Name Withheld : A J.p. Beaumont Mystery (9780061760907) (12 page)

Eddie smiled. “Most people are,” he said.

“A friend of mine owns one of your units, one of those Braun Chair Toppers.”

“Really, who's your friend?” Eddie asked.

“Ron Peters.”

“Oh, that's right. The young cop from Seattle P.D., the one who wiped himself out by going off one of those unfinished freeway interchanges that used to be down by the Kingdome?”

“That's the one,” I said.

“I had a message from him a little while ago, but I haven't had time enough to return the call. How's he doing?”

“Fine,” I answered. “He and his wife are expecting a baby. In April sometime.”

“He already has kids, doesn't he?”

“Two,” I told him.

Obviously, Eddie Riveira took a very personal interest in the people who were his clients, because he clearly remembered Ron Peters. “Last time I saw him he had wrecked his car. We moved that old Topper of his from one vehicle to another—to a Buick, I think—and modified the brakes and accelerator. With two kids already and a baby on the way, he's going to have to break down and get himself one of my vans. He'll love it. Is that what you came to talk to me about?”

“Actually, it isn't. I'm working a case that may involve somebody with a Chair Topper a lot like Ron's. Only this one is on a 1988 lavender Crown Victoria.”

Eddie frowned. “Lavender?” he said. “I only know of one eighty-eight Crown Victoria, but that one's powder blue.”

I shrugged. “I saw it at night. I could be mistaken about the color.”

“Virginia, then,” Eddie said. “It belongs to Virginia Marks.”

“Do you know where she lives or how I could get in touch with her?” I asked.

“Sure. If you'll come into the office for a minute, I can probably give you her number.”

We started toward the office—a real one, not a makeshift motor home. Along the way, where once converted hot rods must have sat, now at least a dozen spanking new vans were parked,
side by side, showroom style. Eddie Riveira must have been reading my mind.

“It's the same technology we used to utilize raising and lowering hot rods. We just put it to a little higher use, that's all.”

Once in the office, Eddie called up Virginia Marks' name on a computer screen. “Here it is,” he said. “This may be an old address. She used to live in a little complex over in Kirkland. I don't know if she's still there or not. At one time, she had talked about moving to downtown Bellevue. From what I can tell, she probably spends more time working out of that car of hers than she does at home.”

“You say she works out of her car? What does she do, run a vending machine route? Work as a sales rep?”

“She's a detective,” Eddie Riveira told me. “Same as you.”

Except Virginia Marks wasn't just like me. I'm a cop. Virginia was a freelancer, a private eye. Eddie fumbled through a plastic holder and ended up showing me Virginia Marks' business card.
AIM RESEARCH
, it said. Those few words and two phone numbers were the only things printed on the card.

“The bottom number is a cell phone,” Eddie said. “That's the one where you're most likely to catch her.”

“What can you tell me about her?” I asked.

Eddie shrugged. “A little rough around the edges. Personally, I don't have that many deal
ings with her. Usually, Nancy or Amanda handles her. Virginia doesn't like men, and she doesn't make any bones about it. We're in business to service the customer. If she doesn't want to talk to me, that's fine with us.”

“What's wrong with her?” I asked.

“Wrong?” Eddie repeated.

“How did she end up in a chair?”

“Pulled out in front of a Suburban right here on State Route Five Twenty-two. The car she was driving back then was a little one, a Honda, I believe. The accident barely dented the Suburban, but it creamed Virginia's car and sent her to the hospital for six months and rehab for six months after that. She came out a paraplegic at age forty-eight. According to Amanda—that's my wife, by the way—one of the reasons Virginia Marks likes that old Crown Victoria of hers so much is that it's big. Maybe sitting inside all that sheet metal helps make her feel safe.”

A worker, a young man in startlingly clean coveralls, hurried up to where Eddie and I were standing. “Sorry to interrupt, Eddie, but could you come look at something for a minute?”

Eddie excused himself and went away. I stood looking around. Behind the house and the one garage was a minipark with broad sidewalks that ran through a carefully manicured grassy area to two separate gazebos. In the middle of the plot of grass was a complex, fortresslike jungle gym built over a bed of freshly spread bark. On the sidewalk next to the play area, a woman bundled
in coat and gloves sat in a wheelchair, watching while two little girls whooped and shrieked from the top of the jungle gym's slide.

