Authors: Mary Daheim
“Try it on,” I suggested.
Vida did. Holding the broken band next to the crystal, we could see that it would be too tight. She handed the watch to me. It was too loose. I was beginning to feel like Goldilocks. “A woman,” I conjectured. “Or a small-boned man.”
“Which makes no sense.” Vida sounded irritated. “Could a woman—or a rather slight man—overcome an armed Kelvin Greene? That’s what we’re saying.”
“Maybe the watch belongs to one of the Peabody brothers. Or one of the mourners at the funeral.”
Vida gave a shake of her gray curls. “Have you ever seen the Peabody brothers? They’re great hulking things. At the interment, nobody got close enough to the grave to lose a watch except the pallbearers, and they were all big rawboned Scandinavians.”
For several moments, we sat gazing at our find. “We’ll have to turn these things over to the sheriff,” I said.
“You told me Milo was gone.” Vida stood up as the teakettle boiled. “I’ll call my nephew, Billy. He’s on duty this weekend.”
Vida served our tea in bone-china cups. It refreshed, but didn’t inspire. The best I could come up with was the suggestion that there were indeed two killers. Perhaps both of them had met Kelvin Greene in the cemetery.
“Then who?” Vida asked. “We’re having enough trouble figuring out the identity of one.”
“The key is Wesley Charles, not Kelvin Greene.” I spoke with a conviction I didn’t really understand. “Both men were linked with the Jerome Cole killing. Bear in mind that Jerome wasn’t shot. He was bludgeoned, and it could have been an accident. Wesley Charles could have claimed self-defense, and maybe been acquitted. But he didn’t. He insisted he was innocent. Was his attorney an idiot, or was Wesley a man of principle?”
Vida sat hunched forward, one hand resting on the other. “A public defender, wasn’t it? You’d think he—it was a man, as I recall from the newspaper articles—would have plea-bargained. Do you remember the name?”
“Zerbil,” I answered, off the top of my head. “It reminded me of gerbil.”
Vida made a face. “As in having the brains of. Let me get my Seattle phone book.”
There was only one Zerbil listed in the directory, on Phinney Ridge. The first name was Stanley. Vida dialed, but got an answering machine. She didn’t leave a message.
“Drat,” she said, replacing the phone. “He may be gone for the weekend.”
Another silence fell between us. I was getting hungry, but didn’t dare admit it for fear of being force-fed the leftover casserole. Vida sipped her tea, staring with unseeing eyes at Cupcake’s cage.
“What you’re trying to articulate, Emma,” she finally said in a careful voice, “is that Wesley Charles did not kill Jerome Cole. Someone else did, and Kelvin Greene knew it. Perhaps Kelvin was paid to testify against Wesley. Bribed, if you will. Kelvin then … oh!” She looked startled.
“What?” I leaned forward, setting my cup and saucer aside.
Vida had grown excited. “Kelvin was blackmailing the real murderer. His demands became too great. That’s why he was killed.” She folded her hands and sat up straight, looking very pleased with herself.
Vida’s theory fit in with the vague ideas I’d been forming on my own. “And Wesley Charles?”
“Wesley knew the truth. He may have been bribed to take the rap or whatever they used to call it in crime fiction. A twenty-year sentence? He might not serve ten.”
Vida’s hypothesis didn’t convince me. “It’d take big money to make up for Wesley Charles’s loss of freedom, then to pay off Kelvin Greene as well.”
“True.” Vida frowned, concentrating on our puzzle. “Who has oodles of money? The Wilsons?”
I disparaged the idea. “What have they got to do with Jerome Cole? Shane and Cyndi may have known the whole
cast of characters from Seattle, but not Todd and Wendy. I can’t see any connection there.”
“The drugs.” Vida refused to give up her pet theory. However, she saw the skepticism on my face and made an impatient gesture. “All right, let’s skip that for now. Let’s go back to Wesley Charles. At least he knew he wasn’t the killer. Maybe he knew who the real murderer was and maybe he didn’t. But as long as he was still alive, he was a danger to whoever killed Jerome Cole.”
I was still bothered by Vida’s deductions. “Wait—we’ve already said Jerome’s death could have been an accident, or the result of a fight. Why would the real killer be so upset about getting caught?”
Vida grimaced. Then her eyes scanned the ceiling, which, like the rest of her house, was free of dust and grime. “Because it wasn’t an accident,” she declared. “Or if it was, the killer is a coward.”
“A coward?” I was taken aback. “Does a coward then go out and shoot two more people?”
