vida. “Buck is cooking dinner for me.”

“I thought he wasn't getting in until late,” I said.

“His plans changed,” Vida replied. “One of the grandchildren came down with chicken pox. Whatever's wrong with your phone?”

“Technical difficulties,” I said as the noise grew louder and more frequent. “I'll check in later. Happy Easter, Vida.”

The rain was coming down harder when I approached Maybeth's door. Roy Sprague, attired only in boxer shorts and a T-shirt, answered my buzz.

“Do I know you?” he asked with a frown.

“Sure. I'm the Easter Bunny. May I hop in?”

My attempt at humor didn't make Roy laugh, but it
befuddled him. He stepped aside, then asked if I was a friend of Maybeth's. Having gained access to the apartment, I became candid.

“I was here yesterday,” I confessed, “with my friend. I'm Ronnie's cousin.”

“Oh.” Recognition dawned on Roy, and it didn't seem to please him. “Hey, what is this? Why're you bugging us? Ronnie's toast.”

“I don't think so,” I said, and sat down in an armchair before Roy told me I couldn't. “I know what Carol did to you, Roy, and what she did to Ronnie. But I doubt that either of you would kill her for it. You're both… gentlemen.” It wasn't true, but it sounded better than
weasels
.

The bit of flattery seemed to have some effect on Roy. “Hey, it wasn't all that bad. What can women do except scratch and claw and slap? It's no big deal.”

“What's this?” Maybeth stood in the hallway door, her red hair wet and her thin flowered robe clinging to her curves. “You again?”

Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot, I smiled widely. “Maybeth, I must apologize for misleading you. I'm in a real pickle.”

“So?” She reached behind the door and grabbed a bath towel, which she wrapped around her head. “Why should I care?” On bare feet, she padded into the living room and flopped down on the sofa next to Roy.

“You should care about the truth,” I said, my smile disappearing. “You must know that by lying, you can be charged with obstructing justice. I don't want to see you get into trouble.”

“What am I lying about?” Maybeth demanded with a pugnacious expression. “Why should I?”

“It may be a mistake,” I said reasonably. “Look, we can probably clear this up in two minutes. Tell me again what you remember about the night Carol was killed.”

Maybeth uttered an obscenity under her breath, then poked Roy. “If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have been around when all this crap went down. But oh, no, instead of going dancing, you played poker with your lame friends out on 99 until four in the morning. You lost, too.”

“Not much,” Roy said. “Hell, I raked in two large the week before.”

“Which you didn't spend on me,” Maybeth noted, and poked Roy again, only harder.

“How about it?” I said, wondering if Maybeth beat up Roy, too.

“About what?” Maybeth's blue eyes narrowed.

“What you heard the night of the murder.” Once again, my patience was being tested.

“Oh, that.” Maybeth lighted a cigarette from a pack lying on the floor. “It was around nine, maybe a little after. Ronnie and Carol were fighting—I could hear her yelling at him through the wall. Then he slammed out and she kept on yelling. That's it.”

I nodded slowly. “That matches what you told us earlier. But Maybeth, if Carol was still yelling when Ronnie left, how could he have already killed her?”

Maybeth paused with the cigarette halfway to her full lips. “He came back, obviously. I didn't hear him, but that's what he must have done.”

I shook my head. “You don't know that for certain. Look, Ronnie has an alibi for nine o'clock. He was at Freddy's. Terri saw him there at eight-thirty. You must have been mistaken about when he left. Would you swear in court that it was Ronnie you heard fighting with Carol around nine?”

Maybeth rubbed at her hair with the towel. Her phony nails had been painted a deep purple and curved slightly at the tips. “Ronnie's kind of a low talker,” she admitted. “Sometimes when they argued, it was hard to hear him.”

I didn't point out the obvious: If Ronnie and Carol hadn't quarreled, Maybeth probably didn't hear Ronnie leave before eight-thirty. “Did you hear anyone— anything—to indicate Carol had another visitor?”

“Well, I heard somebody,” she asserted, the full lips pouting. “Even Carol wasn't bitchy enough to argue with herself.”

“Maybe it was the bald guy,” Roy said, getting up to go out to the kitchen.

“Which one?” Maybeth called after him.

“The one with the bike,” Roy replied, returning with a can of beer. “It's a black Honda, early eighties model.”

“I'd have heard him,” Maybeth responded. “That bike is loud. It must have been the other guy.”

From what little I'd seen of Sam Addison, he didn't strike me as the biker type. Of course, you never knew. “Is the biker's name Darryl?” I asked.

