Long Time Gone

CHAPTER 18

Whenyou hear about “Lone Ranger cops,” you’re usually hearing about young cops-ambitious ones. By the time cops get to be my age, Lone Ranger cops have either wised up or are dead. There’s not much middle ground.

With my unfortunate track record with partners, when I joined SHIT, the ability to work solo had been high on my list of requirements, but working solo is fine only up to a point, and working without backup is downright stupid. Needing to enlist some help, I went prowling through the office.

A glance at the duty roster at midafternoon on this January Friday told me that Mel Soames and I were the only Special Homicide investigators still in the office. Mel wasn’t my first choice for this little ride-along, and not because she isn’t a good cop. My reluctance had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

I’m still carrying a lot of emotional baggage from losing Sue Danielson in her tiny Fremont apartment. Her death may not have been my fault but, in my book, it was still my responsibility. Her ex-husband was the one who actually pulled the trigger. Rationally I know I didn’t cause Sue’s death. The problem is, I didn’t prevent it either. If only I had arrived on the scene a few minutes earlier…If onlyIhad been smart enough to figure out what was going on…An endless supply of woulda, coulda, shoulda litanies plague my late-night hours. I drag out of bed the next morning groggy and sleep-deprived, but the outcome is always the same: I’m alive, and Sue Danielson is dead.

Heading out to interview a possible homicide suspect, I was reluctant to put Mel Soames into a life-or-death situation. What if some blunder on my part put Mel at risk? Still, I didn’t have much choice. When I tapped on her door, she turned down her radio. “Come in,” she said. “What’s up?”

“Care to take a trip?”

“What kind of trip?”

“The bulletproof vest kind,” I told her.

“You bet,” she said with a grin, and reached for her small-of-back holster, which was hanging on the back of her chair. “Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all day.”

By the time we pulled up in front of Tom and Raelene Landreth’s place in Medina, I had briefed Mel on everything I knew.

“So you suspect Elvira’s death wasn’t accidental after all and you think Landreth may have had something to do with it?”

“That’s one possible scenario,” I said. “Raelene said Elvira treated Tom like a long-lost son, so maybe he’s in line to inherit.”

“Sounds possible,” Mel agreed. “Even sounds like motive.”

“We’ll see,” I said. “Once we talk to him.”

If you live in the Seattle area, the word “Medina” conjures an image of palatial mansions spilling over steep lakeside bluffs and wandering down to the water. It’s where many of Seattle’s elite meet and greet. It’s also where Bill and Melinda Gates have their sprawling family compound.

I may live in a downtown penthouse condo now, but in my heart I’m still a poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Ballard. My mother struggled every day to keep things together. She stretched our meager budget by sewing her own clothing and mine as well. All my classmates’ shirts came from places like JCPenney or Monkey Ward. Mine were homemade, a telling difference that made me the butt of countless schoolyard jokes. The sense of inadequacy that grew out of those years is still a visible chip on my shoulder.

When I pulled up in front of Raelene and Tom Landreth’s place in Medina, I was prepared to be intimidated. The house, a large two-story affair with faded cedar-shingle siding and two separate wings, was set in the middle of a huge hedge-lined lot. A big Dodge Ram Diesel hauling a trailer full of lawn equipment was parked outside. One guy was raking fallen leaves and branches while another gave the hedge a dead-level flattop. A third was blowing debris off the front porch and sidewalk. He nodded in acknowledgment as Mel and I stepped onto the porch and rang the bell.

Although the yard swarmed with landscape workers, the house itself seemed almost deserted. Drapes were still drawn and no interior lights were visible. For a long time after the bell sounded, no one answered. Mel and I were about to leave when I heard a muttering from inside.

“I’m coming. I’m coming. Hold your horses.” Seconds later the door was flung open by an unkempt man wearing a frayed woolen bathrobe and a pair of worn Romeos. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.”

I produced my wallet and ID and handed it over. “I’m J. P. Beaumont,” I explained as he peered at it through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “This is my associate, Melissa Soames. We’re with the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. We’re looking for Tom Landreth.”

“That’s me,” he mumbled. “Did you say homicide? Whaddya want?”

