The Alpine Menace Part 11

"Do you remember when he got to Freddy's and when he left?"

Terri nodded. "I showed up around eight-thirty. Ronnie was already there. He left a little before ten. He was going to the Satellite." She pointed across the street. "He was meeting someone. It wasn't a date, it was sort of like business."

"Did he say who?"

"No. I got the impression it was a man. But not a buddy."

"Did you tell the police about this?"

Terri shook her head. "They never talked to me. I think they only talked to Jack, because he's the bartender. But Jack gets busy with his drink orders and doesn't always see what's going on. Unless there's trouble. He's good at spotting that."

Some noises were erupting from the vicinity of the bar. Terri whirled around. "I've got to go."

She dashed inside. I wondered if a full-fledged brawl was under way. Seattle and Alpine weren't so different after all.

The Satellite Room was in a restaurant that was a cut above Freddy's. Most of the diners seemed to be sober. I could almost imagine that the menu featured more than rib-eye steak.

The bar had been around in its present incarnation for a long time. The neon satellites looked like they came from the s.p.a.ce-race era. There were plenty of customers, however, and I had to adjust my eyes to the dimness before I could find an empty table. Then, just as I was about to sit down, I decided to go straight to the bar itself.

A buxom woman about my age was on duty, her dyed platinum hair pulled back in a not-so-tidy chignon and her face heavily made up to cover old acne scars.

"What'll it be, honey?" she asked in a husky voice.

Wisdom dictated that I should stick to beer, so this time I got exotic and ordered a Heineken. Then I introduced myself, explaining what I wanted to know about Ronnie's presence in the Satellite Room on the night of the murder.

"Ronnie." The name slipped like Jell-O from the bartender's red lips. "I'm Honey, by the way." She put out a hand. "Nice to meet you. You don't look like Ronnie's cousin. Is he the family black sheep?"

"Sort of," I admitted. "At least he's the only one who's been charged with homicide."

Honey smiled. "Well, he was here that night. He came in a little after ten, I think. He had a shot of bourbon here at the bar"- she nodded toward the end where the cash register sat- "and then some guy came in to join him and they sat at a table over there by the Sputnik. They got into something really deep-I've never seen Ronnie so serious. He only had one more drink before the other guy left about eleven-thirty. I served Ronnie one more, then he took off a little after midnight."

"Did the police question you?" I asked.

Honey shook her head. "They came in on a Tuesday when I was off. They never came back. Walt-he's the other bartender-couldn't tell them anything."

I did some calculations in my head. Ronnie's alibi was solid from eight-thirty on. According to Terri, he'd arrived at Freddy's even earlier, which was well before Maybeth said she'd heard him slam out of the apartment. Either Maybeth was wrong about the time, or someone else had been with Carol after Ronnie left, but possibly before she was killed. Kendra had found the body around ten-thirty, while Ronnie was drinking in the Satellite Room.

"What about the other guy?" I asked after Honey had filled several orders from the c.o.c.ktail waitress. "Did you recognize him?"

"No, he wasn't a regular." Honey paused to re-pin some of the platinum strands that had fallen into her eyes. "He was a big guy around forty, bald, broad-shouldered. He didn't look like a drinker, though he had a Scotch and soda. He paid for his own, by the way. I remember, because he didn't leave a tip." She made a comical face.

My brain did some more quick work. The man's description fit Sam Addison. But then it probably fit several thousand men in Seattle.

"Did Ronnie and Mr. Cheap argue? Or were they friendly?"

Honey nodded at someone across the room, presumably a thirsty customer. "Serious. They were both serious." She picked up a gla.s.s, filled it with ice, then squirted what looked like bourbon from the drink dispenser. "Excuse me, Mel needs a refill."

I'd learned what I was seeking, and maybe a little bit more. Leaving a five-dollar tip and a half-empty gla.s.s, I exited the Satellite Room. If Sam Addison-or anybody else-had met Ronnie in the bar, why hadn't my dim-bulb cousin mentioned it? And if it was Sam Addison, why had they engaged in an earnest conversation?

As I got into the Lexus, it dawned on me that there could be another suspect in the case. If Sam Addison had been with Ronnie around ten-thirty or eleven, he'd also been near the murder scene. But off the top of my head, I couldn't think why Sam would kill Carol.