Eddie came back. “Sorry. Is there anything else?”

“Just one other thing. How much does one of these vans set a guy back?”

“About forty thou,” Eddie answered. “About the same as one of your basic luxury cars.

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the help. By the way, where's the nearest cup of coffee?”

He pointed east. “Coffee you can have here, but if you want something to go with it, I recommend the Maltby Café,” he said. “Go to the end of the road and turn left. It's not far.”

“And the food?” I asked.

“Their breakfasts are great.”

I treated myself to French toast and tried calling Virginia Marks of AIM Research at both numbers listed on her card. I tried several times. Each time I hung up just as the voice mail recording came on. I wanted to talk to Virginia in person. I had no interest in leaving a message at the sound of the tone.

Voice mail is fine, but only up to a point.

N
o longer famished and in a somewhat more agreeable frame of mind than I had been earlier, I headed back to Bellevue. It was eleven-thirty by then. The sign on the door of Dorene's Fine China and Gifts had been flipped over from
CLOSED
to
OPEN
.

When I stepped inside, a bell over the door tinkled merrily, announcing my presence. The guy at the espresso cart had said that Latty was usually in the store by now, but the person behind the counter was a white-haired woman. I guessed her to be somewhere beyond her mid-seventies.

“May I help you?” she inquired, looking at me over a pair of rectangular half-size glasses that perched on the very tip of a beakish nose.

“I'm looking for Latty,” I said.

“Is that so?” the woman said in a brisk, businesslike fashion. “Well, as you can see, she's not
here. Is there something I could help you with?”

“I came to talk to her about a friend of hers,” I said.

The woman was barely five foot three, but she puffed herself up and straightened her shoulders so she looked an inch or two taller. She spoke firmly, reminding me of a teacher offering guidance to a recalcitrant schoolboy. “I already told you. Latty isn't in yet. She won't be until much later this afternoon.”

“Do you have any idea where I could find her between now and then?” I asked, pulling out one of my cards and placing it on the countertop between us. The woman picked up the card. After peering at it for a moment, she shot me a questioning look, then she returned the card to the counter. Bird-boned but nonetheless formidable, she was one of those much-facelifted women—one who wasn't giving in to the aging process without putting up one hell of a fight.

“She'll be in when she's in and not a moment before. I'm Latty's aunt Grace. Her great aunt, really,” she added with a disdainful sniff. “I'm Latty's grandmother's sister, but let's don't split hairs. I don't go in for all that
great
stuff. Plain
Aunt Grace
will do just fine.”

“Ma'am, I'm afraid I'm not making myself sufficiently clear. This isn't a social call. If you have any idea where Latty is at the moment, I must insist that you put me in touch with her. This is a serious matter. I need to ask her a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“As you can see by my card, Mrs.—”

“
Miss
,” Aunt Grace supplied, placing clear emphasis on the word. “Highsmith. Miss Grace Highsmith. You see, unlike my sister Florence—Latty's grandmother, that is—I never married.”

The first time I heard Grace Highsmith's name, it seemed oddly familiar somehow, but I dismissed that momentary impression and forged ahead. “As you can see from my card, Miss Highsmith,” I continued, “I'm with the Seattle P.D. The Homicide Squad. We're currently investigating the death of an individual who died sometime New Year's Eve. We have reason to believe that your grandniece may have been acquainted with that person.”

“I see,” Miss Highsmith said. Behind me, the bell chimed over the door once more. I turned to see a bent woman, leaning over a metal walker, come tottering into the room.

“Morning, Grace,” the woman said. “Did my order come in yet?” she asked, peeking sideways in our direction. “The wedding's this weekend, you know.”

“Yes, Maxine,” Grace Highsmith replied. “I haven't forgotten. We had a big order come in from UPS this morning, but I'm not sure if your Denby's in there or not. We won't be sorting through the packing slips until Latty comes in later this afternoon. Could we get back to you on this either then or early tomorrow?”

“Either one will be fine,” Maxine answered. “I
came down for a manicure and thought I'd check in with you while I was in the neighborhood.” Turning her walker in a wide circle, she headed back for the door. I hurried over to hold it open for her. “Why thank you, young man,” she said. “That's very kind of you.”

