Joanna Ridley appeared in a doorway behind him, wearing a flowing blue caftan. Her eyes were swollen, and she wore no trace of makeup. She looked haggard, as though she hadn’t slept well, either. 'It’s all right, Daddy,' she said. 'I’ll see them.'
The old man stepped to one side, allowing us to enter the house. The living room was filled with nine or ten people, all of them involved in various conversations that ceased as Joanna led us through the gathering to a small study that opened off the living room. She closed the door behind us, effectively shutting out the group of mourners gathered to comfort her.
'Mrs. Ridley, this is my partner, Detective Ron Peters. We brought along a form we need you to sign so we can search your husband’s car.' I extracted the folded form from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. I watched as her eyes skimmed the lines.
'It’ll save us the time and effort of getting a search warrant,' I explained.
A scatter of pens and pencils lay on the desk. Without hesitation, she put the paper on the desk, located a pen that worked, and scrawled her name across the bottom of the form.
'Will that do?' she asked, handing it back to me.
'For a start. We also need to ask some questions, if you don’t mind.' She took the chair behind the desk. Peters and I sat on a couch facing her. With determined effort, Joanna Ridley managed to retain her composure.
'To begin with, you told me yesterday that, as far as you knew, your husband had no drug or gambling connections. Had you noticed anything unusual in your husband’s patterns? Any threats? What about money difficulties?'
She shook her head in answer to each question.
'Any unusual telephone calls, things he might not have shared with you?'
There was the slightest flicker of something in Joanna’s expression, a momentary waver, before she once more shook her head. A detective lives and dies by his wits and by his powers of observation. There was enough of a change in her expression that I noted it, but there was no clue, no hint, as to what lay behind it. I tried following up in the same vein, hoping for some sort of clarification.
'Anyone with a grudge against him?'
This time, when she answered, her face remained totally impassive. 'Not that I know of.'
'How long had you two been married?' Peters asked.
'Fifteen years.' Peters’ question came from left field. It moved away from the murder and into the personal, into the mire of Joanna Ridley’s private loss and grief. She blinked back tears.
'And this is your first child?'
She swallowed. 'We tried, for a long time. The doctors said we’d never have children.'
'How long did your husband teach at Mercer Island?'
She took a deep breath. 'Twelve years. He taught social studies at Franklin before that. He was assistant basketball coach at Mercer Island for eight years, head coach for the last two.'
'Didn’t they win state last year?' Peters asked. 'Seems like I remember reading that.'
Peters’ memory never fails to impress me. He impressed Joanna Ridley, too.
She gave him a bittersweet smile. 'That’s true, but people said it was only a holdover from the previous year, the previous coach. Darwin wanted to do it again this year so he could prove…' She stopped abruptly, unable to continue.
'I know this is painful for you,' Peters sympathized. 'But it’s important that we put all the pieces together. You told Detective Beaumont here that you last saw your husband Friday morning at breakfast?'
She nodded. 'That’s right.'
'You didn’t go to the game?'
'I don’t like basketball.'
'You didn’t attend his games?'
'Our work lives were separate. I stayed away from his career, and he stayed away from mine.'
'What do you do?'
'I’m a flight attendant for United. On maternity leave.'
'Joanna,' I cut in, 'something you said last night has been bothering me, something about crossing a line. What did you mean?'
Joanna Ridley was not a practiced liar. She hesitated for only the briefest moment, but caution and wariness were evident in her answer. 'Blacks go only so far before they hit the wall. It was okay to come from Rainier Valley and go to Mercer Island as assistant coach, but not head coach.'
'There were problems, racial problems?'
'Some.'
'And you think your husband’s death may be racially motivated.'
'Don’t you?' she asked in return.
I could tell she was concealing something, hiding what she really meant behind her curt answers, her troubled gaze. Finally, biting her lip, she dropped her eyes and sat looking down at the bulge of baby in her lap.
At last she looked back up at us. 'Is that all?' she asked. 'My guests are waiting.'
It wasn’t all. It was a hell of a long way from being all, but we had reached an impasse, a place beyond which progress was impossible until Peters and I had more to go on.
'For the time being,' I said, rising. Peters followed. I handed her my card. 'Here’s my name and numbers. Call if you remember something else you think we need to know.'
She took it from my hand and dropped it onto the desk without looking at it. Her expression said that I shouldn’t hold my breath.
When she made no offer to get up, I said, 'We can find our way out.'
She nodded, and we left.
'We said something that pissed her off,' Peters mused as we climbed into the car. 'I don’t know exactly what it was.'
'She lied,' I told him.
'I know, but why?'
'There must have been phone calls, or at least, one call. And then later, when I asked her about what she said last night. That was all a smoke screen.'
Peters nodded. 'I thought as much.'
There was a brief silence in the car. In my mind’s eye I played back the entire conversation, trying to recall each nuance, every inflection. Peters was doing the same thing.
'Something else bothered me,' Peters said.
'What’s that?'
'The part about her not going to the games, not liking basketball.'
'Karen wasn’t wild about homicide,' I said. 'Wives aren’t required to adore whatever it is their husbands do.'
'Point taken. So what now? Run a routine check on her?'
'Sounds reasonable.'
'By the way,' Peters added, 'how come you didn’t mention she was pregnant last night?'
'Didn’t I?'
'No.'
'I must be getting old. The mind’s going.'
Peters chuckled, and there was another short silence. 'I hope she’s not the one,' he said at last. 'She seems like such a nice lady.'
'Appearances can be deceiving,' I said.
I felt Peters’ sharp, appraising look. 'Ain’t that the truth!' he said.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Anne Corley had taught me that much.
In spades.
CHAPTER 7
