Part 3 (1/2)

”Olive Nerstad,” Vida said. ”She married Burl Ner-stad's older brother Burt and moved to Seattle. Burt committed suicide by jumping off the Bainbridge Island ferry a few years ago. I can't think why. n.o.body heard he was sick, so what excuse could he possibly have for killing himself? Anyway, I heard that Olive moved into the Norse Home sometime after Burt died.”

I gritted my teeth. Even though she disdained my hometown as a vast and faceless metropolis, Vida still managed to find connections to people she knew. For all I knew, Olive Nerstad was a s.h.i.+rttail relation. Vida's extended family seemed to surface everywhere. If I should ever climb the Himalayas, I wouldn't be surprised to find a Runkel or a Blatt or a Gustavson pumping some hapless sherpa for the local gossip. ”You want me to make a U-turn in the middle of Phinney and drive down there?”

”Why not?” Vida said, now getting into the car. ”There's not a great deal of traffic. I'm rather surprised.”

Dutifully, I turned the Lexus around, headed south, and found a place in the parking lot that was reserved for visitors. I had no idea what Vida expected to find out from Olive.

”Do you keep in touch?” I asked warily as we approached the front desk.

”Not recently,” Vida admitted. ”She stopped sending me Christmas cards after Burt jumped. They never found him, you know. I think that upset Olive. She may be a little... queer.”

The pert young blond who welcomed us looked like she was about sixty years away from becoming a permanent resident. I wondered if it ever occurred to her that someday her eyes would fail, her joints would stiffen, and her hair would turn to gray. I'd thought about it on nursing-home visits, and my reaction was to run away as fast as I could, while I still could. But I knew I couldn't ever run far enough or fast enough.

The atmosphere at the Norse Home wasn't gloomy, however. A handsome couple in their seventies nodded and smiled at the receptionist as they headed out for the evening. Notices on a big bulletin board called attention to choral practice, square dancing, and travel. Considering that Norwegians in particular seem to live to be about a hundred and ten, I supposed that many residents looked forward to a long and happy life. At least I liked to think so.

Olive Nerstad was in Apartment 205. Apparently, she was accepting visitors, so we took the elevator to the second floor. The door to her unit was covered with a floral wreath and a wooden cutout of a duck. Vida rang the bell, then tapped her foot as we waited.

The woman who opened the door had bleached-blond hair and a suspicious expression. ”Vida Blatt?” she said, glowering with sharp blue eyes. ”What are you doing here? I never liked you.”

”I can't think why not,” Vida retorted, unruffled by the remark. I, however, was taken aback, with visions of ancient, simmering Alpine feuds spinning through my brain. ”What did I ever do to you, Olive?” Vida asked.

”You said I was a beanpole,” Olive replied, still not opening the door more than six inches. ”That's because you were always fat.”

”I never was fat,” Vida a.s.serted with a lift of her chin. ”I was big for my age.”

”You still are,” Olive shot back. ”Why are you here? And who's that hiding behind your fat frame?”

Vida rustled the duster. ”It's this coat. It makes me look... large. Oh.” She glanced over her shoulder. ”This is Emma Lord. Her cousin may have killed your niece.”

The shock tactic worked. Olive stepped back from the door and stared. ”What? Carol?”

Vida took advantage of catching Olive off guard and marched into the apartment. It was a tidy, if crowded room with solid furnis.h.i.+ngs, probably as many as Olive had been allowed to bring from her family home.

”Well, well,” Vida noted, taking in every upholstered chair, beribboned lamp shade, and mahogany table. ”You certainly crammed your belongings into this place. How long have you been here, Olive? I forget when Burt jumped.”

”I don't,” Olive snapped. ”It was June fourteenth, 1992. Burt never liked you, either.”

”I never cared much for him,” Vida replied, seating herself on a sofa that was covered in a bright yellow, pink, and green floral print. ”Goodness, how ever do you get around with all this furniture?”

”Easily,” Olive said, still standing. ”I'm slim, remember?”

Olive was indeed slim, and tall, too. She looked like someone who had dieted all her life, but maybe it came naturally. Except for a few wrinkles, she could have pa.s.sed for sixty-five, but I guessed her to be five to ten years older. Her features were sharp and plain, but carefully made up, as if Olive expected a steady stream of visitors.

