Long Time Gone (20 page)

“What?” she asked when she caught me staring at her.

“If someone had a manicure and pedicure on Wednesday, would they need another one on Friday?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t,” Mel responded.

“Raelene Landreth told me she left work on Wednesday, the day Elvira died, and went to have her regular mani-pedi, as she put it. So either poor old Tom is out of the loop when it comes to Raelene’s schedule or she was lying through her teeth about what she did that day.”

Raelene pulled out her phone. “I have an idea,” she said. “Why don’t I call down to Gene Juarez and ask them?”

“Good idea.”

Mel was smooth as glass. Claiming to be an old chum, Mel confirmed that Raelene was finished with her pedicure and was having her manicure. “No,” Mel said, “don’t bother giving her a message. I want this to be a surprise.” Turning off her phone, Mel looked at me. “So chances are she did lie about Wednesday. Are we going to go talk to her or not?”

“I thought I was taking you back to your car.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “We’re almost to the 520 Bridge. If we leave from here right now, maybe we can catch her.”

The Landreth house was just off Eighty-fourth and close to the bridge. From there I knew it couldn’t be more than fifteen miles to downtown Seattle, but it was a rainy Friday afternoon with a Sonics game scheduled at KeyArena. In other words, traffic was a mess. As we worked our way toward the freeway entrance, Mel was silent for some time.

“How come he could remember the phone call but didn’t know Elvira and Wink were dead?” Mel asked. “Or was he lying about that?”

“I don’t think he was lying,” I said. “I think what Elvira told him pushed the man so far over the edge that he drank himself into a stupor. I know from the Seattle PD reports that the officers who came to the Landreth house that evening stated that they spoke to both Raelene and Tom.”

“They remember, but he doesn’t?” Mel asked.

“Blackout, maybe?” I suggested.

“Oh,” Mel said, nodding. “Of course.”

That was all she said, but I read in her acknowledgment that she and I both knew what we were talking about.

“Will Tom Landreth remember our talking to him today?”

“Considering how much scotch he was stowing away, he may not.”

“So why would Raelene Landreth stay with such a loser?” Mel asked. “When you first told me about Raelene Landreth, it sounded like she had something on the ball. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Raelene told me Tom and Elvira were close,” I explained. “That Tom was like a son to her. It’s possible that if Raelene had booted Tom out of the house, Elvira might have sent her packing from her job at the foundation. That would have left Raelene with no husband—however lame—no job, and no status in the community.”

“Just like someone else I know,” Mel muttered. I wondered what she meant, but before I could ask she continued. “Were Tom and Elvira close enough that he might be a beneficiary under her will?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“If he is, and as long as they’re still married, then Raelene benefits as well. So we’ll need to check that.”

“We?” I asked.

“You did ask me along, didn’t you?” she demanded.

“Well, yes, but…”

“No buts,” she said. “You may be allergic to having a partner, but I’m here and I’m not a silent partner, so get used to it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. And then we both laughed.

We were inching our way across the bridge when my phone rang. I tossed it to Mel so she could answer. “Hi, Barbara,” she said. “He’s driving. And since he’s a man, it’s probably just as well that he doesn’t try doing two things at once. What do you have for him?”

When Barbara Galvin finished speaking, Mel held the phone away from her ear. “The phone company info on Tom Landreth’s number just came in. She wants to know if you need it right now or if it can wait until Monday?”

“Have her look at Wednesday,” I told her. “We need a list of any numbers Tom Landreth may have called after three forty-five that afternoon.”

There was silence in the car for several minutes while I drove and Mel scribbled telephone numbers into the notebook I handed her.

“Now,” I said, “check those numbers against the ones listed on the page with Raelene Landreth’s number on it.”

“Bingo,” Mel said. “At four-ten there’s a call from the Landreth residence to the one you have down as Raelene’s cell phone.”

“There you go,” I said. “Lie number two. By four-ten Raelene knows Elvira is about to pull the plug on the foundation. She told me nothing out of the ordinary happened on Wednesday afternoon, but finding out your job is about to disappear can’t be counted as nothing.”

I had barely put the phone away when it rang again. Mel answered, spoke briefly, and then handed it over to me. “Wendy Dryer,” she said. “From the crime lab. Says she’ll speak only to you.”

