Read Online The Alpine Menace by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Daheim
Ads: Link
and Kendra got along. I wouldn't be surprised if he pulled some fast stuff on her.” She winked.
Vida was opening and closing the drapes. The light of midday didn't do much to brighten the small living room. “Men,” she said lightly. “Tsk, tsk.”
“Was Carol a pretty woman?” I inquired, noticing a photo album in one of the cartons.
“Sort of,” Henrietta replied, “at least when she got all fixed up.” The album also caught her eye. “Let's have a look. There must be pictures of her in this. I'll point her out.”
Only the first four pages of the album contained photographs, all apparently taken with the same camera. As it turned out, Carol was in almost all of them.
“See, that's her,” Henrietta said, pointing to a laughing young woman standing by an artificial Christmas tree. “She looks rather pretty there, don't you think?”
The happy face that looked out at me was more piquant than pretty. Carol Nerstad Stokes had big brown eyes, a wide, generous mouth, and an upturned nose. Her hair was short and spiky, the tips dyed a golden blond. She was wearing a tight red sweater and tight black pants that showed off her curvaceous figure. Silver sandals adorned her feet, and I noticed that her toenails were painted a bright red.
“She's very nice looking, really,” I said, and couldn't help but think that Carol must have been the girl who was an answer to Ronnie's prayers. I couldn't think of any other way he'd been able to get such a prize when it came to looks.
“Were you at home the night Carol was killed?” I inquired as we went into the kitchen.
“No,” Henrietta replied with apparent regret. “I was at the hospital. I pulled a sixteen-hour shift that Friday. Somebody didn't show up—these young nurses, you can't rely on them. I used to work in private practice, but doctors are skinflints. Hospital work may have long hours, but the pay and the benefits are better. Imagine— working for a doctor who doesn't offer medical coverage!” She shook her head in a disgusted manner.
The kitchen was small, and apparently had been cleaned up and cleared out. Cupboards stood open and bare; the refrigerator, which Vida inspected, was all but empty.
“The daughter,” Henrietta said, waving a hand at the boxes, which appeared to be filled with dishes, pots and pans, and canned goods. “She was here yesterday, after the police took down that nasty yellow tape. Mr. Chan wants everything out by Wednesday. Come see the bedroom and bath.”
We trooped after Henrietta. The bathroom, like the rest of the rooms in the unit, was small and cramped.
Kendra had cleared it out, too, though the tiles and tub needed a good scouring.
“Did you talk to Kendra?” I asked.
“Just to say hello,” Henrietta replied, leading us into the bedroom. “She seemed in a big rush. Not that she's the chatty type. You know these young people—they think you're nosy just because you show some interest.”
“Indeed,” Vida murmured. “So touchy. By the way, did you attend Carol's funeral?”
Henrietta made a face. “Such as it was, out at the cemetery. I felt an obligation, and as it turned out, I was right. Very few of her friends showed up, but no family except for her brother, who came up from California to make the arrangements. Of course it was during the day, so I suppose some of those people who used to hang out around here had to work.
If
they work,” she added.
“Did you know any of them?” I asked.
Henrietta shook her head. “It was a young crowd,” she replied. “Late twenties, early thirties. They weren't interested in an old coot like me.”
“The brother,” Vida breathed, snapping her fingers. “In California. What was his name?”
“Charles,” Henrietta put in. “Chuck, they called him. He was in a big hurry to get back to San Jose or San Mateo or one of those Sans down there. Typical Cali-fornian, full of himself.” She stopped to stare at Vida. “You know him?”
“Ah… No,”
Vida was opening and closing the drapes. The light of midday didn't do much to brighten the small living room. “Men,” she said lightly. “Tsk, tsk.”
“Was Carol a pretty woman?” I inquired, noticing a photo album in one of the cartons.
“Sort of,” Henrietta replied, “at least when she got all fixed up.” The album also caught her eye. “Let's have a look. There must be pictures of her in this. I'll point her out.”
Only the first four pages of the album contained photographs, all apparently taken with the same camera. As it turned out, Carol was in almost all of them.
“See, that's her,” Henrietta said, pointing to a laughing young woman standing by an artificial Christmas tree. “She looks rather pretty there, don't you think?”
The happy face that looked out at me was more piquant than pretty. Carol Nerstad Stokes had big brown eyes, a wide, generous mouth, and an upturned nose. Her hair was short and spiky, the tips dyed a golden blond. She was wearing a tight red sweater and tight black pants that showed off her curvaceous figure. Silver sandals adorned her feet, and I noticed that her toenails were painted a bright red.
“She's very nice looking, really,” I said, and couldn't help but think that Carol must have been the girl who was an answer to Ronnie's prayers. I couldn't think of any other way he'd been able to get such a prize when it came to looks.
“Were you at home the night Carol was killed?” I inquired as we went into the kitchen.
“No,” Henrietta replied with apparent regret. “I was at the hospital. I pulled a sixteen-hour shift that Friday. Somebody didn't show up—these young nurses, you can't rely on them. I used to work in private practice, but doctors are skinflints. Hospital work may have long hours, but the pay and the benefits are better. Imagine— working for a doctor who doesn't offer medical coverage!” She shook her head in a disgusted manner.
The kitchen was small, and apparently had been cleaned up and cleared out. Cupboards stood open and bare; the refrigerator, which Vida inspected, was all but empty.
“The daughter,” Henrietta said, waving a hand at the boxes, which appeared to be filled with dishes, pots and pans, and canned goods. “She was here yesterday, after the police took down that nasty yellow tape. Mr. Chan wants everything out by Wednesday. Come see the bedroom and bath.”
We trooped after Henrietta. The bathroom, like the rest of the rooms in the unit, was small and cramped.
Kendra had cleared it out, too, though the tiles and tub needed a good scouring.
“Did you talk to Kendra?” I asked.
“Just to say hello,” Henrietta replied, leading us into the bedroom. “She seemed in a big rush. Not that she's the chatty type. You know these young people—they think you're nosy just because you show some interest.”
“Indeed,” Vida murmured. “So touchy. By the way, did you attend Carol's funeral?”
Henrietta made a face. “Such as it was, out at the cemetery. I felt an obligation, and as it turned out, I was right. Very few of her friends showed up, but no family except for her brother, who came up from California to make the arrangements. Of course it was during the day, so I suppose some of those people who used to hang out around here had to work.
If
they work,” she added.
“Did you know any of them?” I asked.
Henrietta shook her head. “It was a young crowd,” she replied. “Late twenties, early thirties. They weren't interested in an old coot like me.”
“The brother,” Vida breathed, snapping her fingers. “In California. What was his name?”
“Charles,” Henrietta put in. “Chuck, they called him. He was in a big hurry to get back to San Jose or San Mateo or one of those Sans down there. Typical Cali-fornian, full of himself.” She stopped to stare at Vida. “You know him?”
“Ah… No,”
Similar Books
