whole evening to ourselves-dinner with no kids, no dogs, no chores, and no telephones, either,” he added. “Our cell phones are switched off for the duration as of now. If there’s some problem at home or at the department overnight, they’re going to have to figure it out without us.”
By then the bellman had emptied the back compartment and closed the door. Joanna was relieved to see that there were two suitcases on the cart-one for Butch and one for her. “Just leave the keys,” the bellman said. “I’ll park it over there.” He pointed to a graveled parking lot across the street.
Years earlier, the first time Joanna had stumbled across the Arizona Inn, it hadn’t been as a paying guest. She had fled University Hospital, trying to escape the appalling news from the doctor that Andy was unlikely to survive, that his bullet wounds would most likely prove fatal. She had ended up at the grand old hotel tucked into a seemingly residential neighborhood entirely by accident. She had been surprised by its improbably pink walls and lush, lovingly manicured grounds. She had hidden out there, weeping in one of those Alice-in-Wonderland-looking blue-and-white-striped chairs and trying to grapple with the fact that she was about to become a widow. Now, though, walking into the shadowy lobby of the old hotel and up to the desk with Butch beside her, she felt entirely different. That had been one life; this was another.
When they reached their spacious room-a casita, really-there were two chilled glasses of champagne waiting. Joanna’s suitcase, sitting on the luggage holder in the walk-in closet, was loaded with one dinner-suitable little black dress and with suitable underwear as well. There were panty hose and-even without the lingerie laundry bag-a black bra and matching panties that dated from their honeymoon. Packed in with the clothing was a pair of black sling-back heels and enough toiletries and makeup to make showering a welcome possibility.
“How did you pull this all together?” she asked.
“I had some help,” Butch told her. “Jenny packed your bag, Kristin cleared your calendar, and Tom Hadlock said he’ll hold down the fort.”
“Thank you,” she said. “You’re really thoughtful.”
He grinned. “And you’re lovely,” he returned. “I’m really lucky.”
“We both are.”
“Would you care to go to dinner?”
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
By the time I made it back to North Bend, it was late afternoon, and the snow had turned to rain-not the usual steady drizzle we’re accustomed to in Seattle but a kind of torrential downpour that can melt snow too fast and send rivers pouring up and over their banks. I went to the address I had jotted down for Ken Leggett, the guy who had found the body.
North Bend has a bucolic sound to it, but it’s a burg that seems more than a little schizophrenic. There’s the “new” North Bend, which is essentially a cluster of outlet stores and fast-food joints, and the “old” North Bend, which is…well…old. Ken Leggett lived on a potholed excuse for a street in a neighborhood of mostly down-at-the- heels bungalows that had probably been built in the twenties or thirties-back in the old days when logging was king. Between then and now, no one had done much about routine maintenance.
Leggett’s place was far and away the worst of the lot. It looked as though someone had painted it white with a cheery kind of red trim once, but most of the paint had either peeled or faded away, take your pick. The roof had far more moss showing than shingles. A tiny covered front porch sagged to one side, suggesting that it wouldn’t take much to knock it down. At the end of a rutted drive, an older-model Toyota Tundra sat huddled under the roof of a carport, which, like the porch, didn’t look like it was long for this world.
There were no lights or signs of movement showing from inside the place, but I parked out front and started up the short walkway, getting drenched in the process. As I stepped onto the crumbling front porch, the planking groaned beneath my feet, but it didn’t give way.
As I raised my hand to knock, someone spoke to me. “He’s not home.”
The male voice came from the house next door, one on the far side of Leggett’s driveway. There, under a similarly decrepit carport, stood another equally dilapidated pickup truck-an old Dodge Ram. The hood was open and a guy with a single Trouble Light dangling over his shoulder was actually working on it. Shade-tree mechanics may be a thing of the past in downtown Seattle, but not at the low-priced end of North Bend. Just looking at the scene I understood that the man wasn’t working on his aging truck because he was spiffing it up for some antique car show. The vehicle was what he counted on for wheels, and he was keeping it running with do-it-yourself know- how and probably, given the truck’s age, mostly junkyard parts.
“Any idea where I could find Mr. Leggett?” I asked.
The man straightened up, pushed a pair of reading glasses up onto the top of his head, and stared at me. “It’s early,” the man advised, wiping his hands on a pair of grimy coveralls. “If I was you, I’d try his home away from home.”
“Where would that be?” I asked.
The man jerked his head, gesturing back the way I had come. “Back thataway,” he said. “Two blocks over and two blocks up. The Beaver Bar. You can walk it, but I’d advise driving. These here are what we call ‘long blocks.’”
I took his advice. I went back to the Mercedes and drove. The Beaver Bar didn’t look promising. The neon sign over the door had evidently burned out. In the window was another neon sign that said OPEN, along with a single blue neon cocktail glass complete with a green neon olive.
I had never set foot in the Beaver Bar. Even so, it was entirely familiar. I spent far too much of my life with my butt planted on bar stools in similarly seedy places. The place smelled of too much beer and not enough cleaning. Washington’s bars have been “smoke-free” for years now, but not long enough for the smoke to have leached out of the wallboard and the torn and worn red-and-black faux-leather banquettes that lined the walls.
As I said, I’d never been inside the place, but the bartender made me for a cop the moment I stepped through the door. He gave me a careful once-over and probably decided I was liquor control.
“Evening, Officer,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Kenneth Leggett.”
“Over there,” he said. “In the booth on the far side of the pool table. He’s been eighty-sixed, by the way. He’s had nothing but coffee for the last hour or so. We’re waiting for him to sober up enough that he can get himself home.”
Yes, I thought. The barkeep definitely thinks I’m liquor control.
The guys playing pool kept a close eye on me as I walked around them and stopped next to a booth where a big balding man sat staring down into a mostly empty coffee cup.
“Mr. Leggett?” I said.
He looked up at me, bleary-eyed and belligerent. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “I’m with the Attorney General’s Special Homicide Investigation Team. Mind if I sit down?”
I expected a fight. I expected an argument. You never can tell with drunks. They can go one way or the other. Instead, Ken Leggett pushed his empty coffee cup aside, buried his head in his hands, and bawled like a baby. I thought maybe I was going to come away with an impromptu confession. And I did, but not the one I was looking for.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” he said.
“You didn’t mean to do what, kill her?” I asked.
He looked up at me with tears still streaming down his face. “I didn’t mean to piss on her head,” he said. “Nobody deserves that.”
I’ve detected plenty of lies over the years, but this wasn’t one of them. Detective Caldwell was right. Ken Leggett wasn’t our killer by any stretch of the imagination.
“Come on, fella,” I said to him. “It’s raining outside. How about I give you a lift home.”
CHAPTER 7
Having spent the better part of the day dealing with murder and mayhem in Ellensburg, it was difficult to remember that I had started the day in, as they like to say in Disneyland, “the happiest place on earth.” I’ve always