Wendy Dryer wasn’t nearly as cordial as she had been earlier. “I don’t like it when people play games with me,” she snarled.

“Games,” I repeated innocently. “I’m not playing any games.”

“But I’ll bet you’ve seen Elvira Marchbank’s autopsy report.”

“No,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t. It wasn’t in yet when I went by Seattle PD to pick up my material last night. Why?”

“Because there was an unexplained bruise in the middle of her back, right between her shoulder blades,” Wendy said. “They thought maybe she had landed on the newel at the bottom of the banister, but you already knew better than that, didn’t you, Beau. You just had to be cute.”

“I’m anything but cute. What are you talking about?”

“So I checked the back of the dress Elvira was wearing when she died, and what did I find? Tennis-ball fibers. What a surprise. So if the murder weapon was a tennis ball, maybe you’d like to speculate if she was killed by a forehand stroke or a backhand.”

“It was a walker,” I said. “The tennis balls were on the bottom of Wink Winkler’s walker. I thought he had been to the house, but I wasn’t sure and I had no idea he might be the one who killed her.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Wendy said. “It was just a lucky guess. Captain Kramer wasn’t in when I called his office to pass along this information, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him once he’s aware of the situation. He’ll be as interested in your pet theories as I am.”

And then she hung up.

“That sounded bad,” Mel said when I got off the phone.

“It is. Kramer’s detectives are working the Marchbank and Winkler cases. He’ll go ballistic once he finds out I’m still nosing around in them, and now the crime lab is mad at me, too.”

“That’s no problem,” Mel replied. “All we have to do is find out what happened before he does.”

It was almost five-thirty by the time we hit Sixth Avenue. Heading northbound, I crossed Pine and pulled into the valet parking line beside Nordstrom. I gave the attendant twenty bucks for him to keep the car on the street, then Mel and I walked over to Gene Juarez. When we stepped off the elevator, the lady at the check-in desk gave us the bad news.

“Oh,” she said to Mel when we asked about Raelene Landreth. “I’ll bet you’re the one who was looking for her earlier. I’m sorry to say you just missed her.”

My phone rang again. I expected it to be Kramer, ready to tear me to pieces, but it wasn’t. It was Beverly.

“Oh, good,” she said when I answered. “Where are you? Will you be here soon? Lars and I are down in the lobby waiting, so you won’t have to come all the way up to the room.”

Damn! I had forgotten the dinner arrangement. Traffic was a mess. Taking Mel back to the office in Bellevue and returning to Queen Anne Gardens before dinner was over just wasn’t an option. “Can I get back to you in a minute?”

“You’re not planning on standing us up, are you?” she warned.

“No, Beverly,” I reassured her. “I’ll call you right back.”

“When the desk answers, tell them we’re waiting over by the piano.”

“What’s that all about?” Mel asked.

“Dinner,” I answered. “I’m supposed to be having dinner with my grandparents tonight, at their assisted-living place up on Queen Anne Hill. The problem is, I forgot about it.”

“Is this the same grandmother who crocheted your afghan?” Mel asked.

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a neat lady.”

“Beverly and Lars eat in the dining room,” I said. “So it probably wouldn’t be a problem if you came along. But if you’d rather go straight home, I understand. I’ll be glad to call you a cab.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to meet your grandparents,” Mel said. “It’ll be fun.”

I called Beverly right back. “I have someone with me at the moment,” I said. “Would you mind if I brought her along—to dinner, I mean?”

“Heavens no,” Beverly said. “You’d better warn her, though. We’re just plain folks here. The food won’t be anything fancy.”

The food was fine. Dinner was one of those life-changing events that sneak up on you when you least expect it. Beverly may have been one day out of the hospital and stuck in a wheelchair, but she was in rare form. The surprise she had promised was a small wedding photo album that Scott and Cherisse had put together and sent off via FedEx from their honeymoon in Hawaii. Going through the photos gave Beverly a chance to tell Mel everything she knew about the whole family—about Scott and Cherisse as well as Kelly, Jeremy, and Kayla, my only grandchild. She also did a comic routine about how Dave Livingston was my first wife’s second husband. All Lars and I could do was sit on the sidelines and listen.

For her part, Mel was a good sport. She listened politely, laughed when appropriate, and asked interested questions. When Beverly’s dissertation ended, she snapped the album shut and then beamed at Melissa Soames.

