Lying in Wait (9780061747168)

by Jance, Judith A.

  As the father of a more-or-less unpredictable daughter, I’d like to think that torture patricide isn’t something well-brought-up girls do—not even when they learn awful truths about their daddies screwing around behind their mommies’ backs. Still, irate daughters have committed murder on occasion. Had that happened here? Or if Kari Gebhardt wasn’t tough enough to do the dirty deed herself, might she not—in defense of her mother’s honor—have found someone else to do it for her?

  After years in Homicide, I have more than a nodding acquaintance with killers. Some of the most disturbing perpetrators—the ones I consider to be the scum of the earth—are the contract-killer types, the ones who murder for hire and see their job as nothing more or less than a business transaction. Some of them are willing to do anything for money—anything at all. And a scary few take inordinate pride in a job well done—the bloodier the better.

  I left my apartment at a quarter to six and drove through Seattle’s third day of unremitting morning fog. When I got to the top of Greenbrier, I had to dodge out of the way of a fire-engine-red Jeep Cherokee that came surging up the rise and almost ran me off the road. I would have had a few choice words about drivers of bright red cars, but I didn’t. After all, I happen to be the driver of a bright red car myself.

  I arrived at Else Gebhardt’s Blue Ridge house at exactly the same time as the delivery boy for the Post-Intelligencer.

  I picked up the paper from where he had tossed it in the driveway and carried it into the house. It seemed to me it was probably fortunate that the paper and I arrived at the Gebhardt house at precisely the same time. At least it gave Else someone familiar to lean on as the tawdry details of her dead marriage began to unravel in public.

  Maybe I was kidding myself, but I wanted to believe that my being there would help.

  14

  I had a single, overriding reason for not wanting to be the one who gave Else Gebhardt the damning news about her husband—I knew how much it would hurt.

  Faced with this kind of after-the-fact revelation of betrayal, people are always quick to trot out that useless old saw “The truth will set you free.” Use of that particular quote always causes me to respond in kind with a line of my own, with the title of a song from Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess—to wit, “It Ain’t Necessarily So.”

  I know from personal experience that a painful truth learned about a departed loved one—news that arrives after that person’s death—is more than merely hurtful. It can be paralyzing. I’m not hypothesizing, either. I know that pain personally because I’ve been there, and years later, it still hurts.

  I’ve wondered sometimes, in the years since Anne Corley died, how would I have reacted if things had been different. For instance, if I had been given a clear-cut choice to go either way—to know the truth about her or to spend the remainder of my life in blissful ignorance—which would I have chosen? Would I have opted for truth or would I have clung blindly to those few precious moments and memories? Yes, having to come to terms with the “real” Anne Corley inalterably changed me. Grieving over her loss forced me to grow up. Was loving and losing worth it? I don’t know.

  Some days—like the day I first held Kayla, my granddaughter, in my arms—I can say unequivocally that life since Anne was well worth the pain. But other times, I’m not so sure. The jury’s still out.

  On occasion I give myself little pep talks and try to convince J. P. Beaumont that of course he loved Anne Corley unconditionally. That’s a hell of a lot easier to say or contemplate as long as she’s dead and safely buried up in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. I’m afraid the reality of living out our lives would have been a whole lot tougher. For one thing, we would never have been able to live together as man and wife, not with me working homicide year after year and with her locked away, either in a prison or else in a facility for the criminally insane.

  So Anne Corley was on my mind that morning when I sat in Else Gebhardt’s cheerfully decorated kitchen, telling her what I suspected to be the sad truth about Gunter, her philandering and now-dead husband. Else’s sallow, haggard features became even more so as I related what I knew of her husband’s illicit connection to Denise Whitney and of the still-smoldering love-nest hideaway on Camano Island.

