Improbable Cause (9780061745034)

by Jance, Judith A.

  I walked her to the car and held open the door while she slid onto lumpy, clear plastic seat covers that had stiffened and yellowed with age to an opaque beige.

  “Why, thank you,” she said graciously.

  With a squawk, Buddy flapped his way from the back window to the front seat. There he settled comfortably on Rachel’s shoulder.

  “Freeze, sucker!” he ordered again, glaring sideways up at me, waiting for a reaction. This time neither Al nor I gave him the satisfaction. I closed the door and the Buick lurched away, belching a cloud of thick exhaust smoke.

  The driver of the garbage truck laid on his horn again. We were still in his way. Hurrying into our car, we started after them. By then, the U-Haul was already around the corner and nearly out of sight.

  “We’re not really going to have lunch with those two old battle-axes, are we?” Big Al asked plaintively.

  “We’re going to do whatever it takes to worm some information out of them, including having lunch,” I told him.

  Al shook his head dolefully. “If that means being in the same room with that son of a bitch of a bird, we ought to ask for hazardous duty pay.”

  I laughed. “I’ve heard of guard dogs before,” I told him. “But this is the first time I ever met an attack parrot.”

  That’s one nice thing about this job. I learn something new every day.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I suppose I had seen the Edinburgh Arms on occasion before in the course of my travels around Seattle, but it had never registered. The complex was situated in the 4800 block of Fremont Avenue, but its brick row house construction made it look like it had been plucked straight out of Merrie Old England. Scotland, actually, as Rachel was happy to explain to us during lunch.

  Built as apartments but now converted to cozy condos, the Edinburgh Arms is a clone of another building, a project built in Edinburgh in the late 1920s. The Seattle contractor used the exact same specifications and plans. Now, some sixty years later, the weathered red brick, the squat chimneys to each unit’s fireplace, and the formal English garden courtyard gave the place a quaint, settled charm. Even the fat-cheeked, concrete cherub, peeing in the red brick fountain, seemed totally at home.

  Al pulled up and stopped behind the Buick and the U-Haul, which were parked near an open doorway. The end gates were still closed and locked, however. Rachel and Daisy must have decided to eat lunch first and unload later.

  “I shoulda figured those two dippy broads would live in a place like this,” Al grumbled, looking around.

  “Why? What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  “It looks just like ’em,” he answered.

  Rachel came to the door to let us in. A newly built plywood wheelchair ramp covered the two short steps leading up to the doorway.

  “Daisy’s upstairs changing,” Rachel explained. “Come on in and have a seat. Lunch will be ready in a moment.”

  The living room had an old-fashioned high ceiling with an amber-colored light fixture hanging from a brass chain in the middle of the room. It could have been a spacious, roomy place, but the furniture had been shoved together to make room for a hospital bed that had been set up in the far corner next to the fireplace. It was unmade. A stack of sickroom rental supply linens sat on a piece of plain brown paper on top of the bare mattress ticking.

  Rachel saw me look at it. “They just delivered the bed this morning,” she explained. “We’re not quite organized yet. We had a hard time fitting it in here, but of course, Dotty would never be able to manage the stairs to get up and down to a bedroom.”

  “What seems to be the matter with your sister?” I asked.

  Rachel stopped in the doorway and looked at me before she answered. Reticence and hesitation weren’t her style.

  “She broke her hip,” she said finally, decisively, then turned on her heel and disappeared through the dining room into the kitchen. Moments later we heard the banging of pots and pans as Rachel bustled about making lunch.

  Buddy, confined to a large cage in the corner of the dining room, had been quiet when we first entered the house. Now, with Rachel out of the room, he piped up again. “What’s your name?” he asked, not once but several times.

  We ignored him. There’s something undignified about being trapped into a conversation with a parrot.

  The living room was light and airy, but filled with the motley collection of cheap knickknacks and trinkets—“tack” my mother would have called it—that had been gathered over two separate lifetimes and then somehow blended together.

