The Alpine Menace by Mary Daheim Page B

chair, which was like its owner—solid, comfortable, and showing traces of wear. At her side, a cup of coffee stood next to a family portrait, presumably of her son, his wife, and child. “I don't know much about it,” she went on. “One day about a year ago Maybeth moved in. I guess Ronnie moved in with her, though I didn't see much of him. Thenext thing I know, about a month later he was with Carol. She'd dumped Roy Sprague, which was no big loss, if you ask me. They were always fighting, and I think he beat her up. A couple of times I saw him with long scratches on his face and once with a black eye. Carol had probably tried to defend herself. She and Ronnie fought, too. Frankly, Carol was kind of hard to get along with when it came to men.”
    “Men can be difficult,” Vida noted.
    “Can't they?” Henrietta made a face. “I've had three husbands, and only the first one was worth a damn, even if he did up and die on me at the age of thirty. Still,” she added wistfully, “it's not much fun to live alone.” Her quick glance took in the room, which was full of memorabilia, knickknacks, and a trio of bowling trophies. There were photos of a Hawaiian beach, the Inner Harbour at Victoria, BC, Hurricane Ridge on the Olympic Peninsula, and Mount Rainier with the wildflowers in bloom. The ceramic figurines that sat on end tables and shelves looked as if Henrietta had made them herself, all kinds of colorful creatures to keep her company during long, lonely days.
    “I live alone,” Vida said quietly. “It suits me fine. For the most part.”
    “Divorced?” Henrietta asked.
    Vida looked faintly shocked. “Widowed. For almost twenty years.”
    “Oh.” Henrietta wore a sympathetic smile. “Sounds like you were one of the lucky ones. I guess you still miss him.”
    “I do indeed,” Vida replied.
    “Anyway,” Henrietta went on, “Roy'd show up now and then at Carol's and there'd be a big row. Then, around Christmastime, he and Maybeth started seeing each other. It seemed kind of natural. Two people who'dbeen unlucky in love finding each other. To be honest, I thought it was sweet.” She winked.
    “Do Maybeth and Roy fight?” I asked.
    Taking a sip of coffee, Henrietta shrugged. “I can't really say, with Carol's apartment between me and May-beth. I wouldn't call her—what's the word?— docile, I guess, but she's not as ornery as Carol could be.”
    “Do you know if Roy had had any contact with Carol before she was killed?” I inquired.
    Henrietta frowned. “Let me think—I did see him at her door one night when I came home late from work. That was probably a week or so before the murder. Carol wouldn't let him in. At least not while I was outside.”
    “In other words,” I suggested, “Roy may have still had the hots for Carol?”
    “Or just wanted to cause trouble,” Henrietta said. “He strikes me as a bully.” She drummed her fingernails next to her coffee cup on the end table. “I didn't speak very well of your cousin, Emma. May I call you that?” She saw me nod and went on. “Sometimes I tend to sum up people kind of fast. He was lazy and he drank and all that, but the only reason I thought he killed Carol was because the police said so.”
    “You don't agree?” I asked.
    Henrietta's expression was uncertain. “Let's say that if you have doubts, then I shouldn't be so hasty. Ronnie seems like the most likely suspect, but I'd never think of him as having what you call a killer instinct. Does that make sense?”
    I didn't say that
killer instinct
wasn't always necessary when it came to murder. Sometimes people killed out of frustration, stupidity, blind rage. They murdered almost by accident, and grieved as much as any loved one's survivor. Instead, I agreed with Henrietta. “He's much too easygoing.” It seemed to be true, but in fact, she probably knew Ronnie better than I did.
    She nodded. “He seemed too laid-back. The few times I saw him and Carol together, he treated her real