When the door closed behind Maxine, I returned to Grace Highsmith. “Where were we now?” she began somewhat vaguely. “Oh, that's right. You wanted to talk to Latty. As I said, she isn't in right now, but that doesn't matter. In the long run, I don't believe talking with her will be all that necessary.”

Grace Highsmith wasn't a receptionist, but she had the typical gatekeeper mentality, which is to say, I wasn't to go anywhere near her niece until she was damned good and ready to let me. “Excuse me, Miss Highsmith, I don't believe you understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” Unperturbed, she smiled up at me. “You and I will have a little chat first, Detective Beaumont,” she added pleasantly. “After that, you can decide whether or not you need to speak to Latty.”

“Miss Highsmith, withholding information in a case like this—”

She waved aside my half-uttered objection. “Oh, I know all about that,” she said. “I watch police dramas on television all the time. It's just that there's no reason to upset Latty with any of this. The poor girl's suffered enough already. Excuse me, would you, Detective Beaumont? I'll
need to make a phone call and get someone in here to cover the store for the next little while. If you'll just wait here a moment…”

Without pausing to hear any possible objection on my part, Grace Highsmith disappeared behind a curtained doorway into a back room. I was tempted to follow her, but I didn't. That seemed rude. Besides, what could a sweet little old lady do—run out some back door and disappear? She remained out of sight for a matter of several minutes, but I did hear her making a phone call at one point. That was followed by a long period of silence. Just as I was beginning to worry that I'd been duped after all, she reappeared, carrying a purse and a ring of keys.

“Have you had lunch, Detective Beaumont?”

“Breakfast,” I answered. “Just a little while ago, as a matter of fact, so I'm not very hungry…”

“I had my Cream of Wheat at six o'clock this morning, just as I always do, so I'm really quite hungry. Let's go up the street. I'll have a bite of lunch, and we can talk there.”

“But what about the store?”

“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “It'll take our part-time clerk a little while to get here from Redmond, but don't worry about the store. We're rather informal here at times. I'll just turn over the sign. My customers know that someone will be back eventually.”

Occasionally, it's better to go with the flow than to put up an argument. I would have preferred
talking somewhere a little more private than a restaurant, but Grace Highsmith seemed so determined to do things her way, that I didn't object. After all, who am I to refuse a little old lady a bite of lunch?

On my way into the store, I had noticed a couple of restaurants in the immediate area. One—a tearoom-looking place—was almost directly across the street, while a Mexican food joint was about a block away. Instead of going into either one of those establishments, however, we walked past both to the next cross street, headed north for half a block, and turned into something that looked like a little cottage. It turned out to be a restaurant—Azalea's Fountain Court.

One look at the white-clothed tables inside told me this was a fine dining establishment rather than a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. A petite blonde stepped out from behind a grand piano in the foyer and greeted my companion by name.

“Your usual table today, Grace?” she asked.

The older woman frowned. “No, Shelley, I think we should have a booth today. The far one in the corner if it's available. Someone may be joining us.”

I wondered at that. This had seemed like a spur-of-the-moment arrangement. Who could possibly be joining us?

We were led to a green plush banquette in the far corner of the cozy, plant-lined room. After dropping off menus, the blonde named Shelley disappeared, returning almost immediately with
a glass of white wine and an extra place setting. No question. Around this place, Aunt Grace was a regular.

“Shelley,” Grace Highsmith began, observing the niceties, “this is Detective Beaumont of the Seattle Police Department.” She paused, seemingly for effect, letting the words sink in while she took a delicate sip of wine. “And this is Shelley Kuni, Detective Beaumont. She's the owner of this fine establishment.”

“I'm happy to meet you,” I said.

Shelley smiled. “Would you care for a glass of wine as well? This chardonnay is particularly nice.”

“No, thanks. Just coffee for me,” I answered. Shelley hurried off to get it.

The room was fairly small—four or five booths and about that many tables. The service bar with both wine and coffee was in the corner of the room, close enough for the conversation to continue while Shelley poured my coffee.

“Detective Beaumont can't have any wine because he's on duty, you see,” Aunt Grace announced airily. “He's questioning me about a murder.”

I glanced around the room. Fortunately, it was early enough in the lunch hour that we were the only patrons in the place when Grace Highsmith dropped that little bomb.