  In the corner next to the front door sat a papier-mâché elephant’s foot jammed full of umbrellas. Above it, an antique wood and brass hat rack held two yellow rain slickers with matching hats, two bright red motorcycle helmets, and two identical khaki-colored pith helmets. The two sets of helmets puzzled me. Neither Daisy nor Rachel looked much like the motorcycle or jungle safari type.

  I wandered over to the fireplace to examine the marble mantel. On it sat a miniature zoo, complete with tiny, inch-to inch-and-a-half-tall animals, cheaply but recognizably made. There must have been a hundred of them in all. For a fastidious housekeeper, it would have created a dusting problem of mammoth proportions. From the layer of dust visible on each of the animals, however, fastidious housekeeping didn’t seem to be part of Rachel and Daisy’s program.

  Rachel came into the dining room carrying a stack of dishes, stopped by the table, and looked over at me. “Those belong to Daisy,” she announced when she saw I was examining the animals. “The salt and pepper shakers are mine,” she added.

  The built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace were loaded with equally dusty salt and pepper shakers of all sizes and descriptions, many of them imprinted with gaudy letters that proclaimed the item’s geographic origin. Matching headstones came from Tombstone, Arizona. A set of bears were emblazoned with Yellowstone National Park. A smiling senor and senorita had Tijuana printed on their shoes.

  “Where are you from?” Rachel asked, walking up to stand beside me.

  “I’ve lived in Seattle all my life,” I answered.

  She bent down, reached unerringly to the back of the bottom shelf, and retrieved two tiny replicas of the Space Needle. “I got these from the World’s Fair in 1962,” she told me proudly, rubbing off a dusty film with the hem of her apron. “I keep them all loaded. That way I can always put something appropriate on the table whenever we have company. It’s less expensive than ordering flowers.”

  She took the two mini-Space Needles to the dining room and placed them in the middle of the table with a genuine flourish.

  “What’s your name?” Buddy asked her.

  “You be quiet or I’ll cover you up,” she warned. Buddy shut up and ducked his head under a wing.

  Daisy came down the steps just then. She was wearing a pair of light khaki trousers and a matching khaki shirt with a giraffe symbol sewn above the breast pocket and a series of silver and gold pins attached to the top of the pocket itself. On her feet were a pair of rubber-soled yellow and gray duck-hunting shoes straight out of an L. L. Bean catalog.

  She spoke to Rachel, who was busily setting the table. “It’ll still be light by the time I get home. We can unpack the trailer then.”

  Walking over to the hat rack, she peered critically into a mirror while she settled one of the two khaki pith helmets on her head. I took back everything I’d thought about her not being the safari type. She looked the part to a T.

  “You’re not planning to leave without eating lunch, are you, Daze?” Rachel asked. “It’s almost ready.”

  I think Daisy would have left without lunch if she could have gotten away with it. She sighed, put the helmet back on the rack, and led us to the dining room table.

  I would have left, too, if I’d only known what was coming. The table was set with what had once been state-of-the-art Melmac, now scratched and worn with too many years of hard use. The orange wild flowers that bordered the edge of the plates h
ad long since faded to a shadow of their former glory.

  Daisy directed Al and me to chairs while Rachel began serving soup into mercifully shallow plastic soup dishes. The moment she ladled some into my dish, I knew I was in deep trouble. It was as though my mother had returned from the grave to haunt me.

  It was soup all right, tomato soup, but not the thick, dark-colored, good kind. This was a thin, faded pink, made with milk and tomato juice. Small darker pink sunrises of curdling tomato floated here and there on the pale, milky surface.

  The soup was exactly the kind my mother used to make when I was a child. I had been able to choke it down only if I could fill the bowl so full of crushed soda crackers that I couldn’t see the color of the soup anymore—or the curdles. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a soda cracker in sight, only a platter of what later turned out to be tofu sandwiches that proved to be tougher to choke down than the soup.