I had known Tom Landreth was about three years older than his first wife, but compared with the quiet-spoken, dignified Faye, this guy appeared to be a loudmouthed, doddering old man. He was also a drunk.

They say it takes one to know one. I knew Tom Landreth was a drunk the moment he opened the door. I knew it even before I saw the beaker-sized glass of scotch-scotch with no ice-that he held in one hand. There was booze in his hand, booze on his breath, and booze leaking out of his pores. When people in AA meetings talk about “drinking and stinking,” they aren’t kidding. Poor Tom Landreth was a textbook case.

“We’d like to talk to you about Madeline Marchbank,” I said.

Tom staggered back on his heels. He might have fallen over backward if Mel hadn’t reached out, grabbed his elbow, and steadied him. Once he regained his balance he shook off her hand and then glowered at me.

“Madeline? Whaddya want to know about her for?” he asked. “Been dead a long damned time. Who cares anymore?”

“That’s what we were wondering,” I said. “Who does care? Someone must. Mind if we come in?”

Reluctantly, Tom stepped aside and allowed us into what should have been a gracious living room. It wasn’t. The place was a wreck. A disorderly jumble of old newspapers, stacks of magazines, loose mail, and dirty dishes covered every flat surface. The dirty carpet was mostly invisible beneath heaps and mounds of unwashed clothing. Someone was willing to pay to maintain the outside appearance of the place and make it look as though it still belonged in this neighborhood. Inside, they didn’t bother to keep up the pretense.

Seemingly unaffected by the filth, Tom led us through the debris. He halfheartedly swiped some of the mess off a grimy couch, clearing a place for us to sit. I couldn’t help thinking about Faye Landreth in her tiny but immaculate downtown condo. And I thought about Raelene Landreth wearing her designer outfit and sitting behind her polished desk in the Marchbank Foundation office. There was nothing in the mess that looked as if it belonged to Raelene, making me wonder if she didn’t hole up in some other part of the house, as far away from her drunken husband as she could get.

Faye Landreth may have thought she had gotten the short end of the stick when Raelene moved in on her marriage, but right then-sitting on a dirty couch in that filthy living room-I knew that, no matter what the financial arrangements, Faye was better off than she would have been had she stuck it out.

Tom Landreth cleared off a nearby chair and dropped heavily onto it. Despite his inebriation, he managed this maneuver without spilling any of his scotch. Not only was he a drunk, he was a practiced drunk.

“Sorry about that-the mess, I mean,” he said after taking a long drink. “Cleaning lady quit, you know. Wife can’t seem to find another.” He slurred his words despite an obvious effort on his part to enunciate clearly. “What was it you want again?”

“To talk about Madeline Marchbank,” I said.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he muttered. “My father’s partner’s sister. Died young. Murdered. Tragic loss-tragic.” He took another drink. He tapped his foot. “Never solved, either,” he added.

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It was never solved.”

“So why’re you talking to me about it?”

“I believe the murder took place on your wedding day-the day you married your first wife.”

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I guess it did.”

“Two people involved in that case, Albert and Elvira Marchbank, were dropped from the list of suspects because detectives were told they had been in Canada attending your wedding.”

Tom Landreth frowned in wary concentration, the way drunks do when they know the conversation has gone too far but they’re too smashed to do anything but answer. “Right,” he said at last. “They were there all right, Albert and Elvira.”

“Who else was there?”

He stared at me dumbly.

“At the wedding,” I prodded. “Who else attended?”

“Well, Faye, of course,” he said. “And her parents.”

The bride and her parents. I gave the man credit for going for the obvious. “What about your grandparents?” I asked. “The Crosbys. Were they there?”

“My mother’s parents?” He looked puzzled. “I don’t remember. It was a long time ago, for chrissakes. More than fifty years.”

“You can’t remember if your grandparents were there, but you’re sure Albert and Elvira Marchbank were?”

Landreth stood up, swayed slightly, got his bearings, then lurched across the room. On the far side of the living room was a wet bar, the granite countertop littered with countless dead-soldier Dewar’s bottles standing at attention. He refilled his glass, took a drink, and then stared at me belligerently.

“They were there,” he declared. “That I do remember!”

“Good,” I said reassuringly. “Fine. I’m glad to hear it. Now, about Wednesday.”

“What about Wednesday?”