“Well, now,” she asked us, “how long have you two been dating? Don’t waste too much time. Men aren’t very good at being alone,” she added. “I understand they live a lot longer if they’re married.”

I was flabbergasted! Floored! I had no idea what to say. Mel looked at me and grinned that impossible grin of hers. “Sometime after he gets around to asking me, I suppose,” she said.

With that, she leaned over, gave Beverly a grazing kiss on the cheek, and then added, “Thanks so much for dinner. We’d better be going.”

Lars followed us out to the car. I was seething. I didn’t say a word until after I had let Mel into the Taurus and closed the door.

“What in the world was Beverly thinking?” I wondered.

Lars simply shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes,” he said philosophically, “it’s better if you yust give in and do as she says.”

“Y
OU
’
RE UPSET,
” Mel said as we started back down Queen Anne Hill.

“I’m sorry Beverly did that,” I said. “It was completely out of line.”

“It was cute,” Mel returned. “Your grandmother has your best interests at heart.”

“Maybe so, but if I were ever going to marry again, I’m perfectly capable of wife-hunting on my own.”

“So you’ve ruled out remarrying?” Mel asked.

Without seeing it coming, I had suddenly been maneuvered into one of those hopeless trick questions—the old “Do I look fat in this?” ploy. It was time to tread very gingerly.

“Pretty much,” I said. “My life is fine the way it is.”

After an unbearably pregnant pause, Mel said, “Oh.” And then later she added, “In that case you should probably take me back to the office so I can get my car.”

As the silence between us lengthened, I could see that one way or the other I had screwed up. Mel’s feelings seemed to be hurt. Obviously, and as usual, I was at fault. Had I somehow led her on? On previous occasions I had spoken to her with an uncharacteristic candor. Now I could think of nothing to say. Or do. Were her feelings hurt because she
was
interested in me? That seemed unlikely. She had always been friendly enough, but I hadn’t seen anything that bordered on romantic interest. Yes, she had readily agreed to come along when I invited her to accompany me on my questioning excursion with Tom Landreth, but I thought that was because she was interested in helping me with my case, just as I would be in helping with one of hers. After all, we are on the same team.

That’s the funny thing about women. You say one thing—at least you think that’s what you’ve done—and it turns out they’ve turned it into a whole different conversation.

Mel remained silent until I pulled up next to her Beemer in the parking garage. “What time is Elvira’s service tomorrow?” she asked.

“In the afternoon—two
P.M.
, I believe. Saint Mark’s Cathedral. Why?”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want company?” she asked. “If you get a chance to talk to Raelene after the funeral and want someone along, I suppose I could help out.”

That’s another thing that’s so baffling about women. You don’t know where you stand with them. If Mel was mad at me—if I had hurt her feelings—why would she be willing to help me out?

“That would be nice,” I said. “Would you like me to come pick you up?”

“No. I think I can locate Saint Mark’s Cathedral on my own,” she said. “I am a detective, after all.”

She got out of my car and walked to her own. I was going to drive away, but then, at the last minute, I decided to go upstairs and pick up the remainder of the phone company information. Barbara had said she’d leave it in my in-box. The office was empty, but the lights were on. I grabbed the envelope and headed back out. To my surprise, Mel’s car was still in the parking lot, next to mine. She got out of the car as soon as I walked up.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” Mel said. “For making a fool of myself. Just because I’m interested in you doesn’t mean the reverse is true. I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t mean that it isn’t true, either,” I said. “Let’s just say having my grandmother initiate the proceedings left me more than slightly speechless.”

“Oh,” she said again. “Okay then. See you tomorrow.” And off she went, leaving me to drive home in a state of complete mystification.

In Belltown Terrace, the P-1 parking level is public parking. The gate for that is open daytime hours on weekdays but closed evenings and weekends. Residents have clickers that allow them to open that gate as well as the one at the far end of the P-1 level, which gives access to the lower parking levels that contain the reserved spots for residents.

I pulled into my spot, shut off the lights, and opened the door. As soon as I did, a figure emerged from behind a car two spots away.

“Uncle Beau?”

“Heather!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” she said. “I need to talk.”