  “We’re both vegetarians,” Rachel explained lightly as she passed me the platter of sandwiches. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about Dotty.”

  Dotty evidently wasn’t.

  Al managed to down the meal with every evidence of gusto. Daisy finished her soup, gulped half a sandwich, and left the table, taking both a pith helmet and a motorcycle helmet with her as she rushed out the door. Rachel glanced at her watch. “She’s supposed to be there by two, but she’s always early. That’s the way she is.”

  When Rachel disappeared into the kitchen to serve the coffee, I stuffed the remainder of my tofu sandwich in my jacket pocket. Al caught me in the act and gave me a quick wink just as our hostess returned.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” Big Al said. “I got something in my eye.” Telling fibs comes naturally to Detective Allen Lindstrom.

  During lunch I had deliberately delayed our questioning in hopes of dealing with Rachel alone. I had a hunch she’d be far more communicative once Daisy was out of the way. Now, over strong coffee and stale cookies, I opened the discussion.

  “You don’t seem to be very curious about what happened to your nephew.”

  “Curious?” she demanded, with bright sparks lighting up her pale blue eyes. “Why should I be curious about him? Whatever happened to him, it was probably better than he deserved.”

  So much for auntlike decorum and sorrow.

  “Oh, I’m sure Dotty will be wild with grief,” she continued. “She always doted on him so, even though he never deserved it, not for a minute. He was just like his father, you know.”

  “How’s that?”

  Rachel looked at me carefully, appraisingly. “Don’t you go trying to trick me into talking to you,” she cautioned. “Our mama always told us that the Beasons don’t wash their dirty laundry in public. I married into the Millers, but I’m still a Beason at heart.”

  “Tell me about your sister,” I said.

  “Which one, Dorothy or Daisy?”

  “Dorothy, the one who’s in the hospital. Which hospital is she in?”

  “I told you, she’s in no condition to talk to you. If I tell you where she is, you’ll go straight there and bother her with all this. It’ll be better if she doesn’t find out about it until tomorrow when she’s home here with us.”

  “Rachel,” I said reasonably, “the department does its best to notify the next of kin personally. We don’t release the victim’s name to the media until we’re sure the family has been properly notified. In this case, however, someone else may very well let something slip to a reporter. It’s possible your sister will hear the news over the radio or television when she’s by herself with no one there to help her, to be with her.”

  I watched Rachel’s face as I spoke. My argument made some headway, but she still wasn’t ready to capitulate.

  “Eventually we’ll be able to find her with or without your help,” I went on, “but it would be nice if we didn’t have to fight our way through official channels. It would save us a lot of time.”

  “I’ll have to think about that,” Rachel Miller said.

  “How long has Dotty been in the hospital?” I pressed.

  “Four weeks yesterday. It’s been dreadful. They’re only letting her come home now because there’ll be two of us here to take care of her. The doctor wanted to put her in a nursing home, you see.”

  I took a long, deliberate sip of coffee as I tried to understand her reticence. I wondered if maybe she thought Dorothy Nielsen was a suspect in her son’s murder. That was easy enough to put to rest, so I set about doing just that.

  “Since your nephew died on Saturday, and since your sister didn’t get out of the hospital until today, we could hardly consider her a suspect, now, could we.”

  Rachel appeared shocked that I should even mention such a thing. “Certainly not,” she snapped. “That idea never even crossed my mind.”

  “So why are you so reluctant to tell us where she is?”

  Rachel sighed. “It’s been awful for her, such an ordeal, that even now she gets confused. I’m afraid to add one more burden.”

  “She’ll have to find out sooner or later,” Big Al offered. “Wouldn’t it be better if you had some control over how and when she was told?”

  Just then the doorbell rang and Rachel hurried to answer it. Outside I could see an elderly gentleman also dressed in khaki and wearing the same kind of pith helmet, which he removed as soon as she opened the door.

  “I saw your car was still loaded,” he said. “I thought I’d offer to unload for a while before I go to the zoo.”

