by J. A. Jance
Homer answered on the second ring. I didn't identify myself. “I'm a friend of Ginger's. I was calling to find out about her services.”
“In keeping with Darrell's wishes, the services will be private.”
“But I wanted—”
“I'm sorry. This is a very difficult time. Darrell wants to maintain a sense of dignity by keeping Ginger's funeral simple. Only family members and close personal friends. I'm sure you understand.” He hung up without giving me an opportunity to explain why I thought I qualified as a close personal friend.
Remembering Ginger's description of how Darrell's campaign would handle news of the divorce, I understood all too well. A steering committee had decreed that Ginger's funeral should be handled with classic understatement and simplicity. Not too splashy. That would attract the sympathy vote.
I wanted to gag. Ginger had known news of the divorce wouldn't cost Darrell the election, but she had hoped to sting him with it. Instead, her death would provide the impetus for a come-from-behind victory. I wanted to protest to someone, but I didn't know who.
Restless, I walked two blocks to Avis and rented a car for the next morning. If I was going to make it to a funeral in Welton by two o'clock in the afternoon, I'd have to get an early start. My garage door opener was still with the Porsche on Orcas—probably wrecked, now that it had been wet. I parked the rented Rabbit on the street and went upstairs to get some sleep.
In a dream, Anne Corley and Ginger Watkins were together someplace. It seemed to be some kind of spa. They were both wrapped in thick white towels, with their hair hanging loose and wet. I came into the room. They waved at me and motioned for me to join them, but they were across a large room and between us lay a huge swimming pool. They motioned to me again, and I dove in, clothes and all. I tried to swim toward them, but the current was too swift. It caught me and carried me away, changing from a pool to a river. The dream ended with the sound of both of them laughing.
I awoke drenched with sweat. It was almost four o'clock in the morning. For a while I tried going back to sleep, but it didn't work. Remembering them both together haunted me. At last I got up and made coffee. The city was silent around me—not as silent as Orcas, but silent for the city. As I drank my coffee, I made up my mind that nothing would keep me from showing up at Ginger's funeral to offer my respects.
I consulted the map. I would go east on Interstate 90; but after Sig Larson's funeral, when I came back to Seattle, I would detour south to Centralia and find myself a Union 76 station. Ginger's father lived in Centralia. I was sure he would give me an invitation to the funeral if I explained to him that I was one of Ginger's old friends.
I filled a Thermos with the last of the coffee and headed out. I figured I'd have breakfast somewhere along the way.
CHAPTER
17
The State of Washington is divided into two parts, east of the mountains and west of the mountains. They could just as well be separate countries.
West of the mountains is a fast-track megalopolis that is gradually encroaching on every inch of open space. East of the mountains seems like a chunk of the Midwest that has been transported and reassembled between the Cascades and the Rockies. It contains small towns, large farms, and the kind of vast horizons that brings to mind Robert Goulet's old song, “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever.”
Welton is definitely east of the mountains. It's a tiny burg nestled in a hilly curve of the Touchet River, where two Walla Walla County roads meet in a casual Y that doesn't merit so much as a Yield sign, to say nothing of a blinking amber light.
Welton boasts a general store, a Grange Hall, a deserted schoolhouse, five or six dilapidated frame houses, and a double-wide mobile home perched on cement blocks behind the store. The Lutheran church burned down six years ago and has not been replaced. A sign on the light post next to the gas pump announced the schedule for the Walla Walla County Bookmobile. Next to it, another handbill posted notice of Sig Larson's funeral.
The gas jockey at the Texaco Station/General Store, a toothless old geezer named Gus, informed me that Lewis and Clark's party had once camped overnight on the river, supposedly somewhere near where the Grange Hall now stood. As far as he knew, Sig Larson's funeral was the biggest event to hit town since then.
“It isn't ever' day we have this kinda excitement around here,” he commented as he scrubbed the rented Rabbit's windshield and checked the oil. “We're gonna shut 'er down and go over to the Hall for the funeral. Least we can do for old Sig, that's for sure.”
