The Alpine Fury (17 page)

Before I could answer, Judy broke in: “Most people can manage their money, Connie dear. They aren’t financially challenged. Like us.” Judy gave Connie a scathing look.

“Oh, so it’s
my
fault you can’t balance a checkbook! You never entered the amounts you spent! Judy, you have no money sense! I admit, I was never good at math. That’s why we have a proxy account, you dummy!”

Ponytails a-flying and still wrangling, the Dithers sisters joined the queue behind me. I was now next in line. My brain was doing calisthenics. Like Leo, the Dithers sisters let the bank handle their financial affairs. Maybe Grace Grundle was in the same boat. If so, it appeared that the bank’s customers were sinking fast. I was so caught up in my theorizing that Rick Erlandson had to call to me twice before I snapped to and approached his teller’s cage.

“What’s going on around here, Rick?” I asked in
what I hoped was a pleasant voice. “Are you folks having some problems?”

The color seemed to drain from Rick’s earnest face. “I don’t know, Ms. Lord. The last few days have been just … weird. Everything was fine until … well, Linda got killed, to really ruin everything. I’m thinking about quitting.” He keyed in my transfer of funds and ran an agitated hand through his short, natural brown hair. “Do you know of any job openings around town?”

I didn’t. “Have you thought about Monroe? Or Everett?”

Rick handed me my receipt and gloomily shook his head. “I don’t want to move. I’ve got … obligations.” He glanced guiltily at Denise Petersen, who was counting out cash for Dixie Ridley, wife of the high school football coach. Rick’s voice suddenly cracked as he posed a reluctant question: “Is Ginny really mad?”

“Oh, dear.” I didn’t like getting caught up in my employees’ personal lives. “Well—she’s upset. It appears that you’re … involved with … someone else.” The Someone Else was now waiting on the Dithers sisters. “You’ve got to decide, Rick. Is it Ginny—or Denise?”

Rick seemed miserable. “I really like Ginny. She’s so
… nice
. But sometimes a guy likes … to play the field.” He gave me a helpless look.

In translation, that meant that Denise was putting out and Ginny wasn’t. Rick was human. He was a young, virile male who needed a warm, willing body in the sack. I gave Rick a feeble smile.

“Why don’t you ask Ginny out and see what happens? Take her someplace nice, maybe out of town.” Inspiration struck, in the form of restaurant menus, flashing before my eyes like a gourmet fan. “Try Café de Flore down the highway. It’s French, very romantic. Ginny will love it.”

Ginny might hate it, but it was the best I could do with six people waiting in line behind me. I gave Rick another smile and hurried out of the bank. There was an air of frenzy about the place that had nothing to do with the bustle of customers. Worse, I sensed the pall caused by Linda’s death. The marble pillars no longer seemed so sturdy, nor did the polished mahogany exude prosperity. The lobby seemed tarnished. So did the Petersens and the rest of the bank’s employees. Driving up the hill under the darkening skies, I felt bleak.

Which, I reminded myself, was fitting. Linda’s funeral would be held in less than twenty-four hours. I was in the proper mood for it. As I turned in to my driveway, I chastised myself: My spirits might be low, but I was still alive. Linda Lindahl wasn’t as lucky.

As if luck had anything to do with it.

By five-thirty, Vida and I were at Confetti’s in Everett, overlooking the marina. It was still raining, but the change of scenery perked me up. So did the Rob Roy I ordered on a whim.

Vida was checking Howard Lindahl’s address in the Everett directory. I was halfway through my drink before she reached the table.

“Did you call him?” I inquired, wondering what had taken her so long.

Vida was admiring the multicolored streamers that hung from the ceiling. “Lovely,” she murmured. “Are you having a cocktail?”

I tapped my glass. “So it appears. How about you?”

Vida hemmed and hawed, looked around to see if she recognized anyone from her church, and summoned our server. “A Tom Collins is practically nothing in terms of liquor,” she said blithely. “Do you realize that many people live on their boats here in the marina?”

Judging from the number of lights and the activity along the docks, I could believe it. “The marina’s really big,” I noted. “Did you call Howard?”

“The second largest on the West Coast, behind Long Beach, California. Or is it San Diego?” Vida appeared mystified.

I wasn’t giving up. “Did you call Howard?” I repeated.

Vida was studying the menu. Her eyes grew enormous. “Oh, look! We got here in time for the Early Bird Special! How nice! We’ll save several dollars.”