  “I’m busy right now, George,” Rachel told him. “I have people here, but if you want to come back later, that’s fine. Daisy’s already gone. She’s working on the Jungle Party this afternoon, but we could use some help later, after she gets back.”

  George seemed disappointed. “Are you sure you can’t use me right now?”

  “No, really. I’ve got company, George.” At that, he peered in through the door as though trying to identify exactly who Rachel’s “company” might be. He made no move to leave.

  “Come back around suppertime,” Rachel added firmly. “We’ll have some nice macaroni and cheese. You can help us unload.”

  He nodded grudgingly. “All right,” he said. “I’ll be here at six.”

  Rachel returned to the table smiling. “He’s my gentleman caller,” she explained. “He’s been hanging around here for months, ever since his wife died. I like him well enough, but only as a friend, you understand.”

  It was none of my business, but I nodded anyway, just to be polite. “Look,” I said, “if you won’t give us any information regarding your sister, what about your nephew’s wife?”

  “What about her? It took a lot of gumption for LeAnn to do what she did,” Rachel said. “I’m proud of her.”

  “To do what?”

  “To pack up those two kids and leave, just like that, without saying anything to anyone.” There was undisguised admiration in Rachel’s voice.

  “She didn’t tell her mother-in-law?” I asked.

  “Nope. Not anybody. Not a word.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “She had to.”

  There was no point in circling the question any longer.

  “Did your nephew beat his wife?” I asked the question bluntly, letting the words fall heavily in the quiet room. I saw the slight hesitation before Rachel Miller raised her eyes to meet mine.

  “That’s LeAnn’s business, not mine. If she wants to tell people about what all went on, that’s up to her.”

  “Do you have any idea where she is?” I asked. “As I told you before, we’re obligated to notify the next of kin. If you think it’s a bad idea for us to talk to your sister, then maybe we should speak to LeAnn instead.”

  That’s what I said. I left unsaid the domestic violence statistics, particularly the murder ones, that show how often an abused spouse finally hits the end of her rope and turns on her tormentor. It was more than slightly possible that LeAnn Niel
sen herself would turn up among our prime suspects.

  “No, I don’t know where she is,” Rachel replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  In my book white-haired little old ladies (LOLs for short) are due a certain amount of respect, just on the basis of longevity, if nothing else, but I was fast losing patience with this one. Rachel Miller had information that would make Big Al’s and my work infinitely easier.

  “Look,” I said, “we’re involved in a homicide investigation. Are you aware that deliberately withholding evidence in a case like this is a crime? It’s called obstructing justice. You could wind up going to jail.”

  Without blinking, Rachel Miller looked from my face to Al’s and then back to me. “All right,” she said, nodding slowly. “If that’s the way it is, just let me put the food away. We can go as soon as I clear up the dishes and leave a note for Daisy.”

  Rachel Miller got up swiftly and marched through the swinging doors into the kitchen, carrying a stack of dirty dishes with her.

  “She’s calling your bluff,” Al whispered under his breath. “What are you going to do now, dummy?”

  All I could do was give him a helpless shrug. “Beats me,” I said.

  Ask anyone from my college fraternity. Ask anyone from the department. J. P. Beaumont never was and never will be much of a poker player. Besides, although I didn’t know it yet, Rachel Miller had me totally outclassed in the bluff, raise, and call department.

  Al and I moved back to the living room couch to wait while Rachel carried dirty dishes and leftovers from the dining room into the kitchen.

  While we sat there waiting for her to finish, I kept wondering how I’d paint my way back out of the obstruction-of-justice corner I was in. I envisioned Gray Panthers coming out of the woodwork to protest and make my life miserable once they got wind that I’d so much as threatened to lock her up. Not only that, I know from experience that Seattle Police Department brass listen with a very attentive ear when senior citizens start protesting. Pissing off the elderly, particularly the vocal elderly, is bad for public relations. Every reporter in Seattle would have a field day.