Trouble in Rooster Paradise (29 page)

“
A turning point?”

“
Yes, I believe that correctly
describes it. I’m sure that it was then when Britt finally let go
of her anger. Seeing Alexis grow worse at the news of his death,
she must have realized that her aunt had still been very much in
love with Addison. As to Addison senior, I believe Britt saw his
losing his son as punishment enough.”

Not hardly, I thought, but kept it to
myself.

“
Oh, I don’t like this at all,”
Kirsti said. She’d put her hand to her throat and was giving me a
worried look. “This is taking an ugly turn, Gunnar.”

“
I know just what you mean, Blue
Eyes. We might all see life through our own funhouse mirror, but
what I thought I was seeing wasn’t one bit amusing.”

“
I’m a happy ending kind of person,
Gunnar.”

“
You’re a romantic. A near-hopeless
case, I’m afraid. It’s part of your charm. Promise me you won’t let
life knock it out of you.”

She looked at me like I was from the planet
Mongo.

“
I promise. Go ahead and go on with
it.”

I put my hands up with palms forward as if in
surrender. “I’m afraid I’m all talked out for the day, young lady,”
I said matter-of-factly. “I’ll have to finish this up another
time.”

Kirsti looked as deflated as a punctured and
faded beach ball on the seashore in the pouring rain. She said
something that sounded like “argh,” and maybe it was “argh.” “Oh,
come on, Gunnar, you’re leaving me hanging here,” she protested
shrilly. “At least give me a hint as to how things go from
here.”

I shook my head and said in a kind but
determined tone, “You’ll just have to wait. I know it’s still light
out, but it’s almost eight thirty, which means we’ve been going at
this for hours. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an old man, Blue
Eyes. I’ve hit the wall. There’s a night’s sleep with my name on it
waiting for me back in my room. We’ll meet again when it’s
convenient for you, and I’ll tell you the rest of it. I’ll be fresh
then and will be able to tell it far better than I would if I
pushed on with it right now. Believe me.”

“
You’re totally killing me here,
Gunnar,” she said in a high, twangy voice. “You’ve got to know
that.” But her frown soon became a lopsided grin of
resignation.

I just smiled.

Finecare Retirement Home, Everett, Washington,
late afternoon Monday, June 23, 2003

K
irsti and I had agreed to
meet up again the next afternoon when her shift ended at 2:30.
She’d told me emphatically that she simply could not wait till the
following Sunday to hear the rest of my story.

So by 2:40 I was in my wheelchair and Kirsti,
still in her green scrubs, was once again giving me another bumpy
ride over the gravel and flagstone walk leading to the outside
courtyard.

“
Tired out from talking or not, that
was a dirty trick you played on me, ending your story where you did
yesterday,” Kirsti groused, but with her usual goodwill behind it.
“I’ve been distracted all day wondering how it’s all going to
end.”

Once Kirsti got me parked, she swung her tote
bag from off her shoulder and retrieved her cassette recorder from
it. As she took a seat on the wood bench across from me, she placed
the recorder on her lap and put the bag right next to her. Then she
pulled out a small, clear-plastic container that looked like it
held gelatinous chunks, silvery-gray in color.

She waved the container at me and said, “This
is pickled herring for later. You’ve said you miss it. Why exactly,
I’ll never know. It’s really gross to look at. Also, the other day
I had my mom pick up some of that Siljans hardtack you talk about
so much.”

“
Knäckebröd
,” I said
thoughtfully. “My grandmother used to simply call it
kaken.
”

“
Uh-huh,” she said evenly. “Anyway,
I’ve got some pieces already buttered for you to eat with your
herring.”

“
I’m speechless.”

And I was. It had been some time since anyone
had done something so kind and special for me. I mean the pastrami
on rye sandwiches that she’d brought me the day before were great,
but with hardtack and herring she’d taken her thoughtfulness to a
new level.