“Vida …”

“No.” Vida was very prim. “I’ll call after we eat. I have the home and the business addresses. The Lindahls live off Grand Avenue. It shouldn’t be hard to find. I’m familiar with the neighborhood. The cabinet shop is by the railroad tracks, above the Snohomish River.”

Vida’s cocktail appeared. I allowed her to savor it before I pressed her again. “What took you so long at the pay phone?”

She sipped, then sighed. “If you must know, I called Bobby Lambrecht. It’s after five, the rates are down, and I thought this would be a good time to reach him, just before dinner.”

I tried not to smile. “And?”

Vida gnawed on her lower lip. “Daniel M. Ruggiero is the Bank of Washington’s chief auditor. Bobby couldn’t—wouldn’t—say why he had come to Alpine.” Vida’s expression was rueful.

The only reason I could think of for a bank’s chief auditor to show up in town was to check the books of another financial institution. Since we had but one, Dan Ruggiero must have been sent to look into the Bank of Alpine. My initial guess about a buyout had to be on target. But if I could believe the PR woman in Seattle,
somewhere along the line, the Bank of Washington had chickened out. I verbalized my thoughts to Vida.

She grimaced. “Yes, yes, it would appear that the Petersens were willing to permit a takeover or a merger or whatever. I was wrong about a possible sale. I hate to admit it, but there it is. Now the question becomes, why did BOW back away?”

I gave a faint shake of my head. “Actually, there are two questions. Yours—and mine, which is, what does a potential buyout have to do with Linda’s murder?”

Vida frowned. “Maybe nothing.”

“Maybe.” But I didn’t really believe it. Nor, I sensed, did Vida. Even in a small town, there are some circumstances in which coincidence is not credible.

After we finished our entrées of spit-roasted chicken, Vida used the pay phone in the lobby to call Howard Lindahl. She laid on her sympathy with a trowel, then grew even more solemn about our professional obligations and the public’s need to know. If Howard Lindahl swallowed all of this, he was too dumb to have killed his ex-wife.

Indeed, I could tell from Vida’s pursed lips that he was trying to rebuff our visit. That was when she asked to talk to Susan Lindahl.

The second wife couldn’t resist Vida’s wheedling. Five minutes later, we were in the Buick, headed for Grand Avenue.

The neighborhood was old, and in the process of being gentrified. The Lindahl home, which overlooked Puget Sound, had obviously undergone considerable renovation. I suspected that Howard’s craftsmanship had allowed him to do most of the work himself.

Susan Lindahl welcomed us in a brisk, no-nonsense manner. I was surprised. Her surrender to Vida had suggested a cream puff. But Susan had her own agenda:

“We could use some fresh faces around this house,” she declared, leading us into the living room, which was filled with almost-antiques as well as a few new pieces that had probably been built by Howard. “It’s been gloom and doom around here for the last week. First, the break-in, then Linda gets killed, and last night, Alison’s kangaroo gerbil died. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“How nice,” Vida said, taking her place on a depression-era davenport that had been re-covered in bright red poppies and green leaves. “Your home is charming. Wherever did you get the old Victrola?”

Before Susan could answer, Howard entered the living room. His round face was sulky, but he shook our hands. “We don’t read the tabloids here,” Howard announced. “Just because my ex-wife went out and got herself killed, that doesn’t mean we want our names smeared all over the place.”

Vida’s shock was genuine, and mirrored my own.
“The Alpine Advocate
is scarcely a sensational tabloid,” she retorted. “It’s a most respectable weekly. You must have seen it.”

Howard shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a beefy man in his mid-forties, not-quite-average height, and his light brown hair was thinning. Standing side by side, Susan was taller than her husband by an inch, spare of figure and plain of face. I suspected that Howard had learned from experience that character was more important than looks.

“I’m lucky if I get
The Everett Herald
read every day,” he said. “I’ll be damned if I didn’t end up with my name in the Monday edition. They carried the story about Linda. Thank God it wasn’t on the front page.”

The Herald
is one of several area newspapers we receive at
The Advocate
. Because it’s a daily, and sometimes
includes Skykomish County along with its home base of Snohomish County, quite a few people in Alpine subscribe. I’d noted the article about Linda’s death, which had stated that the body of a former Everett woman had been found near Alpine, that she was a possible homicide victim, and that the Skykomish sheriff was conducting an investigation with the cooperation of Snohomish County law enforcement personnel. The last sentence of the story noted that while living in Everett, Linda had been married to a local resident, Howard Lindahl.

