Part 5 (1/2)
”Why is Mr. Lang reluctant to be a character witness?” Vida inquired.
Alvin looked apologetic. ”I guess Ronnie isn't the most reliable employee. He actually works part-time, but Lang said that he didn't always show up when he was supposed to. He would have let him go, but he said he felt sorry for Ronnie. He seemed like such a... loser.”
”That,” I said, ”is my impression.”
”Sorry,” Alvin said. ”I mean, he's your cousin. I don't want to disrespect him.”
”Don't worry about it,” I said. ”As I explained to you on the phone when I was still in Alpine, Ronnie's side of the family and my side weren't close. If he weren't so pathetic-and such a loser-I wouldn't be here.”
”Right.” Alvin grabbed a pencil and jiggled it up and down. ”I see plenty of losers in this job, and I've only just begun. It's kind of discouraging. Yikes!”
Somehow, he'd managed to impale his left hand with the pencil. Alvin checked to see if he'd drawn blood, then apologized once more. I asked him about priors, having gotten the impression from Ronnie that this wasn't his first arrest.
”Little stuff,” Alvin replied, sucking on his hand.
”One a.s.sault, five years ago. He and some guy got into it in a tavern. Then he got picked up last year for smoking.”
”For smoking?” I asked.
Alvin nodded. ”It was in a bar down by the old Post-Intelligencer building. They had a big sign outside saying *Smoke-Free Lounge.' Ronnie thought it meant he could go in and smoke free cigarettes. He lit up his own and they tried to throw him out. He put up a big fuss, and they called the cops. Oops!” Alvin knocked over Snoopy.
I was beginning to wonder if Ronnie was the only loser in this scenario.
For the first time since leaving Alpine, I remembered to check the voice messaging on my cell phone. Finally surrendering to the modern age in December, I'd bought the cell phone and spent the first month trying to figure out how it worked. Three months later I still hadn't gotten in the groove of checking it out on a regular basis.
”They are handy,” Vida remarked as I poked various b.u.t.tons while we sat in the Lexus outside the county-city buildings. ”Do you think I ought to get one?”
The question surprised me. Vida was still a computer holdout, relying on an ancient typewriter and lightning two-finger accuracy on the keys. Despite the fact that Kip had to enter all her copy in the back shop, she refused to give in. But a telephone was different: Vida could communicate directly with her many sources. Maybe if she got a cell phone, she'd eventually come around to a word processor.
”I think of this as a safety device,” I said, hearing the unctuous recorded voice of a woman who might be dead by now for all I knew. ”You have one new message...” I poked two more b.u.t.tons. ”Milo nagged me until I realized it was only stubbornness that prevented me from... Oh, shoot. It's Ed.”
The call was from my former ad manager who had inherited wealth and, with it, a sense of superiority. Ed Bronsky was calling not from his so-called villa in Alpine, but from the Hyatt Regency in Bellevue.
”s.h.i.+rley and I are taking a meeting with Irv and Skip today,” Ed said, sounding all puffed up even in a recorded message. ”I heard you were in Seattle, so I thought you'd want to sit in on it. It's big, Emma, really huge.” Like Ed, I thought. ”We've got a producer lined up for Mr. Ed.”
Mr. Ed was Ed's rags-to-riches autobiography, published by a vanity press on the Eastside. The publishers, Irving Blomberg and Skip O'Shea, were representing Ed in an attempt to sell the book to a movie or TV producer. Frankly, I thought they were stringing him along.
”The meeting's at one,” Ed's message continued, ”in the restaurant at the hotel. Talk about breaking news! You can be here in person to get the lowdown. By the way,” he added slyly, ”I'm buying.”
”That is news,” I said after repeating the message to Vida. ”I'm almost tempted to go so we can see Ed pick up the check.”
”We don't have time for such foolishness,” Vida declared. ”We must figure out a way to get into Carol's apartment.”
The idea seemed useless to me. The police had undoubtedly removed any sign of evidence. Still, Vida wouldn't be satisfied until we got inside so she could snoop around.
But first I had to call Ed back at the hotel. In their room-a suite, no doubt-Ed answered on the first ring. ”Bronsky,” he said in that pseudo-gruff voice he'd adopted since becoming rich. While he was my ad manager, he never picked up the phone until it was ready to trunk over to Ginny, and when he did, he uttered a beleaguered ”Ed here, what can I do for you?” He always sounded as if he expected the worst, like having to dig our advertisers out of a rock quarry or save them from a raging bull at the Overholt farm.