“
Kirsti, I really don’t know how to
thank you—”

“
Finishing your story will be thanks
enough.”

I didn’t say anything. I just looked at her a
moment. Finally, I said impishly, “Oh yes, my story. Now
where
was I
?”

Kirsti’s bangs rose a bit as her eyebrows
narrowed in a pretend scowl. “Uh-uh,” she said in a smug tone. “I
made sure I’d be ready in case you tried to pull something like
this, Gunnar.” She pulled out a slip of paper from a side pocket of
her tote bag and glanced down at what from my angle looked to be
shorthand scrawl, which she then proceeded to interpret:

“
You met Christine Johanson on a
Tuesday night. She was murdered Wednesday night. You were hired to
look into it on Thursday and were almost killed that evening by a
hit-and-run driver. Several interviews later on Friday, your office
was riddled with bullets, but luckily you were in the office next
door when it happened. That night things got more than a bit steamy
between you and Britt Anderson. The next morning, Saturday, you and
your friend Walter Pangborn found Meredith Lane murdered in her
apartment along with evidence that she and Christine had been part
of a blackmail racket with Guy de Carter. A little later you shared
this information with Britt and she steered you to de Carter’s
houseboat, where you found him murdered. A waitress named Verna
happened to mention her diary, which gave you the idea to visit the
house where Christine had lived with her aunt, where you located
her diary. Christine’s coded entries about the blackmail racket
implicated de Carter but also pointed to someone else known simply
by the initial B. Two people in Christine’s life with names that
started with B were Blanche Arnot and Britt Anderson.”

“
I’m impressed, Blue Eyes. Truly
impressed,” I said earnestly. “Don’t tell me you listened to the
tapes you made yesterday?”

She shook her head. “I made these brief notes
from memory before I went to bed last night. Like I said, I wanted
to be ready for you.”

“
Why, you were born to be a
newspaper reporter.”

“
I’ve toyed some with becoming a
journalist,” she said in her usual sweet voice. “But anyway, you
ended yesterday with telling me that when you and your friend
Walter talked with Blanche Arnot, she went on about Britt
Anderson’s hatred for Addison Darcy and his son because of what had
happened to her aunt.”

“
Uh-huh,” I said, as I took a clove
from my old Sucrets tin and put it in my mouth.

Kirsti suddenly clicked on her recorder like
she was resetting a tripped circuit breaker. “Okay, Gunnar, I’m all
set. Please continue.”

Saturday, June 10, 1950

I was violently chewing on a clove when Walter
and I pulled out of Blanche Arnot’s part of Laurelhurst. We drove
in silence for a while.

Walter started packing his pipe and said at
last, “A very handsome woman. It’s easy to get absorbed in her
storytelling. She has a very engaging manner.”

I agreed.

“
So, where are we headed, old top?”
he asked.

“
Fasciné Expressions is closed by
now, so we’re off to Vista Court Apartments, to see one Miss Britt
Anderson.”

“
Hmm.”

I told Walter it seemed obvious to me that
suspicions had now shifted from Blanche Arnot to Britt Anderson. I
said nothing of my intimate relationship with Britt. When I’d
finished, I glanced at my friend and said, “A penny for Walter
Pangborn’s thoughts.”

Walter puffed away on his pipe, smoke escaping
out the window he’d partly rolled down. I could see him going into
one of his cogitating reveries, so I patiently waited. Well, maybe
I wasn’t exactly patient, but I held my tongue.

Finally Walter sighed and said, “On the face of
it, it certainly seems that Aunt Alexis isn’t the only actress in
the family.”

“
Walter, Britt Anderson has got to
be one of the best liars I’ve ever met.
The
absolute
best.”

“
Either that, old socks, or her
charms colored your view of the actual performance.”

I didn’t say anything.

“
An attractive female
can
be
a bane to the thinking male.”

“
I get the idea.”

“
A lovely lass can make one an
ass.”

“
Shut up, Walter.”

“
It’s your penny, old
thing.”