Maybeth shrugged. “I never met the guy. But I think he and Carol had something going on the side.”

That sounded more like Darryl. Then again, you never knew. “Did the biker come around often?” I inquired.

“Not really.” Maybeth poked Roy. “Hey, where's mine?” She pointed to the beer can. Obediently, Roy got up and went back to the kitchen. “Two, three times. You could always hear him coming. I only saw the other bald guy once. He knocked on my door by mistake.”

“Was he a little older?” I asked as Roy came back with Maybeth's beer and one for me. I couldn't refuse his unexpected hospitality, so I thanked him and boldly lighted a cigarette. I was beginning to feel like one of the gang. Maybe I should get some acrylic nails from Stella's Styling Salon when I got back to Alpine.

“You mean older than the biker dude?” Roy said. “Yeah, a few years. The guy with the Honda was late thirties, maybe forty. It's hard to tell when guys are bald,
'cause you don't know if they really are or they just shaved their heads. Unless you get real close, that is.”

“When was the last time you saw either of them?” I asked.

The couple exchanged glances. “Biker dude was here on a Saturday, maybe a month ago,” Roy said.

Maybeth nodded. “He stayed about an hour.”

“I assume he was calling on Carol,” I noted. “Was Ronnie home?”

“No,” Roy answered. “Ronnie was shooting pool. I ran into him at Goldie's down on Forty-fifth.”

“Did Carol and the biker quarrel?” I asked, taking a sip of beer.

Maybeth giggled. “Heck, no. They were real quiet. I figured they were doing something else.”

“And the older bald man?” I said. “Has he been here lately?”

Maybeth nodded. “He was here the day Carol got killed.”

I'd taken a drag on my cigarette and was so startled that I choked. “He was?” I said in a strained voice. “When?”

Maybeth removed the towel from her damp hair and tipped her head to one side. “I'd just come home from work at the salon. It was six, six-fifteen. I didn't see him leave. Who are all these guys anyway?” She asked the question as if she'd only become curious about Carol's male visitors in the last two minutes.

“I'm not sure,” I admitted. “One of them may be Kendra's adoptive father.” I decided not to mention that the other man could be Kendra's birth father. But I did ask if Maybeth or Roy had ever seen the bald biker when Kendra was there.

“I don't think so,” Maybeth replied. “But then I'm not nosy like some of the neighbors.”

I assumed she meant Henrietta. But perhaps there were
other inquisitive tenants I hadn't met. After all, the remaining units might house some snoopy residents, too.

I put the question to my hosts. Again, they exchanged glances. “The people in the upstairs units are all kind of standoffish,” Maybeth finally said. “The couple above us are real grouches. If we're partying and it gets noisy, they stomp on the floor and yell at us.”

“The ones above Carol's are college students,” Roy put in. “They don't pay attention to anybody but themselves.”

“That guy on the end,” Maybeth said, gesturing above and to her right, “smokes so much weed that he wouldn't notice if somebody drove a truck through the place. We call him Mr. Mellow.”

“What about the woman with the kid?” Roy asked Maybeth. “I hardly ever see them.”

“She's divorced,” Maybeth answered, stubbing out her cigarette in a big plastic ashtray. “She works, and the kid's either at school or in day care. They don't get home until seven or so, and then they probably crash and watch TV.”

“What about 1-D?” I inquired.

Both Maybeth and Roy swiveled to their left. “Oh,” Maybeth said. “Mr. Rapp. I forgot about him. He's so quiet.”

“He's old and crippled,” Roy added. “He has to get around on a walker. I think that nurse in 1-A takes him to the store and the doctor sometimes.”

“Is he deaf?” I asked.

“I don't know,” Roy replied. “He never complains if we make noise.”

Mr. Rapp might be deaf, but perhaps he wasn't blind. I decided to pay him a Sunday visit.

Aldo Rapp was a small, hunched man with skin weathered like an old saddle, and very sharp brown eyes. He
wore a hearing aid in each ear and was dressed in a shabby dark blue suit with a frayed white shirt and a tie that exhibited a couple of stains that might have been gravy. On the gnarled finger of his right hand was a ring with the largest diamond I'd ever seen. It had to be real, since the sparkling facets indicated it hadn't come out of a Cracker Jack box.

Leaning on his walker, he regarded me with those keen brown eyes and smiled. “I'm waiting for my daughter to pick me up,” he said after I'd introduced myself. “She should be here soon, though she tends to be tardy. How can a civil engineer always be tardy? You'd think she'd get in trouble.”