Todd nodded and waved, but I could tell from the preoccupied look on his face he was already busy, mentally turning the problems at hand over in his head.
In Washington in June, the sun doesn’t set completely until around ten at night. Once we turned east on U.S. Highway 12, the sun was still fairly high in the sky. We were happy to have the sun to our backs, although it was probably blinding to the traffic coming toward us.
“Todd and Julie will make great parents,” Mel said. “And that farm! What a wonderful place to raise kids.”
“I hope so,” I said.
I’m sure I sounded more morose than I intended, and Mel gave me a quizzical look.
“If you ask me, that sounded pretty pessimistic,” she said.
“Why wouldn’t it be? Given everything we heard from Gerry Willis this afternoon, parenthood isn’t exactly a walk in the park, not even under the best of circumstances.”
“You’re right,” Mel said. “I don’t suppose it is.”
“And speaking of Gerry Willis,” I added, “you never met the man before today, right?”
“Right.”
“Then how is it possible that as soon as he mentioned that book. .?”
I paused, unable to remember the title in question.
“
“Right.
“It’s the most important scene in the book,” Mel answered. “The pivotal scene. The whole time you’re reading the story, you’re enchanted by this incredibly brainy golden retriever named Einstein, but you’re also aware of this terrible force out chasing down victims, hoping to destroy everything good, including the dog. Without ever seeing the monster, you end up hating him, hoping the good guys will get rid of it before it destroys them. And then, in that one scene, you see how lonely and lost and isolated the poor monster must be. In spite of yourself, you find yourself feeling sorry for him as well.”
“You end up empathizing with the monster?”
“Exactly,” Mel said.
I thought about Josh Deeson, coming to the governor’s mansion with only a grocery sack of possessions. And in that flimsy bag, along with whatever clothing he had carried, he had brought with him his mother’s worn Bible. Somehow it had been meaningful enough for him to keep. Was it just a memento, the only thing he had to remember his mother by? Or had it been more than that? Had he hoped that inside that Bible his mother might have found her salvation and his? If so, it was also a symbol of dashed hopes and dreams.
“Sort of like how, by the time Gerry Willis finished telling us Josh’s story this afternoon, we ended up feeling sorry for the poor kid.”
“Yes,” Mel agreed. “Just like.”
“Crap,” I said, and meant it.
Chapter 8
Ross Alan Connors may have gone on a two-and-a-half-year-long bender after his wife committed suicide in their backyard, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Drunks can be smart about a lot of things, even when they’re terminally dim about booze.
Once Francine was dead, Ross no longer took any pleasure in his palatial brick home with its slate roof and oddball turret. Yes, he still had a view of Capitol Lake, but he couldn’t bring himself to face being in the yard. So he did two things. First he redesigned the yard and put in an in-ground pool and spa. Then he sold the place for top dollar just before the real estate bubble burst. And when that happened, he was ready, too. With prices suddenly lowered, he went shopping in a newly completed condo high-rise, purchased two two-bedroom units high up in the building for almost pennies on the dollar and converted them into a single enormous unit with three bedrooms and an office.
This was, as Ross had confided to me, his “toes-up” house. He planned to stay there, with someone else doing the yard work and maintenance, until he was ready to be hauled out, toes up, on a stretcher. His unit came with a visitor-parking place. It was five to eight when Mel tucked her Cayman into that and we headed upstairs. He hadn’t specifically asked us to bring the evidence boxes in with us, but we did anyway, just in case.
Upstairs, the door was opened by Ross’s longtime live-in retainer, Iris O’Malley. As far as I knew, Iris had worked for the Connors family for a very long time. It appeared to me that Iris was your basic toes-up employee as well. She would stay on until Ross croaked out or else until she did, depending on who gave up the ghost first.
Apparently Iris O’Malley carries a lot more weight in the Connors household than simply serving as chief cook and bottle washer. She was the one who called me and alerted me to the fact that Ross had been in bed drunk for the better part of three days. I’m not sure how she knew I was in AA, but she did. She ran up the flag, and I came straight to Olympia to see what, if anything, could be done. On that occasion Ross’s reaction to my showing up beside his bed of pain had been to tell me to get the hell out in no uncertain terms. It was another three months before he finally picked up the phone himself and called to ask for help.
Note to people with loved ones on that thorny path: You can’t make them be ready to ask for help, and there are no high bottoms. Low bottoms are what it takes for people to decide they want to get better.
“Top of the evening to you, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont,” Iris said.
I wasn’t sure about Iris’s age, but she was evidently from a generation that didn’t hold with women hanging on to either their maiden or their previously married names. Mel raised an eyebrow at that but let it pass.
“Right this way,” Iris added. “Himself is in his office.”
Lars Jenssen, my grandmother’s widower, a retired Alaskan halibut fisherman, speaks with a Norwegian accent that is thicker on the phone than it is anywhere else, except when he’s in the company of other retired Norwegian halibut fishermen. Then he’s barely understandable.
As Iris led us to Ross’s home office, I couldn’t help wondering about her Irish brogue. Was it real or was it something she cultivated and put on occasionally, when it suited her, along with the gray uniform and dainty white apron?
She motioned us into the room. I was glad to see that the old teacher’s desk that had once graced Ross’s turret office in the Water Street house had made the transition from one place to another, most likely with an interior designer dying a thousand deaths in the process.
Ross stood up and shook our hands in greeting. “Have you eaten?” he asked. “If you’re hungry, Mrs. O’Malley here whipped up her standard lemon-and-vanilla Irish curd cakes earlier this afternoon.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but Julie Hatcher made sure we didn’t go away hungry.”
He smiled and shook his head. “I’ll say one thing for that girl, she sure can cook. Something to drink then?”
Between the governor’s mansion and Todd Hatcher’s place, I’d had enough iced tea to float a battleship. Mel must have been in the same condition.
“No, thanks,” she said. “We’re good.”
“All right then, Mrs. O’Malley,” Ross said. “That’s all. Thank you, and good night.”
Mrs. O’Malley tottered off, and Ross gestured us into a pair of high-backed leather chairs. Unlike the desk, the derelict recliner from his old office hadn’t survived the move, so the interior designer had won at least one round.
“I’m assuming those are the evidence boxes?” he asked as I placed them on the desk.
“Yes,” I said. “We thought you’d want to see what we picked up.”
Once again we donned gloves. Once again we removed what was in the boxes and went through it item by item.
“Todd made copies of everything on his computer’s hard drive,” Mel explained when we got to the laptop. “There might have been other files on an external drive or online storage, but we didn’t find any evidence of an additional drive.”
