looking at the list in the locker after Peters and I found it. She had known about it for sure since then, and maybe even before that. Why had she lied to Browning about when she found out, and what had made it so urgent?
'So what happened?' I urged impatiently.
'Go on.'
'She said if anyone else found out about it, it would be awful for everyone. She thought the best idea would be to get rid of it, both for the girls' sakes and for the men as well.'
'My, my, a concern for public relations. A little late for that, wouldn't you say?'
He frowned and said nothing. The waitress brought my food and set it in front of me. Browning stared miserably at my plate as though the very idea of food sickened him.
'So you got rid of it,' I commented after the waitress walked away. 'Pounded the locker to pieces. Right then or later?'
'Right then. She said she had a sledgehammer in the back of her pickup. I used that.'
'You used it. She didn't? Did she go with you?'
'No. She waited in my office while I got the hammer from the truck and did it.'
'Where was it?'
'The hammer? I just told you, in the back of her truck.'
'Not the hammer. Where was the truck?'
'Parked in front of the school. Right where it is now.'
'She hasn't moved it since then?'
'I can't tell for sure, but I don't think so. It looks to me like it's in the same place.'
'Who left first and when?'
'I did. About eleven-thirty or so. She said she needed to pick up something from her office. She was still at the school when I drove away.'
'And there was no one with her?'
'I didn't see anybody. There wasn't anyone in the truck when I got the hammer out or when I took it back, either. I didn't see anyone else on the grounds the whole time we were there.'
'Any other cars parked in the area?'
'No, just her pickup and my Olds.'
'How did she leave there, then?'
Browning shrugged. 'I don't know.'
I stirred my coffee again, trying to make sense of what he had told me. It didn't work. Finally, I said, 'Candace Wynn worked for you for several years. Did you know anything about her personal life?'
Again he shrugged. 'Nothing much. She was divorced. Her father died a year or so back. Her mother's been sick for several years.'
'I remember seeing a bumper sticker on her truck. Something about sailing. Do you know anything about that?'
'She's supposed to be part owner of a boat over on Shilshole. I don't know the name of it or the names of any of the co-owners.'
'And her mother's sick.'
'She has cancer.'
'I already knew that. Do you know where she is?'
'A hospital somewhere around here. A cancer unit, I believe.'
'What's her mother's name? Any idea?'
'No.'
I paused for a moment, wondering if there was any easier way to track down Candace Wynn's maiden name. 'Is there a blank on the school district's employment form that calls for a maiden name?'
Browning shook his head. 'No.'
'What about the group insurance form? If she wasn't married and didn't have any children, she might have listed her mother as beneficiary.'
'That's possible, but all that information is confidential. It's in the district office.'
'Can you get it for me or not?'
'Not on a weekend. I could probably get it tomorrow morning. Why do you need it?'
'Because I've got to find Candace Wynn before she kills someone else,' I said.
I pushed my plate aside, picked up the bill, and stood up. Ned Browning sat motionless, shocked by my words. He stared up at me. 'Kills?' he repeated.
Obviously, none of the Mercer Island Police Force had chosen to clue him in on what was happening.
'And because tomorrow may be too late,' I added.
I left him sitting there in Denny's, a man frozen in stunned silence. His past had just caught up with him, and his guests waiting at home were long forgotten.
As I started the car, I didn't feel sorry for Ned Browning. Whatever disgrace was coming to him wasn't undeserved. After all, he had been on the list twice, not once. Once was once, but twice was twice.
I did feel sorry for Mrs. Browning, however. She was probably a nice enough lady, one I would never meet even though I was changing her life forever. Whoever she was, wherever she was, her world, like Joanna Ridley's, was about to fly apart. She didn't have the foggiest idea it was coming, but J. P. Beaumont was sending trouble her way.
It was just as well we would never meet.
CHAPTER 29
The only thing to do was to find Candace Wynn's mother. Somehow.
I was sitting in my car with the engine running when I realized I was going off half-cocked. I waited until Ned Browning came out of the restaurant. Expecting me to be long gone, he turned like he'd been shot when I hailed him from the Porsche. He approached the car cautiously. 'What now?' he asked.
'Do you have a picture of Candace Wynn?'
'No.'
'Maybe not a separate picture, but wouldn't she be in a yearbook? Do you have any?'
He nodded. 'I do have one of those, at school, in my office.'
'Good. Let's go get it.'
He started to object but thought better of it. He led the way back to the school, where a tow truck was just hooking on to Candace Wynn's Chevy. Avoiding the crowd in the parking lot, he took me into his office and handed me a copy of the current yearbook. Mrs. Wynn's picture was there, alongside her angelic crew of cheerleaders. There was another picture as well, a more formal one, in the faculty section of the book.
'Thanks,' I said. 'I'll bring it back.'
'Don't bother,' Ned Browning told me.
If I had been in his shoes, I wouldn't have wanted to keep a copy of that particular yearbook, either.
When I left him, he was standing in the middle of his office, looking at it the way someone looks when they're getting ready to pack up and move on. Ned Browning was a man who had worn out his welcome.
The next three hours were hard on me. They shouldn't have been, I suppose. After all, I'm a homicide detective. We're supposed to be tough, right?
But tracking through those hospitals, trying to locate Candace Wynn's mother, carried me back some twenty- odd years, back to my youth and to my own mother's final illness.
Maybe part of it is that you never get over your mother's death, no matter how long you live. Being in those polished corridors with their antiseptic odors and their stainless steel trays made it seem like yesterday, not half a lifetime ago.
Pain was all around. The patients had help for theirs, however fleeting the hazy comfort of drugs might be, but my heart went out to the empty-eyed visitors I found walking the halls, lingering in the rooms. There was no prescribed medication available to lessen their hurt.
