Free The Alpine Menace by Mary Daheim Page B

moving into an apartment. Her mother—her adoptive mother, Mrs. Addison—gives her a set of old drapes. They're in her car when she calls on her birth mother, Carol. Are you following this?”
    “Yes, go on.”
    “Carol gets into a row with Kendra, who becomes furious, and…” Vida frowned and bit her lip. “No, she'd hardly dash out to the car to fetch a drapery cord, would she?”
    “Not likely.”
    “But what if someone brought it in with them?” Vida said, brightening. “That would make it premeditated murder.”
    “True,” I allowed, “but why not use a stocking, a rope, a scarf?”
    “Too identifiable,” Vida responded. “A drapery cord could be taken out of a Dumpster or a garbage can. It might be traced to the owner, but not to the killer.”
    Vida had another point. In fact, it was a rather good one. But it still didn't ease my frustration. “So what do we do now?” I inquired dryly. “Find out how many people in the vicinity have thrown out old drapes in the past month?”
    “Certainly not,” she said. “You must call on the Addisons.”
    I was skeptical. “I must?”
    Vida nodded. “Yes. I doubt very much if either of them will recognize you. In fact, Mrs. Addison wouldn't know me, but there's no point in taking chances. Nice as it is, your new car looks very much like many of the other cars these days. Even that shiny beige color seems popular.”
    Admittedly, that was true. At first glance, the Lexus looked like a Toyota, a Honda, and various other makes and models. I'd already tried to get into the wrong car four times since I'd got it.
    “Where will you be while I visit the Addisons?” I asked with some reluctance.
    Vida gave me an ingenuous smile. “At the zoo. Drop me off on your way.”
    * * *
    The Addison house on Ashworth looked rather attractive in the daylight. Planter boxes held colorful displays of primroses, the rhododendrons that flanked the front porch were coming into bloom, and a giant forsythia bush at the side of the house was in the final stages of its golden glory. I admired bright daffodils and budding tulips as I went up the walk that led to six wide concrete steps.
    The mailman, a smiling Asian fellow brave enough to wear U.S. postal regulation shorts on a fifty-five-degree day, was just leaving. By chance, a woman I assumed was Mrs. Addison came out onto the porch to collect the mail.
    “Kathy?” I said, remembering the name that an agitated Sam Addison had called out the previous night.
    Although I was at the bottom of the stairs, she hadn't noticed me and gave a start. “Yes? What is it?”
    “My name's Emma Lord,” I said, offering a friendly smile. “May I talk to you for a few minutes? It's about my cousin Ronnie Mallett.” How much more up-front could I be?
    Kathy frowned at the name. “You mean that awful man who killed Carol Stokes? He's your cousin?” She seemed incredulous. Maybe, in my chic clearance Anne Klein pantsuit from Francine's Fine Apparel, I didn't look like someone who'd be related to a man charged with murder.
    “Yes,” I replied, still smiling. “I'm from out of town, and I'm trying to figure out exactly what happened. Ronnie isn't much help.” My expression turned pitiable.
    “I don't doubt that,” she said, looking harried and holding the mail close to her bosom. Then she sighed and gazed off in the distance. “I don't know… I probably shouldn't talk to you.”
    “I don't know where else to go,” I said, growing more pitiful by the second.
    “Oh…” She opened the screen door and motioned for me to join her. “Come in, but only for a couple ofminutes,” Kathy said, placing the mail on a small inlaid table near the door. “This isn't a good time.”
    I could guess why not. There was no sign of the Honda or Sam Addison. Maybe he'd actually left his wife. I hadn't seen the Miata, either. I felt lucky to have found Kathy Addison home alone.
    The Addison living room and adjoining dining room were a far cry from the