Authors: Mary Daheim
“Where was it?” I asked.
“Under one of the living-room chairs,” Kendra replied. “I wondered if Buddy had taken a bite out of someone.”
“Where was Buddy that night?” Vida asked.
Kendra paused. “I don't know. I never saw him. Or heard him, either. If he'd been tied up outside, he would have barked his head off.”
We were silent for a few moments, savoring our food and the atmosphere. Finally, I asked her about Darryl Lindholm.
Kendra had only met him once, apparently the time that Mr. Rapp had seen them outside of the apartment. “He seemed okay. I had trouble taking in that he was my real father. All those years I wondered mostly about my real mother. Somehow, a dad didn't seem part of the equation.”
“How did your real mother treat him?” Vida inquired.
“Nice,” Kendra responded, a faraway look in her eyes. Though the clouds had lifted, dusk was falling over the city, and lights were coming on, from the University district to Capitol Hill. In the distance, the Cascade Mountains were outlined against the darkening sky. Small points of light glittered in the foothills of suburbia, and Lake Washington lay quiet behind Husky Stadium. Much closer, I could see the university's sprawl, the ever-present construction cranes towering high over the campus, like exclamation points. The single spire of Blessed Sacrament Church, the lighted dome of Holy Names Academy, the bulk of St. Mark's Episcopal Cathedral were all old, endearing sights. Thankfully, some things had not changed.
Kendra, however, was focused on something else, perhaps an impossible dream. “I got the idea—this sounds crazy—that maybe they could get back together. Maybe that's what I wanted, for selfish reasons.” She shook herself and gazed at Vida and me. “Does that sound silly?”
“Certainly not,” Vida said. “The family unit. Blood tugs at you.” She glanced at me, then looked back at Kendra. “It's quite natural. Nor does it reflect on your adoptive parents. It's just there.”
Kendra's smile was one of relief. “That's it. It was always there. Gosh, I don't know why I thought you two were creepy. This,” she went on with a wave of her fork to take in her surroundings as well as us, “is nice. I feel better, just for talking to you. I wish I could be more help. Especially if Ronnie really didn't kill my mother.”
“He didn't,” I said quietly. Then, to alter the mood, which I feared might grow maudlin, I suggested dessert.
The rest of the meal was spent talking about Kendra's plans, how she wanted to work for a year before going to college, whether she would major in social work or biology, if she should let Gavin Odell move in with her or be completely independent for a while. I didn't really
envy her open, uncharted future, though I found her enthusiasm contagious. She seemed like a nice, normal, bright young woman.
And never once did I give Sam and Kathy Addison credit for making her that way.
Since Vida always carried cash and disdained credit cards, we divided the rather astronomical bill between us. I put the whole thing on my Visa, and she gave me her half in bills. It was only eight-thirty when we left Canlis and Kendra. Vida decided she should contact Kathy.
“Desperation,” she explained in the parking lot. “I've called my daughter long distance, and she's having a crisis with Sara Lee.”
“Sara Lee?” Though Vida had granddaughters, none of them bore that name. “How'd you come up with that?”
“I was in frozen delicacies at the time,” she replied. “It was all I could think of. Anyway, shall I?”
“If Sam's moved out, then Kathy will probably be home alone,” I replied. Kendra had only mentioned her adoptive parents in passing, but had alluded to the fact that they were having marital problems, some of which she blamed on herself for leaving home.
“Dial her for me,” Vida said, pointing to my handbag.
I jumped through the required hoops on the cell phone, then handed it to Vida. There was no answer.
“Drat,” Vida said, surrendering the phone to me. “Where do you think Kathy is?”
“Anywhere,” I said. “Maybe she takes night classes in interior decorating. Maybe she's visiting her family. Maybe she has friends.”
“Most annoying,” Vida said, tapping her fingernails on the dashboard. “What do we do now?”
“How about Mr. Chan?” I suggested. “I'm curious about Budweiser.”
“Hasn't he run away? What will Mr. Chan be able to tell you?”
“I don't know,” I admitted. “That's what I'll have to find out.”
I still had Mr. Chan's phone number and address in my purse. He lived out in Crown Hill, a neighborhood north of Ballard and adjoining the Greenwood district. After a brief discussion, we decided to go directly to his home instead of calling first. I finally pulled out of the Canlis parking lot and onto Aurora. It was a risky move, because Aurora is such a busy avenue, but I waited until there was no sign of oncoming traffic for at least two blocks.
