Part 23 (2/2)

Vida and I saw him to the door of his unit. ”Promise you'll phone your daughter right away?” she said to Mr. Rapp. ”And you might consider checking in with your doctor. You've had a very nasty fright.”

”I'm feeling better,” Mr. Rapp said, though I noticed that his hands still trembled slightly on the walker. ”I hate to bother people. Dr. Fitzgerald still makes house calls, but I wouldn't want him to come until he's seen his patients at the clinic.”

Vida's eyes grew wide. ”A doctor who makes house calls? In the city? He must be very old-fas.h.i.+oned.”

Mr. Rapp smiled feebly. ”He is. Dr. Fitzgerald should have retired years ago, but he still sees his longtime patients. Such a wonderful man. Henrietta recommended him when my doctor died. She worked for an obstetrician at the same clinic before she took the job at the hospital.”

”Remarkable,” Vida murmured as we walked to the car. ”Even young Doc Dewey has had to give up making house calls. My, my.”

The statements turned out to be a cut-and-dried affair. Rojas and his partner didn't accompany us, and Isaacs and O'Brien apparently returned to their regular patrol duties. We were out of the precinct station by two-thirty, heading back to the Shear Beauty Salon.

This time, we both went inside to see Maybeth Swaf-ford. She was cutting an elderly Vietnamese woman's hair and refused even to look at us until she'd finished.

”I don't like being stood up,” she declared in a low, angry voice after her client had headed up front to pay the bill. ”Especially when I'm doing you a favor. What do you want? Make it quick.”

”I think we'd better speak privately,” Vida said, looking solemn.

”Why? I don't have any secrets around here.” May-beth swung a hand in the direction of the three other hairdressers who were plying their trade along the mirrored wall.

”Trust me,” Vida urged. ”We have shocking news.”

Maybeth looked taken aback. ”About what?” Her belligerence faded.

Vida gestured toward the rear of the salon. ”Is there a room back here where we could speak? It won't take long.”

Maybeth sighed. ”Yeah, the coffee room. Come on.”

The coffee room was small, windowless, and dirty. Maybeth sat down at the Formica-covered table. We sat opposite her, where used paper cups, empty snack-food bags, and soda-pop cans cluttered the scarred surface.

”What's shocking?” Maybeth asked.

Vida cleared her throat. ”Henrietta Altdorf has been murdered.”

Maybeth's stare was incredulous. ”No s.h.i.+t!” she exclaimed.

Before Vida could reprimand her for her language, before I could explain, Maybeth slid off the chair and collapsed in a dead faint.

A WATERCOOLER STOOD at the far end of the room under a calendar with the theme of World Wrestling Federation Hunks. I filled a paper cup from the cooler and dumped it over Maybeth's head. It probably wasn't Red Crossa approved first aid, but Maybeth twitched, sputtered, and flailed her arms.

”Jesus!” she gasped. It had taken her at least a couple of minutes to become oriented and coherent. ”What is this? A serial killer?”

”Probably not,” I said. ”Here, let me help you back into the chair.” Putting one arm around her waist and the other under her armpits, I managed to hoist her into a sitting position. ”Do you have any idea who might be killing your fellow tenants?”

Maybeth, who had started to tremble, shook her head. ”No. G.o.d. No.”

Vida, who had remained seated, shoved some of the debris out of the way and leaned across the table. ”Come, come, Maybeth,” she said, not unkindly, ”you must have some idea why Carol and Henrietta were murdered. It can't possibly be a coincidence or the work of a madman.”

Maybeth didn't reply. She sat there staring at the battered Formica, looking as if she might cry. We waited at least a full minute, but Maybeth remained silent.

”How about this?” I finally said. ”Has anybody moved 243 out of the building in the last few months? A disgruntled tenant, let's say?”

Slowly, Maybeth shook her head. ”No,” she said at last. ”Everybody there, even the college kids, have been renting for at least a year.”

”A stalker?” Vida suggested.

Again, Maybeth shook her head. ”Not that I ever heard of. We found a homeless guy pa.s.sed out by the Dumpster, but that was months ago.”

”Were Carol and Henrietta close?” I asked. ”I mean, closer than just neighbors?”

Maybeth frowned at me. ”What do you mean by that? Something kinky?”

”No,” I replied. ”I mean, did they share confidences?”

”Not that I ever knew,” Maybeth said, drawing herself up in the chair. ”Jeez, I could use a drink. I wonder if Annabelle would let me go home? I only got two more clients today.”

”But there must be a connection,” I insisted.

Maybeth, however, didn't answer. Instead, she got up on wobbly legs and left the coffee room.

”The police will question her,” Vida murmured. ”No doubt they'll interview everyone in the building.”

”I don't think anybody was around, except Mr. Rapp,” I noted. ”Wasn't Henrietta's the only car in the parking lot?”

”You're right,” Vida agreed, getting up from the table. ”I certainly hope those detectives do a more thorough job this time. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

We went out into the salon, where Maybeth was talking to a hawk-faced woman at the front desk. Presumably it was Annabelle, and she was the boss or the owner or maybe both. Annabelle, however, didn't seem very sympathetic.

Maybeth saw us and made a face. ”I have to stay until four,” she said. ”You'd better go.”

We didn't have much choice. Annabelle was glaring at us with beady black eyes. I apologized to Maybeth for bearing bad news, then we exited the Shear Beauty Salon.

”We should head home,” Vida said, but the words weren't convincing.

”What can we do if we stay in Seattle?” I asked, and then suddenly remembered what I could do. ”Alvin,” I said, getting behind the wheel. ”He should know about this. Maybe he can get Ronnie out of jail.”

I dialed the young attorney's number. He answered on the third ring, sounding frazzled. The news of a second murder didn't seem to cheer him.

”Gosh, I don't know... I mean, like I'd have to file a motion and... maybe I can get around to it tomorrow. What's tomorrow, anyway? I can't find my calendar.”

”It's Thursday,” I said, never knowing whether to feel sorry for Alvin or charge into his office and give him a swift kick. ”Come on, Alvin, do you still believe your client is guilty?”

”Well... no, I don't know if I was ever... I mean, it's my first criminal case and... Tell you what, I'll go see Ronnie tomorrow morning. No, it'll have to be tomorrow afternoon. I've got... hey, who was this other woman anyway?”

I explained. Alvin left me with a vague promise that he'd do what he could. When he could. If he could.

”I have to let Ronnie know,” I said. It was an afterthought, and I felt guilty. Ronnie always seemed to be an afterthought. ”I hate to say it, but I think we should go back to the jail.”

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