“He lived around here?”
“Not anymore. Sold out a couple years back when that there wife of his decided Welton warn't good enough. Talked him into one of them highfalutin condanubians over to Lake Chelan. T'was a shame, a dad-gummed shame, if you ask me.”
“But he'll be buried here?”
“First wife's buried here, you know. Think the kids had something to do with bringing him back. Son John's a bigwig lawyer down to California. He's the one took it on hisself to see things got done right.”
“So Mona's Sig Larson's second wife?”
Gus snorted and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over his shoulder. “She was already hanging round while Elke—that was Sig's first wife—was dyin' in the hospital over to Spokane.”
“I take it you don't like Mona much.”
He nodded sagely. “That's for sure,” he said. “You can say that again.”
Gus wore the logger trademark of mid-calf Levi's held up by a pair of bright red suspenders. Finished with my car, he stood with both thumbs stuck through his suspenders and surveyed the scatter of cars parked haphazardly around the Grange Hall. “Heard the governor hisself is coming. Wonder if ol' Mona'll get herself all gussied up or if she'll show up on that there motorcycle of hern.”
Motorcycle! That hardly tallied with the white-haired, displaced-homemaker farm wife I had imagined Sig Larson's widow to be—someone wearing an apron who baked her own bread and canned her own tomatoes.
A mobile television unit bearing a Spokane station's call letters and logo lumbered past us and parked under a tree near the Grange Hall. “Don't that just beat all?” Gus asked. “All them television cameras and ever'thin', just for Old Sig's funeral.” He spat again in disbelief.
As we watched, a helicopter dropped noisily from the sky and landed on the weedy playfield of the abandoned schoolhouse next door. Governor Reynolds stepped out, ducking under the blades, accompanied by none other than Homer Watkins himself.
Seeing Homer there was something of a shock. Ginger had implied that highly placed family connections had resulted in her appointment to the parole board, but seeing Homer with the governor brought the reality home.
“I'd better get going,” I told Gus. I hurried to the Grange Hall and took an unobtrusive seat in the next-to-last row of ancient folding chairs. From there I could see who came and went without being observed.
I had stopped in Kenniwick and bought a huge bouquet of flowers, which now sat prominently displayed near the foot of Sig Larson's coffin. I had signed the card from “A Friend” and let it go at that. The flowers were a remembrance from Ginger to Sig through me. If Ginger and Sig were flapping around upstairs somewhere, then they both knew what I meant. If they weren't, it didn't matter anyway.
Unlike Lewis and Clark's historic visit, Sig Larson's funeral was immortalized by the press, the same teeming mob that had invaded Orcas Island. They were joined by troops from Spokane and Tri Cities as well. A full contingent of the Fourth Estate was there, jockeying for position and camera angle, elbowing one another out of the way.
It was simple to divide the guests into two parts: the plainly dressed quiet folk who had probably been lifelong friends and neighbors of Sig and Elke Larson, and the public officials and anxious candidates whose attendance was calculated to pick up a little free publicity over and above the paid political announcements.
The entire front row, on both sides of the aisle, was marked Reserved. As the p
ianist attempted a frail, halting prelude on an old upright piano, a group of six handsome young people, three couples in their late twenties to early thirties, was ushered to the front row. I surmised they were Sig's children and their spouses. Gus had told me there were two Larson boys and one girl, all married. They sat together on one side of the front row, leaving two places open next to the aisle.
The surviving members of the parole board, five of them, straggled down the aisle behind Trixie Bowdeen like a bunch of dazed sheep. Next came Governor Reynolds and Homer Watkins.
There was some confusion about seating arrangements as they reached the front row. Homer and Governor Reynolds held a hurried, private consultation before both men crossed the aisle to speak solemnly with the young couples. Then they rejoined the parole board.
Darrell Watkins was notable only in his absence.
