The Alpine Menace (9 page)

“Why,” Vida asked in a musing tone, “would anyone carry a length of drapery cord with them?”

“To tie something up?” I suggested.

“Yes, that's possible.” Vida stopped to give the waitress her pie order. “Or to give drapes away. Let's say that Kendra—this is just an example, mind you, I'm not saying this is what happened—Kendra is moving into an apartment. Her mother—her adoptive mother, Mrs. Addison—gives her a set of old drapes. They're in her car when she calls on her birth mother, Carol. Are you following this?”

“Yes, go on.”

“Carol gets into a row with Kendra, who becomes furious, and…” Vida frowned and bit her lip. “No, she'd hardly dash out to the car to fetch a drapery cord, would she?”

“Not likely.”

“But what if someone brought it in with them?” Vida said, brightening. “That would make it premeditated murder.”

“True,” I allowed, “but why not use a stocking, a rope, a scarf?”

“Too identifiable,” Vida responded. “A drapery cord could be taken out of a Dumpster or a garbage can. It might be traced to the owner, but not to the killer.”

Vida had another point. In fact, it was a rather good one. But it still didn't ease my frustration. “So what do we do now?” I inquired dryly. “Find out how many people in the vicinity have thrown out old drapes in the past month?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “You must call on the Addisons.”

I was skeptical. “I must?”

Vida nodded. “Yes. I doubt very much if either of them will recognize you. In fact, Mrs. Addison wouldn't know me, but there's no point in taking chances. Nice as it is, your new car looks very much like many of the other cars these days. Even that shiny beige color seems popular.”

Admittedly, that was true. At first glance, the Lexus looked like a Toyota, a Honda, and various other makes and models. I'd already tried to get into the wrong car four times since I'd got it.

“Where will you be while I visit the Addisons?” I asked with some reluctance.

Vida gave me an ingenuous smile. “At the zoo. Drop me off on your way.”

* * *

The Addison house on Ashworth looked rather attractive in the daylight. Planter boxes held colorful displays of primroses, the rhododendrons that flanked the front porch were coming into bloom, and a giant forsythia bush at the side of the house was in the final stages of its golden glory. I admired bright daffodils and budding tulips as I went up the walk that led to six wide concrete steps.

The mailman, a smiling Asian fellow brave enough to wear U.S. postal regulation shorts on a fifty-five-degree day, was just leaving. By chance, a woman I assumed was Mrs. Addison came out onto the porch to collect the mail.

“Kathy?” I said, remembering the name that an agitated Sam Addison had called out the previous night.

Although I was at the bottom of the stairs, she hadn't noticed me and gave a start. “Yes? What is it?”

“My name's Emma Lord,” I said, offering a friendly smile. “May I talk to you for a few minutes? It's about my cousin Ronnie Mallett.” How much more up-front could I be?

Kathy frowned at the name. “You mean that awful man who killed Carol Stokes? He's your cousin?” She seemed incredulous. Maybe, in my chic clearance Anne Klein pantsuit from Francine's Fine Apparel, I didn't look like someone who'd be related to a man charged with murder.

“Yes,” I replied, still smiling. “I'm from out of town, and I'm trying to figure out exactly what happened. Ronnie isn't much help.” My expression turned pitiable.

“I don't doubt that,” she said, looking harried and holding the mail close to her bosom. Then she sighed and gazed off in the distance. “I don't know… I probably shouldn't talk to you.”

“I don't know where else to go,” I said, growing more pitiful by the second.

“Oh…” She opened the screen door and motioned for me to join her. “Come in, but only for a couple of
minutes,” Kathy said, placing the mail on a small inlaid table near the door. “This isn't a good time.”

I could guess why not. There was no sign of the Honda or Sam Addison. Maybe he'd actually left his wife. I hadn't seen the Miata, either. I felt lucky to have found Kathy Addison home alone.

The Addison living room and adjoining dining room were a far cry from the tawdry apartments I'd visited so far. Someone with taste had furnished the house in an eclectic, if unimaginative, style. There were Oriental rugs on the floor, tables and chairs made of solid oak and mahogany, a breakfront filled with English bone china, and matching leather-covered love seats. Bouquets of daffodils stood at each end of the fireplace mantel and camellias floated in a bowl on the polished dining-room table. It was as handsome a setting as you could find in an upscale furniture store—and just as cold.