The Pangborn governess had not raised an
idiot.

“
What did you make of Mrs. Arnot?” I
asked.

“
A few things strike me as
peculiar.”

“
I told you she was a bit
otherworldly.”

“
Yes, that’s part of it, I’m sure.
She said her husband passed away almost two years ago. Did you
notice that there wasn’t one photo of him in the room? Not one I
could see, anyway.”

“
People grieve differently, Walter.
Maybe his photos are painful reminders to her.”

“
Possibly, but I doubt it, old top.
I suspect that her husband was a very important figure to her. In
fact, judging by Blanche Arnot’s appearance and demeanor, I think
males have played a prominent, if not a key role in her
life.”

“
What are you driving
at?”

“
It’s as if her husband no longer
signifies to her in some way. It’s as if she’s … ignoring him.
Purposely so.”

“
You base that simply on the absence
of pictures? You’re reaching, don’t you think, Walter?”

“
Perhaps, old socks, but consider
how Mrs. Arnot carries herself. She’s very much as you described
her. She was clearly a beautiful woman when young, and is still
quite attractive. She’s extremely cognizant of herself as a female.
Like most distinguished beauties, she grooms and carries herself in
a formalistic way—but a way that is loaded with nuances and
subtleties.”

“
Enlighten this aesthetic dullard,
Walter.”

“
Why, old thing, Mrs. Arnot gives
her looks a ceremonial attention that practically smacks of
religious fervor. Notice the precise part in her hair. The artistic
application of lip rouge. Her lustrous manicure. Even her shoes are
carefully shined. She’s more than just mindful of her appearance,
old top. All of this care really speaks to the self-regard she has
in being a female, and in her need to make a calculated impact as a
woman.”

“
So?”

“
So, old socks, she wasn’t wearing
her wedding ring. I take that as significant. It has to have been a
deliberate decision
not
to wear it—given how calculating she
is about her appearance. Her husband is dead and gone, and she’s
closed the chapter on him for some reason.
Why
, I have no
idea. But it’s as though he had been a commodity that’s fulfilled
its use. Or, perhaps seeing his face and the wedding ring would be
a troubling reminder of something she chooses to
ignore.”

“
Walter, this is too
much.”

But it reminded me that Britt had said Blanche
seemed cut from her moorings when her husband died. I told this to
Walter.

“
Hmm. That
is
interesting.
Perhaps she doesn’t want to be reminded of those moorings. Maybe
she prefers being adrift. I wonder why.”

For a few moments the only noise we heard was
the Chevy’s motor. Finally Walter continued, “Even the way she
spoke with us is telling, Gunnar. Like I said, she’s very engaging.
However, I must say that while a little flicker in her eyes bespoke
a subtle mind geared for intrigue, I sensed instability. And I had
the distinct feeling several times that I was being carefully
handled. As if she was talking to an inferior. I don’t think she
has a very high opinion of men.”

“
I don’t know. I think she liked me
well enough. I think she liked both of us, Walter.”

“
You can
like
a chimpanzee,
Gunnar. You might even train one to mix drinks. It’s been done, you
know. However, you wouldn’t seek its advice if you were making an
investment. Mrs. Arnot may
like
men, but I don’t think she
respects them too much. Why, she actually seemed quite surprised
when a couple of times I grasped her unspoken meaning.”

“
Give me an example.”

“
She told me the same woeful tale
she’d told you the other night. The story of poor Sally Miller and
her tragic death in prison.”

“
What of it, Walter?”

“
When Mrs. Arnot finished telling me
the story, I made one of my comments that you dislike so much. I
said, ‘Diamonds and pearls have been the bane of many working
girls.’ ”

“
Say it ain’t so,
Walter.”

“
But I did, old thing. Unthinkingly,
I’m afraid. I followed it up with another one that is equally
inane. You know how they just come to me. I said, ‘A man’s power
and lechery lead often to treachery.’ ”