Free The Alpine Menace by Mary Daheim Page A

responded.
    “Not that we learned much, except that Ronnie's reputation is in the drain as far as most of them are concerned,” I pointed out, turning off onto Greenwood Avenue. “In fact, this was a waste of time.”
    “No, it wasn't,” Vida said, looking smug.
    “What do you mean?”
    “While you were checking the furniture and the boxes,” she began, “I was studying the windows.”
    I was puzzled. “The windows? What for? To see if someone could look in?”
    “No, no,” Vida replied. “I don't think Carol was one to open the drapes. Did you notice how faded they were in the living room? The short ones in the bedroom were, too. But you miss my point. I was looking at the drapery cords.”
    My brain finally clicked. “For the murder weapon?”
    “Exactly,” Vida said, still smug. “They were all intact, and very worn.” She turned to look at me as we stopped for the traffic light at Eighty-fifth and Greenwood, the neighborhood's major arterial. “Which means, of course, that Carol was killed with a cord that did not come from her apartment. What do you think of that?”

A S USUAL , V IDA had a point. If Ronnie had wanted to kill Carol, he would have used whatever was at hand. Indeed, since she was strangled, he could have used his bare hands. For the first time, I saw a small light at the end of the tunnel.
    “We've got to talk to the investigating officers,” I said. “I'll call and see if they're in on a Saturday.”
    Tony Rojas was the primary on the Stokes case. He was gone until Monday, having taken a three-day weekend for Easter. I relayed the news upon returning to our table at the Twin Teepees, a stone's throw from Green Lake. The sixty-year-old eatery was a landmark, with its colorful wigwams enclosing the dining room and bar. In my youth, it had been a hangout for motorcycle cops, though I didn't see any in evidence that afternoon.
    “I feel stymied,” I told Vida. “We have to be back in Alpine Monday.”
    “Not first thing, though,” she pointed out. “Haven't you taken the morning off?”
    “Yes,” I hedged, “but—”
    “Then so shall I,” said Vida, finishing her lunch of liver and onions. “My section is in good shape. I have that long feature on Dolph and Mamie Swecker's trip to Miami. The part about how they got mugged by a twelve-year-old takes up at least six inches by itself. It took some doing to explain—discreetly—that the mugger was their nephewand they didn't file charges despite the fact that Dolph never got his watch back. I realize the Sweckers hadn't seen their relatives in several years, but wouldn't you have thought they'd send pictures?”
    “So what do we do in the meantime?” I asked, still feeling frustrated.
    Vida was studying the dessert menu. “They have pie,” she said. “I know I shouldn't go off my diet, but it
is
Easter. And I rarely bake at home.”
    Which, I thought idly, was a good thing. The only time I'd eaten a pie baked by Vida was when I first came to Alpine and she invited me over for dinner. She told me it was a rhubarb pie, but I didn't believe her. It tasted like broom straw, and the crust could have been used to resole a pair of caulking boots. For all the recipes she ran on her page, for all the kitchen hints and menu plans, Vida could not bake, broil, braise, or cook.
    “Go ahead,” I urged. “Try the pie.”
    “I think I will,” she said with a decisive nod. “And you?”
    “I'm good,” I replied, never having been much of a dessert lover. Besides, my appetite was waning. Despite Vida's discovery, we didn't seem to be making much progress in clearing Ronnie's name.
    “Why,” Vida asked in a musing tone, “would anyone carry a length of drapery cord with them?”
    “To tie something up?” I suggested.
    “Yes, that's possible.” Vida stopped to give the waitress her pie order. “Or to give drapes away. Let's say that Kendra—this is just an example, mind you, I'm not saying this is what happened—Kendra is