The room filled quickly, until every chair was taken and people stood two-deep in the back of the room. It was then Mona Larson staged her grand entrance. She wore a black dress with a bold V neckline and a flared skirt over a pair of high-heeled black boots. Her hair, black and glossy, hung straight to her shoulders, with a fringe of bangs that made her look far younger than I had expected. Her tiny waist was encircled by a wide turquoise and silver belt. A weighty squash-blossom necklace with matching earrings completed the ensemble. It wasn't exactly mourning, but it made the point. It was also very striking.
A murmur rustled through the room. Mona strode down the aisle, well aware of the sensation she caused. At the front of the room she paused momentarily to get her bearings, then she turned her back on Sig Larson's children and took the empty seat next to Governor Reynolds. Another flurry of comment whispered through the hall.
From the back of the room it looked more like a shotgun wedding between feuding clans than the funeral of a highly regarded public official. Mona Larson was behaving badly by Welton standards, and it was clear she didn't give a damn.
A minister took his place behind the podium. “Dearly beloved,” he intoned, “we are here this afternoon to say good-bye to our dear friend Lars Sigfried Larson…” The cameras whirred and the circus got under way.
I don't remember much about the service. As far as I was concerned, I was there on official/unofficial business. I kept my eyes open in case Wilson thought Welton far enough away from Orcas that he could afford to turn up and savor his handiwork. Murderers do that in a kind of cutthroat one-upmanship, but Don Wilson was nowhere to be seen.
At the end of the service, the reverend announced that the Ladies Aid would be serving a potluck lunch, and all were welcome to come back to the hall after interment in the cemetery beyond the school.
The pallbearers hoisted the coffin. Mona Larson, followed by the governor and Sig's children, led a slow procession out of the hall, across the road, and into the cemetery. A man sat smoking on an idled backhoe near the fence, waiting to perform his essential role in the process. Once Sig's coffin was lowered into the grave, Mona turned and left the cemetery alone. Without speaking to or acknowledging anyone, she climbed into one of three waiting limousines and left Welton with an air of regal contempt.
Gus hobbled up next to me. “Ain't she somethin'?” he demanded, with just a hint of awe. “Actin' like she's the dad-gummed Queen of Sheba.”
The press corps descended on the food like an army of ravenous ants. I spied Maxwell Cole packing around a paper plate piled high with ham and scalloped potatoes, but I managed to avoid him. The local folks clustered around the Larson children, expressing condolences, relieved now that Mona's abrupt departure had reduced the tension.
Homer Watkins materialized at my elbow. “I understand you're J. P. Beaumont. Aren't you the one I talked to on the phone the night Ginger died?”
I wondered who had squealed on me, but with Max in the room, it wasn't hard to figure it out. “Yes,” I said.
“Tragic, tragic,” he murmured.
“It is, isn't it,” I agreed. “I was a little surprised there was no mention of the impending divorce in the paper.”
His eyes hardened. “She told you about that?”
“We talked,” I replied noncommittally.
“She wouldn't have gone through with it. She had been under a great deal of stress. I'm sure once things settled down, she would have been fine.”
“Fine or quiet?” I asked.
One eyebrow arched. He stepped back half a pace.
“Darrell didn't come?” I asked. The question was more to irk him than to have an answer.
Homer replied nonetheless. “He didn't feel up to it. Good day, Mr. Beaumont. I won't trouble you further.”
As people lined up for second and third helpings, Governor Reynolds raised his hand for attention. “I'd like to make an announcement,” he said. The media folks abandoned their plates and hustled off in search of equipment. Reynolds moved to the front of the room.
He put on his glasses and read from a prepared text. “This has been a sad occasion for the State of Washington. Sig Larson was a public servant, and he was murdered in the course of that service. He paid with his life. We have reason to believe that his death was related to his being on the parole board. Consequently, as of today, I am placing all members of the parole board under the protection of the Washington State Patrol. That is all.”
There was a momentary lull after he finished speaking, then a rush of comment. Reporters attempted to call questions to him from the floor, but he turned away. Reynolds and Homer hurried out of the building. People followed them upstairs and outside, but they dashed to the waiting helicopter without speaking to anyone. With the governor gone, people moved back into the basement, where Trixie Bowdeen assumed the role of spokesman.
