“Because Timmy’s dead,” Faye Landreth said. “Tom’s parents are both gone now, and so are mine. If somebody wants to arrest me for my part in the cover-up, so be it, but it would have been wonderful if they had put Elvira on trial for murder, convicted her, and hauled her off to prison.”
“But she’s dead now, too,” I said.
Faye nodded. “I know,” she said. “I saw it in the paper this morning.”
“And so is a man named William Winkler. Wink Winkler was the detective who investigated Madeline Marchbank’s murder back in 1950,” I added. “Investigators think he committed suicide within hours of Elvira Marchbank’s fatal fall. According to my count, that doesn’t leave behind very many people from back then. If the people are gone, so are all the witnesses.”
“Except for me,” Faye volunteered. “I would be one; Tom’s the other.”
“You’re suggesting that your former husband might be involved in all this?”
“He was involved in 1950,” Faye said. “Why wouldn’t he be involved now?”
“And if he were to go to jail because of his involvement? What then?”
Faye Landreth smiled. “That would be his problem, now wouldn’t it. His problem and Raelene’s.”
I don’t remember who it was who said “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and all that jazz, but he must have had someone like Faye Landreth in mind. She had waited almost a quarter of a century to lower the boom on her philandering ex-husband and his new wife. Now she was doing it-in spades.
“Any idea where I could find Tom Landreth about now?”
“He’s retired. He still lives in our old house over in Medina, but I hear he likes to hang out at the clubhouse at Overlake Golf and Country Club, even when it’s too cold to play golf.”
“And Raelene?”
“She’s the breadwinner now. Still works full-time.”
“For the Marchbank Foundation,” I said.
Faye nodded. “Interesting that she’d manage to fall into a job like that, wouldn’t you say?”
I didn’t know Tom Landreth, but I felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. He had walked away from his marriage vows all those years ago thinking that he was getting off easy. He must have thought all the divorce would cost him would be whatever the presiding judge decided he owed his ex-wife in terms of property settlement and alimony. He was about to find out those were small sums in comparison to the price Faye Landreth prepared to extract from him now. She was going for his jugular. If what she said was true, he deserved it, but right at that moment, the poor unsuspecting bastard had no idea it was coming.
Woman scorned, indeed!
CHAPTER 17
When I left Faye Landreth’s condo, I was floating on air. Suddenly I had a legitimate suspect-someone who had been involved in the aftermath of Mimi Marchbank’s murder back in 1950. Considering the part Tom Landreth had played in the cover-up, it seemed reasonable to assume that he might have some compelling motive for keeping the names of the real perpetrators in that case from surfacing.
For one thing, Faye had told me that with Tom retired, Raelene’s job as executive director of the Marchbank Foundation now provided a major portion of the family’s income. Elvira Marchbank and, to a lesser extent, Tom Landreth, had participated in Mimi’s murder. Once that news leaked out, the Marchbank Foundation and Raelene’s plush little job would both be doomed. Bad publicity and nonprofits do not go together. People don’t like giving money to organizations whose founders or current managers are caught doing bad things-and murder is a pretty bad thing.
Before I interviewed Tom Landreth, I needed to interview his wife. Detectives Jackson and Ramsdahl had asked Raelene about what she had seen and heard on the day Elvira Marchbank died. I wanted to ask about Tom Landreth. I also needed to collect a Kevlar vest. My current one had been hauled off in the trunk of the 928 when the tow truck took it away, but there was an old one still gathering dust in my hall closet. When I tried to put the damned thing on, I was sure it had shrunk. I was struggling to fasten it when the phone rang.
“Jonas?” Beverly Jenssen asked.
I was instantly awash in guilt. I had promised to call this morning and had neglected to do so. “Beverly,” I said. “It’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”
“Weak,” she said. “Still sleeping a lot of the time.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get by the hospital to see you…” I began.
She cut me off. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I was asleep there, too. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if you’d been there.”
Just because Beverly seemed to be giving me a free pass didn’t mean I deserved one. And it turned out it wasn’t free after all.
“I was hoping, though, that I could talk you into coming up to our place for dinner tonight.”
“Are you sure you’re up to having company?” I asked. “I mean, if you just got out of the hospital…”
“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Jonas. It’s no trouble. I’m certainly not going to cook. We have to go down to the dining room to eat. Besides, I have something to show you-a surprise.”
Having been remiss in not stopping by the hospital, I knuckled under immediately. “Of course,” I said. “What time?”
“The dining room starts serving at five-thirty. We usually go early, but anytime between then and eight o’clock will work, so whenever you can make it will be fine.”
“I’ll see you as close to six as I can.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll be expecting you.”
I left Belltown Terrace hoping like hell I wouldn’t forget.
I drove to the University District and pulled up in front of the two neighboring houses. Several other large houses in the neighborhood had all been carved up and converted into low-cost student-style apartments. Only these two buildings seemed to have retained some of their single-family-dwelling identity and elegance.
Of the two houses, then, I supposed that Mimi Marchbank’s would have been in far better shape, but considering what had happened in the driveway of that house on that May afternoon, why had the Marchbank family kept it? And why had they purchased the house next door? That was a puzzle.
On this particular morning, the front door of Elvira’s house was barred by a band of yellow crime scene tape. Next door the Marchbank Foundation was a beehive of activity. A noisy carpet-cleaning van was parked outside and two people were hard at work washing windows.
I made my way up the paved brick walkway, past the black-ribboned wreath hanging on a porch post, and through the front entrance, where I was instantly headed off by a young receptionist.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re closed today. There’s been a death…”
I pulled out my ID and badge. “I’m looking for Mrs. Landreth,” I said. “Is she in?”
“Well, yes, but she’s very busy. The funeral is tomorrow afternoon and we’re going to host the reception here after the services. Ms. Landreth is making all the arrangements.”
“I still need to talk to her,” I said. “Would you please let her know I’m here.”
“One moment,” the receptionist said and disappeared into an inner office.
From the looks of the name-brand artwork and lavish furnishings, it was clear no one at the Marchbank Foundation was concerned about pinching pennies. Raelene Landreth, when she appeared, was a petite, well- preserved babe in her early fifties who looked as though she’d never been forced to pinch personal pennies, either. She wore what I calculated to be a size 3 dress tastefully accessorized with several size 10 diamonds. The circumstances of the second Mrs. Tom Landreth appeared to be quite a step up from those of her predecessor.
“I hope this won’t take long, Mr. Beaumont,” she said. “I’ve already spoken to two other detectives. Since I’m working on funeral arrangements today, I’m really quite pressed. And losing her is such a shock. Elvira was one of those people you thought would be around forever.”
“What I need shouldn’t take long,” I said.
Sighing and pursing her lips, Raelene showed me into a plush office that was as ultramodern as the lobby was. She directed me to take a seat in a low leather chair that may have been ergonomically correct but was hard
