More Perfect Union (9780061760228)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “There you are, Detective Beaumont. I couldn’t find you anywhere.” My work on the set that morning had evidently redeemed me in her eyes and she had restored me to the rank of detective. “Are you coming to dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t know. This is the first I’ve heard anything about it. What is it, a command performance?”

  “Something like that,” she replied dryly, ignoring the derision in my response. “Mr. Goldfarb said for you to meet us at Gooey’s, the bar at the Sheraton. Seven o’clock. We’ll all go together from there.”

  Derrick Parker came up behind her just as she finished speaking. “Go where?” he asked. The miracle-working makeup had been removed. He had looked fine during the filming, but now he was a wreck.

  “Dinner tonight. You’re invited too, Derrick. Are you coming?”

  “That depends,” Derrick waffled. “Can I bring a date?”

  “Suit yourself.” Cassie turned and started away.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I called after her. “Does that mean we’re dismissed? School’s out for the summer?” She didn’t dignify my question with a reply. I watched her walk away. “For someone her age, she doesn’t have much of a sense of humor,” I remarked to Derrick Parker.

  He was watching her as well. Her punk red hair looked like a rooster’s comb in the glaring sunlight. “Nobody in the movie business can afford to have a sense of humor,” Derrick told me, “least of all if they’re assistant to someone like Goldfarb.”

  Without further discussion, he and I started toward my car. On the way I handed him the newspaper section with the page containing the article on Logan Tyree folded out. “Thought you might be interested. That’s the guy we pulled out of the water the other day,” I said.

  “So you found out who he was?”

  “Somebody did,” I answered.

  Derrick scanned the article as we walked. “You were right about him not being a jumper. It says here his boat burned. That’s funny. He didn’t look burned to me.”

  “It exploded first,” I explained. “He was probably blown clear by the force of the blast. I’ve seen people come through things like that with hardly a scratch. He must have hit his head on the cabin roof on the way out, or maybe he struck something in the water.”

  “The article said he was thirty-seven,” Derrick continued. “That’s only two years older than I am.”

  Derrick Parker must have been feeling twinges of his own mortality. I notice symptoms of that occasionally myself, especially the morning after the night before, so I didn’t have a whole lot of sympathy. “If you think that’s bad, you should read what’s on the front page,” I told him. “She was only twenty-eight.”

  He read the construction accident article while we drove and, sure enough, he felt even worse. We went by my apartment so Derrick could retrieve his bottle of Glenlivet, then I took him back to the hotel. He said he was planning to take a nap. That seemed like a helluva good idea to me, too. As soon as I got home, I flopped across the bed fully clothed and fell asleep.

  Peters called at six. “I gave you time enough to get home before I called,” he said. “Did you see it?”

  “Did I see what?”

  “The article in the paper about the woman who fell off Masters Plaza yesterday morning.”

  “I saw it. What about her?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a hell of a coincidence for two ironworkers to die in separate accidents in less than a week?”

  Usually I’m the one who jumps to conclusions. I wondered briefly if Peters hadn’t been in bed too long and his brain was going soft. “Wait a minute here,” I cautioned. “Logan Tyree died in a boating accident. Angie Dixon fell off a building in front of God and everybody. How can the two be related?”

  Peters didn’t waste any time in throwing his best punch. “Tyree’s ex-girlfriend left town.”

  “So what?”

  Peters went right on, totally ignoring my question. “I was talking to Manny a little while ago, just passing the time of day. I asked how it was going. Manny said he and Kramer talked to Mrs. Tyree and then went to Bellevue looking for the girlfriend. She’s split. Gone. Moved out along with her two kids. They talked to the girlfriend’s mother.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “This morning, I guess, not long before Manny and Kramer got there.”

  “Where are you going with all this?” I asked. “Did the mother act as though there was any problem?”

  “No, she says Linda always pulls stunts like this, like taking off without telling anyone where she’s going.”

  “So what’s the point? The mother’s not worried, but you are?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How come, Peters? What’s eating you?”

  “Think about it for a minute, Beau. Didn’t you tell me that Corbett guy said Tyree had a jealous wife?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “And that the girlfriend, Linda Decker, met him while she was attending an ironworking apprenticeship class?”

  “That’s right, too.”

  “And now this Angie Dixon. She’s an apprentice, too. Maybe Logan Tyree made friends with more than one of his students.”

  It began to come together. I could see the pattern building in Peters’ brain. It didn’t take an overly active imagination. “You think maybe Linda Decker’s scared that she’s next? You think she’s hiding out?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “In that case, maybe somebody should check out Katherine Tyree.”

  Peters breathed a sigh of relief. “Bingo,” he said. “You’re not a fast study, Beau. I thought you’d never pick up on it.”

  “Is this a subtle hint?” I asked. “And is the somebody doing the checking going to be me?”

  “It sure as hell can’t be me,” Peters responded bleakly. “In the meantime, those other assholes are absolutely determined that the incidents aren’t related in any way.”

  “Did you mention your suspicions to Manny?”