I decided to sleep on it.

Easter Ma.s.s at St. James Cathedral was standing room only. I ended up near one of the exits, craning to see the altar, which had been repositioned in the middle of the church. At five-foot-four, I couldn't see much more than the occasional bobbing of heads. The music was lovely, however, a far cry from Annie Jeanne Dupre torturing the ancient organ at St. Mildred's.

The weather, however, was another matter. Clouds had rolled in and the wind was blowing from the west as I drove the short distance to the city jail. At a stoplight, I checked my messages on the cell phone. I thought Vida might have called, but there was no word from her. Instead, a terse male voice informed me that there had been an emergency regarding my cousin, one Ronald Mallett. Could I contact the jail as soon as possible?

With gloom to match the skies, I parked the car and hurried to the reception area. A plump black woman with very short hair was on duty. She checked my ID, then became less officious.

"Your cousin Ronnie tried to kill himself last night," she said in a low voice. "He's in the infirmary."

My knees sagged. I scarcely knew my cousin, but the news had the power to unsettle me. "How? By hanging?"

"No," the woman replied. "He stabbed himself through the ear with a fork."

"A fork?" My voice was incredulous.

"Yes." The woman remained very serious, though I suspected it took some effort. "The forks here have three tines. Apparently, he broke off the ones on each side and rammed the rest of the fork into his ear."

In almost thirty years of journalism, I'd never heard of anyone using a fork to commit suicide. There had been a surgeon in Portland who had tried to drown himself in the Willamette River, but had waded back to sh.o.r.e when he discovered the water was extremely cold and he was afraid he'd catch pneumonia. One of the Gustavsons in Alpine had eaten chokecherries, but they were so bitter that before he poisoned himself, he threw up all over his suicide note. And then there was Milo's ex-brother-in-law who had hit himself over the head with a ball-peen hammer, but had fallen unconscious long before he was dead.

A fork, however, seemed like a means of destruction suited to Ronnie. So did his failure to do himself in.

"How is he?" I asked, my nerves beginning to steady.

"He punctured an eardrum," the woman replied, allowing herself a small smile. "He may suffer some hearing loss. Would you like to see him?"

"Of course."

She gave me directions to the infirmary, which was on another floor. Ronnie was in a large ward with perhaps another half-dozen patients. He had a big bandage on his head, an IV in his hand, and appeared to be asleep.

There was no visitors' chair, though a stone-faced guard stood at the end of the bed. I nodded at the man; he acknowledged me with a flicker of his eyelids.

"Ronnie?" I said softly.

No answer. I tried again.

Ronnie's eyes fluttered open. "Huh?" He grimaced as he tried to focus on me. "Emma?"

"Yes. How do you feel?"

"c.r.a.ppy." He closed his eyes.

"Why did you pull such a stunt?" I asked, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

"Why not?"

"Because I know you didn't kill Carol. I've got your alibi virtually established."

"Big deal." He moved awkwardly in the bed, one hand at the bandage by his right ear. The guard scarcely blinked. Maybe he wasn't real, just a cardboard cutout with battery-operated features.

"Don't you care?" I demanded. "Isn't that what you asked me to do? Why else am I here?"

He groaned a bit, then opened his eyes again and made a feeble effort to sit up. "My head sounds like there's a Harley in it. Can I have some water?"

I held the plastic carafe for him while he drank through the straw in fits and starts. "Tomorrow morning," I said, "I'm going to see Detective Rojas and tell him what I've found out. We'll see if they can drop the charges. Wouldn't you like to get out of here?"

Ronnie took one last sip, then pushed the carafe away. "Did you get Buddy from those Chinamen?" he asked, ignoring my question.

"Not yet," I admitted. "Buddy's fine. Mr. Chan's grandchildren love him."

Ronnie looked dubious. "You sure?"

"Yes," I said, not telling him that the children's affection could be an obstacle to Buddy's return. "Buddy's safe and sound in Lake City."

"Know what we did last year?" Ronnie's voice brightened slightly. "Me 'n' Buddy went to one of those Easter egg hunts for little kids. I let Buddy help the kids find eggs. They were all blind, see, so Buddy'd sniff out the eggs before the beeper things could go off so the kids'd hear where they were. Buddy was great. The kids loved him."

