The Alpine Menace by Mary Daheim

He got even more mellow.”
    That didn't surprise me. “Did you ever meet Carol Stokes?”
    “No,” Garvey replied, “but Ronnie talked about her a lot. He seemed nuts about her. I never heard him say anything seriously critical.”
    “Nothing?” Vida put in. “Not even the usual masculine complaints?”
    “You mean ‘She can't cook,’ ‘She spends too much money,’ ‘She always has a headache’ sort of thing?” Garvey shook his head. “Not really. I got the impression he wanted to marry her. It was Carol who wasn't interested. He moved in with her not long after I hired him.”
    “Which was when?” I asked.
    “A year ago last month,” Garvey answered. “March is the usual time for me to add a couple of people because business picks up when the weather is good. Not the firewood part of it—that's just the opposite—but the roofing jobs. Anyway, Ronnie mostly made deliveries. Not always to the right places, though. He had trouble with numbers. I wondered if he was dyslexic.”
    Ronnie might be a number of things, but
killer
didn't seem to be one of them. “If this comes to trial, would you act as a character witness for him?”
    Garvey scratched his bald head. “I told his attorney I wasn't sure that I could. I mean, I'd have to be candid. It'd be hard to give Ronnie an outstanding report card.”
    “As an employee, yes,” Vida noted. “But as a person?”
    Garvey regarded Vida with a serious expression. “I see what you mean. Maybe I could at that. Basically, I always thought he was a decent guy. Maybe that's another reason why I was willing to go the extra mile. Say, who's taking care of his dog, Budweiser?”
    “I don't know,” I admitted. “The neighbor didn't seem to know, either.”
    “That Maybeth?” Garvey said with a frown. “She wouldn't tell you if she did. I figure the dog was one of the reasons they broke up.”
    “Maybeth?” I said with a little gasp. “I meant the nurse, Henrietta Something-or-Other.”
    “Altdorf,” Vida put in. “What's this about Maybeth and Ronnie?”
    “Sorry,” Garvey said with a grimace. “I assumed you knew they used to go together until Maybeth and Ronnie moved into the same apartment building next door to Carol.”
    We didn't know that. But it was certainly interesting.
    Vida insisted we head straight for Maybeth Swafford. “No more deception,” Vida asserted. “We're going to tell her exactly who we are. Henrietta as well. If we have to.”
    It was almost five o'clock by the time we reached the apartment house off Greenwood. The afternoon had turned warm, and Maybeth had her door open. She also had a guest. The man who sprawled on the sofa was close to forty, with long, blond hair, a goatee, and a tattoo on each upper arm. In his wife-beater T-shirt, he looked like the perfect companion to go bar-hopping with Ronnie Mallett.
    “What is it?” Maybeth called over the noise of the T V, which sounded as if it were broadcasting a car race or the end of the world. She was sitting on the floor, curled up next to the sofa.
    “It's us again,” Vida shouted. “We lied.”
    “What?” Maybeth's face screwed up in puzzlement. “Oh—hang on.”
    She didn't turn down the TV, but came to the door and stepped outside. “What did you say? I couldn't hear from in here.”
    Vida folded her arms across her jutting bosom and took a deep breath. “We lied to you. We're not looking for an apartment for my daughter. Indeed, she's not my daughter, she's a friend. My name is—”
    “Hold it.” Maybeth held her hands up as the TV continued to blare. “Slow down. If she's not your daughter,” she went on, nodding at me, “who is she? Why can't she look for herself? Is she crippled or something?”
    “We're not apartment hunting,” Vida declared, an impatient note in her voice. “That's not our purpose.”
    “You want a house? A rental?”
    Taking Maybeth firmly by the arm, Vida led the younger woman farther out onto the walkway. “Emma,” she