  There was a slight pause before Peters answered. “No,” he said reluctantly. “Not exactly.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. I can’t today because in a few minutes I have to be down at the Sheraton, but I told Watty I’d be taking a few days off once we finished up on the movie. I’ll have some time to check into it and no one will be the wiser. You’re still gunning for Kramer, aren’t you.”

  When he answered, Peters’ voice was hushed. “You’d better believe it,” he breathed. “You’d by God better believe it.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Just when I figure I can count on Peters to wake me up, he lets me down. The next morning he didn’t call, and I slept until after nine. Fortunately, I didn’t have to be at work early that day. In fact, I didn’t have to go to work at all.

  My head was pounding. I lay there in bed trying not to move for fear I would shatter into a thousand pieces. Try as I might to remember, the end of the evening was a total blank.

  From seven o’clock on, it had been one long wild party all over the Sheraton. Booze flowed like water. Vaguely I could recall closing down Gooey’s in the wee small hours. There’s an old country-western song that talks about how even ugly girls look good at closing time. I must have been thoroughly smashed. My last coherent thought was that maybe Cassie Young wasn’t that bad-looking after all.

  I finally dared open one eye. Glaring sunlight exploded in my head. Then, cautiously, I peered over at the other side of the bed. Thankfully, it was empty. I was all right so far. Hung over as hell, but otherwise all right.

  Dragging my protesting body into the bathroom, I stood for a good twenty minutes under a steaming torrent of water. I should have felt guilty. Profligate even. It had been such a long, dry summer that the City of Seattle had limited yard-watering and was asking for voluntary cutbacks on indoor water usage. But I couldn’t help it. It was either take the shower or stay in bed.

 
I ordered breakfast sent up from the deli downstairs and was beginning to feel halfway human by the time I finished my third cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin. Mornings aren’t good for me even under the best of circumstances. This was not the best of circumstances.

  I was glad I had called in the day before to tell Sergeant Watkins we were done filming and to let him know I was on vacation until after Labor Day. Watty had suggested I go out and have fun, but the Death in Drydock party had been almost more fun than I could stand. By the fourth cup of coffee, I was ready to admit it was just as well my good drinking buddy Derrick Parker was on his way back home to Hollywood.

  As the juices gradually began to flow I turned my mind over to the assignment Peters had given me the day before. After we had finished talking, there had been very little time to think about what he had said. On reflection, I could see that there was some merit in Peters’ theory. Maybe Linda Decker was scared and hiding out. Despite what Red Corbett thought, it was possible Katherine Tyree had been jealous of more than just the boat.

  Carrying Peters’ conjecture one step further, I remembered something else Corbett had said, something about there being plenty more fish in the sea. If Logan Tyree had been mixed up with more than one woman in the apprenticeship program, nobody, including Katherine Tyree, had ever cornered the market on jealousy.

  Both lines of reasoning were worth pursuing.

  I already had Linda Decker’s mother’s name, address, and phone number jotted in my notebook. I didn’t have a clue about Katherine Tyree. I turned to the detective’s greatest ally—the telephone book. Logan Tyree wasn’t listed there. K. A. Tyree was. The address given was on the Maple Valley Highway in Renton. That certainly squared with what Red Corbett had told me.

  As I drove toward Renton, I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Katherine Tyree. I’m not predisposed to like women who, deservedly or not, toss their husbands out of the house without much more than the clothes on their backs.

  The house, a small, two-story bungalow, was on a wooded lot and set some distance back from the road. There were two cars parked out front, an older pickup and a late-model Honda. The man who answered the door was still buttoning his shirt. He told me his name was Fred McKinney, but he didn’t say what he was doing there. When I showed him my badge, he invited me inside.

  “Kate’s upstairs taking a shower,” he said. “She’ll be down in a few minutes. The services are this afternoon, you know. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  I followed Fred into the kitchen. He located two coffee mugs without having to look in more than one cupboard.

  “Sugar? Cream?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Black.”

  He stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his own cup and then offered me a place at the kitchen table. Fred, whoever he was, seemed to have an extensive working knowledge of Katherine Tyree’s kitchen.

  “Are you a relative?” I asked.

  “Friend of the family,” he said. “She’s taking it pretty hard, you know,” he added. “I mean the divorce wasn’t final yet. It’s like they weren’t exactly married and they weren’t exactly not. Know what I mean?”

  “It’s tough,” I said, nodding. “It makes it difficult to know just how to act.”

  In another part of the house the sound of running water stopped. Katherine Tyree was evidently finished with her shower. Fred got up from the table. “I’ll go tell her you’re here.”

  I glanced around the kitchen. It was full of the kinds of decorative bric-a-brac popular with ceramic hobbyists—cutesy wall plaques complete with familiar Bible verses and age-old proverbs. To be honest, I suppose I had a preconceived notion of Katherine Tyree as some sort of femme fatale. Nothing would have been further from the truth.

  The woman who followed Fred into the kitchen was a frumpy, overweight type wearing a frayed housecoat and floppy bedroom slippers. A damp bath towel was wrapped around her wet hair. She nodded silently in my direction when Fred introduced us, then went straight to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  “Please accept my condolences, Mrs. Tyree,” I said. She nodded again but then she turned away from me. Looking out the window over the sink, she quickly wiped her eyes. Fred had been right when he told me she was taking it hard. She seemed genuinely grief-stricken over Logan Tyree’s death. It was a full minute before she turned back around and faced me.