Vida considered. “No, you’re right. Whoever killed Jerome Cole did it in cold blood. And then did the same to Kelvin Greene and Wesley Charles. It’s Wesley’s murder that bothers me most. The man was in chains. How did he get off the bus and make his escape?”
“I gather the prisoners were taken off the bus, to check for injuries,” I said, trying to recall precisely what Milo had told me. “There were only a few—ten, at most. There are two armed guards and the driver who travel on those buses. Wesley slipped away in the confusion over the school children and the other vehicles.”
Still thoughtful, Vida wagged her head from side to side. “Slipped away to where? I know that highway like I know the back of my hand. He would have had to walk along the shoulder, straight into town or on to the Stevens Pass junction.”
“He could have gone over the guardrail,” I argued. “Through the trees, and out across the street.”
Vida gave me a caustic look. “In full daylight, in a well-populated area, within view of the Twin Rivers guard tower? Really, Emma, I expect better from you.”
“Well, he went
somewhere,”
I retorted, on the defensive.
“Yes, he did,” Vida allowed, again very serious. “But did he go there alone? Was there an accomplice, say, in a car? Was this whole thing preplanned to get at Wesley Charles?” Behind her glasses, Vida blinked twice in rapid succession.
I caught my breath. “My God!” I whispered. “It would have to be an elaborate—and very daring—plan!”
“Everything about these murders is daring,” Vida declared. Showing an uncharacteristic sign of anxiety, she ran her tongue lightly over her lips. “I believe we’re facing an extremely ruthless killer, Emma.”
Impressed by Vida’s alarm, I grew subdued. “Maybe we should leave this up to Milo.”
Vida was gnawing on her thumb. “No. We can’t do that.”
“Vida …”
“It’s not that Milo is stupid. He’s not. At least he isn’t any more stupid than most men,” Vida amended. “Milo has got an idea in his head. Regardless of what he says, he sees this as a racial situation. That is, somehow it’s confined to one race. Marilynn’s alibi for Wesley’s murder notwithstanding, if Milo were forced to make an arrest, he’d haul her in. He’s got no imagination. Most of all, he doesn’t have the means.”
As much as I didn’t like to think it, Vida might be right. There was also the nagging doubt I’d experienced at dinner the previous night: I was Marilynn’s alibi for Wesley Charles’s murder. But when I told Marilynn I’d pick her up at five o’clock Thursday evening, she had asked me to wait until five-thirty. I’d assumed she had unfinished business at the clinic. But what if she had had other, more deadly, unfinished business, such as Wesley Charles? I suppressed a little shiver, and didn’t mention my misgivings to Vida.
Later, I realized my mistake.
C
ARLA AND
L
IBBY
stopped by shortly after I returned from Vida’s house. Carla was agog, full of her evening with Peyton Flake in Seattle. They had gone to Palisades, the glitzy restaurant at Smith Cove overlooking Elliott Bay and downtown. They had eaten wonderful food, drunk marvelous drinks, and capped the evening with a jazz session in Pioneer Square. Ginny and Rick had had fun, too.
Libby Boyd listened to her roommate’s giddy recital with an indulgent attitude. “They must have had a good time,” she finally said when allowed to get a word in edgewise. “It was almost three
A.M
. before she got home.”
“We practically closed down Jazz Alley,” Carla exclaimed, getting her second wind. “Peyts knows all about jazz. He chose the wines, too. He even wore a tie!”
“Did Rick wear his orange hair?” I inquired.
“Oh, sure, but it doesn’t matter in Seattle. It’s okay to be weird there.” Removing her sunglasses, Carla turned sober. “I wish I were back in the city. Alpine is so
dull.”
Despite the growing body count, I had to agree with Carla. I, too, missed the city. Before moving from Portland to Alpine, I had consoled myself with the fact that Seattle was less than two hours away. I could drive in anytime for the opera, the theatre, and sporting events. But I rarely did. I stayed in my rut, spending my weekends working around the house and getting caught up with the rest of my life.
“You want some excitement?” I asked on a sudden whim.
Carla looked dubious; Libby was wary. “Like what?” asked Carla.
We were out in the backyard where I’d been wiping down the lawn furniture I’d hauled out of the carport.
Swiftly, I brushed off a couple of the chairs. “Here, sit down, let me make a proposition to one or both of you.”