It was cold in the garage. When I got close enough to her, I could see she was shivering. She looked disheveled. And scared. I stifled all the things I wanted to say to her, like: “Where the hell have you been?” “What were you thinking?” and “Do you realize your parents are worried sick?” I didn’t have to ask how she had gotten into the building. Obviously she had dodged inside before the gate closed behind some entering or departing vehicle. Once in and by staying hidden behind a parked vehicle, she had remained out of range of Belltown Terrace’s scanning security cameras and the watchful eyes of the doorman.

“Come on,” I said wearily. “Let’s go upstairs and get you warm.”

It wasn’t until we were inside the elevator lobby that I saw the bruising on her face. “What happened?” I asked.

She bit her swollen lip. Tears welled in her eyes. “I ran away,” she said.

This was hardly news. “I know,” I said.

She shook her head. Her hennaed hair was knotted and bedraggled. “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. I ran away from Dillon.”

“Is he the one who hit you?”

Heather nodded. “He wanted me to go with him,” she said. “To Canada. He said we had to leave right then, and that as soon as we crossed the border, no one would be able to put me in jail. I asked him why I would go to jail. I didn’t do anything. And I told him I didn’t want to go. It’s all right for Dillon. He’s got family there—well, his father anyway. But my family is here in Seattle—Dad and Mom, Tracy and Jared.”

We reached my floor and stepped off the elevator. I was so full of righteous indignation that I could barely speak. In fact, it took all the self-control I could muster to manage the key and unlock the door. I held the door open for her and turned on the lights. She bolted for the window seat and wrapped herself in Beverly’s afghan. It enveloped her completely, like a gigantic, comforting cape.

A note had been slipped under my door saying there was a package waiting for me at the doorman’s desk. Tossing the note aside, I settled into my recliner and gave Heather plenty of space.

“How did it happen?” I asked. In the state I was in, that was all I trusted myself to say, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer. It’s been my experience that domestic-violence victims always assume that whatever befalls them is somehow their fault. Heather was only fifteen, but she was no exception to that rule.

“I shouldn’t have made him so mad,” Heather said.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

She shrugged. “We argued,” she said. “As soon as we left the house and he told me where we were going, I told him I didn’t want to go. Dillon told me he had just talked to one of the detectives, a female detective…”

“Mel Soames,” I interjected.

Heather nodded. “That’s the one. Dillon said that she was planning on talking to me next, and I said I’d be glad to talk to her. But he wouldn’t bring me back, Uncle Beau. And he wouldn’t stop the car so I could get out. We argued all the way to Bellingham. When Dillon stopped for gas, I started to open the door and leave. That’s when he hit me.”

She touched her bruised lip tentatively as though still unable to believe what had happened. I remembered Dillon Middleton puffing out his chest and saying he’d be there for Heather no matter what—the arrogant little shit!

“So he backhanded you,” I said.

Heather nodded again. “And I stayed in the car the whole time he was getting gas. I couldn’t believe it had happened. But it had. I was seeing stars. My lip was bleeding. I was so…so shocked…that I couldn’t even move. I just sat there like I was frozen or something.”

“Did anybody see what happened or try to help you?”

“It was dark,” Heather said. “And there weren’t many cars at the gas station. I don’t think anyone noticed.”

“What happened then?”

“I was scared. I mean, Dillon’s been jealous sometimes—especially if I talked to another guy or something—but never anything like that. I knew I had to get away from him. I thought that maybe when he went inside to pay for the gas, I’d be able to jump out of the car and run for it, but he never went inside. Instead, he used one of those pay-at-pump things.”

“He used a credit card?” I asked.

“His mother’s,” Heather said with a nod. “She’s got plenty of money, and she doesn’t seem to mind how much he charges.”

Right,
I thought.
Give the kid everything he wants. As long as he stays out of her way and life, she can ship him money from a distance. That’s a surefire way to create a relatively useless human being. But credit-card trails are excellent when it comes to tracking down someone on the run.

“What gas station?” I asked.

“A Chevron, I think,” Heather replied. “But I don’t remember for sure.”

It took conscious effort on my part to keep from reaching for my notebook. “What happened after that?” I asked.