“Were you aware the governor was taking this action, Mrs. Bowdeen?”
“Yes,” she said. “Each of us has been assigned round-the-clock protection, starting today.”
“Is there any idea who the killer or killers might be?”
“No comment.”
“How does your husband feel about your having a round-the-clock bodyguard?”
“Fortunately, he's not the jealous type.” Trixie Bowdeen flashed what was supposed to be a charming smile. Her quip was greeted by general laughter. I didn't laugh. Governor Reynolds had not specifically mentioned Ginger's death, but I was sure Huggins had notified him regarding the changed status of the investigation. In any event, the protection was probably a good idea.
I left the hall and was halfway across the road when Maxwell Cole called my name. “Hey, J. P.”
I turned to find him huffing behind me, carrying a plate of half-consumed pumpkin pie. “What do you want?”
“Any line on Wilson?”
I kept my expression blank. “No,” I said. “Nobody's seen him.”
“How come Ginger Watkins was driving your car?”
“None of your business,” I snarled, walking away.
He trotted after me. “I heard her bloodalcohol count was point-fifteen, but she was supposed to be on the wagon.”
“Shut up,” I said savagely.
He shut up, but only momentarily. “Do you know anything about the governor's victim/witness protection program? Is Reynolds going to drop that idea? That's what Wilson was after.”
I stopped in my tracks. “What do you mean?”
Cole looked a little reluctant, as though he had said more than he intended. “Wilson expected an announcement that day at Rosario.”
“From the governor's office?”
“That's what he told me on the phone.”
“This is the first I've heard anything about an announcement,” I said, turning to walk away.
“But, J.P.—”
Ignoring him, I walked back to the gas station where I had left the Rabbit. I climbed in and drove to where two uniformed limo drivers stood smoking under a tree. I rolled down the window. “Did that other driver say where he was taking Mrs. Larson?” I asked.
One looked at the other, who shrugged. �
��The Red Lion in Pasco, I think,” he said. “You know where that is?”
“No,” I replied, rolling up the window and putting the Rabbit in gear, “but I'll bet I can find it.”
CHAPTER
18
I drove the forty miles into Pasco thinking about Ray Johnson. Ray and I were partners on the homicide squad for eleven years before he took off to become Chief of Police in Pasco. That's what happens to longtime Seattle P.D. folks. They get tired of the rat race and go looking for some one- or two-horse town where they can settle down and not have to look at the slice of life that turns up dead or drunk or both in Seattle's parks and alleys.
Ray had abandoned ship almost ten months earlier, and I had started working with Peters. It takes time to adjust to a new partner, but in the course of that ten months so much had happened that now it seemed Peters and I had been together for years, and Ray Johnson was ancient history.
Ten months is a long time to go without seeing an old friend, and I decided I'd eat a chiliburger and down a whole pot of thick coffee with Ray Johnson before I left town. For old time's sake. Without having Peters lecture me on the evils of the caffeine or red meat.
The sign at the Red Lion in Pasco said, “Welcome Mary Kay.” I mistakenly thought Mary Kay was a waitress or barmaid who had returned for a visit.
That shows how wrong you can be.
The Red Lion in Pasco, like Red Lions everywhere, is built on the kind of grand scale that says, “Conventions welcome; all others enter at your own risk.” As I drove up, a car pulled out of a parking place directly in front of the lobby. I grabbed the spot, feeling smug. Getting out of the Rabbit, I noticed that the car next to me, and two on the other side of that, were all recentmodel pink Cadillacs. They had matching bumper stickers which read, “Ask me about Mary Kay.”
Still musing about that, I entered the lobby. A huge banner solved the mystery. Stretched across the lobby, it proclaimed, “Welcome Mary Kay Cosmetics.” A regional sales convention was in full swing, and the hotel was thronged with troops of motivated, energetic ladies, all dressed in pink, who periodically burst into disturbingly impromptu choruses of company songs. I should have recognized it as an omen and realized I was headed for trouble.