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much, do you?”
    “Sometimes,” I said dryly.
    “I can't say as I blame you, with her around.” Olive paused again, then turned back to Vida. “I'm not sure where Kendra—the daughter, such a crazy name—lives. With her parents, I suppose.”
    “Her parents?” I echoed, proving that I really could come up with something on my own.
    Olive nodded, seemingly pleased at the surprise she'd created. “That's right. Carol gave her baby up for adoption. She never seemed interested in what happened to her kiddy until she heard from Kendra a few months ago. Then Carol started asking me questions, but what did I know after the arrangements were made? Then Carol and Kendra got together, and Carol brought her over to meet me and show her off. Believe me, it was a rare visit. Carol usually paid no attention to her widowed aunt.”
    “Was Ronnie with them?” Vida asked.
    Olive shook her head. “No, but Kendra complained about him, always hanging around and being a pest.”
    “When was this?” I asked.
    “Oh—a month or so ago,” Olive replied. “The next thing I knew, Carol had gotten herself killed. It was in the paper, so was the obituary. I didn't go to the funeral, though. I had stomach flu.” Olive's annoyed expressionindicated she was sorry to have missed such a dramatic event.
    “Do you know who handled the funeral arrangements?” Vida inquired.
    Again, Olive shook her head. “It wouldn't be that Ronnie. He wouldn't have enough sense. Maybe Kendra, along with her parents. Their name is Addison. I think they live near Green Lake.”
    “Do you have an address?” Vida asked.
    Another shake of the head from Olive. “If Kendra is like the rest of the young people nowadays, I wouldn't expect to hear from her again. Especially not now, with Carol dead.”
    Grudgingly, Vida admitted that was so. “Did you keep the news story about Carol's murder?” she asked.
    “As a matter of fact,” Olive said, picking up what looked like a daybook stuffed full of clippings and letters, “I did.” A glance showed lengthy obits with names like Skylstad and Nygaard and Lundquist. I suspected that Olive kept a record of her world in that dog-eared book. “You want to see it?” she asked.
    Vida said she did. When she had finished the two-inch article, she handed it to me. It contained the bare facts, that Carol Stokes, thirty-four, had been found dead in her Greenwood-area apartment, and that her alleged boyfriend, Ronnie Mallett, thirty-five, was being held for questioning.
    “Here,” Olive said, giving Vida another clipping. “You might as well read this, too.”
    We both did. The second story was equally brief, relating that Ronnie had been charged with second-degree homicide and was being held in jail, awaiting a trial date.
    Vida returned the article to Olive, then stood up. “Thank you. You've been somewhat helpful.”
    “Hunh,” said Olive, also rising from her chair. “That'smy middle name. You'd have thought Carol'd be more grateful after all these years.”
    “Yes?” Vida said.
    “She came here when she was expecting,” Olive said, her face suddenly showing its age. “By here, I mean to Burt and me in Seattle when we lived in Crown Hill. Carol stayed with us until she had the baby. We were the ones who helped her arrange the adoption through my doctor. I had some fibroids in my uterus that had to be taken out. Then, after all we'd done, she took off and never came 'round again until she was getting married to that Marty Stokes. I figured she wanted a big present out of us. The next thing we knew, she divorced him. Carol shows up again, broke and with no job. We helped her some more. Real saps, Burt and I were. But then we never had kids of our own. Probably because of those fibroids. Six, seven years went by, not a peep out of her until Burt died. She did come to the memorial service, I'll say that. Maybe she thought he left her money. He didn't. The next thing I know, she comes around, asking about the