Behind me, on the verge between the street and the parking lot, the lights of another car went on. I gripped the steering wheel hard and glanced quickly at Vida.
“I hate to say it, but I think we're being followed. A car just pulled out behind us.”
“Really?” Vida was agog as she strained to look out the rear window. “It's a dark car. I think the driver is the only person in it, but I can't be sure. My, my! I've never been followed before. This is quite thrilling. Who can it be?”
“I told you,” I said, not in tune with Vida's excitement, “when it happened to me Sunday, I thought it might be the killer, trying to figure out what I was up to.”
Vida was still looking behind us. “The killer! Now, wouldn't that be something? Should we stop to let whoever it is go by so we can see?”
“The windows are tinted,” I said. “Can you make out the license plate?”
“No,” Vida said with regret. “Only that it's a Washington plate. Why don't you slow down so I can get a better look?”
But there's no dawdling on busy Aurora with its forty-mile-an-hour speed limit.
“What shall we do?” Vida asked after I'd explained the predicament.
“Lose whoever it is,” I replied. “Besides, I could be wrong. It may be a coincidence.”
Apparently, it wasn't. The car kept to our route, though sometimes falling a vehicle or two behind. I drove due north to Eighty-fifth, not only the logical turn for Crown Hill, but also for Carol's apartment building. I pulled into the lot and turned off the lights. No one approached. The Ford Taurus, which I'd managed to identify at a stoplight even though it was one car back, was undoubtedly waiting a block or so away.
Vida and I sat there for almost five minutes. Finally, without turning the lights back on, I edged out through the alley that led to the side street. The Lexus crept along for a full block. Luckily, there was no other traffic. I put the lights back on and tore off in the direction of Crown Hill.
“Did we lose our pest?” I asked Vida.
“I don't see anyone,” she replied, craning her neck.
“Good.” I noticed that I was doing fifty-five and eased up on the accelerator. I didn't need to get picked up for speeding and land in jail with Ronnie.
The senior Chans lived in a well-tended two-story house on a side street that overlooked Puget Sound. Being a landlord served Mr. Chan well. I suspected that he owned several small apartment houses around the city. Over the years real estate had been a means for many Asian immigrants to prosper.
Mr. Chan came to the door. He was small, almost bald, and was wearing a sweatshirt that said,
RENO—THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WORLD
.
We identified ourselves, but received only an indifferent stare from Mr. Chan. I elaborated. Carol's murder, Ronnie's arrest, Budweiser's whereabouts—nothing seemed to pique his interest.
“I manage,” he finally said when I'd run out of steam
and was considering lighting a fire to get his attention. “I take monies.”
“Now see here,” Vida said, elbowing me out of the way, “you must know the people who rent from you. The people with the monies. You took Ronnie Mallett's dog away and gave it to your grandchildren. They're charming little boys, but they said that the dog had…”
Vida rattled on. Mr. Chan remained unmoved. I was about to give up when a small, plump woman whose black hair was streaked with silver came into the entry hall. She appeared so swiftly and so silently that I was certain she had been listening around the side of the open door that apparently led into the living room.
“Beat it,” she said to Mr. Chan. “Go watch stupid baseball. I manage this.”
Without any change of expression, Mr. Chan disappeared from the entry hall.
“I Mrs. Chan,” the woman said with a frown. “Mr. Chan never talk when watching baseball. Break concentration, he say. Lose track of count. You want stupid dog?”
“Is the dog here?” I asked, a faint hope surfacing.
Mrs. Chan shook her head, then glanced at Vida. “You right. Dog run away from grandsons. Not back yet. I talk to son just one hour ago. Grandsons very sad.”
The faint hope was extinguished. “Where did Mr. Chan find the dog the night of the murder?”
Mrs. Chan's frown grew deeper. “Didn't find dog then. Didn't know about murder until next day. Dog was at apartment-house door, howling. Police give dog to Mr. Chan. Dog dig up peonies.” Her small plump hand gestured toward the front yard. “Give dog to grandsons.”
I nodded. “So he's not come back,” I murmured. “Thank you, Mrs. Chan.” I started to turn away.
Vida, however, wasn't finished. “Peonies are difficult to grow. I have to dig mine up every year and replant
them. We have such cold winters in Alpine. Dahlias have to be taken up, too, right at the end of September. Often, they're still blooming. It seems a shame.”