  The problem for Else Gebhardt was entirely understandable. I believe that while Gunter was alive, Else gave him his husbandly due in the form of willing and unconditional love. Now she was finding out too late that rather than treasuring her devotion, he had hurled it back in her teeth. I told her as diplomatically and gently as I could, yet she seemed to shrink under the hurtful impact of my words.

  “How long did you say she’s lived there?” Else asked listlessly when I finished my series of revelations. Her face was strained and pale. There didn’t seem to be any spunk or fight left in her. Two days earlier, when she was arguing with Officer Tamaguchi on the Fishermen’s Terminal dock, her features had been alive with anger, outrage, and exasperation. Now she seemed to have simply given up. My sense was that the fire of life in Else Gebhardt was about to sputter and go out.

  We were seated at the small oak table in the well-lit kitchen of her house on Culpeper Court NW. Two coffee cups sat on the table before us. By then mine was empty. Else’s, still completely full, had grown cold without her ever having touched it.

  “Two years,” I answered.

  “How can you be sure Gunter bought it?”

  “The purchaser was a corporation named Isolde International. What do you think?”

  “Who’s Isolde International?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “It’s the company that purchased the Camano Island house,” I told her. “The corporation commission lists your husband as president. Denise Whitney is on the books as vice president.”

  “Oh.” Else frowned, absorbing the information.

  “But where did he get the money to buy an extra house?” she asked. “I remember two years ago. It was a real tough season. We were all right, but only because we weren’t carrying a whole lot of debt. I…”

  “Is it possible Gunter came into an inheritance of some kind?” I interrupted. “Did he sell off some equipment, maybe?”

  “No.” Else looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “You think he was involved in some kind of illegal activity, don’t you?” she said accusingly. The spark inside her lit up a little, gave off some heat. “Smuggling, drug-trafficking, is that what you mean?”

  “I suppose it could be something like that,” I conceded reluctantly, not wanting to plant unsubstantiated ideas in her head. “What I can tell you is that some of the rooms of the house on Camano Island were left pretty much intact. Our investigation of those has turned up evidence that those rooms for sure, and most likely the others as well, were thoroughly searched before the house was torched.

  “At this point, it’s impossible for us to tell whether or not the killer found what he was looking for. We don’t know what, if anything, is missing, since we have no idea what was there in the first place.”

  Else shook her head several times, more determinedly with each successive shake. “I can’t believe Gunter would have been mixed up in anything like illegal drugs, but then…” She paused and backed off. The glowing ember inside her dimmed once more.

  “Come to think of it, though, I wouldn’t have thought he’d have anything to do with another woman, either, so I guess you can’t set much store by my opinions.”

  A door opened and closed somewhere else in the house. Moments later, Inge Didriksen propelled her creaking, wheeled walker across the living-room floor and into the kitchen. Else raised a cautioning finger to her lips and shook her head.

  “Shhhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t you tell her. Let me do it.”

  But Inge’s hearing was far better than Else knew, or else she had come much closer to the kitchen than either of us realized.

  “Don’t tell me what?” Inge asked sharply, pushing over to the kitchen counter and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

 
A small wire basket—a pink-and-white webbed-plastic bicycle basket—had been welded between the two uprights near the handlebars of Inge Didriksen’s walker. Despite the shaking of her palsied hand, the old woman somehow managed to lower a full coffee cup down into the basket. Then, without spilling a single drop, she maneuvered herself, the walker, and the steaming coffee cup over to the kitchen table.

  Else waited until her mother was seated at the table before she took a deep breath. “Mother,” she said, “Detective Beaumont has discovered that Gunter had a girlfriend. Now she’s been murdered as well, most likely by the same person who killed Gunter.”

  Inge Didriksen looked harmless enough. Comic almost. She was wearing a dainty, lace-edged housecoat. The topmost button was fastened properly, but she had skipped the second one, leaving the rest of them crooked. Her thinning hair peaked at the top of her head, making her resemble a white-haired Woody Woodpecker. Her eyes, huge behind thick glasses, focused on her daughter.