  “Fred tells me you’re with the Seattle Police,” she said, making a visible effort to control her emotions. “What can I do for you?”

  She hadn’t asked to see my identification, and I knew Fred hadn’t examined my ID closely enough to remember my name. I decided to jump in with both feet. “I’m sorry to bring all this back up, especially since you’ve already been interviewed by a number of law-enforcement people, but I’d like to ask a few additional questions.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  She came back over to the table and sat down between Fred and me. He reached over and patted the back of her hand. “Are you sure?” Fred asked solicitously.

  “It’s all right,” she said wearily to Fred, and then to me. “Go ahead.”

  “A number of people seem to be operating under the assumption that your husband’s death was an accident. I’m wondering if you have an opinion about that one way or another.”

  It was a back-handed way to start the conversation, but it struck a spark. The atmosphere in the room was suddenly charged with a surge of emotional electricity. Instantly Fred’s hand closed shut around Katherine Tyree’s fingers. His knuckles turned white. Fred’s powerful grip must have hurt. Katherine Tyree winced but made no effort to pull away. The stricken look they exchanged told me I had unwittingly stumbled into volatile territory.

  “You’d better tell him, Kate,” Fred said grimly.

  Katherine Tyree shook her head stubbornly. “No. I don’t want to, not today, not like this.”

  “If you don’t, I will.” His words were weighted with gloomy determination.

  Katherine stole a glance at me then dropped her gaze to her lap. “I can’t,” she murmured, her voice a strangled whisper.

  Fred sat up, squared his shoulders, and looked me straight in the eye. “What she means to say is, we’re engaged,” he announced defiantly. He paused, waiting for a reply. When there was none, he continued, his voice somewhat more subdued. “We had planned to be married just as soon as her divorce was final. We had no reason to kill him. Logan and I were friends once—asshole buddies.”

  The fact that Fred assumed I was accusing them of murder led me to believe there was a whole lot more to the story than anyone had let on so far. I kept quiet, leaving an empty pool of silence between us. Fred rushed in to fill it up.

  “You see,” he said, “what you don’t understand is that Boomer was my boat originally.”

  “You say you were friends? I take it that means you weren’t any longer?”

  Katherine Tyree started to say something then stopped.

  “Nobody planned it this way. That’s just how it worked out,” Fred said. He shrugged. “Things sort of happened, got out of hand.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me about it.”

  “Do you know what a boomer is?”

  “Not really.”

  “In the trade it’s a hand who knocks around the country, going from place to place, wherever there’s work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Construction. Working iron. That’s how Logan and I met, on the raising gang down at Columbia Center. I came up here from California as a boomer and was living on the boat. Logan was interested in boats, had always wanted one. When he offered to buy mine, I took him up on it. I was tired of banging my head on the doorway every time I needed to take a leak.

  “Logan and Kate here invited me out to dinner. Christmas, Thanksgiving, summer barbecues. That sort of thing. Kate and I just hit it off, didn’t we.”

  Katherine Tyree gave a barely perceptible wordless nod.

 
“So that’s how it started out, innocent like that. Once Logan had that boat, though, he wanted to spend every spare minute on it. He was gone a lot—on weekends, in the evening, after work. That’s when things got out of hand with us, with Kate and me I mean. Like I said, we didn’t intend for it to happen.”

  The last sentence lingered in the air for several seconds. I’m not exactly sure who Fred was trying to convince most—Katherine Tyree, me, or himself.

  “Where were you two last Tuesday night?” I asked.

  Fred didn’t flinch or try to duck the question. “Right here,” he declared resolutely. “Upstairs in the bedroom screwing our brains out.”

  “Fred!” Katherine Tyree wailed. “Don’t!”

  “Kate, honey, I’ve got to. Don’t you see?” He let go of her hand and reached up and ran a finger tenderly along the full curve of her cheek.

  “We’re better off telling him right up front, hon. It would be worse if he found out later. Lots worse. Besides, we had no reason to kill Logan. In another month the divorce would have been final and we could’ve been married, no questions asked. I’m sick and tired of sneaking around. With Logan gone, I don’t care who knows about us. It’s nobody’s business but our own.”

  Fred’s forthright narrative was pretty tough to counter. My gut reaction was that he was telling the truth, that his involvement with Katherine Tyree hadn’t been planned or premeditated and that he was sincerely saddened by his former friend’s death.

  “Tell me about the boat,” I said.

  Fred shrugged. “There’s not a lot to tell. It wasn’t new. I bought it used for a song. Gasoline boats are a whole lot cheaper than diesel ones. I’d been living on it for a couple of years when I sold it to Logan.”

  “What did you think about it?” I asked, turning to Katherine. “About your husband’s boat.”

  “I hated it,” she said softly. “It was the last straw. I felt like he was using it to run away from me. It was a place for him to go, to hide out, instead of doing things around here.”

  “Was he hiding out?”