Something sparked in Mrs. Chan's dark eyes. “Alpine no good for gardens. Too much snow, frost, cold. We live first on farm, at Sultan. Not so cold as Alpine.”
“Sultan!” Vida beamed at Mrs. Chan. “Why, we must have been practically neighbors. Did you know the Carna-bys or the Johnsons—the Elmer Johnsons—or the…”
I backed off as Vida and Mrs. Chan reviewed their mutual acquaintances. In a deft conversational move, Vida returned to the apartment house and Carol's murder.
“So much harder to make friends in the city,” she said, shaking her head. “Of course you and Mr. Chan have the apartment complexes, but people tend to come and go. Did you ever meet Carol Stokes? She was from Alpine, you know.”
“She was?” Mrs. Chan seemed intrigued. “I meet her only twice. She your friend?”
Vida caught the dubious note in Mrs. Chan's voice. “No, I barely knew her. But she'd had a hard life. What was your impression?”
Mrs. Chan frowned some more. “Not good. Bad manners. I tell Mr. Chan, make her beat it. Not good tenant. But Mr. Chan softhearted. He let her stay. Big mistake. Mr. Chan spend too much time watching baseball.”
Vida nodded solemnly. “Sports often take priority in some men's lives.”
Mrs. Chan also nodded. “Not woman's. We smarter than men.”
“Exactly.” This time Vida's smile practically reached her ears. “I hope Carol and her boyfriend didn't do much damage to the unit.”
Mrs. Chan sniffed. “They do plenty bad things. Dog ruin rug, tear drapes, chew furniture. People burn holes,
spill, break toilet. Always, Mr. Chan must fix. Damage deposit not enough. We keep.”
“I should think so,” Vida said, no longer smiling, but oozing sympathy. “Managing an apartment house is very demanding work.”
With a solemn nod, Mrs. Chan agreed. “People next door just as bad. Men trade units, men trade women. Much drink. Many fights. Neighbors complain. Not sorry to see 1-B people go.”
On that self-serving note, Vida and I made our farewells.
“Take me to the Addisons,” Vida commanded as if I were a chauffeur. “I must pay a call on Kathy.”
“How are you going to explain a ten o'clock visit?” I inquired, checking the rearview mirror just in case the Taurus had found us.
“I told you,” Vida replied. “I already set the stage. Kathy virtually invited me to stop in. She should be home by now.”
It could be helpful for Vida to have an extended conversation with Kathy Addison. It certainly wouldn't hurt, as long as I stayed in the shadows.
There was an alley in back of the house on Ashworth. I dropped Vida off in front but pulled around out back. I'd keep the Lexus hidden by the Addison garage for twenty minutes. Then I'd start circling the block until Vida showed up at the corner. She would pretend to have walked down the street to her imaginary car.
The single-car garage was shut and a Cyclone fence enclosed the property. There was just enough room by the garbage cans and recycling baskets so that anyone coming through the alley could get past me. Nobody did, however, so I sat there in the dark, trying to see into the backyard. There were several trees, possibly a lilac and a couple of ornamental cherries. I assumed that the flower beds in back were as well maintained as the ones in front.
The lights in the rear of the house were faint, which meant that Vida and Kathy must be in the living room. I debated whether to risk peeking in the Dumpster and the garbage cans. If memory served, on this side of the Ship Canal the recycling pickup was every week. Cautiously, I stepped out of the car, then peered into the trio of baskets. The one for paper products was full, with newspapers on top. I dug deeper. There were some hunting-and-fishing magazines, no doubt discarded by Sam Addison before he moved out. Another basket held a few glass jars and one empty wine bottle. The third, presumably for aluminum, was empty.
Just as I straightened up, something brushed against my legs. I jumped, struck one of the baskets with my foot, and stifled a cry. A tabby cat stared up at me, its golden eyes glowing in the dark. Reaching down to stroke its fur, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out from under the basket I'd knocked out of place. Gently, I tugged the paper free.
It was an envelope with a handwritten address. The tabby cat circled my legs, then wandered off to the garbage cans. The writing on the envelope was somewhat blurred by damp, but I could see that it was addressed merely to
Addison
. The printed return sticker, which featured tiny red hearts, was more legible. It read
Maybeth Swafford
, with the apartment address off Greenwood.