“We drove on up to Blaine. I sat as far away from him as I could. There was a long line at the border, waiting to get through customs. While we were stopped in line, I opened the door, jumped out, and ran away. He got out of line to come after me, but I managed to make it into one of the rest rooms in the park. I heard him calling for me, but I didn’t come out. When they came around to lock up the rest room for the night, I climbed up on one of the toilets so they didn’t see me. I stayed there the rest of the night and most of today. I didn’t start hitchhiking home until it was dark enough that people wouldn’t notice my face.”

The thought of Heather hitchhiking alone in the dark down the I-5 corridor made my blood run cold. She’s much too young to have lived through the era of a handsome psycho named Ted Bundy and to remember the awful things he did to the unfortunate young women who happened to cross his path. I remember Bundy’s crimes all too well.

“But is it true that detective is looking for me?” Heather was asking. “Does she really think I shot Rosemary?”

“She needs to talk to you,” I hedged. “But just because she wants to interview you doesn’t automatically mean you’re a suspect.”

“But I could be.”

“Whether you are or aren’t a suspect is really beside the point here, Heather,” I said. “What we need to do is call your folks and let them know you’re safe. They’re both worried sick.”

“No,” Heather said. “I don’t want to call them.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’ll just tell me they told me so. Especially Dad. About Dillon, I mean. Dad told me Dillon was trouble the first time he met him. I thought he was just being…well…Dad. I mean, isn’t that what fathers usually do?”

“Just because your father was right is no reason not to call him,” I said. “Your parents need to know where you are. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to go home. There’s that place down on First Avenue, the one that’s a shelter for homeless teenagers.”

“Heather,” I said, “you’re not homeless. You have two wonderful parents. They both love you. They want the best for you. That’s why they took such an instant dislike to Dillon. They didn’t think he had your best interests at heart. From where I’m standing, I’d say they were right to be concerned. But you can’t cut them out of your life. Parents are bound to be right some of the time.”

Heather began to cry. “But I’m embarrassed,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Because Dillon beat you up?” I asked. “Or is there some other reason?”

“You mean like am I pregnant or something?” she asked.

The thought had crossed my mind. “Yes,” I said.

“Well, I’m not!” Heather declared defiantly. “I’m on the pill, if you must know.”

Pill or no pill, I was relieved to hear she wasn’t pregnant.

“I’m guessing Amy didn’t get them for you,” I said.

“You’re right,” Heather said. “Molly got them for me. She said she didn’t want anything bad to happen.”

“How very thoughtful of her,” I said.

“I couldn’t talk to Dad about it,” Heather said. “He wouldn’t have understood.”

Neither did I.

“Well,” I said. “No matter what, we still have to call your parents. Whether or not you go home is up to you and them, but you have to let them know you’re safe. You owe them that much.”

“All right,” Heather conceded at last. “Go ahead and call.”

So I did. Ron picked up the phone on the first ring. That was hardly surprising. Had I been in his position, I would have been sitting by the telephone, too. I didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Heather’s here with me,” I said. “She showed up a little while ago, and she’s fine.”

Ron’s answer took me aback. “No,” he said. “We still haven’t heard from her. We’re pretty worried.”

I thought maybe I hadn’t spoken clearly enough. Or maybe the call had broken up.

“I said, Heather’s here,” I repeated, speaking a little louder this time. “She’s fine. Do you want me to bring her home or do you or Amy want to come get her?”

“No,” he said. “That isn’t necessary. I appreciate the offer, but we’ve had about all the company we can stand.”

I felt like I was watching a movie where the soundtrack is a minute or two out of sync with the visual images. Ron’s disjointed responses seemed to have nothing at all to do with what I was saying. I was about to repeat myself for a third time when it finally dawned on me that the problem wasn’t my hearing or his. Something was wrong at Ron and Amy’s house. Ron was trying to warn me by speaking in a form of code.

When Ron Peters and I worked as partners for Seattle PD, we knew each other so well that we could almost read each other’s mind. It happens that way when you’re chasing bad guys and your life depends on knowing in advance what your partner is likely to say or do. But Ron and I hadn’t worked together that way for years, and I wasn’t sure what he was telling me.

“I’ll keep her here with me then,” I said. “She’ll be safe.”

“Good,” Ron responded. “That’ll be great.”

There was no code-breaking technology necessary to translate that last statement. The relief in his voice was readily apparent. Whatever was going on at Ron and Amy’s house, Ron wanted Heather kept as far away from the action as possible.