“I didn’t like it,” Howard said, looking pugnacious as he sat down in a deep blue recliner “It sounded as if I were the prime suspect.”

“Oh, stick it, Howie,” said Susan. “The paper only used your name to let people know who Linda was when she lived here. You overreact.” With a long-legged stride, Susan headed for the kitchen.

Howie was regarding Vida and me as if we were card-carrying members of the KGB. “I’m not telling you about any sex stuff. Or why we split. It’s disgusting how everybody wants to spill their guts these days.”

I hastened to agree, then remembered to pick up my cue from Vida. “We’re more interested in what you can tell our readers about handling grief in this kind of situation.”

“Grief?” Howard seemed surprised. “At the risk of sounding like I
am
the prime suspect, I can’t say I’m crying in my beer.” The words motivated Howard to call to Susan: “Suze—make that a beer for me.”

“Were you surprised?” Vida’s hands were folded neatly in her lap. The derby had slipped down on her forehead, almost concealing her eyes and glasses.

“Of course I was surprised.” Howard looked at Vida as if she were a mutant. “Weren’t you? I mean, do people
go around expecting somebody they know to get killed?”

Vida pushed the derby high on her forehead. “I was extremely surprised. I found the body.” The statement was only a small fib.

Howard was obviously shaken. “No shit!” He glanced anxiously toward the kitchen, as if he needed the beer to bolster his fortitude. “That’s terrible! For you, I mean.”

“Indeed it was.” Vida’s voice had turned wispy. I was afraid she was going to launch into Roger’s sensitivity, but she was forestalled when Susan entered the room, carrying a tray laden with glasses of wine and a bottle of beer.

“Let’s not mislead anybody,” Susan said after she’d handed out the drinks. “Linda was a world-class pain in the butt. Even after the divorce, she gave Howie a bad time. She always would. That’s why we can’t honestly say we’re in mourning.”

Howard registered mixed emotions. “It sounds hardhearted, doesn’t it?” His round face asked for understanding.

Vida inclined her head. “It sounds like good sense. Who really wants to get involved in a custody fight? It’s so hard on the child.”

Susan, who had sat down on an ottoman next to Howard, sprang to her feet. “Stop!” The wine in her glass sloshed over the rim. “Where’s Alison?” The whispered question was for her husband.

“In her room?” Howard didn’t sound certain.

Next to me on the davenport, I felt Vida’s elbow in my ribs. “Emma, you should talk to Alison. You have such a way with youngsters. Your Adam is so close to Alison’s age.”

Vida knew she was off by ten years, but that didn’t
matter. I knew she wanted me to interrogate Alison. I gave the Lindahls a self-deprecating look. “Do you mind?”

Howard and Susan exchanged leery glances. “She’s pretty upset,” Susan finally said. “I’d better introduce you.”

We went upstairs, following a pattern of bright spring-garden wallpaper and serviceable gray carpet. I could hear the bass from Alison’s boom box as soon as we reached the second landing.

Alison’s dormer room wasn’t any messier than that of most twelve-year-olds, which is to say that it could be mistaken for Hiroshima after the A-bomb was dropped. I had frequently told Adam that if he wanted to live in a demolition zone, I would oblige by practicing a scorched-earth policy, and torch the place. Naturally, I never carried out my threats, and just as naturally, he had only recently begun to take pride in maintaining order. In natural law, that always occurs after the child has moved out from under the parent’s roof.

Consequently, I stumbled over a pile of clothes, various CDs, magazines, books, cowboy boots, and a poster of Keanu Reeves. Alison reluctantly turned off her boom box and stared at me with hostile blue eyes. She was at that awkward age, when her genes hadn’t yet made up their mind if they were going to favor her mother’s statuesque good looks or her father’s short, stocky stature.

“Talk to Ms. Lord,” Susan urged, her arms around the girl. “She wants to hear how you feel. About your … mother.” With a faintly guilty air, Susan danced over the obstacles on the floor and left the room.

“Was that Soundgarden?” I inquired, having a nodding acquaintance via Adam with rock groups, especially the Seattle scene.

“Yeah.” Alison wasn’t impressed by my effort to be cool. She had found a bare spot on her unmade bed and was sitting on her feet.