“Did you hear from Elvira that day?”

He blinked once before he answered as if sensing a trap. “No,” he said then. “Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’?” I asked. “You and Elvira were close, weren’t you? You’re sure she didn’t call you on Wednesday afternoon to tell you about her unexpected visitor?”

“No,” he repeated. “I don’t know anything about a visitor. No idea what you’re talking about.”

Had it been up to me, I probably would have left right then, but that was when Mel turned on the charm and went into action.

“Come on, Mr. Landreth,” she said. “You see, we already know about the phone call. We know that an eyewitness from that old case came to visit Elvira. I’m guessing she called to tell you-to warn you-that she had decided to do the right thing and turn herself in.”

Landreth stared at Mel. His mouth dropped open. “You’ve got no right to tap my phone. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

In his effort to be cagey, Landreth had tripped himself up. We had the phone records, but he had made the assumption that we had somehow heard what Elvira had said to him.

“So that is what she said?” Mel probed.

“I couldn’t believe she’d do such a thing,” Tom declared. “I asked her that-why after all these years? And do you know what she said? That she was going to dissolve the Marchbank Foundation and sell off all the assets-just like that. After all the work Raelene and I have done. Elvira said there was no point. That once people heard about what happened to Madeline, it would all be over anyway. We wouldn’t be able to raise another dime.”

“How would she go about doing that?” Mel asked. “Dissolving the foundation, I mean.”

“The board of directors would have to agree.”

“And they are?”

“Elvira, of course, myself, and a longtime friend of the family.”

“This longtime friend wouldn’t happen to be named William Winkler, would he?” I asked.

Tom looked at me balefully. “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “But no one calls him William. Dad always called him Wink. My father didn’t mind when the Marchbank name was the one that went on the foundation. Even though he and Albert were partners, that was the name of the company as well-Marchbank Broadcasting. But Dad was the one who insisted that Wink be on the board of directors. He said it was important to have someone impartial on it, someone who wasn’t directly involved.”

There was a television set in the room, but it wasn’t on, and the screen was half obscured by the junk piled high on a chair in front of it. And some of the newspapers scattered about were old enough to be turning yellow. I realized suddenly that Tom Landreth probably had no inkling that Wink Winkler was dead. It was possible he didn’t even know about Elvira.

“You know they’re dead, then, don’t you?” I asked.

“Who’s dead?” he asked. “I thought we were talking about Madeline. Of course I know she’s dead.”

“What about Elvira?”

“Elvira’s fine.”

“And Wink?”

“He’s fine, too.” Tom paused and frowned at me. “As far as I know. He is fine, isn’t he?”

“Mr. Landreth,” Mel said sympathetically. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Elvira Marchbank died in her home a short time after speaking to you on the phone on Wednesday. Not long after that, Mr. Winkler committed suicide.”

“No!” Tom exclaimed. “That can’t be right. Raelene would have said something. She would have told me.”

“What time does your wife come home?” Mel asked.

Tom looked at his watch and then shrugged. “Late,” he said.

“But you don’t know what time?”

“It depends.” He was wavering now-covering. Given the state of her home and husband, it seemed likely Raelene Landreth didn’t come home anymore at all.

“We’d like to speak to her again,” Mel said kindly. “It would help to clear up a few things. If you think she’ll be here soon, we could just wait until she arrives.”

“No,” Tom said. “That’s not a good idea. Wait a minute. What day is it?”

“Day?” Mel asked.

“What day of the week?”

“Friday,” Mel replied. “Why?”

“Friday is when she has her hair and nails done,” Tom declared, as if proud to be able to dredge up this little item of domestic trivia. “Three o’clock,” he added.“Gene Juarez, downtown.” He squinted at his watch-a Rolex. “If you hurry,” he said, “you might be able to catch her there.”

I stood up. “We’ll be going then, Mr. Landreth.” He started to lurch to his feet. “Don’t bother,” I told him. “We can find our way out.”

As we walked back to the car, something nagged at me, something Raelene had said. Back in the Taurus, I opened my notebook and scanned through it. And there it was. Raelene had told me about going for her “regular mani-pedi” after work. I glanced over at Mel, noticing for the first time that her nails gleamed with scarlet polish.

“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.”