Kathy added to the image by not asking me to sit down. She stood next to one of the love seats, her still-pretty face frozen. “I can't imagine what I can tell you about Carol's murder,” she said, her voice stilted. “I hardly knew her, and I didn't know this Ronnie at all.”

“What did you think of Carol?” I asked. “Was she a decent person?”

Kathy looked surprised at the question, her green eyes clearly puzzled. “Decent? What do you mean?”

“Did she drink? Use drugs? Sleep around?”

“All of those things, as far as I know,” Kathy replied, faintly malicious. “People who get themselves killed in situations like that—women, I should say—aren't leading decent lives. Take my word for it. They're asking for trouble. It wouldn't surprise me if she was some sort of addict and a drunk as well.”

My gaze had settled on a framed studio portrait on a teak end table. The smiling young woman with the curly red-gold hair and the wide-set blue eyes was very pretty. I
assumed it was Kendra's senior picture. “What did Kendra say about Carol?”

Kathy's plump face froze up again. “She didn't talk much about Carol.”

“I understood they hit it off rather well,” I said, deliberately hoping to rile Kathy.

She gave a shrug. “They were cordial, I understand. It had to be awkward. And Kendra didn't think much of that Ronnie. I realize he's your cousin, but Carol called him a creep.”

“Ronnie has his faults,” I admitted. “Did Kendra spend much time with… Carol?” I was cautious about referring to the murder victim as Kendra's mother. I didn't think it would go down very well with Kathy Addison.

“Not really,” she said. “They only became acquainted a few months ago. I suppose you could say they were making an attempt at bonding in some sort of way.”

“But Kendra was the one who found Carol's body,” I pointed out.

“So?” There was belligerence in Kathy's tone. “Ken-dra happened to stop by there that night to pick up something she'd left at the apartment a few days earlier, that's all.”

“Then Kendra had a key?”

Briefly, Kathy looked rattled. “I guess so. I don't know. Maybe Ronnie left the door open after he killed Carol.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hands. “Look here, if you're trying to find some patsy to pin the murder on instead of your cousin, go talk to Carol's ex. Kendra mentioned that he'd been hanging around lately. I can't imagine that he's much good, either.”

“Marty Stokes?” I said, recalling the name that Olive Nerstad had given Carol's ex-husband.

Kathy frowned. “No. That's not him. It wasn't the same as hers. It was Roy Something-or-Other. Now leave
me alone. I never wanted to get mixed up in this awful thing.” She waved her hands again, as if shooing off a chicken.

I took umbrage. “But you
are
mixed up in it, Kathy. Your daughter—your adopted daughter has had her birth mother killed by someone, and I don't think it was my cousin. Doesn't that affect you?”

Her belligerence was obvious. “Why should it? I met Carol once. Twice, but that was only in passing when she picked Kendra up here at the house. Carol Stokes meant nothing to me. Your cousin means even less. Goodbye.”

I couldn't resist. “Give my love to Sam,” I called over my shoulder. “If he ever comes home.”

I hadn't spent ten minutes in the Addison house, which meant Vida needed at least another half hour at the zoo. She was determined to see the monkeys, though I knew they no longer resided on Monkey Island.

To kill time, I drove past St. Benedict's Church, where Ben and I had attended parochial school. I'd started kindergarten the year that the new church was completed. Until then, Mass had been celebrated in the school auditorium. Parking across the street, I decided to go inside. I hadn't been in St. Benedict's since my parents’ funeral almost thirty years ago.

Somewhat to my surprise, the doors were unlocked. But as I entered the church itself, I saw why: a half-dozen women and two men were decorating for the Easter Vigil Mass. Sprays of white lilac and snowball stood at the rear of the altar. There were yellow and white gladioli sitting in vases, waiting to be put in their proper place. Two women were twining garlands of baby's breath and small stephanotis along the aisles. I slipped into a pew at the back and said a quick prayer, for me, for Adam and Ben, for the repose of my parents’ souls. At the last minute I remembered to pray for Ronnie. Then I added a Hail
Mary for Vida, though she'd probably scoff at such a papist offering.

