Part 6 (1/2)

My brain finally clicked. ”For the murder weapon?”

”Exactly,” Vida said, still smug. ”They were all intact, and very worn.” She turned to look at me as we stopped for the traffic light at Eighty-fifth and Greenwood, the neighborhood's major arterial. ”Which means, of course, that Carol was killed with a cord that did not come from her apartment. What do you think of that?”

AS USUAL, VIDA had a point. If Ronnie had wanted to kill Carol, he would have used whatever was at hand. Indeed, since she was strangled, he could have used his bare hands. For the first time, I saw a small light at the end of the tunnel.

”We've got to talk to the investigating officers,” I said. ”I'll call and see if they're in on a Sat.u.r.day.”

Tony Rojas was the primary on the Stokes case. He was gone until Monday, having taken a three-day weekend for Easter. I relayed the news upon returning to our table at the Twin Teepees, a stone's throw from Green Lake. The sixty-year-old eatery was a landmark, with its colorful wigwams enclosing the dining room and bar. In my youth, it had been a hangout for motorcycle cops, though I didn't see any in evidence that afternoon.

”I feel stymied,” I told Vida. ”We have to be back in Alpine Monday.”

”Not first thing, though,” she pointed out. ”Haven't you taken the morning off?”

”Yes,” I hedged, ”but-”

”Then so shall I,” said Vida, finis.h.i.+ng her lunch of liver and onions. ”My section is in good shape. I have that long feature on Dolph and Mamie Swecker's trip to Miami. The part about how they got mugged by a twelve-year-old takes up at least six inches by itself. It took some doing to explain-discreetly-that the mugger was their nephew and they didn't file charges despite the fact that Dolph never got his watch back. I realize the Sweckers hadn't seen their relatives in several years, but wouldn't you have thought they'd send pictures?”

”So what do we do in the meantime?” I asked, still feeling frustrated.

Vida was studying the dessert menu. ”They have pie,” she said. ”I know I shouldn't go off my diet, but it is Easter. And I rarely bake at home.”

Which, I thought idly, was a good thing. The only time I'd eaten a pie baked by Vida was when I first came to Alpine and she invited me over for dinner. She told me it was a rhubarb pie, but I didn't believe her. It tasted like broom straw, and the crust could have been used to resole a pair of caulking boots. For all the recipes she ran on her page, for all the kitchen hints and menu plans, Vida could not bake, broil, braise, or cook.

”Go ahead,” I urged. ”Try the pie.”

”I think I will,” she said with a decisive nod. ”And you?”

”I'm good,” I replied, never having been much of a dessert lover. Besides, my appet.i.te was waning. Despite Vida's discovery, we didn't seem to be making much progress in clearing Ronnie's name.

”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 s.h.i.+ny 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sumed 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.”