  “Oh, that,” Inge said. “My stars, Else! Are you just now finding out about her?”

  I don’t know who was more taken aback by Inge Didriksen’s surprising revelation—Else Gebhardt or Detective J. P. Beaumont. I know Else’s mouth gaped open, and mine probably did as well. Else’s already pale face faded to ashen, but the spark came back to life in her voice.

  “Mother!” she exclaimed, her voice tense with outraged indignation. “Do you mean to tell me you knew about this? You knew Gunter was carrying on an affair, and you didn’t bother to tell me?”

  Inge took a delicate sip of her coffee. “You know I make it a practice never to interfere between husbands and wives,” she replied primly.

  “Only when it suits you,” Else retorted angrily. “How did you know about it?”

  “She was here one day. I saw her.”

  “Here?” Else asked in shocked dismay. “Right here in my house?”

  “My house,” Inge corrected blandly. “But, yes, she was here. At least I believe it was the same one. A brunette, wasn’t she?” The old woman peered at me slyly over her coffee cup and waited for confirmation.

  In less than two minutes, that little no-holds-barred verbal exchange between Else Gebhardt and Inge Didriksen taught me more about open warfare between mothers and daughters than I ever wanted to know.

  “Well?” Inge prodded. That’s when I finally realized she was looking at me and waiting for me to answer.

  “Yes,” I said. “A brunette.”

  “When?” Else demanded. The fire was back in her eyes now—her eyes as well as her voice.

  “When did I see her?” Inge returned after another question-deflecting sip of coffee.

  “Yes.”

  “It must have been three years ago, now. Maybe a little more. Yes, three, I think. It was just after Kari came back from being an exchange student. And it must have been around this time of year, too. I remember I was going to go with you to spend the day at the Christmas bazaar, and then I didn’t because I wasn’t feeling well. I believe my arthritis flared up.”

  “Stick to the point, Mother,” Else insisted.

  “I’m sure Gunter had no idea I stayed home,” Inge continued. “If he had, they never would have come here in the first place. After you left for the bazaar, I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I heard voices—someone laughing—a woman’s voice laughing. I thought you must have come home early, but then the back door slammed shut. I looked out the window and saw them. They were just leaving the house. I sat on the edge of my bed and watched the whole thing.”

  “And never told me,” Else breathed. “You knew about it, and you never said a word!”

  “What good would telling you have done?” Inge returned petulantly, with an air of offended innocence.

  “If I had known and chosen to leave then, I would have been three whole years younger than I am now,” Else replied with commendable self-control. “I would have been a hell of a lot smarter a hell of a lot sooner.”

  “Please don’t swear, Else,” Inge scolded. “I’ve told you time and again, that kind of language isn’t at all necessary or ladylike.”

  “I’ll talk any damn way I want to!”

  My pager went off right then. The number displayed on the tiny screen was from the Seattle P.D. Homicide Squad. Sergeant Watty Watkins’s extension, to be specific. I recognized the number. Normally, I ignore my pager until the second or third try. This time I welcomed the interruption.

  I don’t like being a party to petty domestic disputes. Witnessing Inge Didricksen pick away at her daughter reminded me of a crow I once saw snap the head off a helpless baby sparrow that had fallen out of its nest. But the crow was only doing what came naturally. There was something almost malevolent about Inge Didricksen.

  “Could I use a phone for a moment?” I asked.

  Else nodded curtly toward the built-in desk across the kitchen. “You can use the one here if you want. Otherwise, if you need some privacy, there’s one in the family room and another in the bedroom.”

  “This one will be fine.”

  Hurrying across the kitchen, I picked up the phone and dialed Watty’s number. The phone was answered by Chuck Grayson, Sergeant Watkins’s counterpart on the night shift. I was surprised when Grayson answered the phone, but I went ahead and asked for Watty.

