Sonja McLaughlin, wherever she might be, because Sonja McLaughlin sounded like someone with a lifetime’s worth of axe to grind. And that was just the kind of person we were looking for.
I certainly don’t like receiving middle-of-the-night calls, and I don’t like making them either, but I made some that morning. I rustled up the crime lab folks who had inventoried Marcia Kelsey’s car. Sure enough, no keys and no garage door opener had been found in the vehicle.
It took some fast talking to get past JoAnne McGuire’s mother in Tacoma, but finally Erin’s roommate came on the phone. In a voice still thick with sleep, she corroborated Erin’s story of their drive to Eugene the previous Sunday-complete with departure time, the stop in Woodland, the wreck in Portland, and the snow-storm by the time they finally reached Eugene.
That meant Jason Ragsdale was mistaken when he said he had seen Erin Kelsey at the school district office sometime Sunday night, but I was convinced Jason, the unauthorized midnight skier, had seen someone, someone who looked like Erin Kelsey and carried a gun. If she wasn’t Erin, who was she?
I hit the wall about five-thirty and went home for a shower and a nap. By ten that same morning I was back in the office and in as good a shape as could be expected for someone running on three hours of sleep, five cups of coffee, and one hot shower. Coming into my cubicle, I was delighted to find a fully recovered Big Al Lindstrom sitting there big as life with his huge feet propped on his desk, munching complacently on an apple.
“Welcome back. Are you ever a sight for sore eyes,” I told him.
“You mean you missed me?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been stuck working with Paul Kramer the whole time you’ve been gone.”
Big Al grinned. “You think you’ve had it bad. With Molly sick, I had to do all the cooking. I musta lost ten pounds. By the way, there’s a message there for you. Came in about five minutes ago.”
The message, written in Big Al’s barely decipherable scrawl, directed me to call Caleb Drachman’s office-at once.
“Good morning, Detective Beaumont,” Drachman said cordially, once I had him on the line. “I’ve got a court order for you. I’m sending a copy over by messenger service to make sure you have it. Since the funeral starts at two, I wanted you to have plenty of time to make arrangements.”
“What arrangements?”
“They’re all listed in the court order.”
“Look, Mr. Drachman, how about saving us both some time and telling me what it says?”
“Certainly. I’ve talked to the criminal investigations folks down at Fort Lewis. They say the only charge pending against my client is one of simple desertion. They’re running an all-volunteer Army these days, and they don’t want any bad PR. In addition, I’ve talked to Mr. Kelsey several times this morning. From what he’s told me about what happened last night, I would assume the chances of your charging him in connection with his wife’s murder are somewhat less today than they were yesterday.”
“Forget the buildup, just tell me what I need to know,” I put in impatiently.
At once Caleb Drachman switched gears. “My client’s wife’s funeral is today. He is to be released long enough to attend the services, and it is to be done as unobtrusively as possible. Do I make myself clear?”
“Completely,” I replied.
“Good. There are to be no restraints and no obvious police presence. The judge ordered one guard. I suggested someone from the jail, but for some reason, Mr. Kelsey would like you to be there. I personally am strongly opposed to that idea, but I have agreed to abide by my client’s wishes, if it’s all right with you, of course,” he added.
If I’d had any lingering doubts about the kind of legal-beagle, Open-Sesame power Caleb Winthrop Drachman could wield, they were totally removed. On those occasions when prisoners are allowed to attend funerals, they usually do it under the aegis of a conspicuous police guard, and they do it wearing restraints-if not leg shackles, then at least handcuffs concealed under a raincoat.
“Well?” Drachman prompted.
“Well what?”
“Will you do it or not?”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Good. I’ll call down to the jail and tell them to have him ready by eleven. The visitation starts at noon. I’m sure he’d like to be there for that as well.”
“Do what?” Paul Kramer asked, walking into the cubicle and picking up part of what was being said. He asked his question while Drachman was still speaking.
I hung up the phone. “Take Pete Kelsey to his wife’s funeral,” I said. “Drachman got a court order.”
“It figures,” Kramer said. “Better you than me, though. I hate funerals. By the way, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“What’s that?”
“We’re barking up the wrong tree. Sonja McLaughlin didn’t do it.”
“How do you know that?”
“She’s dead. I’ve been in touch with the authorities in B.C. Sonja McLaughlin died about two years ago in an insane asylum in Vancouver.”
“She went crazy?”
“Evidently. I’ve got the Royal Canadian Mounted Police looking for next-of-kin who might be able to tell us more. They say there’s a daughter but that she’s dropped out of sight.”
“Her daughter’s been out of sight for twenty years,” I put in dryly, but Kramer shook his head.
“No, there’s another one, two years younger than Erin. That’s the one they’re looking for.”
“And maybe we should be too,” I said, feeling that sudden surge of excitement that says you’re finally on the right track.
Kramer didn’t pick up on it immediately. “What do you mean?”
“Remember? The Ragsdale kid identified Erin Kelsey as being on Queen Anne Hill even though we have a witness that puts her in Eugene at the very same time. And Andrea Stovall thought it was Erin on the phone, calling to tell her that Pete was on the warpath. After all, if the two girls have the same mother and father, maybe they look alike and sound alike as well.”
Kramer considered that for a moment and then nodded slowly. “You could be right. I’ll keep after it.”
Kramer left, and Big Al rolled his eyes in my direction. “What did you do to Kramer? He’s almost civilized.”
“For the moment,” I said, gathering up to leave. “But it’s probably not permanent.”
“Where are you off to?”
“Back home to get my car and then to the jail to pick up our prisoner.”
“And take him to a funeral? Have fun, but it doesn’t sound like a picnic to me,” Big Al said, settling comfortably back in his chair. “It’s the kind of duty I’m happy to miss.”
I picked up the 928 at Belltown Terrace then drove back down to the jail. I waited in the lobby while a guard brought Pete to the signout desk. He arrived there looking somber and subdued. Someone, probably George Riggs, had seen to it that despite the fire, Pete Kelsey had a set of suitable clothing to wear to Marcia’s funeral.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Magnolia. The church is on McGraw. Do you know where it is?”
I nodded.
We went out to the car without saying anything more until we were well under way. “Tell me about Sonja McLaughlin’s other daughter,” I said.
Pete seemed surprised. “Daughter? What other daughter?”
“One who must be two years or so younger than Erin.”
Pete Kelsey shook his head. “I never knew about another daughter. She must have been born after Marcia left Canada and came back to Seattle. What about Sonja? Where’s she?”
“Dead,” I told him. “She died about two years ago.”
“So it’s not her then,” he said forlornly. “We’re still not getting anyplace.”
“What about the daughter? Could she be behind all this?”
“What would Sonja’s daughter have against me or Erin, either one? How would she even know we exist?”
