fashioned diner up on Greenwood. When it came time to repeat the Serenity Prayer, I saw the white-knuckled grip Lars had on his cane and knew right then he was having a hell of a struggle accepting what he couldn’t change. I was in pretty much the same boat.
When I took him back to Queen Anne Gardens, I went around to the passenger side of the car to let him out. Once he was upright, he surprised me by giving me a heartfelt hug. “T’anks,” he said. “T’anks for everything.”
“The kids will all be here tomorrow,” I told him. “Kelly and Jeremy are driving up from Ashland in the morning. They’ll be here in time for dinner tomorrow night, and Scott and Cherisse will be flying in about the same time. But what about tonight? Would you like to have dinner with Mel and me?”
Lars shook his head sadly. “No,” he said. “I’ll be all right.” With that, he hobbled away.
I glanced at my watch. It was only a little past one. Mel wouldn’t be back on this side of the water anytime before six. That meant I had several relatively free hours. I suppose I should have felt guilty about using that time to pursue the LaShawn Tompkins homicide, but I didn’t. After all, Beverly had been proud of the job I do. I thought she would have gotten a kick out of having a one-time-only chance to be part of what was close to an undercover operation.
With that in mind I got back into the S55 and headed for Rainier Valley. When I arrived at the Tompkins place on South Church Street, I looked around for any official-looking cars. Other than a battered eight-passenger van with the words king street mission lettered on the door, I didn’t see any. As far as police presence was concerned, I was it.
Etta Mae Tompkins’s house was small but tidy-looking, with a well-kept fenced front yard. A few traces of the earlier tragedy were still visible. A scrap of yellow police tape lingered on a gatepost. When I stepped onto the porch, I could see that someone had gone to the effort of trying to scrub the fingerprint dust off the door frame, but a practiced eye could still see grubby gray traces marring the otherwise white trim around the doorbell. A mop and bucket filled with dingy reddish water reeking of Pine-Sol sat next to the doorway. The screen door was closed, but the inside door stood slightly ajar. As I raised my finger toward the bell, I heard the sound of a female voice coming from inside.
“I know he was important to you and your people, Pastor Mark, and you’re welcome to have whatever kind of memorial service for Shawny you like,” the woman was saying. “And if I can get a ride, you can bet I’ll be there. But the funeral is mine, and that’s final. It don’t matter what LaShawn would or wouldn’t have wanted, neither. He’s dead, you understand me? LaShawn is dead and gone and he gets no say in the matter. Oh, you’re right. King Street Mission was his place and all, but it’s not
A man spoke then. I couldn’t make out the individual words, but his tone sounded conciliatory.
Just then a second white van pulled up outside the little house’s front gate and parked just behind the first. A magnetic sign affixed to the van’s door announced: meals-on-wheels. A tall black man with a bald head and amazingly wide shoulders stepped out. Then he reached back inside and lifted a small cooler out of the backseat. Excusing himself, he shouldered past me on the front porch, pulled open the screen door, and stepped inside.
“It’s me, Etta Mae,” he called. “Mr. Dawson with Meals-on-Wheels. I’m here with your food.”
“Come on in, Mr. Dawson,” she replied. “You know the way. Janie, Mr. Dawson’s here from Meals-on-Wheels. Could you help him put it away?”
Janie, I surmised, was likely to be Etta Mae Tompkins’s longtime neighbor, the one Maxwell Cole had interviewed. Obviously this was a very full house. It seemed to me one more uninvited guest probably wouldn’t make much difference. After only a moment’s hesitation, I followed Mr. Dawson inside.
The small entryway also reeked of Pine-Sol. I wondered if Pastor Mark’s most likely unanticipated arrival had interrupted someone intent on the grim task of trying to erase from his mother’s walls and floors the bloody evidence of LaShawn’s untimely passing. Dried blood isn’t easy to remove, however, and subtle remnants of stains and splatters still lingered. I guessed that it would take new plaster, paint, and tile to do the job completely. A framed poster depicting Jesus in His crown of thorns hung on the wall next to the door. Real blood now marred the printed surface, meaning that would have to be replaced as well.
Beyond the entryway I could see a white man with long, flowing gray locks. He seemed to be in full retreat. “I’ll be going, then,” the man I assumed to be Pastor Mark said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And I’m sorry for yours,” Etta Mae conceded. “I know Shawny was a big help to you.”
As Pastor Mark made for the door, I had to step into the living room in order to allow him to pass. I knew I’d need to interview Pastor Mark eventually, but now was not the time.
The living room was tiny, just big enough for two chairs. Between them was an occasional table with a single lamp. A small color TV set with no sound sat perched on top of an old-fashioned and apparently dead console set. And that was all. A large black woman with a halo of wiry gray hair was seated in one chair with a sturdy walker positioned close at hand.
Squinting to see me better, Etta Mae Tompkins raised an implacable finger in my direction. “Who are you?” she demanded. “And where did you come from?”
I dug out my ID and handed it over. “Homicide,” she mused, squinting some more and holding it up to her face in order to read it. “I’ve been talking to homicide people for days now. Can’t you-all get together and talk to each other and leave me alone? And what are you staring at?”
Embarrassed, I realized I was staring. I knew LaShawn Tompkins had been thirty years old. Human biology being what it is, his age gave me a rough idea of how old his mother would be-probably close to my age or younger. This woman was much older than that.
“You think I’m too old to be Shawny’s mama?” she asked. “Is that it?”
I was reminded yet again why it is that I don’t play poker.
“My daughter died a few days after Shawny was born,” Etta Mae explained without my having asked. “He was a breach baby, and they had to do a cesarean. She ended up dying of an infection-sepsis, they called it. I’m the one who brought Shawny home, and I’m the one who raised him. I’m the only mother he ever knew. You got a problem with that?”
“No, ma’am,” I told her.
She reached over to the table and picked up a folded copy of the front section of Sunday’s
I realized then that Max was losing his touch-that he must have phoned in his interview rather than actually meeting with Etta Mae. If he had seen her in person, he would have noticed the same thing I had and he certainly would have mentioned it, but if Etta Mae wanted the world to think LaShawn was her son, far be it from me to say otherwise.
“So what do you want then, Mr. Policeman? Why are you here?”
I was the one who was supposed to be asking the questions.
By then my fellow visitor, Mr. Meals-on-Wheels, had off-loaded his food. He stood in the kitchen doorway observing the proceedings between Etta Mae and me with a good deal of satisfaction and no small amount of amusement. As soon as she sent one of her fearsome glances in his direction, however, Dawson seemed to think better of hanging around.
“I’ll be going then, Mrs. Tompkins,” he said hastily. “See you tomorrow.”
“I want to find out who murdered your son,” I said.
She nodded. “You and me both,” she said. “So sit down then. Take a load off.”
I sat.
“What’s your name again?”
“Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”
“Your mama didn’t give you no first name?”
“Jonas,” I said.
Etta Mae nodded sagely. “A good Bible name,” she observed. “Like in the whale.”
Not exactly, but close enough that mean-spirited boys plagued me with that from the time my mother signed me up for kindergarten. It was due to a bellyful of whale jokes, if you’ll pardon the expression, that I pretty much abandoned my given name by the time I hit junior high.
“So are you saved, Mr. Beaumont?”
I thought about the blood-spattered picture of Jesus by the front door and realized that the interview wasn’t
