“Tell me about your sister,” I said.
“Which one, Dorothy or Daisy?”
“Dorothy, the one who’s in the hospital. Which hospital is she in?”
“I told you, she’s in no condition to talk to you. If I tell you where she is, you’ll go straight there and bother her with all this. It’ll be better if she doesn’t find out about it until tomorrow when she’s home here with us.”
“Rachel,” I said reasonably, “the department does its best to notify the next of kin personally. We don’t release the victim’s name to the media until we’re sure the family has been properly notified. In this case, however, someone else may very well let something slip to a reporter. It’s possible your sister will hear the news over the radio or television when she’s by herself with no one there to help her, to be with her.”
I watched Rachel’s face as I spoke. My argument made some headway, but she still wasn’t ready to capitulate.
“Eventually we’ll be able to find her with or without your help,” I went on, “but it would be nice if we didn’t have to fight our way through official channels. It would save us a lot of time.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Rachel Miller said.
“How long has Dotty been in the hospital?” I pressed.
“Four weeks yesterday. It’s been dreadful. They’re only letting her come home now because there’ll be two of us here to take care of her. The doctor wanted to put her in a nursing home, you see.”
I took a long, deliberate sip of coffee as I tried to understand her reticence. I wondered if maybe she thought Dorothy Nielsen was a suspect in her son’s murder. That was easy enough to put to rest, so I set about doing just that.
“Since your nephew died on Saturday, and since your sister didn’t get out of the hospital until today, we could hardly consider her a suspect, now, could we.”
Rachel appeared shocked that I should even mention such a thing. “Certainly not,” she snapped. “That idea never even crossed my mind.”
“So why are you so reluctant to tell us where she is?”
Rachel sighed. “It’s been awful for her, such an ordeal, that even now she gets confused. I’m afraid to add one more burden.”
“She’ll have to find out sooner or later,” Big Al offered. “Wouldn’t it be better if you had some control over how and when she was told?”
Just then the doorbell rang and Rachel hurried to answer it. Outside I could see an elderly gentleman also dressed in khaki and wearing the same kind of pith helmet, which he removed as soon as she opened the door.
“I saw your car was still loaded,” he said. “I thought I’d offer to unload for a while before I go to the zoo.”
“I’m busy right now, George,” Rachel told him. “I have people here, but if you want to come back later, that’s fine. Daisy’s already gone. She’s working on the Jungle Party this afternoon, but we could use some help later, after she gets back.”
George seemed disappointed. “Are you sure you can’t use me right now?”
“No, really. I’ve got company, George.” At that, he peered in through the door as though trying to identify exactly who Rachel’s “company” might be. He made no move to leave.
“Come back around suppertime,” Rachel added firmly. “We’ll have some nice macaroni and cheese. You can help us unload.”
He nodded grudgingly. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be here at six.”
Rachel returned to the table smiling. “He’s my gentleman caller,” she explained. “He’s been hanging around here for months, ever since his wife died. I like him well enough, but only as a friend, you understand.”
It was none of my business, but I nodded anyway, just to be polite. “Look,” I said, “if you won’t give us any information regarding your sister, what about your nephew’s wife?”
“What about her? It took a lot of gumption for LeAnn to do what she did,” Rachel said. “I’m proud of her.”
“To do what?”
“To pack up those two kids and leave, just like that, without saying anything to anyone.” There was undisguised admiration in Rachel’s voice.
“She didn’t tell her mother-in-law?” I asked.
“Nope. Not anybody. Not a word.”
“Why did she do it?”
“She had to.”
There was no point in circling the question any longer.
“Did your nephew beat his wife?” I asked the question bluntly, letting the words fall heavily in the quiet room. I saw the slight hesitation before Rachel Miller raised her eyes to meet mine.
“That’s LeAnn’s business, not mine. If she wants to tell people about what all went on, that’s up to her.”
“Do you have any idea where she is?” I asked. “As I told you before, we’re obligated to notify the next of kin. If you think it’s a bad idea for us to talk to your sister, then maybe we should speak to LeAnn instead.”
That’s what I said. I left unsaid the domestic violence statistics, particularly the murder ones, that show how often an abused spouse finally hits the end of her rope and turns on her tormentor. It was more than slightly possible that LeAnn Nielsen herself would turn up among our prime suspects.
“No, I don’t know where she is,” Rachel replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
In my book white-haired little old ladies (LOLs for short) are due a certain amount of respect, just on the basis of longevity, if nothing else, but I was fast losing patience with this one. Rachel Miller had information that would make Big Al’s and my work infinitely easier.
“Look,” I said, “we’re involved in a homicide investigation. Are you aware that deliberately withholding evidence in a case like this is a crime? It’s called obstructing justice. You could wind up going to jail.”
Without blinking, Rachel Miller looked from my face to Al’s and then back to me. “All right,” she said, nodding slowly. “If that’s the way it is, just let me put the food away. We can go as soon as I clear up the dishes and leave a note for Daisy.”
Rachel Miller got up swiftly and marched through the swinging doors into the kitchen, carrying a stack of dirty dishes with her.
“She’s calling your bluff,” Al whispered under his breath. “What are you going to do now, dummy?”
All I could do was give him a helpless shrug. “Beats me,” I said.
Ask anyone from my college fraternity. Ask anyone from the department. J. P. Beaumont never was and never will be much of a poker player. Besides, although I didn’t know it yet, Rachel Miller had me totally outclassed in the bluff, raise, and call department.
Al and I moved back to the living room couch to wait while Rachel carried dirty dishes and leftovers from the dining room into the kitchen.
While we sat there waiting for her to finish, I kept wondering how I’d paint my way back out of the obstruction-of-justice corner I was in. I envisioned Gray Panthers coming out of the woodwork to protest and make my life miserable once they got wind that I’d so much as threatened to lock her up. Not only that, I know from experience that Seattle Police Department brass listen with a very attentive ear when senior citizens start protesting. Pissing off the elderly, particularly the vocal elderly, is bad for public relations. Every reporter in Seattle would have a field day.
Several minutes passed. Several long minutes. Eventually, it registered in my brain that although water was still running in the kitchen, I was no longer hearing the accompanying clatter of rinsing plates and silverware. I got up and hurried to the kitchen with Big Al right on my heels.
The kitchen was empty. The faucet was running full blast, but Rachel Miller was long gone. She had slipped out the open back door with the noise of the water masking her movements.
We went outside, dashed up the grassy lawn to Fremont Avenue, and looked in both directions. Rachel Miller was nowhere in sight.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch!” Big Al muttered.
Those were my sentiments exactly.