”So what's this about Carol?” Olive demanded. ”I heard she was dead. It doesn't surprise me.”

”Really,” Vida murmured. ”And why is that?”

Slowly, Olive moved to an armchair that matched the couch. ”Carol liked trouble. Don't pretend you don't know why she left Alpine. You always liked knowing everything, Vida Blatt.”

”I've been Vida Runkel for going on fifty years,” Vida a.s.serted. ”Yes, of course I know why Carol moved away. Did you see much of her? She lived only a mile or so from here.”

Olive's head jerked around in my direction, where I'd settled in next to Vida on the couch. ”Who did you say you were? What's this about a cousin who killed Carol?”

”Actually, I didn't say-” I began, but Vida interrupted.

”We'll get to that, Olive. Tell us about Carol.”

Olive scowled at Vida. ”You never let anybody get a word in edgewise, do you, Vida? Why should I tell you anything? You've brought a stranger, a killer's cousin, in here, and you expect me to reveal all the family secrets. Go on with you!” She waved a thin hand at Vida, then folded her arms across her flat breast and sat back in the armchair.

I could sense the convoluted thought processes going on in Vida's busy brain. ”Emma and I believe that her cousin is innocent. That's why we're here. We'd like to talk to Carol's daughter. Do you know where she is?”

Olive's eyes narrowed, then her face relaxed. ”Innocent, huh? I'll bet. Is he the moocher who was living off of Carol?” She paused, then looked at me. ”I have to admit, I can't see much of a family resemblance to that cousin of yours. You don't talk much, do you?”

”Sometimes,” I said dryly.

”I can't say as I blame you, with her around.” Olive paused again, then turned back to Vida. ”I'm not sure where Kendra-the daughter, such a crazy name-lives. With her parents, I suppose.”

”Her parents?” I echoed, proving that I really could come up with something on my own.

Olive nodded, seemingly pleased at the surprise she'd created. ”That's right. Carol gave her baby up for adoption. She never seemed interested in what happened to her kiddy until she heard from Kendra a few months ago. Then Carol started asking me questions, but what did I know after the arrangements were made? Then Carol and Kendra got together, and Carol brought her over to meet me and show her off. Believe me, it was a rare visit. Carol usually paid no attention to her widowed aunt.”

”Was Ronnie with them?” Vida asked.

Olive shook her head. ”No, but Kendra complained about him, always hanging around and being a pest.”

”When was this?” I asked.

”Oh-a month or so ago,” Olive replied. ”The next thing I knew, Carol had gotten herself killed. It was in the paper, so was the obituary. I didn't go to the funeral, though. I had stomach flu.” Olive's annoyed expression indicated she was sorry to have missed such a dramatic event.

”Do you know who handled the funeral arrangements?” Vida inquired.

Again, Olive shook her head. ”It wouldn't be that Ronnie. He wouldn't have enough sense. Maybe Kendra, along with her parents. Their name is Addison. I think they live near Green Lake.”

”Do you have an address?” Vida asked.

Another shake of the head from Olive. ”If Kendra is like the rest of the young people nowadays, I wouldn't expect to hear from her again. Especially not now, with Carol dead.”

Grudgingly, Vida admitted that was so. ”Did you keep the news story about Carol's murder?” she asked.

”As a matter of fact,” Olive said, picking up what looked like a daybook stuffed full of clippings and letters, ”I did.” A glance showed lengthy obits with names like Skylstad and Nygaard and Lundquist. I suspected that Olive kept a record of her world in that dog-eared book. ”You want to see it?” she asked.

Vida said she did. When she had finished the two-inch article, she handed it to me. It contained the bare facts, that Carol Stokes, thirty-four, had been found dead in her Greenwood-area apartment, and that her alleged boyfriend, Ronnie Mallett, thirty-five, was being held for questioning.

”Here,” Olive said, giving Vida another clipping. ”You might as well read this, too.”

We both did. The second story was equally brief, relating that Ronnie had been charged with second-degree homicide and was being held in jail, awaiting a trial date.

Vida returned the article to Olive, then stood up. ”Thank you. You've been somewhat helpful.”

”Hunh,” said Olive, also rising from her chair. ”That's my middle name. You'd have thought Carol'd be more grateful after all these years.”