Forcing regret into my voice, I explained that Vida and I were on a mission to help one of my relatives who'd gotten into trouble. I didn't want to be explicit, lest all Alpine learn that I had a cousin who was a jailbird. Worse yet, I didn't want Ed incorporating my problem into his life story.
”Darn,” Ed said in a heartfelt tone. ”This would be a big break for you, Emma. The producer, Manny Malone, has got the contract with him. It's going to be a series, for gosh sakes!”
”It is?” I gave Vida a startled look. ”What happened to the cable-TV movie?”
”It didn't pan out,” Ed replied. ”Anyway, this is a much better deal. It's going to be animated.”
”Oh.” I'd maneuvered the phone so Vida could also hear. ”You mean a cartoon, like The Simpsons or King of the Hill?”
”Kind of,” Ed responded, his voice dropping a notch. ”Only with animals. I'll be Chester White.”
”They're changing your name to Chester White? How come?”
”It's not exactly my name,” Ed replied, sounding impatient. ”I'll probably still be Ed. Chester White is my breed. I'm a pig.”
Surprise.
Maybeth Swafford wasn't home, but the resident of 1-A was. Henrietta Altdorf was a big woman of sixty, short of breath, with a florid face, graying auburn hair, and shrewd blue eyes.
”Maybeth told me you'd be coming by,” Henrietta said with a wink. ”Mr. Chan, the landlord, left the key with me this morning. He's anxious to rent the place. You know what landlords are.” She winked again.
By the time Henrietta found the key to 1-B, we'd heard the story of her life. She'd been widowed once, divorced twice, and didn't have much time for men. Four years and eight months to go before she could retire from her job as an RN at Northwest Hospital. Her only son lived in Puyallup, which you'd think was four hundred miles away instead of forty. His two boys had no discipline, and his wife was a scatterbrain. Not that it mattered, since she was lucky if she saw any of them more than once a year.
”The younger generation.” She laughed in a disgusted manner. ”I don't understand them. They only think of the big I.”
”So true,” Vida murmured, mildly fascinated by Henrietta's recital. ”Sometimes my three daughters and I are at odds.”
Not for long, I thought as we entered Carol's apartment. Beth, Amy, and Meg hadn't inherited enough of their mother's s.p.u.n.k to stand up to her. But then few people could.
”Daughters must be easier to raise,” Henrietta said, stepping aside to let us cross the threshold. ”More thoughtful, too.” She uttered a wistful sigh, then waved a hand. ”Imagine,” she went on, shaking her head. ”Two weeks ago Carol was alive and happy. Now she's gone. Life's hard, isn't it?”
”You say she was happy?” Vida commented, her gaze taking in the desolate remnants of Carol's life. A half-dozen cardboard boxes, clothes on hangers draped over the back of a chair, furniture that mingled cheap with used, and a big-screen TV that probably cost more than everything else put together. The apartment itself seemed to lie between life and death, half its contents already removed, the other half in transition.
”Happy?” Henrietta repeated. ”Yes, I think so, especially after she finally got together with her daughter. I've lived here six years, and after Carol moved next door about a year ago, she'd come over and have a couple of beers with me after we both got home from work. Once in a while she'd have one too many and start to get... maudlin, I guess you'd call it. She'd talk about the baby she gave away and how she wished she knew what had happened to the child. Then, just a few months ago, who shows up but the daughter? Carol was so excited.”
”So Kendra was the one who sought her mother out?” I asked.
Henrietta nodded. ”That's the way it works. Kendra turned eighteen, which meant she could learn who her birth parents were, at least her mother.”
”Did Kendra spend much time with Carol?” Vida asked, pausing in her perusal of the cardboard boxes.
”Some,” Henrietta said. ”The truth is, Carol had a boyfriend, Ronnie. He's the one who killed her. Anyway, he was a lazy sort, drank too much, if you ask me, and worked only when he felt like it. I don't think he and Kendra got along. I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled some fast stuff on her.” She winked.
Vida was opening and closing the drapes. The light of midday didn't do much to brighten the small living room. ”Men,” she said lightly. ”Tsk, tsk.”
”Was Carol a pretty woman?” I inquired, noticing a photo alb.u.m in one of the cartons.
”Sort of,” Henrietta replied, ”at least when she got all fixed up.” The alb.u.m also caught her eye. ”Let's have a look. There must be pictures of her in this. I'll point her out.”
Only the first four pages of the alb.u.m contained photographs, all apparently taken with the same camera. As it turned out, Carol was in almost all of them.
”See, that's her,” Henrietta said, pointing to a laughing young woman standing by an artificial Christmas tree. ”She looks rather pretty there, don't you think?”