"Buddy sounds like a wonderful dog," I said. "Ronnie, you have to tell me something. Who did you meet at the Satellite Room the night of the murder?"

What little color there was in Ronnie's face drained away. "How'd you know about that?"

"I've been investigating, remember? Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

Ronnie winced. "Yeah, yeah, but... Does it matter?"

"Does what matter?" I was getting impatient.

"Who I met?"

"Yes," I said emphatically. "It matters a great deal. Who was it?"

Ronnie expelled a big sigh, then another groan. "It was Darryl Lindholm, Carol's ex from way back. He finally wanted to marry her."

DARRYL LINDHOLM WAS certainly a name from out of the past, the young man who had abandoned Carol Nerstad and her unborn baby. I was so surprised that I actually stumbled against the bed, causing Ronnie to wince and groan one more time.

"When did he come back into the picture?" I asked in astonishment.

Ronnie gave what appeared to be a shrug. "I dunno. I'm not sure he was ever out of it."

"What do you mean?" Gingerly, I perched on the edge of the bed. These stand-up interviews were wearing me down.

"Carol'd been seeing him off and on for years," Ronnie explained. "At least, that's what I figured when this Darryl character showed up one night about two months ago."

"Why?" I asked, wondering what Vida would make of this revelation.

"I guess he still liked her." Ronnie's mouth turned down. "He'd been married and divorced a couple of times. Carol laughed it off, but I think she got a kick outta him hangin' around. 'Specially since she had their kid with her."

I tried not to get distracted by the sobbing family that had gathered around the last bed in the row. The little drama didn't seem to disturb the stone-faced guard. If I poked him with a safety pin, would he react? "Does Darryl live in Seattle?" I asked.

"I guess," Ronnie said, his voice still lifeless. "Carol didn't tell me nothin' about him."

"But you knew Darryl was Kendra's birth father, right?"

"He told me that," Ronnie said, "not Carol."

"Had Kendra met him?"

"Maybe. I guess." Ronnie was losing interest in the subject.

"Why did Darryl want to see you?" I persisted.

Ronnie grimaced. "He's a jerk."

"That's the wrong answer."

My cousin-oddly enough, I was beginning to think of him as an actual relative-wriggled awkwardly in the bed. "Like I told you, he wanted to marry her. He was tellin' me to b.u.t.t out."

The sobbing at the last bed was growing louder and more intense. Unlike a hospital, there was no curtain to pull for privacy. "So why didn't you tell the police where you were while Carol was getting herself killed?"

"Say what?" Ronnie put a hand to his injured ear.

I repeated the question more loudly. Ronnie turned away. "It was none of their d.a.m.ned business."

"Ronnie..." I was getting exasperated. "If you'd told them about meeting Darryl Lindholm, you wouldn't be here. What's the big secret?"

Ronnie didn't answer. The sobbing subsided as a doctor hurried to the bed.

"If you don't tell me, I'm leaving," I declared. "Leaving, as in going back to Alpine."

He finally looked at me again. "You won't tell?"

"Of course not," I lied. The group by the last bed had withdrawn into a small cl.u.s.ter of bowed heads and slumped shoulders. A nurse had joined the doctor.

"Darryl wanted to buy me off," Ronnie said, showing a spark of anger. Or maybe it was indignation. "Like I was some kinda boy toy."

"That's what upset you so?" Ronnie was full of surprises, few of them good.

"Yeah, sure. Why shouldn't it? A grand, like I was some cheap wh.o.r.e. You'da thought he'd offer me five figures, right?"

I sighed. The doctor was now speaking to the circle of visitors. They sighed. Or so it appeared.

"You think I'm gonna tell anybody that?" Ronnie said with anger in his voice. "A stinkin' grand. I told him to f.u.c.k off."

Though I was appalled at Ronnie's unconcern in the face of serving an unjust prison term, I took his wrath as a good sign. Near the last bed, the family members clung to each other and began moving away. The nurse was pulling a sheet over the patient's face.

I took that as a bad sign.

The guard kept looking straight ahead.