Long Time Gone

What a surprise. So if the murder weapon was a tennis ball, maybe you’d like to speculate if she was killed by a forehand stroke or a backhand.”

“It was a walker,” I said. “The tennis balls were on the bottom of Wink Winkler’s walker. I thought he had been to the house, but I wasn’t sure and I had no idea he might be the one who killed her.”

“Sure you didn’t,” Wendy said. “It was just a lucky guess. Captain Kramer wasn’t in when I called his office to pass along this information, but I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him once he’s aware of the situation. He’ll be as interested in your pet theories as I am.”

And then she hung up.

“That sounded bad,” Mel said when I got off the phone.

“It is. Kramer’s detectives are working the Marchbank and Winkler cases. He’ll go ballistic once he finds out I’m still nosing around in them, and now the crime lab is mad at me, too.”

“That’s no problem,” Mel replied. “All we have to do is find out what happened before he does.”

It was almost five-thirty by the time we hit Sixth Avenue. Heading northbound, I crossed Pine and pulled into the valet parking line beside Nordstrom. I gave the attendant twenty bucks for him to keep the car on the street, then Mel and I walked over to Gene Juarez. When we stepped off the elevator, the lady at the check-in desk gave us the bad news.

“Oh,” she said to Mel when we asked about Raelene Landreth. “I’ll bet you’re the one who was looking for her earlier. I’m sorry to say you just missed her.”

My phone rang again. I expected it to be Kramer, ready to tear me to pieces, but it wasn’t. It was Beverly.

“Oh, good,” she said when I answered. “Where are you? Will you be here soon? Lars and I are down in the lobby waiting, so you won’t have to come all the way up to the room.”

Damn! I had forgotten the dinner arrangement. Traffic was a mess. Taking Mel back to the office in Bellevue and returning to Queen Anne Gardens before dinner was over just wasn’t an option. “Can I get back to you in a minute?”

“You’re not planning on standing us up, are you?” she warned.

“No, Beverly,” I reassured her. “I’ll call you right back.”

“When the desk answers, tell them we’re waiting over by the piano.”

“What’s that all about?” Mel asked.

“Dinner,” I answered. “I’m supposed to be having dinner with my grandparents tonight, at their assisted- living place up on Queen Anne Hill. The problem is, I forgot about it.”

“Is this the same grandmother who crocheted your afghan?” Mel asked.

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a neat lady.”

“Beverly and Lars eat in the dining room,” I said. “So it probably wouldn’t be a problem if you came along. But if you’d rather go straight home, I understand. I’ll be glad to call you a cab.”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to meet your grandparents,” Mel said. “It’ll be fun.”

I called Beverly right back. “I have someone with me at the moment,” I said. “Would you mind if I brought her along-to dinner, I mean?”

“Heavens no,” Beverly said. “You’d better warn her, though. We’re just plain folks here. The food won’t be anything fancy.”

The food was fine. Dinner was one of those life-changing events that sneak up on you when you least expect it. Beverly may have been one day out of the hospital and stuck in a wheelchair, but she was in rare form. The surprise she had promised was a small wedding photo album that Scott and Cherisse had put together and sent off via FedEx from their honeymoon in Hawaii. Going through the photos gave Beverly a chance to tell Mel everything she knew about the whole family-about Scott and Cherisse as well as Kelly, Jeremy, and Kayla, my only grandchild. She also did a comic routine about how Dave Livingston was my first wife’s second husband. All Lars and I could do was sit on the sidelines and listen.

For her part, Mel was a good sport. She listened politely, laughed when appropriate, and asked interested questions. When Beverly’s dissertation ended, she snapped the album shut and then beamed at Melissa Soames.

“Well, now,” she asked us, “how long have you two been dating? Don’t waste too much time. Men aren’t very good at being alone,” she added. “I understand they live a lot longer if they’re married.”

I was flabbergasted! Floored! I had no idea what to say. Mel looked at me and grinned that impossible grin of hers. “Sometime after he gets around to asking me, I suppose,” she said.

With that, she leaned over, gave Beverly a grazing kiss on the cheek, and then added, “Thanks so much for dinner. We’d better be going.”

Lars followed us out to the car. I was seething. I didn’t say a word until after I had let Mel into the Taurus and closed the door.

“What in the world was Beverly thinking?” I wondered.

Lars simply shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes,” he said philosophically, “it’s better if you yust give in and do as she says.”

CHAPTER 19

“You’re upset,” Mel said as we started back down Queen Anne Hill.

“I’m sorry Beverly did that,” I said. “It was completely out of line.”

“It was cute,” Mel returned. “Your grandmother has your best interests at heart.”

“Maybe so, but if I were ever going to marry again, I’m perfectly capable of wife-hunting on my own.”

“So you’ve ruled out remarrying?” Mel asked.

Without seeing it coming, I had suddenly been maneuvered into one of those hopeless trick questions-the old “Do I look fat in this?” ploy. It was time to tread very gingerly.

“Pretty much,” I said. “My life is fine the way it is.”

After an unbearably pregnant pause, Mel said, “Oh.” And then later she added, “In that case you should probably take me back to the office so I can get my car.”

As the silence between us lengthened, I could see that one way or the other I had screwed up. Mel’s feelings seemed to be hurt. Obviously, and as usual, I was at fault. Had I somehow led her on? On previous occasions I had spoken to her with an uncharacteristic candor. Now I could think of nothing to say. Or do. Were her feelings hurt because she was interested in me? That seemed unlikely. She had always been friendly enough, but I hadn’t seen anything that bordered on romantic interest. Yes, she had readily agreed to come along when I invited her to accompany me on my questioning excursion with Tom Landreth, but I thought that was because she was interested in helping me with my case, just as I would be in helping with one of hers. After all, we are on the same team.

That’s the funny thing about women. You say one thing-at least you think that’s what you’ve done-and it turns out they’ve turned it into a whole different conversation.

Mel remained silent until I pulled up next to her Beemer in the parking garage. “What time is Elvira’s service tomorrow?” she asked.

“In the afternoon-two P.M., I believe. Saint Mark’s Cathedral. Why?”

“Are you going?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want company?” she asked. “If you get a chance to talk to Raelene after the funeral and want someone along, I suppose I could help out.”

That’s another thing that’s so baffling about women. You don’t know where you stand with them. If Mel was mad at me-if I had hurt her feelings-why would she be willing to help me out?

“That would be nice,” I said. “Would you like me to come pick you up?”

“No. I think I can locate Saint Mark’s Cathedral on my own,” she said. “I am a detective, after all.”

She got out of my car and walked to her own. I was going to drive away, but then, at the last minute, I