“Mel’s perfectly capable of taking herself anywhere she wants to go,” I said.
“She wants to talk to Heather.”
“She needs to talk to Heather,” I corrected. “It’s her job.”
“Not without a parent and an attorney present,” he said. “I’ve called Ralph. We’ve made an appointment for tomorrow morning.
“And then I had to make an ass of myself about Molly. I’m tired of having her underfoot. At the time we bought the house from Amy and Molly’s folks, Molly and her husband were flying high and they said it was fine-they wanted no part of it. But now that Molly’s broke, she seems to think she can stay here forever. That we owe her a place to live for however long she cares to hang around. I married Amy,” he added miserably. “I sure as hell didn’t marry her sister. The woman despises me, and the feeling’s pretty much mutual.”
“Look, Ron,” I said reasonably, “there’s a whole lot on your plate right now. No one could blame you for being depressed, but-”
He rounded on me. “Depressed? Who the hell said I was depressed?” he demanded. “Here I am about to lose my daughter, and you say I’m depressed? Next you’ll be telling me I need to drag my butt off to see the nearest doc and get myself a prescription for antidepressants.”
“Ron,” Amy called from upstairs. “Are you coming up or not? Tony’s here, but he’s going to have to leave in a few minutes.”
“Time for my command performance,” Ron said grimly, pushing the elevator button; then, to me, he added, “Going up?”
I crowded into the tiny elevator with him and rode up to the living-room level. Amy was watching the elevator from across the room, but as soon as the door opened, she turned away and resumed a quiet conversation with her parents. The look on her face as she looked away told me she wasn’t any happier than her husband was.
Someone waylaid Ron the moment he rolled out of the elevator. I caught sight of Anthony Freeman, who was standing near a food-laden table on the far side of the room, thoughtfully sipping a cup of coffee. I made my way over to him. His face brightened as I approached. He put down his coffee cup and held out a hand.
“Beaumont,” he exclaimed. “It’s good to see you again, even if it isn’t under the best of circumstances. How’s your new job working out?”
“Fine,” I said. “Given the choice between working for Harry I. Ball or working for Paul Kramer, I’ll take Harry every time.”
“Understandable,” Tony Freeman said. “What are you working on these days? Not this, I assume.”
As soon as he asked the question, it dawned on me that Anthony Freeman was one of the few people still inside Seattle PD who might be able to help me in my search for Mimi Marchbank’s killer.
“I’m tracking down a cold case from 1950. The investigating officer was William Winkler. Ever heard of him?”
“Wink Winkler?” Tony replied. “I’ve heard of him all right, just today. It was on the radio as I came from the funeral home.”
“What was on the radio?”
“He’s dead,” Tony Freeman said. “A tugboat captain spotted his body this morning. He was snagged on a pier over by Harbor Island.”
“Wink Winkler is dead!” I repeated in disbelief.
Tony shrugged. “What I heard made it sound like a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I believe he had already been reported missing, and they must have contacted next of kin, since they’ve already announced it on the air.”
“Damn!” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I went to see him yesterday in reference to that old case. He wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear that I now had an eyewitness. How much do you know about him?”
“Not that much. I know he was brought down in the bribery and corruption scandals that went on in the midfifties. But I could take a look at what’s in his file to see if there’s anything that might apply.” Tony reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook. “What’s the name of the case you’re working?”
“Marchbank,” I said. “Madeline Marchbank. She was stabbed to death in May of 1950.”
Tony Freeman gave me a searching look. “Marchbank. The name sounds familiar. Wait a minute. Isn’t Marchbank the name of the woman who was found at the bottom of a flight of stairs last night?”
“That’s right. Elvira Marchbank, not Madeline. And Elvira was one of two perpetrators identified by the eyewitness in that other case.”
“And Wink Winkler was the investigating officer.”
I nodded. “You’re sure he committed suicide?”
“Nothing’s for sure. If he didn’t and with this Elvira woman dead as well, that eyewitness of yours could be a whole lot more than what she claims to be,” Tony Freeman observed.
It was a fair conjecture. If Paul Kramer and his detectives weren’t making the same connection themselves, they soon would be.
“Is there money involved?” Tony asked.
I thought about the Marchbank Foundation. “Probably,” I said.
“Well, then,” Tony said. “Do what I do. Follow the money.”
He finished writing his note and stuffed the notepad back in his pocket. “I’ll take a look at the file,” he said. “If anything jumps out at me, I’ll let you know.”
Tony excused himself to go talk to Ron while I went looking for Sister Mary Katherine. She was sitting in the same place where I had left her, but someone-Tracy, presumably-had brought her a cup of coffee and a plate of tiny sandwiches and cookies.
“Time to go home?” she asked.
“Home,” I agreed. “But mine, not yours.”
“We’re going to your place?” Sister Mary Katherine asked. “Why?”
“Wink Winkler is dead.”
“What happened?”
“First reports suggest a possible suicide.”
“Is he dead because of me?” Sister Mary Katherine asked.
It seemed to me that was probably true, but I chose not to say so.
“Is that why I can’t go home?” she added.
“Kramer may have blown us off this morning, and we didn’t see Detective Jackson at lunch, but you can bet they’re going to want to talk to you this evening. If I take you home, you’ll just have to turn around and come straight back.”
“Why are you so sure they’re going to want to talk to me?” she asked.
“Because I’m going to call them up and tell them to,” I said.
And I did. Some telephone numbers never fall out of your head. Captain Larry Powell’s number was still there in my dialing finger even though his desk was now in another building and belonged to someone else. Kramer answered his phone on the second ring.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said dismissively once I identified myself. “That little lady of yours is something else. Everywhere she goes, people are dropping like flies.”
I bristled at that. Sister Mary Katherine was nobody’s “little lady” and she most especially wasn’t mine.
“This is a courtesy call,” I said civilly. “Sister Mary Katherine was about to head home for Whidbey Island when we heard about Wink Winkler’s death. I thought you might want to speak with her about the Madeline Marchbank situation after all.”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Kramer replied brusquely. “That whole situation is under control.”
I could hardly believe my ears. “You’re not interested in interviewing her?”
“Not at this time. I told you earlier that we’re not going to do any kind of investigation based on the faulty premise of forgotten memories. Maybe the AG’s office can afford to squander resources like that, but I can’t. We’ve reopened Madeline Marchbank’s homicide, and we’ll be following up on it through conventional methods and with conventional detective work.”
“I don’t think you’re paying attention, Paul. Sister Mary Katherine says Elvira Marchbank was one of the