  “What’ve you been smoking, Beau?” Grayson replied with a laugh. “Watty isn’t here yet. It’s only seven o’clock. He won’t show up for at least another half hour. Longer if traffic’s backed up on I-Five.”

  I glanced at my watch and was startled to see it was only seven o’clock. I had been up and around for hours. It didn’t seem possible that shift change hadn’t happened yet.

  “Somebody paged me,” I answered, without bothering to attempt an explanation.

  “It was me,” Chuck returned. “I tried your home number first. When no one answered, I tried the pager. And it worked like a charm. You’re calling back, aren’t you?”

  “Right. What’s up?”

  “First off, there have been three calls so far from someone named Maxwell Cole. Isn’t he that columnist…?”

  “That’s the one,” I said, cutting Grayson off before he could finish asking. “Maxwell Cole can wait. Anything else?”

  “That’s about what I figured. More important, there’s somebody here waiting to see you.”

  “Already? Who?”

  “She says her name’s June Miller.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell. What does she want?”

  “Try the name John Miller. Does that one sound familiar?”

  “Sergeant Grayson, could we please stop playing games and cut to the chase?”

  “How about former congressman John Miller? June Miller, as in Mrs. John.”

  “Okay, okay. Mrs. John Miller, married to a former congressman. What does she want?”

  “To talk to you. Now.”

  “What about? I’m working a case. I’m trying…”

  “Which case? Fisherman’s Terminal?”

  “That’s right.”

  “According to Mrs. Miller, that’s the one she wants to talk to you about.”

  “What about Sue Danielson? She’s my partner on this. Couldn’t this Miller woman talk to Sue?”

  “She says Maxwell Cole directed her to see you and no one else.” Maxwell Cole strikes again. “Sergeant Grayson…” I began, but he never let me finish.

  “Detective Beaumont,” he said, “John Miller may not be a currently elected public official, but he still has a lot of influence in this town. And no one at Seattle P.D. is going to like it if one of our very own homicide detectives flies in the face of all that clout. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sometimes I’m a very slow learner, especially when it comes to politics. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said at last.

  “How soon?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Make it ten. I’ll tell her you’re on your way.”

  I turned back to the kitchen table
, where Inge, sitting alone now, continued to sip away at her coffee. She seemed totally unaffected by the distress she had caused her grieving, middle-aged daughter.

  It went against my upbringing—against everything my mother ever taught me—to think of that sweet little old lady in her crookedly buttoned housecoat as an unmitigated, cold-blooded bitch, but that’s what Inge Didriksen was—that and more. In spades.

  “Where’s Else?” I asked.

  “She said she was going back to her room to lie down,” Inge answered. “She said she hoped you wouldn’t mind showing yourself out.”

  “I can manage.”

  I pulled one of my business cards from my wallet and placed it on the table in front of her. “Would you mind giving your granddaughter a message for me?” I asked.

  “What kind of message?”

  “That’s my number at Seattle P.D. Would you please ask her to give me a call as soon as she wakes up?”

  “I can do that,” Inge Didriksen agreed. “Although I don’t know when that’ll be. Young people these days sleep until all hours, you know.”

  Inge’s cloudy blue eyes met and held mine for a very long time. It was a challenge. I think she was waiting to see if I would say anything about the way she had treated her daughter.

  “I never liked him, you know,” she said with a small, almost imperceptible shrug.

  “Never liked who?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “Why, my son-in-law, of course,” she replied. “Gunter. Who else did you think I was talking about?”

  Who else indeed? But with Else out of the room, I was free to ask this strange old woman a few questions that might possibly serve to open up some of the darkened corners of the Gebhardt family history.

  “Why did Gunter quarrel with your granddaughter?” I asked. “And when did it happen?”

  Inge dropped her gaze, as if the strain of holding my eyes was suddenly too much for her.

  “You’ll have to ask Kari about that,” Inge answered demurely. “I couldn’t possibly tell you. You see, I make it a practice never to interfere in my children’s affairs.”