My brainstorm would serve two purposes: One, it might prove or disprove Vida’s theory about the Wilsons and Marlow Whipp. Two, it would perk up Carla’s life, and maybe Libby’s, too. Though why Carla should need a diversion when romance had finally come to her, I couldn’t guess. It was, however, in character for my flighty staff reporter. Her attention span was notoriously short.
“Wait a minute,” said Carla, after I had related my plan. “You want one or both of us to go to Marlow’s store and hint that we want to buy drugs? Why us?”
“You’re young, you’re not locals,” I explained. “Frankly, it would be better if Libby did this. Marlow knows who you are, Carla. He might be suspicious. Have you ever been in Marlow’s store, Libby?”
Libby shook her head. “I’ve driven by it, though. It looks like a dump.”
I studied Libby in her casual clothes. She was wearing cutoffs, a striped tank top, and sandals. With her wholesome face, her curly fair hair, and no makeup, she could pass for considerably younger than what I guessed to be her twenty-five years. Marlow might not notice the tiny lines around her eyes.
Libby shrugged. “I’ll do it. When?”
I glanced at my watch. It was after three o’clock. “Now is as good a time as later. There shouldn’t be any students hanging around because it’s a Saturday. In fact, I don’t know why Marlow bothers to stay open on weekends.”
Carla was pouting. “Hey, I thought this was supposed to be exciting for me! What do I get to do, drive the getaway car?”
Momentarily stumped, I sat with my mouth open. “No,” I finally responded, talking fast. “You can go in a few minutes later and ask about the espresso machine. Make sure he really has a steamer. Tell him Ed would like to talk to him about an ad.”
“That sounds like work.” Carla was whining. “Why can’t I search the premises or something while Libby distracts Marlow?”
It wasn’t a bad idea. “If you do, don’t go in together,” I cautioned.
Now full of enthusiasm, Carla sprung to her feet. “Let’s go, Libby. We’ll be like spies. Undercover stuff. Maybe you should use a foreign accent.”
I shuddered, picturing Carla in false whiskers and Libby dressed like Mata Hari. “Report back to me,” I called after them. “I’ll give you a beer.”
I was watching them drive away in Carla’s secondhand Honda when I heard the phone ring. Hurrying into the house, I caught the call just before it switched over to the answering machine.
“Mom—the sun’s out!” Adam’s voice crackled over the line, making me smile. My son was beginning to sound like Ben. “I need shorts and tees and a whole bunch of stuff!”
My smile faded. “Did the bears eat your old wardrobe?” I asked in my sarcastic mother’s tone.
“No, but Rich Tallfirs sat on my boom box. The lid for the CD player broke off. Can you send me a new one?”
“A new lid? Why not just get it fixed?”
“No, a new boom box. This one sounds funny sometimes.”
“They all sound funny to me. Maybe it’s what you’re playing on it.”
“Don’t be so uncool, Mom. I’ve had this thing for almost two years.” Adam’s tone was aggrieved.
“I’ve had the TV for six, the stereo for five, and my small, modestly priced radio for twelve. Forget it, Adam, I’m broke. Just like your boom box. And don’t tell me there aren’t any stores in Fairbanks. You don’t need much, you’re leaving in less than two weeks.”
“But that’s just it!” Adam cried, not so much on a crackle as a wail. “I’m headed for Tuba City, and it’s going to be a hundred and ten degrees in the shade! Do you want me to die of heatstroke? I need to pick up some stuff in San Francisco.”
“Now hold on,” I persisted, thinking how many times my son and I had carried on similar arguments—and how few of them I had won. “You’re stopping in San Francisco on the way to Arizona?” Adam mumbled his assent. I wondered if he’d talked to Tom again. I wouldn’t ask. “Could
it be that you want lots of money to spend at the tremendously cool shops in San Francisco as opposed to Fred Meyer in Fairbanks? Could it be that you have visions of parading around the Navajo reservation as Mr. Hip Dude?”
Adam made some sort of noise that was possibly obscene. “Don’t be dumb, Mom. Sure, I’d rather look for stuff in San Fran. Who wouldn’t? But I don’t want to ask
… him
to pay for it. Do you?”
Adam had hit me where it hurt. He knew of my fierce desire for independence. And I knew that despite the amicable meetings, despite Tom’s generosity with plane fares, despite Adam’s natural yearning for a father, my son—
our
son—still wouldn’t call the man who had given him life anything but
sir
—and
him
.
“I’ll send a money order for two hundred dollars,” I stated firmly. “Not a penny more. Got it?”
“Not yet,” Adam replied glibly. “When do I pick it up at the post office?”