“No!” Shelley exclaimed. “Really?”

I nodded. The whole idea of wearing plainclothes is so that everyone you talk to won't nec
essarily know you're a cop. For everyone within hearing distance in Azalea's Fountain Court, my cover was totally blown.

Shelley set the cup and saucer in front of me. “Cream and sugar?” she asked smoothly as though the words
murder
and
detective
hadn't penetrated her consciousness.

“No, just black.”

I suppose restaurant people have to be fairly flexible. Somehow, Shelley Kuni managed to act as though she were totally unperturbed by what Grace Highsmith was saying while at the same time seeming to hang on every word. It reminded me of a circus tightrope walker. “Whose murder?” Shelley asked.

“Don Wolf's,” Grace answered at once.

“Not the one who—”

“Don Wolf!” I exclaimed, slopping half my coffee into the saucer. “How did you—?”

“Yes, exactly,” Grace replied with a peremptory nod, cutting both Shelley and me off in midsentence. “The very one I told you about last week.”

As if the lunch bell had sounded somewhere, several new sets of customers arrived in the entrance lobby all at once. Shelley hurried to meet them. There were at least two other separate dining areas in the restaurant. I don't think it was an accident that Shelley led all the new arrivals off to one of those, leaving our part of the dining room still relatively empty except for Grace and me.

I turned an accusatory stare on Grace Highsmith. “I told you I was investigating a death,” I said. “I didn't mention the word
murder
. Not once. And I
never
mentioned the victim's name.”

Grace smiled sweetly. “The murder part is strictly a matter of common sense,” she told me. “After all, you are a homicide detective, aren't you?”

“But how is it you happen to know the victim's name?”

Over the rim of her wine glass, Grace Highsmith fixed her bright-eyed stare on my face. “What kind of detective are you? Do you even have to ask?”

I held her gaze with one of my own. “As far as I know, the victim's name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. It would indicate that you might possibly have inside knowledge—”

“Precisely,” Grace interrupted. “I knew you'd catch on eventually. Statistically speaking, I understand that the perpetrator almost always knows his or her victim.”

With impeccably bad timing, our waiter appeared just then, smiling cordially. “What will you have today, Miss Highsmith?” he asked. “Your usual?” She nodded. “Extra cilantro on that jalapeño grilled cheese on plain whole wheat?”

“Of course,” Grace replied. “What's the soup?”

“Shelley's tomato basil. It's very nice.”

“I'm sure it is,” Grace said. “Soup then.”

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked, turning to me.

“Nothing,” I said. “Just coffee.”

“Very well.”

He went away, disappearing silently around the corner into the kitchen as more guests showed up in the lobby and filtered into the room, gradually filling the other banquettes as well as some of the freestanding tables. It was an attractive, intimate dining room—totally lacking in privacy, and absolutely wrong for conducting a homicide interview.

Grace took another delicate sip of her wine then set down the glass. She glanced first at her watch and then at the front door as though awaiting someone's arrival. “I suppose we could just as well get started then. What is it you want to ask me?”

When we had first sat down, Grace Highsmith had placed her pocketbook on the table beside her napkin. Now, replacing her chain-held glasses on her nose, she opened the purse and peered inside before turning it at a fifteen-degree angle.

To my absolute astonishment, a small, stainless-steel handgun came spilling out onto the table. The gun was a compact .32 ACP. It's a weapon I know, but up until then, I had seen only one. The new Seecamp autos are so popular that there's a fifteen- to eighteen-month waiting list at the factory for anyone who is interested in buying one. The .32 ACP is a small, readily concealable
gun most often used by police officers as a backup weapon.

Fortunately for everyone in the restaurant that day—yours truly included—it is also considered to be a very safe weapon in that it's unlikely to discharge when dropped accidentally. Or even deliberately. It is designed to use only Winchester Western 60-grain Silvertip hollowpoint rounds. Which means that it's not worth a damn for target practice, but it can be deadly at close range.

The surprisingly loud thunk the gun made when it landed on the white linen tablecloth made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I wasn't the only person in the dining room who noticed. At a table just across from us, a tall, fiftyish blond woman had been seated along with a gray-haired, bearded man. When the gun landed, the man rose to his feet. “A gun!” he blurted. “She's got a gun!”