The church wasn't quite as I remembered it. The altar rail had been removed and the pews had been placed at an angle. The changes weren't much of an enhancement to the uninspired architecture. Built in the mid fifties, St. Benedict's had followed a basic design that was in vogue for several of the Archdiocese's newer churches. It was austere and unlovely, the carved wooden statues with blank faces and graceless stance. I hated to admit it, but I preferred the old-fashioned plaster saints of St. Mildred's in Alpine.

Still, certain memories came back to me. My First Communion, my Confirmation, Ben's first Mass in his old parish, even though he was a secular priest and not a member of the Oblate fathers who had run St. Benedict's ever since I could remember.

We had always sat toward the back, on the epistle side of the church. I could see us, the tight-knit little group of four, with Ben giving me a kick and me punching Ben in retaliation before Dad separated us. We never lingered much in the vestibule. My parents weren't active in the church or the school, and seldom socialized with the other parishioners. It had never really occurred to me before, but we Lords were isolated, our own little island, watching the rest of the world from our private beach.

The sun was still flirting with the clouds when I came outside. The neighborhood around the church was much the same as I remembered, though I'd heard that the convent across the street no longer housed nuns but was the parish activity center. Perhaps the changes at St. Benedict's were small, but the basics remained the same. Had I changed so much from the pigtailed little girl in the blue-and-red-plaid uniform? Probably not. But until now I had never stopped in my former parish to pray for a relative who had been accused of murder.

* * *

I took the long route to the zoo, south through the Freemont district. As a small child, I could not only hear the boats toot their signals to raise the Freemont bridge, but the whistle of freight trains as they passed the small depot at the north end of Lake Union. The railroad tracks were still there, but they were no longer used; the depot had been converted into a takeout restaurant. But not far from the bridge itself was a life-size sculpture of men, women, and children called
Waiting for the Interurban
. The interurban train between Everett and Seattle had passed into history long before I was born, a victim of the auto industry. But the stone statues who waited were a reminder of another era, and tribute to their eternal patience was made by neighborhood residents who regularly decorated the sculpture for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and just for fun. Fremont had a reputation as a funky part of town, which helped explain the heroic statue of Lenin located off the main drag, and the monster-size troll that lurked under the Aurora Bridge, cuddling a real Volkswagen.

I found Vida waiting by the rose garden outside the zoo. She was agog over the changes that had been made in the past fifty years.

“Really, all this natural habitat!” she said as we drove down North Fiftieth Street. “It must have cost the world. How do cities find the money to do these things? Property taxes must be outrageous.”

I admitted that they were considerably higher than in Alpine.

“I must bring Roger someday,” she said, referring to her odious fifteen-year-old grandson, who, in my opinion, belonged in a zoo. “He'd so enjoy the tropical birds.”

As in roasting them on a spit, I thought, but instead told Vida about my visit to Kathy Addison.

“Very defensive,” Vida commented. “And no sign of Mr. Addison?”

“Nor of Kendra,” I replied. “But I found out where she is.”

“You did? Was Kathy helpful in that regard?”

“No, but the mail had just come,” I said, feeling rather clever. “She set it down next to a couple of other items, and the envelope on top was addressed to Kendra. Kathy had crossed out the Ashworth address and written in a request for forwarding to someplace on Roosevelt Way.”

“Which is where?” Vida demanded, as if I were keeping the area a secret.

“It's a long north-south street between the north end and Lake Union,” I explained. “I couldn't quite catch the whole address, but it was near the city limits. We can call Directory Assistance to find out.”

We stopped for lunch on Aurora, the main drag through the city, also known as Highway 99. I used a pay phone to inquire about Kendra Addison, somehow wheedling the address along with the phone number. I called to see if she was home, but there was no answer, no machine, no voice messaging.

“We'll have to take our chances,” I told Vida as we headed north.

“Certainly,” Vida responded, rubbernecking out the window. “Goodness, so many ugly businesses. I never cease to be amazed by how hideous this stretch of Seattle is. You won't find this sort of thing at home.”

Aurora Avenue is one long stretch of car lots, fast-food restaurants, strip malls, motels, and gas stations. Even in my youth, it had not been an attractive part of town. The changes here were neither of style nor substance, but of density and development.