Long Time Gone

as hell to get in and out of.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“You mentioned that the foundation is making Mrs. Marchbank’s funeral arrangements?” I asked.

“I’m making all the arrangements,” she corrected. “Elvira had no remaining family. She and Albert never had any children. The foundation itself is their real legacy. So the funeral will be at Saint Mark’s Cathedral at two o’clock in the afternoon. We’ll be hosting a post-funeral reception here.”

“I see,” I said, putting the chitchat aside. “Now, would you mind telling me what you remember about Wednesday afternoon?”

Raelene’s facial expression didn’t change. “I already told the other officers,” she said. “Nothing much went on Wednesday afternoon. The last time I saw Elvira was around noontime, when I went next door with some papers for her to sign. I didn’t find out what had happened to her until much later that night, after I got home.”

“Was there anyone here with you that day?”

“No. I was here by myself. Mindy was gone, too. Mindy’s the receptionist you saw outside. Her son had an appointment with the dentist.”

“And you saw and heard nothing unusual?” I asked.

“No. Not really.” Raelene paused. “Well, that nun was here. Sister Mary something. I don’t remember her exact name.”

“Sister Mary Katherine,” I supplied.

“Yes. That’s the one. She showed up in the middle of the afternoon. She gave me her business card from some convent up on Whidbey Island and said she wanted to see Elvira. Lots of people think that just because we’re a charitable foundation they can waltz in here, say ‘pretty please,’ and walk away with a fistful of money. The fact that we’re a charitable arts foundation goes right over their heads. I explained to Sister Mary Katherine that we have an official application procedure for giving grants and that, for the most part, churches don’t qualify. She said she didn’t want our money. When I tried to inquire what she was really after, she went back to insisting she needed to speak to Elvira in person.”

“What happened then?” I asked.

“Nothing. She left. She did seem…well…agitated, somehow. Upset. I worried about whether or not she was some kind of nutcase, but then she left on her own.”

“Did you see her go next door?”

“To Elvira’s place?” Raelene asked. “No. Certainly not. Did she?”

“Yes. She saw Elvira being driven up to her door, so she went over and rang the bell.”

“She had no business doing that. Elvira should have called me,” Raelene said stoutly. “Nun or not, I would have come over and sent the woman packing.”

“What happened after Sister Mary Katherine left here?” I asked.

“I finished up what I was working on. When five o’clock came, I went out to the spa for a massage and my regular mani-pedi. It was when I got home from there that the cops showed up with the news that Elvira was dead. As I said, it was a terrible shock. She had been perfectly fine when I saw her earlier in the day.”

“But no one else came by-a man named Wink Winkler, for example?”

Momentary confusion washed across Raelene Landreth’s face. “I know Mr. Winkler, of course,” she said. “But he didn’t stop by here.”

“He was seen across the street,” I said. “He could have come here or he could have come to Elvira’s.”

“He didn’t come here!” Raelene was surprisingly adamant about that.

“And how exactly do you know him?”

“His company, Emerald City Security, has handled burglar-and fire-alarm equipment and security monitoring for the Marchbanks and their companies for as long as I can remember,” Raelene said. “Since before I went to work here, certainly.”

Makes sense, I thought. First he gets that Ford convertible, followed by half a century’s worth of employment. Not bad for hush money, but if Wink did that well, how did Tom Landreth score?

“You’re aware, then, that shortly after being seen exiting a taxi out in front of this building, Mr. Winkler senior committed suicide?”

“Yes. I heard about it from his son, Bill. He called to let me know. Bill and his father were estranged, you see. Still, it was a shock, especially coming on the heels of what had happened to Elvira.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe Mr. Winkler was responsible for what happened to Elvira?”

Raelene looked startled. “What are you saying? I talked to the other detectives. They indicated that it looked like Elvira slipped on a magazine, that her death was entirely accidental.”

“What if it wasn’t?” I asked. “What if Mr. Winkler pushed her and made it look like an accident? Then he went out and blew his brains out?”

“That’s crazy,” Raelene said. “Why would he do such a thing?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. So why don’t you tell me about your husband.”

Raelene’s expression hardened slightly. “What about him?”

“Was he close to Elvira?” I asked.

“Very,” she said. “Tom was the son Elvira and Albert never had, and he worked in the business his whole life-up until he retired a few years ago.”

“And how long have you worked here?”

“Just over ten years. Elvira finally reached a point where she didn’t want to work so hard. Sifting through the grant applications and working on fund-raising got to be too much for her. She was glad to relinquish some of the responsibilities, and I was here to pick up the slack.”

“Did Elvira ever mention her sister-in-law, Mimi, the one who was murdered out here in your driveway in May of 1950?”

The abrupt change of subject was calculated. I wanted to see Raelene’s reaction. My use of the word “driveway” was also deliberate. The official story had always claimed that Madeline Marchbank had died in her bedroom. Given the layout of the building, that room could well have been the one where we were sitting now- Raelene’s ultramodern office.

Raelene took a deep breath. “Madeline,” she corrected. “Her name was Madeline, not Mimi.”

Not as far as Bonnie Jean Dunleavy was concerned, I thought.

“Her death at such a young age was a tragedy that never went away,” Raelene declared. “She was several years older than Tom, so my husband knew of her rather than knowing her directly. From what I’ve been told, Madeline was a kind, thoughtful, hardworking girl. Devoted to her invalid mother. Just an all-around nice person.”

If Raelene knew the truth about Mimi’s death, her coolly measured response was nothing short of an Emmy Award-winning performance. On the other hand, her lack of reaction could have come from her never having been apprised of the real story to begin with.

“If Madeline’s death was so hard on everyone, why didn’t the Marchbanks ever sell this place?” I asked. “It seems to me they would have unloaded it at the first opportunity.”

“Because they wouldn’t have gotten what it was worth,” Raelene said promptly. “Once prospective buyers know something bad has happened in a house, property values drop like a rock. Their strategy was to keep this one. They also bought up the house next door. Albert and Elvira remodeled that one and lived there, then they turned this place-the old family home-into company offices for Marchbank Broadcasting. When company growth necessitated a move downtown, the foundation took over this space.”

“Thus keeping it all in the family,” I said.

If Raelene heard the snide undercurrent in my statement, she ignored it. “I suppose,” she said.

“I’d like to speak to your husband,” I said, once again changing the subject. “Is he available?”

“He’s certainly not here,” she said defensively. “As I told you, he’s retired. Besides, why do you need to talk to him? He wasn’t here. He didn’t even see Elvira on Wednesday.”

“You said Tom was like a son to Elvira-the son she never had. Does that mean he’s a beneficiary under her will?”

That provoked a reaction. Raelene’s dark eyes flashed fire. “What are you implying?” she demanded.

“I’m asking the usual questions,” I said. “When someone dies unexpectedly and under somewhat mysterious