window of opportunity for the killer was very narrow.
Vaguely, I recalled my own euphoric feeling as I crossed Front Street. “You left the salon through the front door?” I asked, wishing I’d been more observant.
“Sure,” Becca replied. “That’s the only way out. The rear entrance is always locked, except when the deliveries come.”
I was trying to conjure up the scene on Front Street during my two-block trek between
The Advocate
and Stella’s. “You didn’t see anyone unusual when you went to the Burger Barn?”
Becca laughed again. “Unusual? In Alpine? I saw Crazy Eights Neffel, wearing a sombrero and mukluks. Does that count?”
It didn’t in Alpine. Crazy Eights was our local loon. His antics weren’t worth much, even for Vida’s gossipy “Scene Around Town” column.
Vida put both hands on the frayed arms of the chair and got up. “You’ve been very helpful, Becca. We both thank you. Would you like a ride to the Grocery Basket?”
Becca preferred to walk. She said she needed the exercise. “Usually, I work out at the gym next door,” she explained. “But tonight—well, I was still kind of disturbed. You know what I mean?”
Unfortunately, Vida and I did.
“Becca’s wrong,” Vida asserted as we headed down First Street to
The Advocate,
where my Jag was still parked. “There are other ways to leave the salon. And thus, to enter it.”
“You mean through Sky Travel or the medical supply place?” I said, noting that the snow was getting thicker again.
“Exactly,” Vida agreed as we passed the darkened public library. “Not to mention the foyer door. If you use the stairs entrance instead of the elevator, you can get into the rear of the building. The law office and the rest of the tenants on the other floors have their own rest rooms, but that wasn’t always so. Besides, they still have to come down to take their deliveries out back on Pine Street.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “In other words,” I said slowly, “almost anybody could have come in that way without being noticed.”
Vida nodded. The rumpled derby stayed in place and I absently wondered if she’d be able to set it right again. “You were going to Stella’s about the time that the killer must have gone into the building. Unless, of course, he or she had been hiding out someplace inside. What—or who—did you see?”
We were passing the post office and the forest service offices. At the next corner and across Front Streetloomed the solid if unimpressive granite bulk of the Clemans Building. As we kept moving I also saw the Skykomish County sheriff’s headquarters. The lights were on and Milo’s Cherokee Chief was still in its usual spot. It was now covered with new snow. Milo was probably covered in confusion, as well as paperwork.
“I didn’t see a damned thing,” I finally admitted. “I was thinking about Emma Lord, Free Woman.”
“Oh, dear.” Vida stopped for the red light at Front and Fourth. “Well, I’m not going to offer advice.”
Of course Vida already had. Having met Tom Cavanaugh four years earlier, she had developed what I now considered an inexplicable affection for him. With a complete disregard for her usual hardheaded common sense, Vida had decided that Tommy, as she called him, and I were made for each other. In early January, when I’d first told her of my irrevocable decision to move on with my life, Vida had insisted I was being hasty. It was useless to remind her that I’d waited over twenty years for Tom to leave Sandra. “Life’s not a measuring stick,” she’d declared. “It’s like a river, running wherever the current takes it. You can’t count the years, you simply move with the ripples and rapids.”
For once, I had no idea what Vida was talking about. In fact, I figured that she’d succumbed to some romantic influence under her recently acquired suitor, Buck Bardeen. Buck was the brother of Henry Bardeen, the ski-lodge manager. Colonel Bardeen was
Vaguely, I recalled my own euphoric feeling as I crossed Front Street. “You left the salon through the front door?” I asked, wishing I’d been more observant.
“Sure,” Becca replied. “That’s the only way out. The rear entrance is always locked, except when the deliveries come.”
I was trying to conjure up the scene on Front Street during my two-block trek between
The Advocate
and Stella’s. “You didn’t see anyone unusual when you went to the Burger Barn?”
Becca laughed again. “Unusual? In Alpine? I saw Crazy Eights Neffel, wearing a sombrero and mukluks. Does that count?”
It didn’t in Alpine. Crazy Eights was our local loon. His antics weren’t worth much, even for Vida’s gossipy “Scene Around Town” column.
Vida put both hands on the frayed arms of the chair and got up. “You’ve been very helpful, Becca. We both thank you. Would you like a ride to the Grocery Basket?”
Becca preferred to walk. She said she needed the exercise. “Usually, I work out at the gym next door,” she explained. “But tonight—well, I was still kind of disturbed. You know what I mean?”
Unfortunately, Vida and I did.
“Becca’s wrong,” Vida asserted as we headed down First Street to
The Advocate,
where my Jag was still parked. “There are other ways to leave the salon. And thus, to enter it.”
“You mean through Sky Travel or the medical supply place?” I said, noting that the snow was getting thicker again.
“Exactly,” Vida agreed as we passed the darkened public library. “Not to mention the foyer door. If you use the stairs entrance instead of the elevator, you can get into the rear of the building. The law office and the rest of the tenants on the other floors have their own rest rooms, but that wasn’t always so. Besides, they still have to come down to take their deliveries out back on Pine Street.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “In other words,” I said slowly, “almost anybody could have come in that way without being noticed.”
Vida nodded. The rumpled derby stayed in place and I absently wondered if she’d be able to set it right again. “You were going to Stella’s about the time that the killer must have gone into the building. Unless, of course, he or she had been hiding out someplace inside. What—or who—did you see?”
We were passing the post office and the forest service offices. At the next corner and across Front Streetloomed the solid if unimpressive granite bulk of the Clemans Building. As we kept moving I also saw the Skykomish County sheriff’s headquarters. The lights were on and Milo’s Cherokee Chief was still in its usual spot. It was now covered with new snow. Milo was probably covered in confusion, as well as paperwork.
“I didn’t see a damned thing,” I finally admitted. “I was thinking about Emma Lord, Free Woman.”
“Oh, dear.” Vida stopped for the red light at Front and Fourth. “Well, I’m not going to offer advice.”
Of course Vida already had. Having met Tom Cavanaugh four years earlier, she had developed what I now considered an inexplicable affection for him. With a complete disregard for her usual hardheaded common sense, Vida had decided that Tommy, as she called him, and I were made for each other. In early January, when I’d first told her of my irrevocable decision to move on with my life, Vida had insisted I was being hasty. It was useless to remind her that I’d waited over twenty years for Tom to leave Sandra. “Life’s not a measuring stick,” she’d declared. “It’s like a river, running wherever the current takes it. You can’t count the years, you simply move with the ripples and rapids.”
For once, I had no idea what Vida was talking about. In fact, I figured that she’d succumbed to some romantic influence under her recently acquired suitor, Buck Bardeen. Buck was the brother of Henry Bardeen, the ski-lodge manager. Colonel Bardeen was
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